Double Dog Dare (9 page)

Which reminded me of Rachel’s new poop-scooping group. Not wanting to keep our conversation maudlin, I asked Tracy, “Have you ever heard of a company called What’s the Scoop? I guess it’s the latest poop pickup service provider in the Valley and Hollywood Hills.”

“No, but if you get me information on it, maybe I could use it. Although my favorite Valley customer won’t be hiring me for a while. He lost his dog recently—an older Lab. Very sweet. When he’s ready, I’ll try to find him a rescue to help ease the pain.” She stared at me sideways, sadly. “Speaking of people’s pain, what about yours? Do you think Jeff . . . I mean, after finding his car that way—”

My attention wavered from Odin, Lexie, and Stromboli for only an instant as I considered how to tell this good friend, who undoubtedly meant well, to stay off that preferably taboo subject. Which was exactly when a huge off-leash Rottweiler decided to assert his dominance.

That led to a brief altercation with Odin, who despite being a neutered male sometimes had dominance issues of his own.

By the time Tracy, the Rottweiler’s angry male owner, and I separated and disciplined the dogs, Odin had a bloody wound on one shoulder.

“Damn,” I said, feeling suddenly despondent. Not only couldn’t I find Jeff, but I wasn’t taking perfect care of his abandoned baby. I got the owner’s ID info and assurances his dog was up-to-date on rabies shots.

Tracy had Phoebe under one arm, and Meph obediently sat on the ground beside her. She knelt and took a close look at Odin’s injury. “It doesn’t look too bad, but you should have it examined by a vet. Do you want me to—”

“Thanks, but I’ll take Stromboli and Meph home, then go get Odin his medical care. Unless you think it’s an emergency.”

Her thoughts would be important to me, since my own sorrowful mind was clearly mush.

“No, he’ll be okay. But tell you what. Give me instructions, and I’ll be glad to get Stromboli and Meph back where they belong.”

“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling relieved. I wanted to get Odin to a vet immediately, emergency or not.

“What are fellow pet-sitters for?”

I handed her the keys to Stromboli’s house and described where to go. “Meph’s owner Maribelle is at home, and she can keep watch over Stromboli’s house when he’s there, till I arrive for his evening visit. You can also leave the keys to Stromboli’s with Maribelle for me to pick up later.”

I loaded Lexie and an obviously aching Odin into my rental car. Fortunately, its seats were flimsy vinyl, so if they collected a little blood despite the clean paper towels I put on Odin’s wound, I figured I’d be able to scrub it off.

I was, however, worried about Odin. So I didn’t head for the closest vet.

Instead, I got on the Ventura Freeway heading west toward the office of the best vet I knew, Dr. Tom Venson. I’d sort of dated him while wondering where my relationship with Jeff wasn’t going.

Despite his assurance that he wanted to stay friends after I’d informed him I was about to see Jeff exclusively, this would be the first time I’d seen him since then.

He wouldn’t take the situation out on Odin. He was too nice a guy for that.

But how uncomfortable would this visit be for him?

Or me?

I’D EXPECTED AWKWARD. Instead, I received open arms.

“Kendra, it’s good to see you,” Tom said. We were in one of his disinfectant-scented examining rooms, Lexie on a chair behind me and Odin uneasily up on the shining metal table, thanks to a big boost from me.

Edith, Tom’s young receptionist with the older name, had welcomed me and found me a room immediately, emergency or not. She’d promised to get Dr. V’s attention fast, and she had.

I used the term “open arms” figuratively, though. He’d shaken my hand—warmly—but no hugs. Which was only appropriate, considering that he assumed I was in a committed relationship.

Unless he’d seen it on the news, he had no way of knowing that the other person in that relationship, committed or not, had apparently evaporated into some unknown ether. Although it was just as well that Tom refrained from embracing me, I needed a huge number of supportive hugs these days. But as a former potential romantic interest, he could misconstrue it.

I
could misconstrue it.

“Good to see you, too, Tom.” At least I was truthful about that, since he was a very good vet when I needed one. However, observing him across the examining table, I noticed lots of lines at the edges of his eyes.

I’d enjoyed Tom’s looks because they were nice but not extraordinary. He was nearly six feet tall with regular features, and his dark hair formed an adorable widow’s peak right in the middle of his forehead. His brown eyes always looked sincere, especially when they filled with fondness for me.

But right now, those eyes appeared squinty, strained, and somewhat bloodshot.

I didn’t have time to ask how he was before he started tending to Odin’s injury. He made shaving around it, cleansing it, treating it with antibiotics, and bandaging it appear simple.

“He should be fine,” Tom soon said. “If he starts biting at the bandage, we may have to fit him with a plastic collar, but see how he does for now.”

Odin appeared more bored than bitey. He lay down on the table, regarding me almost affably for having brought him here. That had to be good. He didn’t seem to be hurting.

Tom, on the other hand, looked haunted. “And you?” I inquired softly. “How are you doing, Tom?”

Could he be mourning the loss of me and what we might have had? The possibility made me go all gooey inside, even though our separation had been entirely my choice.

“I’ve been better,” he admitted, and I braced myself for him to declare how he wanted me back. “A friend of mine just . . .” He seemed to perk up a little as he stared at me.

A friend?
Clearly this wasn’t about me, which was entirely right. Wasn’t it?

“Kendra, maybe you can help.” His tone sounded stronger. “You told me when we went out to dinner and all that you jokingly considered yourself a murder magnet.”

I opened my mouth to protest that I hadn’t been joking, as much as I wanted to be. But I stayed silent.

This was about a murder? A
friend’s
murder?

How many murders were there every day in L.A.? Probably lots. And who said Tom’s friend was even a local?

But The Clone Arranger, where Earl Knox had worked, was all about animals. Tom, a veterinarian, was also all about animals. Still . . . That would be one heck of a huge coincidence—both of us interested in the same murder.

Like I said, I’d been the victim of incredible and innumerable coincidences. How else would a sweet and innocent person like me become a murder magnet?

Keeping my voice light, as if I actually was joking, I said, “Of course I’m a murder magnet, Tom. I’ve become quite skilled at solving them, too. You have one you want me to look into for you?” I made myself laugh. “Or are you intending to commit one?”

“Not hardly,” he said, running his hand gently over Odin’s back as the Akita started to stir impatiently. “But— well, I didn’t know the guy that well, but his death hit me hard because he worked for a company that I do a lot of veterinary work for.”

“And that company would be . . . ?” I inquired.

“The Clone Arranger.”

With amazing effort I managed to forgo reacting physically, or so I hoped. “Then that would make your deceased friend—”

“Maybe you heard about him on the news. Earl Knox.”

Chapter Seven

TEN MINUTES LATER I sat across from Tom at a nearby popular and overpopulated coffee shop. His staff was caring for Odin and keeping an eye on Lexie. He’d assigned an assistant vet to his appointments while we went out— after checking to ensure that no scheduled pet seemed to be coming for anything more major than a checkup and shots. He’d taken off his blue lab jacket, revealing a nice white knit shirt and dark slacks.

How to play this? I liked Tom. Didn’t want to lie to him.

Didn’t want to lay the whole truth before him, either. I mean, I wanted all the info I could glean about his friend Earl, not to mention Tom’s own now-revealed relationship with The Clone Arranger. But I preferred to keep to myself that I just happened to have been at that particular place of business recently, conducting my own little investigation into whether anyone there knew what had happened to the genuine investigator who’d been snooping around them: Jeff.

I doubted that Tom would give a damn about the fate of the guy I’d indicated had won my heart. But the fact that a lady who was a mother figure to Jeff had a grudge against the cloning company, and most especially the murder victim, might be of interest to the saddened vet with whom I sat and sipped a double fat-free latte.

Somewhat surprisingly, and definitely discombobulating me, Tom said, first thing, “I saw on the news about Jeff Hubbard’s car being found in the water near Palmdale, Kendra. I haven’t heard anything about him, though. Has he been found?”

“Nope, but I’m assuming he’s on an undercover assignment and will show up just fine one of these days.” Oh, Lord, did I sound pathetically perky!

“Well . . . I hope so, for your sake.” A kind thing for him to say, and he even sounded sincere. Nice man, Dr. Tom Venson.

Still, I needed to change the subject—for the sake of my psyche, as well as to obtain answers. “So, you actually do work for The Clone Arranger?” I leaned forward as if I was all ears. Which I was.

Did the fact that a man as kind and intelligent as Tom had gotten involved with this company mean it was a credible cloning source? That would mean that its failure to clone Lois Terrone’s part-Akita was a possible fluke.

Or was Tom too credulous, as Lois had initially been? Though Beryl Leeds had seemed ecstatic over the duplication of her first Lab, that didn’t mean all animals were well and successfully twinned.

“Yes, I do.” Tom sounded all sincerity as he sipped his unsweetened, un-anythinged simple brewed coffee. He watched me with brown eyes that both smiled and seemed to undress me even as we had this serious conversation.

Not long ago, my libido might have responded with interest. But at this moment, since it missed Jeff, my body simply squirmed.

“Not that I get involved with the cloning,” Tom continued. “They have specially trained scientists for that. Plus, the process is proprietary, so they don’t want people who aren’t actually employees of the company to learn how it works. But as part of their procedures, and to ensure they don’t do anything improper to the dogs to be cloned, they’ve hired me to come in to provide weekly checkups. More veterinary care, if necessary, of course, like in an emergency.”

“The whole concept of cloning is really fascinating,” I told him. That was said in all sincerity. What if I actually could get a duplicate of my dear Lexie? Would I do it?

Well . . .

“I’ll say,” Tom agreed. “But they do warn people who want their pets to be cloned that a biological duplicate doesn’t necessarily mean they’ll get an identical new animal. ” I’d seen that in The Clone Arranger’s contract and promotional pages. “And not just because there’s always the possibility of gene mutation. Like with people, environment is important in an animal’s development, and things never stay the same. Even if someone tries to treat the two pets identically, just having the older one around could make a difference. Or a new home, or even the possibly more loving reception for this new animal who’s designed to try to take the place of the first—an infinite number of possible alternatives.”

I nodded, signifying understanding, but I wasn’t entirely convinced. “If the animals can’t be identical, do you believe that cloning’s a good idea—and that it actually succeeds, biologically, at least?”

Tom gave a small shrug of a nice-size shoulder. “I can’t comment scientifically on the effectiveness of what they do, but they fit a niche for people who want to try to have their pets duplicated. And they’re acting responsibly about care of the animals entrusted to them. They’ve hired me, haven’t they?”

His grin was wry and somewhat sexy.
Damn, Kendra, stop noticing such stuff.

Hating to burst his balloon but needing some answers, I said softly, “How well did you know that poor man who was killed yesterday? And what was his position with the company?”

Sure enough, Tom’s alert demeanor disintegrated into something more stoop-shouldered and sad. “Earl was one of the main guys I worked with there, since he was one of the people assigned to make sure the animals in their care were treated well and cloned properly. He was also a bit of a salesman, convincing interested people to give it a try. Actually, he was a blowhard, but on the whole an okay guy. I was really upset to hear he’d been killed, and especially being poisoned, injected with an anesthetic I often use on animals.”

Really? Interesting. That hadn’t been made public—or at least I hadn’t heard. What was it?

And how easy was it for anyone besides a vet to obtain?

Or had it just been sitting out there, readily available to anyone at The Clone Arranger who also worked with animals—or even to a visitor like Lois?

“At least the cops appear to have a suspect,” Tom continued.

I nodded sagely and said, “Yes, the news said it was a disgruntled customer who didn’t like the way the cloning had been handled with her now-dead dog. Had you met her?”

“No, but I did see her dog when she was there to be cloned. The animal was pretty old and not in great health. It’s a shame she died before a successful cloning could take place. But that was no reason for the owner to kill Earl.”

Who should she have killed?
I wondered, then mentally gave my cheeks a sound slap. Lois shouldn’t have killed— and didn’t kill—anyone. Or so I wanted to believe, given her relationship with Jeff.

Jeff. I couldn’t easily ask Tom, subtly or even straight out, if he’d seen my lover snooping around The Clone Arranger.