by Annie Knox
Ama watched her son hanging on Daisy May while she bathed his face in doggy kisses. A faint smile spread across her face.
“Deal.”
I glanced at my watch. I could afford five more minutes before I had to go back to Trendy Tails to put the finishing touches on the wedding details. I sat quietly at Ama’s side, my own head tilted back to enjoy the spring sunshine on my face, and listened to Jordan giggling with the dogs.
There’d been a dark cloud in Merryville for the past week, but it had finally dissipated. The sun was back.
* * *
The afternoon of the marriages of Ingrid and Harvey and Romeo and Pearl, everything went smooth as silk. Well, almost. Romeo managed to shake his collar around so his bow tie was on his back; one of the guests, a terrier of some sort, tried to hump Lucy’s Wile E. Collie; and another critter—a cat named Toast—hacked up most of a piece of the reception cake onto Packer’s plate . . . though that did not even slow him down as he gobbled up his food.
And, of course, Ama was not there. It was just too soon.
We still got plenty of pictures of the two ceremonies, with Xander Stephens demonstrating yet another talent by taking incredible candid and posed shots with everyone involved. I was particularly fond of one of Aunt Dolly, decked out in a fringed minidress, standing on her toes to whisper something in Richard Greene’s ear. In the photo, he’s bending down to meet her halfway, and a soft smile graces his lips. Someday, I thought, someday soon, we’d be planning another wedding.
Jane Porter and Knute Hammer attended the second wedding, but this time, Jane looked genuinely happy for Ingrid and Harvey. The fact that Jane and Knute had gone from social companions to hand-holders might have had something to do with that. In any event, Ingrid brought Harvey over to meet Jane, and the two women clutched each other’s hands like they were old friends. I knew they’d still bicker over canasta, but the wound from Jane and Arnold’s affair seemed to have healed.
All my friends had coupled up for the event. I could hear Taffy’s lilting laughter coming from the kitchen, where Ken was continuing to crank out delicious appetizers, and Jolly Nielson had pitched in to help Rena serve the array of pet treats she had concocted. Xander stood stoically at Lucy’s side while she chatted up everyone and his brother.
I shared a glance with my sister Dru. Uncomfortable in social situations, she clung to Lucy’s side, even though the two drove each other nuts. Even from across the room, I could see the glint of pain in Dru’s eyes.
Poor Dru. She was so smart and so loving (in her own prickly way), but she’d had even less luck at love than I had. A few loser boyfriends who never lasted more than a couple of months, and long stretches of working overtime and helping my mother scrapbook. She deserved to find love, too. I made a mental note to make it a priority to play matchmaker.
All told, with the exception of my lonely sister, it seemed everyone was having a blast at the combo human/doggy wedding.
Pris approached me as Ingrid and Harvey were getting ready to cut the human cake. She wore Kiki—complete with lavender chiffon ruff—draped over her shoulder. At her initial approach, the cat could see me, and she lifted her head, laid her ears back, and began making a threatening rooing sound in the back of her throat. Pris sighed, and turned to angle her body so Kiki had a different view. Kiki relaxed immediately.
I swear, I’d broken hearts, broken rules, accused people of killing other people, yet no creature on the planet despised me as much as that fluffball cat.
“This went well,” Pris said. “Not a single corpse.”
“I agree. Any interest in making it a regular thing?”
Pris smiled. “We’re supposed to be rivals, right?”
I smiled back. “I think there’s room for a little rivalry between business partners.”
She bobbed her head. “Fair enough. I’ll start drafting a menu of services and prices so people can choose which of the wedding amenities they want.” Pris had clearly been pondering the idea of a collaboration herself.
“Sounds good. Drop it by when you have a draft, and I’ll go over it, adding in the services we can provide. And I’ll start working on a plan for the cat show in July. We’re really going to have to put our heads together to make that show a success.”
She nodded.
“By the way, how on earth is Hal going to get the Soaring Eagles site turned into a convention center by July?”
Pris smiled, that sly mischievous smile of hers. “It didn’t take much to convince Hal and the Japanese investors that a convention center would bring a better return than some crappy vacation condos. After all, they’d hardly made any progress at all. And I know Hal comes off as an idiot, but he didn’t become the RV King without having a little get-up-and-go. If he’s got a specific date in mind, he’ll get the job done. He’s crap as a husband, but a star as a businessman.”
“What about the owls?”
She waved off my question. “We’ll get those little suckers moved, someplace farther north. They’ll be fine.”
I couldn’t imagine moving all those tiny birds, but I knew Pris could always get what she wanted. If she wanted tiny birds moved across state, then they would be moved. I had a ridiculous image of little owls carrying little suitcases and getting on a little bus . . . with Pris at the wheel.
“Oh, and Izzy,” Pris added, tilting back her head so she could stare down her nose at me, “no more accusing Hal of murder. That does me no good. It means attorney fees and a bad reputation that could slow down our cash flow from the RV lot. It’s mistresses I’m looking for. You find me a mistress, and I’ll buy you dinner.”
She winked at me, and then glided back into the crowd.
Rena walked over and dumped Jinx in my arms. “Take this cat.”
“Okay.”
“She’s big and pushy and won’t leave me alone,” she complained.
“She loves you,” I countered.
“I know. But now that the cakes have been cut, and your sisters have cleared the chairs away, I need to take up my role as DJ and get this party started.”
I lifted Jinx up so my shoulder bore most of her weight, and watched Rena scoot through the crowd to the speakers and MP3 player she’d set up on the shelf behind the front display cabinet. It was the same MP3 player she’d given Ingrid at our impromptu shower, so we were definitely in for some golden oldies.
In a moment the sweet whistles and lilting lyrics of “Wonderful, Wonderful” filled the room. All the guests grew silent and moved as one away from the center of the floor. Harvey swept Ingrid into his arms, and they began to glide across the hardwood like a couple of ballroom pros. Finally, in the last refrain, he dipped her gracefully, drawing a gasp from all present, followed by applause when she was once again upright.
The delight in their eyes was contagious. I stood against the back wall, absently stroking Jinx’s head as she purred right into my ear. I sought out Sean on one side of the room, smiling as he listened to something his mother had to say. He glanced up and caught my gaze, his eyes haunted, dark, and deep. When he leaned back down to continue his conversation with his mother, my eyes traveled around the room until they landed on Jack Collins. His head was thrown back in laughter, presumably at the bickering between my sisters. He, too, caught me staring, and eyes sparkling with mirth, he winked at me.
Two men, so different from each other: the poet with a protective side, and the warrior with a sense of humor. And they both liked me, at least a little.
I smiled a smile just for myself.
Tonight, I thought, tonight, I will dance.
About the Author
Annie Knox doesn’t commit—or solve—murders in her real life, but her passion for animals is one hundred percent true. She’s also a devotee of eighties music, Asian horror films, and reality TV. While Annie is a native Buckeye and has called a half dozen states
home, she and her husband now live a stone’s throw from the courthouse square in a north Texas town in their very own crumbling historic house.
RECIPES
Rena’s Enchilada Hotdish
Here’s what you’ll need before you begin assembly. Don’t fret. There are lots of pieces, but they’re all super- easy.
1 recipe enchilada sauce
1 recipe potato filling
1 recipe pinto bean filling
18 6-in. corn tortillas
12 oz. cheddar or Colby cheese (reduced-fat is fine)
Enchilada Sauce
1/4 c. vegetable oil
2 Tbsp. flour
1/4 c. chili powder
11/2 c. vegetable broth
1 (15 oz.) can tomato sauce
3/4 tsp. ground cumin
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
2 oz. Mexican chocolate*
salt to taste
Heat oil in a skillet over medium-high heat. Stir in flour, reduce heat to medium, and cook until lightly brown, stirring constantly to prevent flour from burning. Stir in chili powder, then slowly mix in veggie broth, getting rid of any lumps. Stir tomato sauce, cumin, and garlic powder into sauce and continue cooking over medium heat approximately 10 minutes, or until thickened slightly. Stir in chocolate to melt. Season to taste with salt.
*Mexican chocolate comes in tablets for making hot chocolate. Abuelita is the brand I get most often, but there are several. Look for them in the Hispanic or international food section of your grocery store. If you cannot find Mexican chocolate, you can use unsweetened chocolate and add a dash of cinnamon.
Potato Filling
1 bag frozen, steam-in-bag russet or sweet potatoes, prepared as directed on the bag*
10–16 oz. frozen chopped spinach, thawed (whatever size your grocery store carries!)
1 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
dash of ground chipotle or cayenne
Press as much water out of the spinach as you can (put it in a colander and press with the back of a spoon). Mash the potatoes with a fork or a potato masher; they don’t need to be smooth, just mushed a bit. Stir in the spinach, cumin, garlic powder, and chipotle/cayenne.
*As an alternative, use 2 pounds russet or sweet potatoes, peeled, diced, and boiled in salted water until tender.
Pinto Bean Filling
1 can pinto beans, drained and rinsed
1/2 c. fat-free refried beans
1 (14.5 oz.) can diced tomatoes
1 c. frozen corn
1 tsp. chili powder
1/2 tsp. cumin
1/2 tsp. garlic powder
Mix all ingredients together in a small saucepan, mashing some of the beans with the back of a fork. Heat over medium-low flame until hot.
Assembly
Preheat oven to 350. Spray a 9" x 13" pan with a little nonstick spray and spread about 1/2 cup of enchilada sauce in the bottom. Arrange 6 corn tortillas on the bottom, tearing and overlapping so that the whole bottom of the pan is covered.
Spread half the potato filling on the tortillas.
Ladle half the pinto filling over the potatoes, and drizzle about 1/2 cup of enchilada sauce over the pintos. Top with 4 ounces of shredded cheese.
Repeat with another 6 tortillas, the rest of the potatoes, the rest of the pintos, and another 1/2 cup of sauce. Top with the last 6 corn tortillas and ladle the rest of the sauce over the tortillas (so they are totally covered). Finally, top with remaining cheese.
Bake, uncovered, 30 minutes.
Read on for a sneak peek at the next novel in Annie Knox’s Pet Boutique Mystery series,
COLLARED FOR MURDER
Coming from Obsidian in summer 2015.
Dee Dee Lahti stood in the middle of the North Woods Hotel Ballroom Number One, her aqua kaftan billowing in the intermittent wind from an oscillating fan, a patient Maine coon hanging from her hands by his armpits. Dee Dee cocked her frizzy head, scanning the hutches and velvet-draped cages lining the benches, her mouth—generously outlined in mauve—moving softly as she maintained a running conversation with herself.
Without warning, she lurched forward and down as though she were falling and began to shove the cat into a pink-leopard-print PVC hutch.
Pamela Rawlins had been chatting idly with me while I arranged my chiffon ruffs, hand-wrought collar dangles, and delicate clips sporting rhinestones, bows, and small beaded flowers on my vendor’s table. When Dee Dee crammed that cat into the hutch, though, Pamela stiffened and sucked in a breath, her patrician nostrils pinching shut. “I swear, that woman has less sense than a box of hair,” she muttered.
“Dee Dee, darling,” she called. “You really must put the correct cat in the correct enclosure.” She bit off her words like a Connecticut blue blood. Or a shark.
Dee Dee looked up, her features scrunched in confusion.
“You can’t put Mr. Big in Charleston’s hutch.”
Dee Dee stared at the cat she had just deposited, then leaned in to look at the picture pinned to the outside of the enclosure. She stood straight and looked back at us, her expressive face slack, blank.
“You just put Mr. Big in Charleston’s hutch. Mr. Big should be in his own enclosure.” Nothing. “The cage with the red velvet drape.”
“Are you sure?” Dee Dee said.
Pamela waited a beat. “Of course I’m sure, you . . .” She didn’t finish the sentence, but even Dee Dee knew where it was going.
Pamela was correct that Dee Dee Lahti was a few walleye short of a fish fry. Still, the residents of Merryville were one big dysfunctional family. We could harbor grudges against one another, whisper spiteful things behind one another’s backs, and, yes, even occasionally call Dee Dee Lahti “dingbat.” To her face. But Pamela wasn’t part of the family, and I felt a surge of protectiveness when she sniped at poor Dee Dee.
I’d seen Mr. Big and Charleston, both silver-and-white Maine coons. “Pamela,” I said, “it’s an easy mistake to make. The cats are almost identical.”
Pamela angled her body to face me, her small, birdlike eyes utterly flat and emotionless. “Almost identical—but not identical. If she can’t tell the difference between those silver markings, how will she tell the difference between two white Himalayans?”
I raised my chin a notch.
She allowed herself a tight shake of her head. “This is all highly irregular. I told Marsha Denham that we shouldn’t vary from our usual procedures. The Midwestern Cat Fancier Organization’s annual retreat has a pristine reputation precisely because we have rules, and we follow them to the letter. Our silver anniversary is not the time to start bending those rules.”
I’d heard this argument a good dozen times since the MCFO had decided to host their twenty-fifth annual retreat in our little town. Marsha Denham, wife of the organization’s president, Phillip Denham, had taken a shine to Pris Olson, owner of Prissy’s Pretty Pets. While the official rules of the organization specified that the cats were not to be handled by anyone other than the owners and the judges, Marsha had arranged for Pris to provide grooming services in one corner of the ballroom. Pris had a crackerjack crew of groomers, but she’d taken pity on Dee Dee Lahti, who was unemployed and in constant misery thanks to her habitual-criminal husband. Dee Dee was not crackerjack.
Apparently sensing tension in the air, Pris ceased supervising her employees and floated our way. “Is there a problem?” she cooed. Pris sported a perfectly painted beauty-pageant smile and a practiced, formal politeness that screamed “privilege.”
“Practiced” is the key word here. In public, Pris defined “Minnesota nice.” The term refers to the smiling openness and back-bending helpfulness that most Minnesotans seem to exude from birth. Sometimes Minnesota nice is genuine. Sometimes it is not.
I knew firsthand that Pris’
s brilliant white smile could be a trap—a colorful Amazonian flower that promised sweet nectar before clamping shut around some poor, unsuspecting insect.
No one was safe. We were all insects in Pris’s world.
Now Pris and Pamela faced each other like a photograph and its negative: both tall and elegantly slim, with hair pulled back in a sleek knot, clad in figure-skimming suits. But, whereas Pris wore baby pink that matched the soft blush of her porcelain skin, her eyes a pale, Nordic blue, her hair shining the color of fresh butter, Pamela’s olive complexion reflected the onyx black of her hair, eyes, and suit.
I took a step back. Like all the McHale sisters, I’m tall and athletic. In theory, I could have snapped either of these model-thin women in half. In a physical fight, I would have had them licked. But this promised to be another round in the women’s months-long battle of wills, and I was hopelessly outmatched.
Pamela’s crimson lips curved into a smile. “Mrs. Olson—”
“Please, call me Pris.”
A heartbeat of silence.
“Pris, your assistant over there”—she waved dismissively in Dee Dee’s general direction—“was just returning Mr. Big to Charleston’s hutch.”
“Oh dear,” Pris said. “Well, those two big boys really do look alike. And I did urge Mrs. McCoy to stay with us while we gave Mr. Big his blow-out. It’s our policy, you know. But she was far too eager to start getting ready for tonight’s festivities. I’m sure she didn’t even consider the possibility that her cat would be confused for another, nearly identical cat . . . but that’s what policies are for!” Pris concluded, her mouth settling into a wicked little smile.
Harsh red heat spread across Pamela’s cheeks. I took another step back. Pamela was about to blow.
Still, when she rallied enough to speak, her voice remained as flat as Iowa. “You’re absolutely correct. That’s why we have policies. Like the policy of requiring owners to groom their own animals.”