“Hello,” I answered as I slipped into the driver’s seat.

“Lauren, it’s Nina. Are you heading here anytime soon? We have someone here who’s eager to adopt one of the kittens. The credentials sound good to me, and I’d like you to meet the people before they leave, if you’re going to be around.”

“On my way. Should be there in half an hour or less. Will that work?”

I heard a murmur, then Nina got back on the line. “Perfect. See you soon.”

I checked the time, then drove toward Granada Hills. I wondered which kitten was involved. Who its prospective new owners might be, and what they were like.

Whether I’d okay the match.

Years ago, I’d been accused of micromanaging. My not-so-darling ex had hurled that criticism at me a lot. He’d been talking then about how I juggled raising the kids, working as a veterinary technician, and dealing with my relationship with him. Everything had to mesh perfectly. Any veering from the schedule needed to be examined and reexamined so it wouldn’t happen in the future. I had to approve every activity in advance.

All that was necessary when I was a full-time mom and full-time breadwinner, as well as a full-time wife.

The kids came first, of course. And since I had to support them—he wouldn’t—my job came next.

Charles didn’t like being a distant third. Not that he did anything to help out so I’d have more time for him.

So, I’d had to tell him what we could do together and when. Micromanagement? Perhaps. He certainly threw that at me a lot.

Back then, I’d felt hurt. Claimed he was wrong.

I eventually learned that he used his criticisms as an excuse to himself. My micromanaging supposedly justified his sneakiness, his using money that I earned to treat himself to extracurricular activities when I was busy with scheduled priorities.

Activities like taking his lovers out for a good time before screwing them.

I was excruciatingly happy to micromanage our divorce, including his reimbursement of all he’d stolen from me.

Now, I proudly admitted that I was a micromanager—at least, at HotRescues. I’d eased up on scheduling, but I was still, always, in charge. No animal got rehomed without my approving it. And that was notwithstanding the adopters’ filling out their forms perfectly, answering all questions well about how their new pet would be treated, showing photos of their homes, bringing existing pets in to see how they got along with the potential adoptee, and passing muster with our resident shrink, Mona.

If I didn’t like the match, it didn’t happen. End of story.

Fortunately, this one looked like a winner. As I walked into the reception area, I saw the prospective adopter, a middle-aged lady, standing in a corner of the room talking with Mona. The kitten had been born here, thanks to an irate man who’d discovered that the family cat was pregnant and dumped her at HotRescues for her effrontery. Never mind that he could have prevented the situation in the first place by having the cat neutered.

The kitten was a little white charmer, a female we’d temporarily named Princess. She had a flat face and a way of looking at you that said she truly was royalty.

Where was little Princess as I entered the room? Snugged tightly against her prospective subject’s heart, peering at me haughtily, as if daring me to say no to her rehoming.

I didn’t. I checked the paperwork, including a lot of photos—she’d called before coming here. I talked privately with Mona. Talked publicly with the lady who wanted—badly—to take the kitten home with her.

That wouldn’t happen, but I did tell Princess’s prospective new mama that we’d expedite our approval process. I liked the woman and her interaction with Princess, so if all went as we believed it would, she could come back tomorrow or the next day. I’d let her know.

I was smiling when I went into my office, until I pulled the sheet of information from my purse that I’d gotten from James Remseyer.

So Efram had had a girlfriend. Her name, according to James, was Shellie Benudo. That wasn’t the same person he had used for his emergency contact here at HotRescues, Mandy Ledinger, who was also on the list but not identified.

I wanted to talk to both of them, especially Shellie. Even if I didn’t ultimately create a suspect file on her—which I probably would—I was curious. Why on earth would she have been attracted to a man who hurt animals? Was she an abuser, too? Or simply unaware . . . before. Unless she was a hermit who shunned all technology and other news sources, she had to have seen him in the media after the puppy mill rescue. Before that, wouldn’t she have wondered why he was suddenly volunteering at HotRescues?

What had she thought when Efram’s dog, whom he’d called Killer, had disappeared? Had Efram told the same set of lies to her, or a different set, when he’d learned that Killer was now Quincy and had a new home?

Then again, who was Mandy?

Enough of this useless speculation. I had a mound of paperwork to complete, especially logging in the information about Princess’s new home.

Better yet, I’d have Nina do that, and I’d just doublecheck it. I could also have Nina do Web research on Shellie Benudo and, if she hadn’t already, on Mandy Ledinger. Instead, though, I decided to start the research myself.

I turned to the computer and plugged Shellie’s name into the first search engine that came up.

I found someone with that name first thing on Facebook. The right person? I opened the Web site and looked at the photographs.

I was staring at them when Nina knocked on my door and entered. I looked up from the computer and glared at her for the interruption.

“Everything okay, Lauren?” Her stressed features grew even tauter with concern about me, which made me feel as awful as if I’d accidentally stomped on a miniature pinscher’s paw.

“I’m fine,” I said, waving her to a chair. I considered asking her to work on closing the Princess file. Instead, I started telling her about my meeting with Efram’s lawyer. Talking about it might help my thoughts to gel better for inclusion in my file on Remseyer. “They apparently didn’t get along well, and I suspect it’s because Efram stiffed him,” I concluded.

“So he’s a possible suspect in Efram’s killing.” Nina sounded pleased, as if she really cared about my future exoneration.

“I’d like to ask you a favor,” I said. “Remseyer also gave me information about Efram’s girlfriend. Could you do an Internet search?”

Her face lit up. “Absolutely! And I did look up Efram’s emergency contact on his application to ‘volunteer’ here—that Mandy Ledinger. I didn’t find her on the Internet, but I gave her a call. She was his stepmother. And, well, I wasn’t sure whether I should tell you about it, but . . .” Nina looked at me and swallowed, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

“But what?” I prompted.

She took a deep breath as if steeling herself to continue. “She demanded that I identify myself. And when I told her I was with HotRescues, she started screaming at me. Said she would get the bitch who ran this place and who killed her dear boy. That kind of thing.”

I felt my face redden. I opened my mouth to say something, but nothing came out . . . at first. Then I found myself smiling. “The best defense is a good offense, right?” I’d thought that a lot lately. “I think I’ll pay a visit to Ms. Mandy Ledinger. Efram wasn’t exactly the lovable sort. Maybe she accompanied him here herself, to do away with him somewhere that she wouldn’t be blamed. What do you think?”

“I think you’re amazing, Lauren.” Nina grinned. “And innocent, of course. If I can do anything else to help you clear yourself, name it.”

“Thanks.” I’d keep her offer in mind, since I knew I was going to need all the help I could get.

I first took another walk through the shelter area, spending extra time with the cats in the center building, since I was sure they all meowed so pathetically because they missed Princess—or were jealous that she’d found a new home first. Then I left, heading first south, then west, on the freeways.

The address I had was on the main drag of East Thousand Oaks Boulevard. I parked in a lot at the side of the five-story building and just sat there.

Did I like confrontations? Not especially. But I could hold my own in one. And I was undeniably prepared for this one.

Look out, Mandy Ledinger.

She wasn’t on the directory by the elevator, but I knew the number of the office where she worked. It was on the fourth floor. I felt full of energy and might have been better off using the stairs, but decided to store that dynamism inside me in case I needed it later.

Some of my adrenaline must have been obvious, since two people on the elevator with me kept hazarding glances in my direction, then looking away. Hopefully, they didn’t recognize me from the news. They both got off before I did, leaving me alone once more. Thinking . . .

The door opened. I strode out and pulled open the door to the doctor’s reception area. It appeared peaceful . . . for now.

A couple of women in colorful medical smocks sat behind the front desk. Neither resembled Efram. So what? Mandy was supposed to be his stepmother, not a blood relative.

As the nearest smiled at me, I glanced at her nametag. Not Ledinger. “Do you have an appointment?” she asked pleasantly.

I’d considered how to approach this on my way here and decided on a modified version of the truth. “No,” I said, “I was a friend of Efram Kiley’s. I heard that his stepmother, Mandy Ledinger, works here, and since I was in the area I thought I’d stop in to offer my condolences.”

Another woman, similarly dressed, had just come into the enclosed reception area, her arms laden with files. She gasped, and the things she had been holding fell to the floor as if someone had kicked them, or her. One of the other people immediately stooped to pick them up.

The woman who’d dropped them looked old, maybe just in her sixties, but an air of defeat made her appear ready to accept the end of her life. Until she looked at me.

Suddenly, she turned into a shrieking harpy, the lines in her face exacerbated by the hurtling of rage-filled accusations in my direction. “You murdering bitch! Why did you kill my Efram?” She launched herself at me. Good thing the desk was in the way.

“Hello, Mandy.” I kept my tone grave and quiet without suggesting confrontation, as hers did. “As I said, I’m here to offer condolences. But I also want to talk about Efram.”

“Are you nuts?” demanded someone beside me. I looked over and saw that a younger woman with a baby in her arms, probably a patient, stared at me with amazement. “Get out of here before she gets any closer.”

Too late. Mandy had catapulted herself over the desk and reached for me. A sexagenarian? Septuagenarian? Couldn’t tell it by her spryness.

I ducked, making sure that the lady and her kid were out of the way. “I didn’t kill him!” I shouted. “I’m just trying to find out who did.” Someone with a temper like hers? She had just earned her file on my computer. “I need your help. I’m sure you want the truth, too.” Unless, of course, she was Efram’s killer.

That seemed to get her attention. Or maybe it was the people, also in medical garb, who now held her arms. One wore a white jacket that suggested he was one of the doctors. Maybe she would listen to her employer and not maim me enough to require a physician’s care.

“I saw you on the news!” she spat from between her teeth. She shrugged off the hands grasping her, and I readied myself for genuine self-defense—not the murderous kind I’d been accused of in Efram’s death.

“I’m not surprised.” I shook my head sadly. “But you must know how the media is. They sensationalize everything and make unsubstantiated accusations to lure more viewers. Not everything you see on TV is the truth.”

Mandy continued glaring into my face. “You didn’t kill him?” She sounded doubtful, but her voice held a lot less passion than she’d hurtled before.

“No. Please, could we sit down and talk? Maybe we can help each other.” Or not. She wouldn’t consider it helpful if I discerned something that I could take to the police right away and make them lean on her instead of me.

She didn’t appear thrilled, but she nevertheless motioned me toward an empty corner of the waiting room. The people who had restrained her didn’t follow. We sat down perpendicularly to each other, our knees almost touching, which worried me. If she got upset again, she’d just have to thrust out her leg and trip me to keep me from escaping.

On the other hand, I could do the same to her. And if anything she said indicated she’d killed Efram and framed me, I’d be delighted to trip her up . . . in more ways than one.

“I can’t talk long.” She glanced at the watch on her bony wrist. Close-up, when she wasn’t in the role of an insane harpy, she actually looked like a nice, nearly senior citizen. Her face was round, her chin pointed, and her hair an elf-like cap. Her eyes were punctuated with a lot of lines running from them toward her hairline. I had the impression they might even be laugh lines. When she wasn’t thinking about Efram.

“I understand,” I said, and proceeded to encourage her to talk about her stepson. She’d married Efram’s divorced father about ten years earlier, and they were still together.

I wondered why Efram had included Mandy, not his dad, in his emergency contacts.

Efram had been a diligent son, helping out when his dad suffered a heart attack. Maybe Efram, too, had a heart after all, at least when it came to human beings who were his relatives. Or maybe his dad had changed his will when he remarried, and it was in Efram’s financial interest to stay on Mandy’s good side.

That was all speculation on my part, derived from how Efram had feigned niceness while sublimating his actually cruel nature, for money. No matter his rationale, Efram’s caring had endeared him to Mandy.

“I saw him for the last time a couple of weeks ago,” Mandy finished. “He had supper with us at our house. He talked often about helping out at your animal shelter. He really liked it.”

I was sure it made better dinner conversation than his assisting in torturing dogs at the puppy mill.

“I was shocked when I heard he was dead.” Her eyes teared up. “And his dad . . . I was afraid he’d have another heart attack. I couldn’t believe that someone would murder such a sweetheart.” She stopped talking and stared as if she was trying to look way deep into my soul to determine if it had, in fact, been me.

I wished I could read her insides the same way. But nothing she said made me certain she’d killed him . . . or that she hadn’t. Things weren’t really that perfect between them, were they?

“Did you know Efram’s girlfriend, Shellie?” I asked gently.

“That bitch!” Mandy was suddenly on her feet once more. Fortunately, my legs weren’t extended, so I didn’t trip her, though I’d been taken by surprise by her action. “If you didn’t kill Efram, I bet she did. You know what she wanted from him?”

“No, sorry, I don’t.” I hoped she’d tell me.

“Money. She wanted him to leave his job as an air-conditioning repairman and start his own company. Hire her to help. And how would he get the money to do that?”

I shrugged. “She’d lend it to him?”

“Hell, no. He’d started a campaign to get his dad, my husband, to lend it to him. Lend? Hell, he wanted a gift. If we had that kind of money, do you think I’d be working here?” Her eyes widened, as if she just heard what she’d said. She looked around. I didn’t see anyone watching us, but that didn’t mean they weren’t listening. She must have thought so, too. “Of course I love my job. These people are great. But if I had a lot of money, I’d retire early and move to Arizona, to one of the really nice senior communities there. That would be so good for my dear husband—Efram Kiley Sr. He’s still a little frail after his heart attack.” Which might explain why he wasn’t Efram’s contact. “I didn’t change my name when we got married.”

“I see. And did Efram Jr. get what he wanted?” I assumed not, or he wouldn’t have kept up the sham of “volunteering” at HotRescues to get Dante’s stipend. Although, judging by his association with that horrible puppy mill, the guy might have been greedy enough to exploit all potential money sources at once.

“Not from us,” Mandy said proudly. “And he didn’t really push it. Efram was such a sweet boy. That Shellie was just a terrible influence on him.”

We talked a little longer. I got the impression that Mandy wasn’t an animal lover, that whatever abuse Efram might have committed on dogs or others wasn’t of particular interest to her. If I’d been considering her as a friend—which I wasn’t—that would have been a huge mark against her.

She’d helped me in my investigation, though, by verifying that I needed to talk to Efram’s girlfriend Shellie.

I inquired as subtly as I could whether she’d ever visited HotRescues or knew anyone who did—mostly to see if Shellie or she had followed Efram into the locked facility the night he was murdered. She claimed she hadn’t, and neither, to her knowledge, had Shellie.

Even so, with what Efram’s stepmom had told me, I’d soon add not just one, but two new people to my suspect files.