by Nina Wright
No such luck. No matter where I set up a boom box playing Animal Lullabies, the shitzapoo yowled miserably. Then I had a brainstorm: I remembered hearing somebody once say that dogs love the dirty underwear of the people they love. Rummaging around my clothes hamper, I came up with my slightly stinky back-up camisole. What the hell. I stuffed it in the crate. Velcro’s cries morphed into whimpers of delight. But he was still making nonstop noise. Nothing silenced the little beast . . . until I returned him to my bedroom. Once there, he sighed audibly and thumped his tail against the walls of his crate. The teacup dog had come home.
How would I break the news to Fenton?
“Dear—the shitzapoo will be joining us in the boudoir.”
That wouldn’t work. Then I had a brainstorm. The man was a spiritual healer. Perhaps he himself was the solution to our dilemma.
“Dear,” I began, “you’re a pioneer in the field of emotional enlightenment. Have you ever, by chance, guided . . . an animal through visualization to serenity? Like you did tonight with Jenx?”
Fenton put down the real estate investment book.
“Dear,” he said, sounding none too fond of me, “surely you’re not asking me to use my training on that ill-conceived little creature? I did not publish nine books, five of them best-sellers, about personal enlightenment so that I could offer talk-therapy to a dog.”
“Of course you didn’t. Dear. The thing is . . . I’m not sure we’ll have a moment’s peace if you don’t try. In fact, I’m sure we won’t. And I really would like to make love with you tonight.”
I offered the view of my cleavage again, which didn’t seem to tempt Fenton. Was it a Ph.D. issue? Or a Texas issue? Or was it entirely the fault of my headache-inducing dog?
Fenton sighed. “What the hell. You make me hot when you beg.”
He excused himself to hold a mini-session with the micro-pooch. I retrieved the real estate investment handbook that had interested Fenton so much. The title turned out to be Real Estate: It’s an Emotional Investment, Too. I read the opening sentences:
A successful real estate investment goes far beyond a financial commitment. It requires the investor to enter into a potentially deep and enduring emotional compact with the land and the structures built upon it. Some otherwise qualified investors are rightfully deterred from real estate because they cannot process emotions.
The good news for Mattimoe Realty was that Fenton Flagg was all about processing emotions. The bad news for me, personally, was . . . that Fenton Flagg was all about processing emotions. I for one believed in stuffing emotions—my own and everybody else’s. It hadn’t deterred me from doing well in real estate, probably because I balanced my corporate karma with Odette, who didn’t give a shit, and Tina Breen, the most emotional person on the planet.
The most emotional person in the house was back in my library-slash-bar with the news that he’d done what he could for “that pathetic puddle of a dog.”
“May I remind you, Dear, that I’m an internationally esteemed therapist who specializes in facilitating the spiritual evolution of highly advanced beings. That shitzapoo has a brain the size of an almond. He was probably a Doberman in his last life and may well be a Persian cat in his next. In other words, he is not what I have spent four lives learning to counsel.”
“Four lives . . . ?”
“Three before this one,” Fenton said. “I was a starving seamstress in sixteenth-century London, a runaway slave in nineteenth-century Virginia, and Teddy Roosevelt. My memories of being TR cause me pain. That’s why, in this life, I’m a therapist.”
Fenton stared down my cleavage. “The tiny mutant dog is quiet, and I am hard. What do you say, Dear? Shall we adjourn to the boudoir?”
Why not? I had never gone to bed with Teddy Roosevelt.
Chapter Twenty-Two
I’m no expert on either American history or New Age jargon, but it seemed to me that Fenton had a lot of Teddy Roosevelt residue. TR, as he was famously called, exuded masculine vigor. However, I doubt that TR could have out-performed Fenton if faced with a shitzapoo in bed.
I had positioned Velcro’s crate on the floor near my bathroom, not far from the boom box that was playing Animal Lullabies on an endless loop. The little dog was still blissfully silent when Fenton and I entered, kissing.
Fenton froze. “Is that Jeb singing?”
I tried to explain the efficacy of the Fleggers-produced CD, but Fenton clicked it off.
“Surely, Dear, you can see that it’s bad karma for us to make love while your permanent spouse sings—“
To be honest, I had lost track of what was good or bad karma. The only thing I knew for sure was that Fenton and I were hot and bothered and in need of immediate sexual release. Velcro also needed some kind of release. He howled.
Fenton covered his ears. “That runt-dog must have a past-life agenda. Maybe TR shot him on the plains of Africa.”
“Maybe you could try another guided visualization?”
“They’re not like aspirin, Dear. You can’t just double the dosage.”
I had no idea why not. Clearly, our passionate night was doomed unless we soothed Velcro. Dr. David had said that the only way to calm his anxiety was to keep him close to me and my things. What would be closer than in bed with me? Reluctantly, I picked up the crate and set it at the end of the bed. Velcro’s yowls faded to a bleating whimper. Fenton removed his hands from his ears.
“You can’t be serious. A dog in our bed?”
“He’s in a box,” I pointed out. “And it’s a big bed. You won’t even know he’s there.”
That was almost true until Fenton and I started shaking the bed. Velcro got seasick and barfed noisily.
“Ignore it,” Fenton said, aware that I was gagging, too. I’m suggestible that way; I can’t help catching someone else’s nausea. Fenton pulled me on top of him. That would have been erotic if Velcro’s crate hadn’t tumbled to the floor. The teacup dog shrieked as if shattered.
“His patella luxation!” I cried, launching myself toward the end of the bed. The shitzapoo sustained his agonizing yowl like a blast on a soprano sax. Hanging upside down, I peered into his bright, frightened eyes. He blinked at me, relieved to see that I cared.
“I know what we need to do for itty-bitty you,” I heard myself say in the Betty Boop voice usually reserved for my step-grandbabies. “We need to make you feel oh-so-safe.”
“Are you kidding?” Fenton said.
He sounded far away because by then I had slid to the floor. Velcro had finally gotten to me, setting off whatever latent maternal instincts I had. Maybe he reminded me of Chester: small, smart, vulnerable.
Next thing I knew, I was holding Velcro, wrapped in my smelly camisole. Yeah, that part was oogy, but the little dog insisted on it. Together we snuggled against Fenton’s broad chest.
“I’ll just hold him till he falls asleep. Okay? Dear?” I whispered. But Fenton was already asleep.
* * *
At some point, I was aware that Fenton got out of bed and took a shower. Probably not a cold shower because nothing was happening with Velcro between us. I fell asleep and dreamed that I was holding a teddy bear while sharing my bed with Teddy Roosevelt. TR called me “Dear” as he lectured about emotional investments in real estate.
I awoke because Abra was howling. Afghan hounds rarely make much of a racket, but when they do, the ghostly arrrrhooo prickles the spine.
“Someone’s outside. . . .” I whispered to Fenton. The last time I’d heard Abra make that sound, there had been an intruder.
Fenton rolled toward me. “Is that dog wearing your camisole?”
The shitzapoo had managed to get inside my lingerie. He was so content that even Abra’s howling didn’t disturb him.
“Let me channel TR and do what needs to be done,” Fenton said. As he heaved himself out of bed, Velcro kissed—I mean—licked me. On the mouth.
“I’m coming with you, Dear,” I announced and dumped the dog back into his
carrier. To my amazement, he wasn’t whining. Yet. The time was 3:42.
I grabbed my robe and trailed Fenton, who had a bath towel wrapped around his waist. We found Abra in front of the picture window facing Lake Michigan. Frantically she leapt from chair to sofa and back again, using every vantage point to view what was out there.
A shadowy figure, bent in a modified crouch, broke from the cover of my lilac grove and dashed toward Leo’s detached workshop. For an instant I thought Abra would crash through the glass after him. Even in silhouette, the man was distinctly Gil Gruen. Clad in a cowboy hat and boots, O-Gil’s outline was crisp against the full moon hanging low over the lake. Suddenly my powers of denial were of no use at all.
“It’s like when your music teacher came back from the dead.” I hissed.
“It’s Norman.” Fenton cried as a large graceful retriever bounded across my lawn from the direction the shadowy man had just headed.
The Golden hadn’t drowned after all.
With Abra leaping straight up and down at his side, Fenton flipped the lock on my patio door. Man and Affie flew through the portal into the night. Abra whooped for joy as Fenton called his dog’s name.
That left me standing all alone wondering what was up. Theoretically, I had a trespasser. I also had one large Texan and two large dogs to protect my property.
Dialing 9-1-1 seemed like a good idea. I gave my name and address and said simply that I had a trespasser—a male of indeterminate age wearing a cowboy hat and boots.
“Gil Gruen?” the dispatcher asked.
“Not O-Gil but probably GIL, as in Gone in (the) Lake. I’m a deputy so I know the code. Could you send somebody over?”
“Probably not,” she said. “There are Gil Gruen sightings all over the county. If I were you, I’d lock the doors and go back to bed.”
I couldn’t lock the doors until Fenton returned. Of course, I was relieved that Norman was back, especially since Abra was the reason he’d vanished. But I still had a prowler. Who was GIL and what was he doing at Vestige? Was it a coincidence that Norman had arrived at the same time?
I decided to turn my home into a giant beacon. First, I switched on every outdoor light—yard, deck, and driveway lamps included. Then I dashed through the house, flicking on light switches in every room. Soon all my windows glowed.
My hope was that Fenton would see the light and hurry back in, and GIL would see it, too, and run for his life. Unfortunately, the illumination bounced back off the glass, making it impossible for me to see out. An invading army could have landed at my dock and made its way up the bluff. I wouldn’t have had a clue. That was why, when the phone rang, I yelped, which set off Velcro’s alarm. From my bedroom he howled worriedly.
Jenx was calling. “Who did you see in your yard, Whiskey?” She was taunting me.
“GIL. As in GITL, not O-Gil,” I snapped. “I also saw Norman the Golden.”
I could only hope that he and Abra would not run off again. Counting the occasion of Prince Harry’s conception and their subsequent two sprees, Norman had been AWOL about a week. No more paid vacation. Back to work he must go.
Jenx announced that she had another reason for calling; there was news about Twyla’s kids.
“Did you find them?”
“Not yet. But they’re not Twyla’s kids. Not even the two she started with.”
Jenx explained that her background check on Twyla had revealed no living relatives. Including children, sisters, nieces, or nephews.
“Then whose kids—?“
“Let me finish,” Jenx said. “Twyla used to have a Hispanic boyfriend. Name: Efrén Padilla. His last known address: Chicago.”
“Are you suggesting Twyla’s ex has eleven kids, and she was taking care of them?”
“Nope. I’m suggesting you didn’t know much about your tenant. Also, her ex might be the guy Yolanda saw. I’m following the evidence, Whiskey. You might want to do the same.”
“I’m a Realtor. I get paid to follow qualified leads.”
My doorbell rang. Jenx heard it, too. “Expecting company at 4:15 in the morning?”
“I’m popular,” I said and hung up.
Because I’d turned on every light, my front porch was fully illuminated. Through the peephole, I expected to see Fenton with Norman. And maybe Abra, too. Instead I saw only Jeb Halloran.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I said.
“Good morning to you, too. By the way, your robe’s on inside-out.”
So it was.
“May I help you with that?” he offered.
I declined. Jeb was still wearing the T-shirt and jeans he’d performed in. Grinning, he looked awfully fine for someone who hadn’t yet been to bed. Much better than I must have looked with bed-head and an inside-out robe.
“All these lights are attracting every moth in Michigan,” Jeb said. “I was driving past and wondered if you were in trouble.”
“I’m fine.”
Jeb cocked his head, listening to Velcro’s cries. “Well, as long as I’m here, how about a bonus lullaby for the little guy—and his mommy?”
I yawned. “You run along and sleep tight. In your own bed. Alone.” When I tried to close the door, Jeb blocked it.
“Whiskey, I just saw Gil in your driveway—and Fenton chasing two dogs into the woods. Gil ran toward the lake. I’m going after him. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call Jenx.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“No way you’re chasing GIL without me. It’s my property, and I’m a volunteer deputy. I can be decent in two minutes or less.”
I was already dashing toward my bedroom. Behind me on the front porch I heard Jeb sigh.
I went for the clothes I could find the fastest—which were in my laundry hamper, where I’d recently found the camisole for Velcro. He stopped crying the instant I entered my bedroom. As I tore through my dirty clothes, I heard his little tail thump hopefully. No doubt he craved another smelly undergarment.
Pulling a rumpled T-shirt over my head and stepping into old running shorts, I tried not to catch a whiff of myself. On the floor near my bed, I found a pair of shoes I wouldn’t have to tie because they closed with—you guessed it—Velcro, the miracle fastener. Coincidence?
“See ya,” I told the dog by that name and jogged down the hall. When he let loose a heart-breaking howl, I just couldn’t take it. After all, I now knew how to ease his pain. I spun around, grabbed panties from the hamper and stuffed them through the grate in his box.
“New perfume?” Jeb joked as we hustled toward the lake. “Don’t tell me your week-old sweat turns Fenton on.”
“Okay. I won’t tell you.”
We paused on the highest of the three connected cedar decks that Leo had built. They were lighted, as was the long dock below; tasteful security lamps oozed a yellow glow onto my beach and a tiny portion of Lake Michigan. There were no humans or dogs in sight. I couldn’t hear anyone either, just scattered pre-dawn birdsongs and the faint lapping of water on sand. It was a mild, still night about to roll over into a dewy morn. The air was fresh and tangy. Or maybe I was tangy. Cautiously I sniffed my shoulder. Oh yeah, that was me.
“Jeb, do you think it’s a coincidence that GIL showed up at the same time Norman did?”
“I’m from Magnet Springs. Our people don’t believe in coincidences.”
He was right. And a witness had said that GIL was fascinated by the Animal Ambulance. Maybe there was a Fleggers connection.
“GIL, Fenton, Norman, and Abra were here,” Jeb mused. “And now they’re gone.”
“Avery and the twins are gone, too,” I told him. “On a date. A driver picked them up, and they never came home.”
“They haven’t come home yet,” Jeb corrected me. “Think of all the nights you didn’t go home to Mama.”
“I’m not Avery’s ‘Mama,’ and I didn’t haul twins around on my nights out.”
Jeb feigned a shocked expression. “I didn’t even know you had twins.”
>
When I swung at him, he winced. “Try keeping your arms at your sides. Or go change your shirt.”
I figured that GIL had most likely circled back toward the road. Or toward wherever he’d stashed his vehicle—although as far as I knew, no one had seen GIL in a vehicle.
Jeb’s cell phone rang; he made a few monosyllabic replies and ended the call.
“That was for you,” he said.
“Then why didn’t you give it to me?”
“Jenx didn’t want to talk to you, she just wanted you to know something: earlier tonight a man fitting GIL’s description was seen hitchhiking along Coastal Highway. And guess what?”
I shrugged.
“The guy had a Golden.”
So maybe GIL had found Norman and brought him here. How or why, I didn’t know. Jeb was willing to help me look for a trail of evidence. He jogged back to his Van Wagon and found a high-beam flashlight. Now we could see what we were doing once we wandered beyond the range of my security lamps.
I was convinced that Abra had seen, heard, or stolen something. For my sake as well as Fenton’s, I hoped she hadn’t re-nabbed Norman. If she had, I probably owed Fenton a new companion dog—an Abra-proof canine he could count on every day of his life, even if he lived within Abra range.
I hoped that Fenton might decide to live around here, at least part of the year. Granted, his New Age talk put me off. But we did sizzle. Last night had been white-fire hot . . . till Velcro crashed the party. If we could get beyond the past lives and “permanent spouses”—and keep the teacup dog happy with my old underwear—we could have fun.
Jeb and I made our way toward Leo’s old workshop, a detached building the approximate size of a one-car garage. I let Jeb hold the flashlight as I pushed open the not-quite-closed door. That was not as ominous as it sounds; the door never latched. It was one of those things I kept meaning to ask Roy Vickers to fix. Reaching around the doorframe, I groped for the switch. When I flipped it, nothing happened.