Mutts and Mistletoe

by Natalie Cox

  Hugo fires up the engine, throws the car into reverse and hits the pedal. We scream up the lane backward, the car’s headlights picking out Mr. Mustache and his pack of unruly pooches, who now surround him, barking excitedly.

  Driving at high speed backward in the dark is possibly the most terrifying thing I have ever done, and I glance over to see Hugo’s face tight with concentration, his arms locked against the steering wheel. When we reach the road the Ferrari ejects itself like a missile, flying backward through the air and landing on the icy road with a crash, whereupon it spins like a bottle around on itself. We come to a halt with a screech of tires, and I look over at him.

  We are both grinning like fools.

  * * *

  We speed off through the village, leaving Mr. Mustache and his dogs far behind. The drive back across the moor is a raucous affair. We sing carols at the top of our lungs, with Judd on my lap and Malcolm beside me, completely uncaring of the fact that I cannot carry a tune, and work our way through the entire canon by the time we reach the outskirts of Cross Bottomley. But just as we round the last bend before Jez’s farm, I spy Cal’s blue Volvo parked outside the door. He is standing by the car holding his phone, and as the Ferrari pulls into the driveway, he turns and looks right at me.

  I can just make out his furious blue eyes.

  chapter

  24

  On the face of it, this looks quite bad. We look quite bad. As Judd, Malcolm, and I come tumbling out of the Ferrari, I can virtually read what Cal is thinking. He may be momentarily relieved to see Judd, but his focus is all on Hugo.

  Is this your friend?

  My mind frantically gropes for an explanation that will pacify him.

  “Cal,” I say. But the words do not come.

  “You got Judd back,” he says, his voice strained.

  “Yes.”

  “On your own? Or . . . with him?” He indicates Hugo and the implication is clear that once again I have chosen Hugo over him.

  Nooooo.

  Hugo swaggers over to us, full of newfound valor. “Hello, old chap. You missed all the fun.”

  Cal glances at him, then looks back at me. “I gather,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say weakly. “I should have rung to let you know. My phone died.” I hold up my dead phone. Damn technology!

  “Glad it worked out,” Cal says soberly. He does not look glad.

  “Charlie was magnificent,” says Hugo proudly. “You should have seen her.”

  “I’m sure,” says Cal. He does not sound even remotely sure.

  There is an awkward moment, where I silently will Hugo to take his leave.

  “I say we celebrate!” says Hugo brightly. “I’ve got champagne in the boot.”

  I turn to Cal. “Would you like to come in?” I ask. He does not look as if he would like to come in.

  “I need to get back,” he says. He turns to go and I take a step forward and grab hold of his arm.

  “Cal.” He frowns, looking down at my hand. “It isn’t what you think,” I say quietly.

  Hugo peers at us. “Really?” he asks. “What does he think?”

  “Happy Christmas,” says Cal quietly.

  I watch as he climbs into the Volvo and drives off.

  Without so much as a wave.

  * * *

  Hugo insists on cracking open the champagne. And even though I am sad at Cal’s departure, a not-so-tiny part of me wouldn’t mind celebrating my first successful foray into vigilantism. So we dig out some flutes, pour ourselves a generous measure, stoke up the Rayburn, and flop down on the sofa. I plug my phone into a charger and within a few moments it rings. Maybe it’s Cal?

  I leap up and grab it. “Hi, Mum,” I say disappointingly. “Happy Christmas.”

  “At last! I’ve been trying to reach you all day!”

  Ah well, what with one thing and another.

  “Me, too,” I lie. “Circuits must have been overloaded. How’s Christmas in the Southern Hemisphere?”

  “Blistering. My face looks like an overripe tomato. You know how I bloat in the sun.”

  “I thought you were looking forward to a tropical holiday.”

  “Was I?” she says wistfully.

  “So, I guess you didn’t roast a turkey, then.”

  “Oscar made salmon on the barbie, which is apparently traditional. But it didn’t feel very Christmassy,” she confides in a loud whisper. Irritatingly, I can already detect traces of an affected Australian accent.

  “How are the twins?”

  “Feral,” she snorts. About the time I hit menses my mother began dropping hints about grandchildren. But as soon as she married Richie, who came complete with twin grandsons, she instantly went off the idea. “I swear there’s something off-kilter about those boys,” she says. “They must have AC/DC.”

  “ADD?”

  “They’re out killing things as we speak.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Birds, insects, rodents. Other people’s pets, probably. They’ve got a small arsenal of weapons: air guns, slingshots, spears. And I don’t mind saying they are totally overindulged by their parents.”

  Of course you don’t. “Times have changed, I guess.”

  “I blame whoever coined the term parenting,” she says with a sigh. “Nouns into verbs is never a good thing.”

  “True.” At least we can agree on that.

  “How are you anyway?” She asks, suddenly remembering her maternal responsibilities. “How are the headaches?”

  “I’m completely fine now, Mum.”

  “Good. And Jez?”

  “She’s terrific,” I say jauntily. This is not a lie; indeed, it is quite likely to be true.

  “You’re not overstaying your welcome, are you?”

  “No, Mum.”

  “Good. Is she there?”

  “Not right at this moment.” Definitely true.

  “She hasn’t left you alone on Christmas, has she?”

  “I’m not alone.” I glance up at Hugo, who is busy refilling his glass. He holds up the bottle with an enquiring look. “I’ve got a friend here.”

  “What sort of friend?” Her voice has suddenly taken on a penetrating quality, not unlike the whine of a mosquito.

  “Just a friend. He’s staying nearby.”

  “And does your friend have a name?” she asks pointedly. I sigh. Dear Lord.

  “Here. Why don’t you ask him?” I say, handing the phone to Hugo.

  * * *

  They are more than a match for each other, so I leave them to it. I refill my champagne, pull on my coat, and head outside. As I pull the door shut, Hugo looks up at me with a bewildered smile: I give him a cheery thumbs-up and he nods rather gamely. I cross the yard and enter the paddock. The snow is dense and wet underfoot and glows an eerie white all around me. Nick and Noel are huddled together some fifty meters away, and as I trudge across they stand to attention, their long necks stretching upward. “Hello, lads,” I say, stepping gingerly toward them. One of them (Nick, perhaps?) cranes his head down toward me and I reach up to scratch the dense fluff atop his head. Noel shuffles forward, eager, too, for attention. I stand there for a few minutes patting them while they make sweet little nickering noises. They may have brains the size of lemons, but their hearts appear to be gargantuan. Nick and Noel have no choice but to live in the moment, so they stick together, take what comes, and aren’t afraid to seek affection. Their capacity for trust far outshines my own.

  When I go back inside Hugo is just pulling on his coat. “Sorry,” I say, indicating the phone.

  “You did rather bowl me a googly there. She’s quite a card, your mum.”

  “Queen of Spades.”

  “She asked me what my intentions were.”

  Oh God. “What did you say?”


  “I told her I intended to pay twice the usual fee. And that your services were exemplary.”

  I stare at him. “Please tell me you discussed the nature of my services,” I say.

  Hugo frowns. “Not as such. But she did insist that any daughter of hers was surely worth at least triple the price. And she’s right. So you have her to thank for your bonus.”

  “I’ll believe it when I see it,” I say.

  “I’m a man of my word,” he says, struggling to pull on a pair of stiff, brown-and-white-mottled gloves. “From Constance,” he says, holding them up. “Python leather. Shockingly expensive, apparently. And very durable. Waterproof, too.” He frowns down at them. “I planned to give her something living,” he says philosophically. “And she gave me something . . .”

  “Deadly?”

  He looks up at me and nods.

  “Try not to take it personally.”

  * * *

  Hugo returns to Constance and her family, and the dogs and I retire. I am feeling fairly wretched, but maybe I can speak to Cal tomorrow and explain. I triple-lock all the doors and decide to sleep on the sofa in the kitchen, just in case Mr. Mustache tries anything else, though I doubt he will. With any luck, Camilla Delors will collect Judd tomorrow afternoon, and I will be finished forever with dog snatchers. Then I remember that I should notify the Devon and Cornwall Police, so once again I ring the nonemergency number, and the same bored officer answers.

  Me: Hello. I rang earlier about a stolen dog?

  Police: (sighs) Yes, madam. How could we forget?

  Me: I just want to say that I’ve recovered him.

  Police: (pause) Is that to say he was returned to you?

  Me: Um . . . no. Actually, I went and got him.

  Police: I see. So you found the dog and asked for him back?

  Me: Not exactly.

  Police: (pause) Did you steal him back?

  Me: Is it stealing, really? If it’s yours to begin with?

  Police: (sighs) Was anyone hurt, madam?

  Me: No.

  Police: (gruffly) Devon and Cornwall Police do not endorse acts of vigilantism.

  Me: I understand.

  Police: (grudging) That said—well done.

  Basking in his praise, I give him Mr. Mustache’s address and he promises to dispatch a team of officers to Hexmoor immediately. Apparently, crimes of property can be a priority, after all.

  After I hang up I snuggle down on the sofa with Slab. Malcolm is stretched out on the floor beside Peggy and the puppies, snoring softly. And Judd and Hulk are curled up happily on the dog bed in the corner.

  Perhaps I really am a failed human, after all.

  * * *

  I wake early the next morning to a sharp rap at the door. During the night, Slab has wormed his way under my armpit, like a giant hairy teat. I peer across the room in the early morning light and see two uniformed police staring in at me through the window. I remove Slab from my armpit and cross to the door, a blanket wrapped around my shoulders.

  Surely it’s a bit too early for crimes of property?

  “Sorry to disturb, madam,” says a tall, attractive female officer with pale blonde hair tightly pulled back in a chignon. Who knew police could be so chic! “We’d like to ask you some questions about the crime report you filed yesterday?” This woman is all business, though her shorter male colleague looks as if he has only just graduated from police academy: fresh-faced and chubby cheeked, with a startled look in his eyes, as if he shouldn’t be trusted with anything more serious than a moving violation. I open the door.

  “Of course. Come in.” But, please, no questions until I have some coffee.

  They shuffle into the kitchen while I put a kettle on, and I see their eyes sweep across the room, then flick briefly to each other: Crazy dog lady.

  Once inside, Blond Officer informs me that Mr. Mustache is now in custody and has given a full confession.

  Excellent! Justice prevails!

  “But it appears he wasn’t working alone,” she adds. “He claims that he was hired by the owner.”

  I turn around, astonished, dropping a teaspoon to the floor with a clatter. “Camilla Delors?” I ask.

  She glances down at the small white pad she is carrying and nods. “That would be correct.”

  “Why would she steal her own dog?” Just as soon as I ask the question, the answer blooms in my mind.

  Triple idiot! Insurance!

  “Well, that’s what we’d like to find out,” says Blonde Officer. “When is the dog due to be collected?”

  “This afternoon. Two o’clock,” I say.

  Blonde Officer shoots Baby Officer a look.

  “Because we’d like to be here when she does.”

  * * *

  A sting operation! Cozy Canine Cottages is going to be the subject of a sting operation! It is all terribly glamorous and exciting. Or at least, it’s a teeny-weeny bit glamorous and exciting. Even if one of the officers involved looks as if he would be more happy playing cops and robbers on a playground.

  The police leave, promising to return later, and after I have fed and exercised the dogs and the alpacas, I ring Sian to bring her up to date. Her response is typically no-nonsense. “Right. We need to get the whole thing on camera,” she says. “It’ll be perfect for your YouTube channel.”

  “I don’t have a YouTube channel.”

  “Not yet. Damn! Owen and I would drive out there, but he’s got a birthday party later.”

  “What a shame.” Not.

  “Remember to set the camera up at eye line. And to angle your body slightly away.”

  “Um . . . why?”

  “Because dead-on camera takes are never flattering. And shooting from below makes you look bloated.”

  “Right.” I have no intention of filming the sting operation, nor of launching my own YouTube channel, but there is little use explaining this to Sian. I will simply tell her later that my phone ran out of battery at the crucial moment, which will probably be true anyway.

  “By the way, Owen and I stalked the Band of the Household Cavalry on Facebook, and found the ex-girlfriend,” Sian says.

  “You mean Bonnie?”

  “Yep. Does the dishy Danish know she’s divorced?”

  “No! Really?”

  “That’s what her Facebook profile says. Her privacy settings are rubbish, by the way.”

  I smile. Classic Sian! Perhaps there’s hope for Hugo, after all.

  * * *

  After we hang up, I decide to text Cal, but after several attempts at lengthy apologies and explanations, I delete everything I’ve written. I lie down on the floor beside Peggy and allow the puppies to scramble over my body like tiny Sherpas scaling Everest. Rudy nuzzles his way to my side and I scoop him onto my chest, where he settles down happily in between my breasts for a snooze. Maybe I will try ringing Cal later, after we have entrapped Camilla Delors. I suspect he would take a very dim view of my involvement in a sting operation.

  Valko turns up later and grins at me when I open the door. “Happy Box Day,” he declares.

  “So it is,” I reply. “Where’ve you been the last few days?”

  He blushes. “I am with pigs,” he says. Is that so?

  “Where’s Stella?”

  “Today, she goes to mother.” He shrugs and gives a wave toward the west. “Somewheres.” When I tell him about Judd’s theft and recovery, he rolls his eyes and chastises me for my failure to get a gun. But when I explain that the police are due later, his eyebrows shoot up.

  “Police will come? Here?”

  “Yes. What’s wrong, Valko? You’re not in trouble with them, are you?”

  “No,” he says forcibly, shaking his head. “I have only . . . small problem. With tax papers.” Ah. Of course he does.

  “Don’t worry, t
hey’re not due until later.”

  He offers to take the twins for a walk, which I am only too grateful for, as it gives me time to bathe and dress.

  What to wear for a sting operation? In the end, I settle on a stylishly covert combo: thick black leggings and a rather pretty, floaty black tunic that I must have missed earlier in Jez’s wardrobe. I brew fresh coffee and am just sitting down to enjoy a cup when I hear a familiar diesel engine in the driveway and look up to see Cal’s Volvo pull up outside. Instantly, I am petrified; my hand wobbles as I set the mug down. I creep to the window and watch as he climbs out of the car. Outside it is a brilliantly sunny, crisp winter’s day; he is wearing the same plaid shirt and burgundy vest he wore the first time we met, and looks utterly divine. Was that really less than two weeks ago? It feels like decades. I open the door just as he reaches it. In the bright light his eyes are a blazing cobalt blue.

  “Hi,” he says.

  “Hi,” I reply.

  His gaze flicks beyond me to the kitchen. “Are you alone?”

  I hesitate, aware that Valko is due back at some point with the twins. And the dogs are here, of course. “Sort of.”

  He blinks a few times, which makes him look like a sad owl, and instantly I feel guilty. Do not trifle with this man.

  “It’s just me and the dogs,” I explain.

  Cal nods, evidently relieved. But he still doesn’t smile.

  “Do you want to come in?” I ask tentatively.

  He steps inside and looks around, taking in the dogs. He still looks worried, the way Malcolm does when one of the puppies cannot find its way to a teat.

  “It feels a little crowded in here,” he says, turning to face me. “Actually, it’s your life that feels crowded,” he adds. “What with one thing and another.” His voice has taken on a more serious edge. It is patently obvious he means Hugo.