38

“Thanks for calling Pet Rescue,” Sarah said as she answered the office phone. “How can we help you today?”

“There’s a dog upstairs in my condo. Dying. Someone is killing the poor thing. Killing it.” The elderly female voice on the other end wavered before stating, “I live on Ocean Drive, the Pelican Perch.”

Sarah took a calming breath. She was the contracted animal control officer for a little town by the sea, population 6,000. A good portion of those residents were retired, which meant over sixty-five, with time on their hands and hearing aids they wore sporadically. She highly doubted someone was torturing their beloved pet in the lavish Pelican Perch gated community, but it was her job to check on complaints.

At 8’oclock in the morning. On a Saturday.

Sarah reached for her coffee mug, realized it was empty, and set it down with a sigh. “I’ll be there within the hour, ma’am.”

“You have to come now! That dog doesn’t have an hour to live, do you hear me? What’s your name? I’ll report you to the manager.”

I am the manager. The owner. I hear you, lady, loud and clear.

When Sarah had completed her degree in animal science, she knew she wanted to save unwanted pets. She’d known from the time she was ten and found an abandoned Collie, one who’d obviously just had puppies, on the side of the road. So when her childhood friend, Courtney Boone, ribbon-wrapped the opportunity to operate the only shelter in town, Sarah hadn’t thought twice.

Maybe I should have.

“Thank you so much for calling.” Sarah understood that her position in the community was all about customer service. “What was your name, ma’am?”

Click.

Sarah rolled her office chair back from the desk and got to her feet. “It’s going to be that kind of day,” she told Benny. The golden Chihuahua was around twelve or so in human years, though Sarah wasn’t certain. He’d been one of her first rescues, and she didn’t have the heart to adopt him out. He and Pippa, a black toy Pomeranian with a gimpy back leg, lay together on a dog bed by her desk. They both got up as she made her way to the kitchen.

“I know it’s a tie for what you love most,” Sarah said, reaching for a plastic container. “Me or the treats.” Benny knew one trick and one trick only. The Chihuahua could dance like nobody’s business. “Fred Astaire, who?” He spun on his hind legs, his front paws clawing the air.

Pippa wasn’t much better, but she had such a sweet face that it didn’t matter. “You, pretty girl, are the product of puppy mills out of control.” Pippa barked, winked her shiny black eyes and wagged her tail. It had taken a couple thousand dollars in surgery for that little miracle, and she still couldn’t use her leg as anything more than a kickstand. Bad hips, the vet told her. Bad knees. Bad genes. Beautiful dog.

She gave them each a round pellet and scanned the kitchen counter for her keys. Nashville, her one-eyed cat, liked to play hide and seek with shiny things. Pippa spit the treat back out, nosing the green pebble across the floor toward Sarah’s boot. Benny flattened his ears back against his head but he gamely choked his down. He didn’t go after Pippa’s reject, which told her plenty.

“I know. They don’t smell good either. But they’re good for you. And cheap. It’s sad but true—we’re on a budget.”

“Not that same old tired line,” Martin (Martina without the a) sang as he came in through the back door of the facility. “You realize that we’ve been in business a year next month? I was hoping for a raise, doll.”

Sarah laughed even as she shook her head. One month left to get the roof up to code, or they risked being shut down. “Me, too.”

Benny and Pippa barked a greeting, prancing around Martin’s legs while Nashville lurked from a shadowy corner, the truck keys in her mouth. The gray and white tabby meowed around them, whiskers twitching, taunting, as she stared Sarah down. “Give me those, Nash.” The cat darted out of reach, tail high.

Martin was of Hispanic descent, thin, tanned and smoothly waxed for the weekend shows he did at Lipz, where he played Diana Ross better than Diana. She guessed his age around thirty-five, but he’d never said. “You’re the owner. You’re supposed to be broke for a few years. Me?” He flashed his show-stopping smile. “I’ve got the girls to keep in kibble.”

“I can barely afford the twelve bucks an hour you get now.” Martin had a townhouse filled with cats, dogs and birds that he’d rescued over the years. Somehow the menagerie all managed to get along—his only rule was that they had to be female.

He walked over and kissed her cheek. “I know, sugar. I know. So where are you off to already?”

“A woman from the Pelican Perch called to tell me someone is torturing an animal upstairs in her condo. Killing it, she said. And I need to hurry, or she’ll call my manager.”

Martin looked at her over the slim bridge of his cosmetically altered nose. “This is why I am glad to get my meager paycheck. You get the headache. My mother told me to go into business for myself, but no, I’ve seen the troubles you go through.”

Sarah acted like she wasn’t going anywhere near the cat, then swooped in behind to get the keys from her mouth. “Gotchya!” Nashville yowled her protest, leaping to the table in the kitchen to clean her ears as if she’d let Sarah have them on purpose. “You know, I think I’m going to invest in a heavier ring. One Nashville can’t lift.”

Martin waved his hand at the cat. “She’ll find a way, stubborn thing.”

Sarah noticed Martin’s belt. She’d implemented a dress code so that they presented a united, professional front. Khaki or navy shorts or slacks. Beige, white or navy button-up or polo. Simple. Sneakers were all right, but she preferred her brown leather ankle boots.

“Speaking of stubborn, Martin, what is that around your waist?”

He opened the cupboard above the coffee maker, searching for a mug. “A belt?” Martin peeked at her around the door.

“Is that glitter?”

“There is nothing in the handbook about belts. I checked. Besides, what’s the matter with a splash of color? You’re trying to suffocate my creativity!”

Sarah snickered. “If you’ve found a way to creatively clean the dog pens, then you know what? Glitter away.” Clasping the keys in her hand, she searched for her purse. The dogs jumped at her feet while Nashville pointedly ignored her. “Martin, those treats are so bad, Pippa won’t eat them.”

“That is bad.” He sniffed a green pellet from the jar on the counter and tossed it in the trash. “I don’t blame her. I’ll pick some up on my lunch break.”

“No, Martin, I’ll do it.”

“Want me to give you a couple bucks? Splurge on the name brand?”

“Those are filled with crap.”

“You aren’t going to get quality for cheap, Chiquita.”

The phone rang and Martin ran to answer it, ending the argument. “Thank you for calling Pet Rescue, how can we help you today?”

Sarah found her purse beneath the newspaper she hadn’t had time to read. Office hours were eight to six, though she was on call for emergencies around the clock. She’d barely finished one cup of joe.

“Oh no, ma’am, that won’t be necessary,” Martin said in a soothing voice as he sat in the office chair. “Of course, Mrs. Drummel. Our best officer is already on her way.”

With that, Sarah scooted out the front door so she didn’t make Martin a liar.

She drove the five blocks down Ocean Blvd, turning right into the gated community of Pelican Perch.

What to expect? Opting to keep her tools in the truck, Sarah parked in the visitor’s section and took her leather gloves from the center console. She climbed out, stuffing her gloves into her back pocket, and went inside the coral-colored high-rise. Air conditioning hummed around the white marble lobby. Floral carpet runners assigned a path toward the desk, or the bank of elevators.

A piercing cry winged through the vents and the man behind the desk met her gaze. “We’ve been waiting for you,” he said, rising from the chair and offering his hand. “I’m Bob.”

The heartbreaking cries made her chest pound in empathy. “Wow. I’m Sarah Murphy. How long has this been going on?”

“An hour. We’ve knocked on the door. No answer. I’ve called up to the unit, but I don’t think anybody is home. In this instance, I can unlock the door for you to get the animal out of the apartment. I’ll go with you. God knows what we’re gonna find.”

Sarah thought about going out to her truck for a net, but the cry was so sharp and filled with pain that she didn’t want to waste any more time.

About fifty, Bob wore a white long-sleeved button up shirt with a black tie and black work pants. He headed toward the elevator bank, head down. “Winter people,” he muttered.

“Excuse me?” Sarah asked, not sure if he was speaking to her or not.

“Owner normally stays off and on over the winter.” Bob shrugged. “He’s moved in permanent. The last few months.” Reeking of disapproval, the man hit the button and they rode the elevator to the sixteenth floor.

“Penthouse?” she asked. This was so not her life.

“People think they got money they can do whatever they want. But we don’t hold with animal cruelty here at the Pelican Perch.”

The sharp cries increased in volume, tearing at her heart strings. “I can see why Mrs. Drummel called. This is terrible…”She took her gloves from her pocket.

“It started off real faint, occasional, but got louder in the past half hour.” They left the elevator and the cries echoed around the foyer. There was only one apartment on this floor. The best of the best.

Sarah shook her head, angry on behalf of whatever was hurting behind those doors. She walked over and knocked, three times, hard. “Animal control,” she said in a stern voice. “Open the door.”

The cries became louder, as if crossing a hall, coming toward her. The lock slid back, and Sarah braced herself for what came her way. She should have grabbed a bite stick from the truck simply for defense. What kind of person could stand to hurt an animal like that?

The door opened inward and Sarah’s sharp words caught in her throat.

A little girl, maybe seven or eight, all big teeth and curly dark brown hair, stared at her in obvious distress. Wide, brown eyes glistened as she cried along with the tiny Yorkshire Terrier puppy in her hands. The puppy looked to be about six weeks old. She held it awkwardly, stiffly, toward Sarah.

“Paisley won’t stop crying,” the girl said, tears streaming down olive-toned cheeks. She hiccupped and waited for someone to help her.

Bob coughed into his fist and looked away, all gruff and tough man gone in the face of the little girl’s plight. Sarah realized it would be up to her to fix it.

Putting her gloves away, she dropped to her knees and held out her hands for the shrieking puppy. “Let me see what’s going on here.” Sarah felt its nose. Hot. A fever? Peering down to its mouth, she got a whiff of something rotten.

Grateful for her time as a vet assistant, Sarah probed the small jaw and found a bleeding puppy tooth covered by infected gums. Curable, but obviously painful. “All right honey,” she said to the little girl. “It’s all right. Paisley has a toothache.”

The girl sniffed and swiped a hand under her eyes. “She does?” She looked to where Sarah pointed and sighed, her small body leaning against Sarah. “I thought Paisley hated me. She doesn’t cry when Daddy holds her.”

Sarah hid a smile. Sweet that she thought her dad was a hero. Where was he? “What’s your name?” Sarah cupped Paisley in her hands for security, snuggling the exhausted puppy close to her chest until the poor thing quieted down.

“Bella.” She took a breath, her narrow shoulders visible in her yellow sundress. “IsabellaMariaBlancheRodriguesdeSilva.”

Sarah couldn’t help but be charmed as she untangled Isabella and Maria Rodrigues out of the compounded name, recited in perfect English. No wonder she went by Bella. “Is your mom home? Or your dad?”

Tears started again. “Mama is dead. Daddy promised he’d come right home! I called him,” she said through fresh sobs. “I called him forever ago.”

Bella didn’t have a mom? Why would her dad leave his kid home by herself to take care of a sick puppy? Wasn’t she too young to be by herself, anyway? Sarah reminded herself that she was in a world where just about anything could be bought. “Do you have a nanny?”

Bella softly touched the silky fur, relaxing against Sarah while not answering the question. “My puppy doesn’t like me. Will Paisley die too?”

Sarah didn’t even want to connect what those two things might mean. Surely this beautiful kid didn’t believe her mother hadn’t liked her? “If we take the puppy to the vet, she should be okay. Bella, where is your nanny?”

“She went home and left me here.” Bella sniffled loudly. “Daddy was really mad and said she was going to be fired.” She put her finger to her lips, swearing Sarah and Bob to secrecy. “He said some bad words.”

Bob chuckled. “I bet.”

“He’s supposed to be home.” Bella’s voice quivered with emotion. “Where is he?”

Sarah decided that keeping Bella and the puppy calmed down was the first step toward figuring out what to do next. They couldn’t stay in the foyer all day. “How about we sit on the couch and I can show you how to hold Paisley so that she’ll sleep until your dad gets here?”

Bella’s eyes rounded and she clutched Sarah’s arm. “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.”

Babysitting was not on her list of duties, but no way could Sarah turn her back on this little girl. “I’ll just get you settled in, okay?” What was her dad doing that he couldn’t get home? Golfing? “Where is your dad, hon?”

“Work.” Bella sucked in her lower lip. “Just for a little while.”

So not out playing a few rounds… Sarah acknowledged that circumstances seemed to have created a tough situation, but a job was not more important than your kid. Period. Her protective instincts kicked in. “All right. I’ll stay until he comes home.”

“I’ll go back down, then,” the manager said. “Isabella, my name is Bob. If you need me, just use the house phone to call 315. That rings at the front desk. I can help you.”

Bella’s lower lip trembled as she nodded. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.”

“Well, now, we aren’t strangers anymore, right?” Bob held out his hand, and he and Bella shook on it. “I’ve got a granddaughter about your age.”

She smiled, the tears forgotten. “Can she come and play?”

“Madison lives in New York.”

“Oh.” Bella’s face fell.

“But she visits for the summer. Maybe you girls can go to the beach together.”

“I can ask my daddy,” Bella said from Sarah’s side.

Bob pushed the button to return to the lobby just as the elevator doors opened.

Sarah, still kneeling with the puppy at her chest and Bella at her shoulder, caught her breath as one of the most handsome men she’d ever seen walked out of the car. Her stomach knotted as she recognized the thick black hair cut to the neck in a relaxed style that screamed high-end salon. Dark brows and a prominent nose set above a mouth meant for kissing—when it wasn’t thin with worry, like now.

Franco de Silva. Stunned, she looked at the puppy, then Isabella, and rose to her full height. Five foot six wasn’t much compared to his over six feet, but she wouldn’t let that stop her from giving him an earful. Figured it was him. Her nemesis.

Bella left her side and shouted “Daddy!” in such a gleeful voice that Sarah bit her tongue. A few months ago Franco de Silva had come into town, throwing money around and re-opening the pet store it had taken her six months to close. The previous owners had run a puppy mill out of the premium downtown space, forging pedigrees and selling over-bred dogs to unsuspecting tourists.

As if sensing Sarah’s emotional turmoil, the puppy woke up and continued its gut-wrenching cries. She brought Paisley to her chest and made soothing noises.

Franco’s head dipped as he took in her uniform and the puppy in her hands, barely glancing at Sarah’s face. He put his hand on his daughter’s small shoulder, rubbing her back. “Are you all right, Bella? I’m sorry you were frightened.”

“Yes, yes. Sarah said Paisley has a tooth ache.”

His furious gaze snagged hers and held it. “Sarah Murphy,” he said between gritted teeth, his throat red with suppressed anger. “What are you doing here?”

She refused to back down from the contempt radiating from him, though it stung. “We got a disturbance call. Animal Control.”

“I know what you do.” Calm. Cool. Controlled.

She knew her weekly visits angered him, but she wouldn’t let his money, charm or good looks stop her from doing the right thing. “My job.” Sarah thought it was too much of a coincidence that he’d swooped in and opened another puppy store. Designer dogs were easy money. Enough to afford this penthouse? “I protect animals that can’t protect themselves.”

There was probably a reason Paisley had bad teeth. Disreputable breeders tossed a mix together based on looks rather than what was healthy, all for the big bucks.

They stared at one another, tension screeching like nails down a chalk board.

“You are on the wrong trail,” Franco said, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve got the citation you gave us taped by the register. My staff knows to call the real police if you ever set foot in my store again.”