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Authors: Linda O. Johnston
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my name to the 911 operator, so I wasn’t surprised this lady—probably a detective—knew it.
“Yes,” I said.
She pulled a shield from her pocket. “I’m Detective Greshlam, LAPD,” she said, confirming my speculation. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. But would it be possible for me to see Mamie Spelling? She’s a . . . an old friend.” I stumbled over that as my thoughts again hashed over my feelings toward Mamie. For now, what I’d said was accurate enough.
“Maybe later.” Which I translated to be something like, “When all the rescued animals here tell us exactly what they saw.”
We went onto the porch, where I’d last seen Bethany reign. There weren’t any chairs there now, so we stood off to one side. I saw a lot of people traipsing around the shelter grounds, and heard dogs barking almost mournfully. They’d been relatively quiet yesterday. I’ve always felt that pets have emotional connections with people they care about that far exceed relying on them for food and shelter. If someone is hurt—or worse—they sense it.
Whatever I might have thought about Bethany and her treatment of people, from what I’d seen here I knew she took good care of the animals she rescued . . . and they undoubtedly appreciated it, especially since most had probably come from sectors of hell.
“I understand that you were the person who called 911 about this situation,” the detective said. She was a large woman, tall and wide, and there was an incisiveness about her eyes that made it clear she was smart—and out to get the facts. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you just arrived here?”
As she made notes in a small spiral notebook, I explained what she must already have known, since I’d told the 911 operator. “Someone who was present called me.”
“And that would be?”
“Mamie Spelling.”
Answering the detective’s questions, I gave sketchy details about who Mamie and I were, how we knew Bethany Urber, why I’d been here yesterday, and what had occurred when Mamie showed up.
“I drove Mamie home afterward,” I said.
“And you didn’t know she was coming back?”
“No.”
A few more questions, and then we seemed to be done.
My turn to ask what I’d been dying to know. Figuratively, of course. “How is Bethany, Detective?”
“She is the apparent victim of a homicide, Ms. Vancouver.”
“Oh.” I paused. “How did she die?”
“That’s still under investigation.” In other words, the detective wasn’t about to tell me. Someone came running through the gate and up the porch steps.
Cricket Borley did not resemble the shy but efficient assistant she had when she had smilingly passed out nametags at the meeting the day before. Her face was ashen and tear streaked, her gray shirt only partly tucked into black slacks, and only one of her tennis shoes was tied.
“What are you doing here, ma’am?” asked Detective Greshlam.
“I need to see Bethany. Help her. I’m her assistant. I always help her. Please—”
She must have known how impossible that was, since she sank to her knees on the porch and cried. I had an urge to comfort her, but I didn’t move, since the front door opened and the person I was most eager to see spilled out of it.
Mamie wasn’t alone, though. Another suit—a detective, too?—followed her. Her face was pale, but she managed a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Lauren, you came. That’s so nice. But I have to leave. These detectives want me to help them figure out what happened to Bethany. I’m going with them to the police station.”
Chapter 8
I couldn’t get a minute alone with Mamie, but I did manage to move close enough to ask if she ever watched cop shows on TV.
She nodded, her expression puzzled and wary.
“Remember how they tell people they’re questioning that they have the right not to answer, and to have an attorney present? Just to make sure someone’s there to answer your questions, why don’t you
“Yes,” I said.
She pulled a shield from her pocket. “I’m Detective Greshlam, LAPD,” she said, confirming my speculation. “I’d like to ask you a few questions.”
“Of course. But would it be possible for me to see Mamie Spelling? She’s a . . . an old friend.” I stumbled over that as my thoughts again hashed over my feelings toward Mamie. For now, what I’d said was accurate enough.
“Maybe later.” Which I translated to be something like, “When all the rescued animals here tell us exactly what they saw.”
We went onto the porch, where I’d last seen Bethany reign. There weren’t any chairs there now, so we stood off to one side. I saw a lot of people traipsing around the shelter grounds, and heard dogs barking almost mournfully. They’d been relatively quiet yesterday. I’ve always felt that pets have emotional connections with people they care about that far exceed relying on them for food and shelter. If someone is hurt—or worse—they sense it.
Whatever I might have thought about Bethany and her treatment of people, from what I’d seen here I knew she took good care of the animals she rescued . . . and they undoubtedly appreciated it, especially since most had probably come from sectors of hell.
“I understand that you were the person who called 911 about this situation,” the detective said. She was a large woman, tall and wide, and there was an incisiveness about her eyes that made it clear she was smart—and out to get the facts. “Is that correct?”
“Yes.”
“But you just arrived here?”
As she made notes in a small spiral notebook, I explained what she must already have known, since I’d told the 911 operator. “Someone who was present called me.”
“And that would be?”
“Mamie Spelling.”
Answering the detective’s questions, I gave sketchy details about who Mamie and I were, how we knew Bethany Urber, why I’d been here yesterday, and what had occurred when Mamie showed up.
“I drove Mamie home afterward,” I said.
“And you didn’t know she was coming back?”
“No.”
A few more questions, and then we seemed to be done.
My turn to ask what I’d been dying to know. Figuratively, of course. “How is Bethany, Detective?”
“She is the apparent victim of a homicide, Ms. Vancouver.”
“Oh.” I paused. “How did she die?”
“That’s still under investigation.” In other words, the detective wasn’t about to tell me. Someone came running through the gate and up the porch steps.
Cricket Borley did not resemble the shy but efficient assistant she had when she had smilingly passed out nametags at the meeting the day before. Her face was ashen and tear streaked, her gray shirt only partly tucked into black slacks, and only one of her tennis shoes was tied.
“What are you doing here, ma’am?” asked Detective Greshlam.
“I need to see Bethany. Help her. I’m her assistant. I always help her. Please—”
She must have known how impossible that was, since she sank to her knees on the porch and cried. I had an urge to comfort her, but I didn’t move, since the front door opened and the person I was most eager to see spilled out of it.
Mamie wasn’t alone, though. Another suit—a detective, too?—followed her. Her face was pale, but she managed a brief, sad smile. “Oh, Lauren, you came. That’s so nice. But I have to leave. These detectives want me to help them figure out what happened to Bethany. I’m going with them to the police station.”
Chapter 8
I couldn’t get a minute alone with Mamie, but I did manage to move close enough to ask if she ever watched cop shows on TV.
She nodded, her expression puzzled and wary.
“Remember how they tell people they’re questioning that they have the right not to answer, and to have an attorney present? Just to make sure someone’s there to answer your questions, why don’t you
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