SLEEPING DOGS LIE.
Chapter 1
Sometimes life turns on the smallest decision. On a Monday evening in October it came down to the fact that I chose to wear my black velveteen sneakers embroidered with silver moons and stars, and a storm blew in and poured buckets of rain.
Bob steered his car into the grocery store parking lot and found a slot half-way down the row. “Do you want to come in with me?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute. I need to get some dog food for Jack.”
I opened the door and saw a good-sized puddle. I thought of my shoes. “I’ll wait.” The door made a solid thunk as I pulled it back.
His quick smile flashed. “I'll leave my keys in case you want to listen to the radio.” He got out and locked the door behind him. The supermarket’s neon signs colored the raindrops that sparkled on his hair as he hurried inside.
I turned on the radio. The familiar clipped tones of the public radio station’s news commentator filled the air. I poked the buttons—all rock music or jazz. The only one tuned the same on both our cars was that first public station, and I wondered about the viability of a relationship based on mutual NPR membership. I began to search for classical music, got sidetracked by a country number I’d always liked, paused for the last bars of a Celtic fiddle tune, and finally found a station playing Copland.
The windows of the little Civic had steamed over as soon as the defroster went off. I wiped off the window with my sleeve, and sat back in my seat to listen, looking idly toward the door of the supermarket.
Bob came out, closely followed by a curvy blonde woman in a red business suit and red four-inch heels. She walked with a lithe strut that had no trouble keeping pace with his long-legged steps. I looked down at myself—my black slacks and sweater were comfortable and looked nice, but in a bright red suit I knew I'd feel as wide as a barn door. And those shoes would tip me right onto my nose before I took a single step. I peered down fondly at my fancy sneakers and thought, even if I don't want to get them wet, at least I can walk without injury.
I looked back out at Bob. He was empty handed. No dog food. Had he lost his wallet? He had it earlier when he paid for our dinners. He walked with the woman to a gray Mercedes sedan, an older, classic looking thing, parked in the short row in front of the store. She handed him some keys and said something, and he leaned down to unlock the passenger door.
“What is he doing?” I wondered out loud. The woman stood very close to him. Her right hand jammed into her jacket pocket caused her arm to bend awkwardly. She moved forward to speak directly into his ear. Bob pulled open the door, folding his long legs to get in. He slid over behind the wheel as she seated herself on the passenger side. Exhaust plumed into the night as the engine started.
“Hey!” I yelled, though they couldn’t possibly have heard me. I wiped off steam again and squinted at the other car. Maybe it was someone who just looked like Bob—another tall, thin-faced middle-aged man wearing a Pendleton shirt under a navy cotton sweater, elderly jeans, and black high-top Converse All-Stars. Right. They’re everywhere.
The gray car backed out of the parking space. They may be everywhere, but that one, I thought, is the one I came with. Damn stick shift, no room to climb into the driver’s seat. I flung open the door and ran around the car, then had to run back around and lean in to unlock the driver’s door. Around the car again. I crammed myself behind the wheel and began to back out. I had to jam on the brakes to keep from hitting the rattling procession of carts pushed by a figure in a too-large plastic rain poncho. I gritted my teeth.
“This is unbelievable,” I fumed aloud. I'd only known Bob for two weeks, but he’d done nothing in that time to indicate he was capable of deserting me in a grocery store parking lot. Even my dead husband Roger had never done that. Of course I couldn’t think of a time Roger and I had gone to a grocery store together. Perhaps only lack of opportunity had kept me from having this delightful experience earlier in life.
The cart parade finally moved past the car. I backed out and zoomed to the entrance to the lot. I saw the Mercedes passing under a streetlight a couple of blocks away. I gunned the engine and the old Honda bucked onto the street. I caught the light at the corner on the yellow and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor.
Copland’s Third Symphony provided grandiose background music to my chase scene. A no-color Pinto pulled out from a side street in front of me, and I stood on the brakes. That’s all I needed tonight, to have a Pinto blow up in my face. The Mercedes’ red taillights grew smaller and smaller.
I banged on the steering wheel with frustration, uttering phrases unbecoming to a lady, watching for a chance to pass. As soon as I could, I pulled around the plodding Pinto, shifted down to second, and pushed the Civic’s four cylinders as hard as they would go. “All right!” I growled as the gap between me and the Mercedes began to close.
Even as I hurtled down Prairie Avenue, I couldn’t help wondering if I really was following some other guy while Bob waited back at the grocery store. He’d never leave me the keys again. Supposing we ever went anywhere again.
The Mercedes bounced over the railroad tracks just north of the old Western Electric plant, and as I reached the tracks, a pulsing red light filled the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Oh, god, a cop...
Bob steered his car into the grocery store parking lot and found a slot half-way down the row. “Do you want to come in with me?” he asked. “I’ll only be a minute. I need to get some dog food for Jack.”
I opened the door and saw a good-sized puddle. I thought of my shoes. “I’ll wait.” The door made a solid thunk as I pulled it back.
His quick smile flashed. “I'll leave my keys in case you want to listen to the radio.” He got out and locked the door behind him. The supermarket’s neon signs colored the raindrops that sparkled on his hair as he hurried inside.
I turned on the radio. The familiar clipped tones of the public radio station’s news commentator filled the air. I poked the buttons—all rock music or jazz. The only one tuned the same on both our cars was that first public station, and I wondered about the viability of a relationship based on mutual NPR membership. I began to search for classical music, got sidetracked by a country number I’d always liked, paused for the last bars of a Celtic fiddle tune, and finally found a station playing Copland.
The windows of the little Civic had steamed over as soon as the defroster went off. I wiped off the window with my sleeve, and sat back in my seat to listen, looking idly toward the door of the supermarket.
Bob came out, closely followed by a curvy blonde woman in a red business suit and red four-inch heels. She walked with a lithe strut that had no trouble keeping pace with his long-legged steps. I looked down at myself—my black slacks and sweater were comfortable and looked nice, but in a bright red suit I knew I'd feel as wide as a barn door. And those shoes would tip me right onto my nose before I took a single step. I peered down fondly at my fancy sneakers and thought, even if I don't want to get them wet, at least I can walk without injury.
I looked back out at Bob. He was empty handed. No dog food. Had he lost his wallet? He had it earlier when he paid for our dinners. He walked with the woman to a gray Mercedes sedan, an older, classic looking thing, parked in the short row in front of the store. She handed him some keys and said something, and he leaned down to unlock the passenger door.
“What is he doing?” I wondered out loud. The woman stood very close to him. Her right hand jammed into her jacket pocket caused her arm to bend awkwardly. She moved forward to speak directly into his ear. Bob pulled open the door, folding his long legs to get in. He slid over behind the wheel as she seated herself on the passenger side. Exhaust plumed into the night as the engine started.
“Hey!” I yelled, though they couldn’t possibly have heard me. I wiped off steam again and squinted at the other car. Maybe it was someone who just looked like Bob—another tall, thin-faced middle-aged man wearing a Pendleton shirt under a navy cotton sweater, elderly jeans, and black high-top Converse All-Stars. Right. They’re everywhere.
The gray car backed out of the parking space. They may be everywhere, but that one, I thought, is the one I came with. Damn stick shift, no room to climb into the driver’s seat. I flung open the door and ran around the car, then had to run back around and lean in to unlock the driver’s door. Around the car again. I crammed myself behind the wheel and began to back out. I had to jam on the brakes to keep from hitting the rattling procession of carts pushed by a figure in a too-large plastic rain poncho. I gritted my teeth.
“This is unbelievable,” I fumed aloud. I'd only known Bob for two weeks, but he’d done nothing in that time to indicate he was capable of deserting me in a grocery store parking lot. Even my dead husband Roger had never done that. Of course I couldn’t think of a time Roger and I had gone to a grocery store together. Perhaps only lack of opportunity had kept me from having this delightful experience earlier in life.
The cart parade finally moved past the car. I backed out and zoomed to the entrance to the lot. I saw the Mercedes passing under a streetlight a couple of blocks away. I gunned the engine and the old Honda bucked onto the street. I caught the light at the corner on the yellow and kept the gas pedal pressed to the floor.
Copland’s Third Symphony provided grandiose background music to my chase scene. A no-color Pinto pulled out from a side street in front of me, and I stood on the brakes. That’s all I needed tonight, to have a Pinto blow up in my face. The Mercedes’ red taillights grew smaller and smaller.
I banged on the steering wheel with frustration, uttering phrases unbecoming to a lady, watching for a chance to pass. As soon as I could, I pulled around the plodding Pinto, shifted down to second, and pushed the Civic’s four cylinders as hard as they would go. “All right!” I growled as the gap between me and the Mercedes began to close.
Even as I hurtled down Prairie Avenue, I couldn’t help wondering if I really was following some other guy while Bob waited back at the grocery store. He’d never leave me the keys again. Supposing we ever went anywhere again.
The Mercedes bounced over the railroad tracks just north of the old Western Electric plant, and as I reached the tracks, a pulsing red light filled the car. I glanced in the rear view mirror. Oh, god, a cop...
IN DOGS WE TRUST
Chapter 1
“Louisa! What do you mean you have no place to live?”
My cousin Kay slammed her coffee mug down, her expression fierce. A wave of coffee slopped onto the table. I reached over and dropped a paper napkin onto the spreading puddle. Fortunately I know that all this fury usually signifies nothing, it's just Kay being very Kay.
“I told you. The deal fell through on the house I was buying—“
“So postpone the closing on your parents’ house until you find another one.”
I shook my head and shredded a piece of cinnamon roll. “Can’t. You know I've signed a contract. If I renege, then the Cleavers won't have any place to live, then the people buying their house, and it will be a chain reaction that goes on back and back to some widower in Milwaukee who won't be able to move into a nursing home because selling his house fell through and he’ll forget to take his pills and he’ll end up in the hospital and it will all be my fault.”
Kay’s brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to follow my reasoning. She shook her head and picked up her coffee again. “I'm not even going to pretend I understood that.”
“I—”
She glared at me and I slumped back in my seat.
“You have to move out of your house by the end of the month, right?” I nodded. She took a sip of coffee. “And the house you were buying is no longer available.”
“Right. I've got to start all over looking for a house to buy.” I was careful to keep the secret relief I felt out of my voice.
“You’ve been looking since November. You must have seen everything that’s been on the market and probably some that weren’t, if I know that Earlene.”
I myself suspected that Earlene, my real estate agent, had terrorized a couple of people into showing me a house that they didn’t really want to sell. “The bottom line is, I haven’t seen anything I want to live in, and I've got to put all my stuff somewhere while I keep looking. And I've got to find a place to stay while I'm doing it.”
“Well, obviously you’ll stay with me.”
I looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh. Yeah.” Kay looked around the café until she spotted Cleta, our favorite waitress, pouring coffee for the mayor at the counter. “Right.”
Kay’s apartment over her store, OKay Antiques, is small, but perfectly adequate to house her and a visitor. I keep a few changes of clothes in her little back bedroom and have spent a fair number of nights there since I inherited my parents’ house and moved back to Willow Falls several months ago. But five days earlier Cleta’s house burned down and I gave up my place at Kay’s to her.
Two minutes earlier, Cleta had delivered our breakfasts to us at our corner booth at the Bluebird Café. She was wearing a borrowed, too-large cardigan over her shirtwaist dress, the dress she’d been wearing when the call had come that her house was on fire.
“Cleta does not need any more hassles right now,” I said in a low voice, adding a dollop of cream to the tea in my cup.
Kay sat up straighter. I knew what was coming. “Hey, you can stay with Bob,” she said brightly.
“Kay, leave it,” I commanded. I took a big bite of my cinnamon roll.
She gave me a saucy look. “Oh, come on. I bet he’s asked you.”
I shrugged and swallowed. “None of your business, Miss Nosy. I'm not ready to live with Bob and that’s that. Haven’t we had this conversation about six times already? I have a better idea. You move in with Ed. Then I can have your place.”
“Even if we were currently speaking to each other, you know perfectly well that I wouldn’t last one night in his house. His mother would put strychnine in my coffee at dinner and then dance at my funeral.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Then Ed would be faced with the moral dilemma of whether to arrest his mother or not. And except for berating him about you, she makes him far too comfortable for him to arrest her. You’re right. You’re safer in your own place.”
I took another bite of the hot roll. Warm spices blended into the soft yeast of the bread and the sharp sweetness of the cream cheese frosting skimmed over its surface. It was to die for. Or perhaps a good reason to live.
My cousin Kay slammed her coffee mug down, her expression fierce. A wave of coffee slopped onto the table. I reached over and dropped a paper napkin onto the spreading puddle. Fortunately I know that all this fury usually signifies nothing, it's just Kay being very Kay.
“I told you. The deal fell through on the house I was buying—“
“So postpone the closing on your parents’ house until you find another one.”
I shook my head and shredded a piece of cinnamon roll. “Can’t. You know I've signed a contract. If I renege, then the Cleavers won't have any place to live, then the people buying their house, and it will be a chain reaction that goes on back and back to some widower in Milwaukee who won't be able to move into a nursing home because selling his house fell through and he’ll forget to take his pills and he’ll end up in the hospital and it will all be my fault.”
Kay’s brow furrowed in concentration as she tried to follow my reasoning. She shook her head and picked up her coffee again. “I'm not even going to pretend I understood that.”
“I—”
She glared at me and I slumped back in my seat.
“You have to move out of your house by the end of the month, right?” I nodded. She took a sip of coffee. “And the house you were buying is no longer available.”
“Right. I've got to start all over looking for a house to buy.” I was careful to keep the secret relief I felt out of my voice.
“You’ve been looking since November. You must have seen everything that’s been on the market and probably some that weren’t, if I know that Earlene.”
I myself suspected that Earlene, my real estate agent, had terrorized a couple of people into showing me a house that they didn’t really want to sell. “The bottom line is, I haven’t seen anything I want to live in, and I've got to put all my stuff somewhere while I keep looking. And I've got to find a place to stay while I'm doing it.”
“Well, obviously you’ll stay with me.”
I looked at her with a raised eyebrow.
“Oh. Yeah.” Kay looked around the café until she spotted Cleta, our favorite waitress, pouring coffee for the mayor at the counter. “Right.”
Kay’s apartment over her store, OKay Antiques, is small, but perfectly adequate to house her and a visitor. I keep a few changes of clothes in her little back bedroom and have spent a fair number of nights there since I inherited my parents’ house and moved back to Willow Falls several months ago. But five days earlier Cleta’s house burned down and I gave up my place at Kay’s to her.
Two minutes earlier, Cleta had delivered our breakfasts to us at our corner booth at the Bluebird Café. She was wearing a borrowed, too-large cardigan over her shirtwaist dress, the dress she’d been wearing when the call had come that her house was on fire.
“Cleta does not need any more hassles right now,” I said in a low voice, adding a dollop of cream to the tea in my cup.
Kay sat up straighter. I knew what was coming. “Hey, you can stay with Bob,” she said brightly.
“Kay, leave it,” I commanded. I took a big bite of my cinnamon roll.
She gave me a saucy look. “Oh, come on. I bet he’s asked you.”
I shrugged and swallowed. “None of your business, Miss Nosy. I'm not ready to live with Bob and that’s that. Haven’t we had this conversation about six times already? I have a better idea. You move in with Ed. Then I can have your place.”
“Even if we were currently speaking to each other, you know perfectly well that I wouldn’t last one night in his house. His mother would put strychnine in my coffee at dinner and then dance at my funeral.”
“Yeah, that’s true. Then Ed would be faced with the moral dilemma of whether to arrest his mother or not. And except for berating him about you, she makes him far too comfortable for him to arrest her. You’re right. You’re safer in your own place.”
I took another bite of the hot roll. Warm spices blended into the soft yeast of the bread and the sharp sweetness of the cream cheese frosting skimmed over its surface. It was to die for. Or perhaps a good reason to live.