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situation, too.
    “It may help keep animals safe if we can make things as nice as possible for Mamie—and trash all the reminders that might make her start collecting again.”
    “Interesting image,” he said. “I’m picturing your having to make over her whole house to get rid of any reminders. Maybe everything else in her life, too. But go for it.”
    I contacted Matt to find out when the cleaning could start without stepping on any official toes and ruining any evidence that needed to be collected. He promised to get back to me on the timing but believed that tomorrow would work out fine. Plus, he indicated he’d be able to get someone to let the cleaning crew onto the property, since the authorities retained access to it as a crime scene for now. He agreed with my opinion, though, that even though she wasn’t reachable yet, it would be best to get consent from Mamie.
    Instead, I contacted her niece, who was thrilled by the idea and granted permission from the family. Did she have the right? As far as I was concerned, she did. Mamie might have another opinion, but by the time she could assert it, her place would be clean.
    Finally, I set up the day and time with the cleaning company and agreed to pay for rush service, since I didn’t know when Mamie might be released. I was sure Dante would be okay with that.
    Then, at long last, I went to meet my friend. I needed the distraction.
    Not to mention the wine.
     
     
    I wasn’t very hungry, so I let Carlie choose our meeting place. She usually picked restaurants closest to her veterinary clinic, The Fittest Pet, in Northridge. Since Granada Hills wasn’t far from there, that was okay with me.
    But this time she chose a location nearer to HotRescues—an Italian restaurant I hadn’t tried before.
    “One of my patients recommended it,” she’d told me as she gave me the address.
    “Really?”
    “Actually, the owner of one of my patients. But I equate them, you know?”
    I did know. Pets were family members.
    The restaurant looked appealing from the street, with a few tables located on the sidewalk outside. Some were occupied on this warm June evening. I wished I’d brought Zoey, but, not knowing this place’s amenities, I’d left her with the early evening crew at HotRescues.
    The place was crowded. Carlie was already there and, bless her, a glass of red wine sat on the table in front of the vacant seat she’d designated as mine.
    “Merlot.” She held up the bottle.
    “Perfect.” I sat and took a sip, and she did the same from the glass in front of her.
    I’d met Carlie six years ago, when she was the first person to adopt a pet from HotRescues just after we opened. She often mentioned her beloved Max, an adorable cocker spaniel mix, on her TV show.
    I could have started disliking Carlie because, though she was my age, she was a lot better preserved—and not artificially, unless you counted her highlighted, shoulder-length blond hair. She had lovely violet eyes, and softly chiseled features overlaid with smooth skin.
    Not that I looked antique. My dark hair has almost no gray in it—naturally. I keep it cut short, since it stays out of my way as I care for animals, and I don’t have to look glamorous in front of TV cameras the way Carlie does. I’ve kept my weight low, I exercise some—mostly by walking dogs—and I have high cheekbones that would look good if I ever guest-starred on one of Carlie’s Pet Fitness shows . . . which I didn’t intend to do.
    We studied the menus briefly, then ordered. I chose a small salad followed by mushroom ravioli. I’d get a doggy box for my predestined leftovers—for me, not Zoey. She’d get her own food, but maybe extra treats, since I’d been away from her so long that day.
    When the server walked away, Carlie said, “Okay, tell me about your hoarder.”
    I hadn’t said much when I’d phoned for commiseration, but I did mention that the hoarder was the friend who’d gotten me interested in pet rescues