Dixie Divas (23 page)

Weary, discouraged, and more than a little upset, I finally went back to the house. I’d call Bitty and ask if Mama had ever mentioned the dog doing this before, and if so, where Mama had found him. Other than that, I didn’t have a clue what to do. There’s no Amber Alert for dogs, and the alarm for lost or stolen children has only been in use here a short time anyway.

When I got to the back deck and the dark top step, I tripped over a furry rug that I didn’t remember ever being there before. The rug yelped loudly. I hit the wood deck with both palms out flat, fortunately missing the sleepy rug.

“Damn you, Brownie,” I said more calmly than I felt, relief that he wasn’t lost or on some canine excursion obliterating my anger that he’d been napping while I’d been in blackberry bushes.

We both went into the kitchen. I turned on a light and plopped down in a chair to look at Brownie. He stared expectantly at the refrigerator.

“I suppose you think you deserve your supper after all the trouble you caused?” I said, but since it was a rhetorical question anyway, I got up and prepared his food by the directions Mama had printed out from her computer and left taped to a cabinet door.

While Brownie ate chicken and rice warmed in the microwave, I made myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I poured a glass of milk, got out some chips, and put it all on a plate. Just as I sat down with it, Brownie came up to me, nudged my knee, and threw up on my bare foot. For a moment, I just sat there, thinking more fondly of my ex-husband and my last job. I’d hated working in the personnel department of a motel chain for little more than minimum wage, but it began to look better every minute. Then I remembered my parents’ faces while they stood there at the river boat rail, and I sighed, got up, threw away my sandwich, and reached for some paper towels.

I cleaned my foot and jogging pants first, and then knelt to wipe up chicken, rice, and expensive dog food from the kitchen floor. Something hard was in the middle of the soft goo. I debated looking, and then decided it might be best.

A glint of green shone under slimy stuff. I used the edge of a paper towel to clear away goo and saw my emerald earring. For a minute I just stared at it, uncomprehending. Then it hit me, my mother’s warning about Brownie’s unusual taste for inedible objects. Brownie sat nearby watching me with great interest.

“Aren’t there two of these?” I asked him, knowing he would only lie even if he could tell me. I hurried up and wiped the floor clean, dropped my soiled earring into a paper cup, then flew upstairs to check my crystal jar.

It’d been pulled off the night stand, and lay empty. My heart nearly stopped. My emerald earrings my daughter had given me four years before at Christmas. My watch. Gone. No sign of them. I lay flat on my stomach and searched under the bed with a flashlight, and found my watch up against the wall. There was no sign of my other earring.

Brownie had come upstairs with me, and now he eyed the watch I’d put on the bed. Then he coughed, a choking, sputtering sound, followed by a long moan.

“Damn,” I muttered, a word I seemed to be using more frequently lately, “I’ve got to call the vet.”

It was near seven and the vet’s office closed at six-thirty, but I tried anyway. On the fourth ring, a man answered. Before he finished saying “Willow Bend Animal Clinic” I blurted out, “My dog ate my earrings. What do I need to do?”

He asked the size of the dog, the size of the earrings, then my name. When I said Truevine he immediately said, “Ah, Brownie. You’d better bring him in, I’m afraid. Just to be sure. I’ll wait for you.”

“I’m on my way.”

I hung up the phone, glared at the dog still looking greedily at my jewelry jar, and stuck my bare feet into a pair of untied Keds.

All the way to the vet’s clinic on Highway 4, I thought about having to explain to my mother that the very first night she was gone I’d let her dog kill himself. It wasn’t something I wanted to ever do. And besides, now Brownie leaned up against me with his ears drooping, his eyes all big and sorrowful, and his muzzle resting on my right arm. Every once in a while he’d let out a soft groan. I’d imagine the sharp post of the solid gold earring piercing his intestine, and then I’d press harder on the accelerator. I got there in less than fifteen minutes, which I thought was pretty good.

A light was on inside the clinic, and I slammed my car into gear, cut it off, cradled the dog in my arms, and nearly ran down the slightly sloping concrete walk to the front door. A young girl met me and immediately led me to an examining room just off the main waiting room.

“The doctor will be right in,” she said, and stroked Brownie’s ears back. “Poor Brownie, you sweet thing. We’ll take good care of you like always.”

Brownie groaned pitifully. His eyes half-closed, he gave a feeble thump of his tail against the cold steel table top, and quivered so hard I heard his teeth clack together. I focused on him with something like panic. How could this have happened? What was the matter with me, that I couldn’t even care properly for a dog? I should have put my jewelry up higher. It wasn’t like I hadn’t been warned.

The other door opened, and a man in a white coat open over a pale blue shirt and faded Levi’s stepped in briskly. He wore one of those masks doctors wear that cover their lower face.

“What’d you do, boy?” he asked, his voice gentle yet reassuring as he took Brownie’s muzzle in one palm while his other hand moved over the abdomen. Brownie licked the heel of his hand, a lethargic stroke that alarmed me.

“Is he dying?” I asked, and couldn’t help the emotion that clogged my throat.

“Oh, I doubt it. Not from a little old earring. If it was the Hope Diamond, or dental work again, it’d be a lot worse. We’re going to take him back here and run an X-ray just to be sure. It depends on where it is as to whether you’ll need to leave him with us.” He lifted the dog and put him into the assistant’s arms, then pulled the mask down from his face to let it rest around his neck.

When he looked up at me, I knew immediately this had to be Dr. Coltrane. Unless there were two drop-dead gorgeous vets working in the same clinic. The odds of that are astronomical, but not impossible. And, stupidly, I immediately became aware of my sweatshirt, paint-stained jogging pants, and untied Keds with no socks. Not to mention, my hair probably looked like hell.

“Now, I know you’ re not the Mrs. Truevine I usually see in here,” he said.

“I’m her daughter. They’ve gone on a short vacation. I was supposed to be taking care of their animals, but obviously, I’m not doing that good a job of it.”

He grinned, and I noticed the way it reached his eyes, dark brown eyes with faint laugh-lines at the corners. Dark brown hair streaked with gray at the temples, a little more lightly in the rest of it, feathered over his forehead in a tousled look that was probably usually neatly combed. He had at least a good six inches of height on me, but I’m willing to bet we’re pretty close weight-wise. I have big bones. Really.

“Brownie is one of those dogs that have a way of finding things that aren’t good for him,” he said. “Most dogs just don’t usually eat metal.”

“It’s my opinion he’s part goat,” I said, and the grin widened.

“I wouldn’t doubt it. Since we haven’t been introduced, I’m Dr. Coltrane.”

We shook hands, then he said he’d go back and help with the X-rays and I should make myself comfortable out in the waiting room if I liked. I wandered out there, flipped through some magazines, then glanced up at a mirror hanging on the wall and nearly had a stroke.

Good Lord!
My hair looked like frayed electrical wire sticking straight out, my mascara of earlier smudged under my eyes raccoon-style, and I had a grape jelly smear on one cheek that defied logistical explanation. Cat spit stiffened one side of my hair, and I found the ejected pill stuck above my right ear. Stunned, I could only stare at my reflection. No wonder the vet had been grinning. He’d probably had to go into the back room to collapse in hysterical laughter.

Now, I’m not usually a vain woman. But neither do I want to leave the house looking like the village idiot. When I heard footsteps, I searched frantically around the waiting room for an empty grocery bag to pull over my head. Plastic would be best, especially if I took deep breaths.

Dr. Coltrane carried Brownie in his arms. The dog looked up at him adoringly, floppy ears flat against his head in an attitude of submissive joy.

“Did you have to sedate him?” I asked.

“Oh no. Brownie’s a good boy, aren’t you, fella.”

In what alternate universe
, I thought, but mindful of my frightening appearance, decided not to reinforce the impression of village idiot. It wasn’t that I wanted to impress an admittedly handsome man; it’s just that I didn’t want my parents to have to deal with whispers of inherited insanity. Honest.

“So how is he?” I asked. “Did you find the earring?”

“Afraid not. I’ve given him some Metamucil with an antibiotic, and Tiffany is making up some more for you to take home. If he did swallow it, the earring should pass naturally in a day or two, but if he has any problems bring him back in.”

“By ‘pass naturally’ you mean . . . . ”

“In his stools, yes. That shouldn’t be a problem. Put him on a leash when it’s time for his regular movement. If you notice any blood, call me immediately. Tiffany will give you my card with my home number on it as well, should it happen after hours. I’ll carry him out for you.”

“Shouldn’t I pay the bill first?”

“Don’t worry about that. Mrs. Truevine is a regular client and we have all her information if we need it.”

Great. My mother has a vet on retainer. My cousin has a lawyer on retainer. And I need a psychologist on retainer. Is it psychologist or psychiatrist? I get those two confused. Not that it matters. I probably need both.

“Thank you,” I said with as much dignity as I could muster when discussing dog poop with a handsome stranger. “I appreciate this very much.”

“No problem. Brownie’s one of our favorites.”

And I bet you say that to all the clients
.

I used my remote to unlock car doors, opened the passenger side for Dr. Coltrane to set Brownie inside on the front seat, and then bent to move my purse to the floor. When I straightened, Dr. Coltrane leaned closer to me. Startled, I stood there only six inches from him, inhaling an exotic mix of rubbing alcohol and shaving lotion while my heart lurched into double time and my stomach did a weird flip. My lips parted, and what little oxygen was left got stuck in my lungs as he reached out, put his hand behind my head, and leaned in to kiss me. I swayed toward him.

He put a hand on my arm to steady me, and pulled something from the hair at the back of my head. When he held it up I blinked, then recognized a wad of molded straw.

“I hope you’re not feeding this to horses or cows,” he said, and I shook my head while I tried to find a hole in the asphalt that’d swallow a five-foot-nine-inch fool.

Since there was no available sink hole, I said, “It must have come from the hayloft. Old barn. Used just by cats now.” Was that my voice? I sounded like a Munchkin.

I think he said something like “That’s good,” but about that time Tiffany showed up with the Metamucil in a little plastic bag and I grabbed it and mumbled that I had to get back home, thanked the empty space right beside Dr. Coltrane for his care, then went around to the driver’s side and got into my car. I remember nothing about the drive home except that my face felt hot enough to fry eggs all the way down 311. Oh yes. And that I intended to scream vile invectives at Bitty for ever mentioning the vet to me, or anything at all about orgasms I’ve never had.

After I got inside, locked the door, and gave Brownie a scathing look he never noticed, I stalked directly to the cordless phone and dialed Bitty.

“Oh Trinket,” she said when she heard my voice, “I’m so glad you called. I’ve thought—”

“If you
ever
,” I broke in, my voice low and shaking, “mention anything at all to me about not having an orgasm, or not wanting a man, or should be wanting a man, I will take you out in the middle of court square at noon and tell everyone who walks past that you got so drunk at your wedding reception with Franklin Kirby that you peed in your Evan Picone pantyhose.”

Dead silence fell. I heard something humming that could have been Bitty’s brain trying to figure out if she should push me on that or not, but it was probably just static on the line.

“All right,” she finally said. “No orgasm talk. No man talk. Not unless you start it first.”

Since I figured donkeys would fly before that day ever came, I said, “Fine.”

After a brief moment, she said, “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what happened.”

“You’re right. I don’t.”

Ever flexible, Bitty said, “As I was saying before being interrupted, I’ve thought of an excellent plan.”

“I don’t want to hear it.”

“You’re just in a pissy mood. You’re going to like this. It involves two of our favorite things.”

That would be chocolate and champagne. My interest was piqued.

“Go on.”

“Dr. Johnston—he’s the new podiatrist that bought the Easthaven House—is giving an early St. Patrick’s Day party and I thought if you and I dressed up really nice—”

“Bitty, I just warned you—”

“Don’t get all bent out of shape, Trinket. I’m not matchmaking. If anything, I’ve got my eye on the doctor. Just think of the wonderful foot massages I’ll get. Anyway, I’m sure we’ll be invited, and many of the people already on the guest list are former acquaintances or business associates of Philip. If we pay attention, we might hear something that’d relate to Philip and Sanders. What do you think?”

It’d been a long day. I’d gone up and down the spectrum of emotions, hitting all of them pretty strongly. Even so, it sounded like a good idea.

“I’m sure I’ll be sorry,” I said, “but it does sound like a good idea.”

“I just knew you’d think so,” Bitty said enthusiastically. “And since I already accepted invitations for both of us, I’m so glad I went ahead and talked to you about it.”