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Authors: Linda O. Johnston
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Of what? I didn’t know, but I’d felt something was coming.
A call for help from Mamie?
It was her on the other end. But the help she asked for was not at all what I had anticipated.
“Lauren? Please, help me! I’m at Better Than Any Pet Rescues. I’m with Bethany . . . and she’s dead!”
Chapter 7
Mamie sounded panicked. Not surprising.
I took a deep breath while I thought about what to do. My mind overflowed with questions—like, are you sure she’s dead? If so, did she die of natural causes . . . or did you kill her?
I didn’t ask, though. My first inquiry was calm and logical. “Have you called 911?”
“No! I can’t. I didn’t. I—”
“That’s okay,” I lied. “I’ll take care of it.” Still holding my landline receiver to my ear, I hurried to pick up my smartphone and made the call, all the while soothing Mamie as best I could while I simultaneously answered the emergency operator’s questions—also as well as I could, when I didn’t honestly know what was going on.
And then?
Well, it wasn’t really my business. It shouldn’t have been my concern. Even so, I felt that someone needed to be there for Mamie.
Her niece? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure how much Mamie’s family would get involved now. I didn’t want to be involved, either.
But I knew I already was.
The street was crowded again this time when I looked for a parking space near Better Than Any Pet Rescues. Mamie had confirmed she was in the plantation house, where the shelter’s office was—and which had also been Bethany’s home.
I was already thinking of Bethany in the past tense. I didn’t know if Mamie was rational enough to determine whether Bethany was alive or not, but my mind had been circling around the possibility of death and had landed on it.
This time, the parked vehicles were unlikely to belong to any pet rescuers, as many had been last night when I was here. Instead, there were a lot of official vehicles, including an ambulance and several cop cars with rotating lights. Also, there were the inevitable media vans. Word had gotten out. I still wasn’t sure what had happened to Bethany, but the situation had already grown legs and antennae. Maybe that happened with all 911 calls.
I finally located a spot where my Venza could be shoehorned in. I sat for a moment before opening the door.
Maybe it was because I’d been a suspect in a murder investigation not long ago, or maybe it was Mamie’s near hysteria, but I felt certain that something bad—not natural causes—had happened to Bethany. If she really was dead, Mamie might have caused it.
I hadn’t kindled any ill will between them. I had, however, known that Mamie was emotionally unstable, and I’d nevertheless left her home, alone and possibly angry. Not that I’d much choice. If Mamie had gone off the deep end, I’d done nothing to cause it.
Or to stop it.
A couple of police officers in LAPD uniforms stood guard at the massive white gate, which was now ajar. The symbolic dog and cat in the tiara at its upper edge had been separated, thanks to the opening, and now stared in different directions.
Could I get inside to help Mamie? Should I, even if I could? I wasn’t sure.
Even so, I strode up to the nearest officer. “Sir, I’m the person who contacted 911. Someone inside there, Mamie Spelling, called me. May I go inside and see her?”
“Wait here, please, ma’am.” The request sounded like a no-nonsense command. He moved away and talked into a radio. I couldn’t hear what he said.
In a couple of minutes, a woman in a pantsuit exited the gate. After seeing Bethany, her assistant, and others yesterday dressed similarly, I wondered if wearing business clothes was de rigueur for hanging around this place. Me? I’d put on what I usually wore for a day on the job: jeans, a blue HotRescues knit shirt, and athletic shoes. I guessed I didn’t belong here—a good thing.
“Are you Ms. Vancouver?” the woman asked. I’d given
A call for help from Mamie?
It was her on the other end. But the help she asked for was not at all what I had anticipated.
“Lauren? Please, help me! I’m at Better Than Any Pet Rescues. I’m with Bethany . . . and she’s dead!”
Chapter 7
Mamie sounded panicked. Not surprising.
I took a deep breath while I thought about what to do. My mind overflowed with questions—like, are you sure she’s dead? If so, did she die of natural causes . . . or did you kill her?
I didn’t ask, though. My first inquiry was calm and logical. “Have you called 911?”
“No! I can’t. I didn’t. I—”
“That’s okay,” I lied. “I’ll take care of it.” Still holding my landline receiver to my ear, I hurried to pick up my smartphone and made the call, all the while soothing Mamie as best I could while I simultaneously answered the emergency operator’s questions—also as well as I could, when I didn’t honestly know what was going on.
And then?
Well, it wasn’t really my business. It shouldn’t have been my concern. Even so, I felt that someone needed to be there for Mamie.
Her niece? Maybe, but I wasn’t sure how much Mamie’s family would get involved now. I didn’t want to be involved, either.
But I knew I already was.
The street was crowded again this time when I looked for a parking space near Better Than Any Pet Rescues. Mamie had confirmed she was in the plantation house, where the shelter’s office was—and which had also been Bethany’s home.
I was already thinking of Bethany in the past tense. I didn’t know if Mamie was rational enough to determine whether Bethany was alive or not, but my mind had been circling around the possibility of death and had landed on it.
This time, the parked vehicles were unlikely to belong to any pet rescuers, as many had been last night when I was here. Instead, there were a lot of official vehicles, including an ambulance and several cop cars with rotating lights. Also, there were the inevitable media vans. Word had gotten out. I still wasn’t sure what had happened to Bethany, but the situation had already grown legs and antennae. Maybe that happened with all 911 calls.
I finally located a spot where my Venza could be shoehorned in. I sat for a moment before opening the door.
Maybe it was because I’d been a suspect in a murder investigation not long ago, or maybe it was Mamie’s near hysteria, but I felt certain that something bad—not natural causes—had happened to Bethany. If she really was dead, Mamie might have caused it.
I hadn’t kindled any ill will between them. I had, however, known that Mamie was emotionally unstable, and I’d nevertheless left her home, alone and possibly angry. Not that I’d much choice. If Mamie had gone off the deep end, I’d done nothing to cause it.
Or to stop it.
A couple of police officers in LAPD uniforms stood guard at the massive white gate, which was now ajar. The symbolic dog and cat in the tiara at its upper edge had been separated, thanks to the opening, and now stared in different directions.
Could I get inside to help Mamie? Should I, even if I could? I wasn’t sure.
Even so, I strode up to the nearest officer. “Sir, I’m the person who contacted 911. Someone inside there, Mamie Spelling, called me. May I go inside and see her?”
“Wait here, please, ma’am.” The request sounded like a no-nonsense command. He moved away and talked into a radio. I couldn’t hear what he said.
In a couple of minutes, a woman in a pantsuit exited the gate. After seeing Bethany, her assistant, and others yesterday dressed similarly, I wondered if wearing business clothes was de rigueur for hanging around this place. Me? I’d put on what I usually wore for a day on the job: jeans, a blue HotRescues knit shirt, and athletic shoes. I guessed I didn’t belong here—a good thing.
“Are you Ms. Vancouver?” the woman asked. I’d given
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