In Plain Sight (9 page)

“Yeah, the only son. To Mom I could do no wrong.” He smiled ruefully. “But I keep thinking now that I did do wrong. I should have insisted she come out to California and live with Marianne and me. Then maybe this wouldn’t have happened.” “Most of us cling to living in our own homes, even if to an outsider it looks as if we’d be better off elsewhere. Lois was happy here. She never thought she was neglected.”

“Most of us cling to living in our own homes, even if to an outsider it looks as if we’d be better off elsewhere. Lois was happy here. She never thought she was neglected.”

“That’s kind of you. You’re the one I see driving around in that great old Thunderbird, aren’t you? When I was a teenager, that was my big dream, to own a T-bird.”

“It’s been a little balky at times lately. I’ll probably have to take it in for a checkup.”

“Maybe I can take a look at it while I’m here. I’m no expert, but I can tell an oil filter from an air filter and fix a few little things.”

“Will you be here long?”

“The house needs some repairs before we put it up for sale, so I’m working on that. But I have to take care of things with my plumbing supply business back home in San Bernardino too, so I’ll be flying back and forth.”

“Sounds difficult.”

“I have to see about selling Mom’s old motor home too. She hadn’t used it since Dad died, of course, but she never wanted to get rid of it. And then there’s all the lawyer stuff.” His disgruntled tone offered a wordless commentary on “lawyer stuff,” and I could sympathize, having been through some lawyer stuff when Harley died.

“But the legal end shouldn’t be too complicated,” he added. “Mom had already transferred almost everything to me.”

“That should help. It’s been nice meeting you. Again, I’m so sorry about your mother.”

I walked home on the road so I could go by the mailbox at the end of the driveway. Most of it was for DeeAnn and Mike, of course, items I’d stick in a larger envelope and send on. A few pieces had been forwarded from the Madison Street address for me: a final bill for the electricity on the house, a solicitation from a charity and several other advertisements, and a postcard. From Mac.

The picture side was a photo of a car standing upright, nose to the sky, tail end buried in the ground. Behind it were several similarly half-buried vehicles in kind of a vehicular Stonehenge arrangement.

On the opposite side of the card Mac had written:
This
made me think of you.

A half dozen vehicles with their rear ends buried in the dirt reminded him of me? I didn’t get the connection. And wasn’t flattered by whatever it was.

Then I looked more closely at the vehicles. Thunderbirds! Old Thunderbirds, every one of them, along with a title: Texas T-Bird Ranch. I smiled then. Thunderbirds had reminded him of me.
Okay
.

The remainder of the message said that he would be in Missouri to do an article on Lake of the Ozarks sometime in the next few weeks and would give me a call.

I’d met Mac MacPherson through Magnolia and Geoff back on Madison Street. They had met him on one of their many excursions into genealogy by motor home. He lives full time in his motor home and wanders the country doing articles for travel magazines. We had what I thought was a nicely companionable relationship. Then, with some abruptness, he took off for Montana, and all I’d ever heard from him since was another postcard and a copy of one of his travel articles.

Magnolia, who knew other RV people who knew him, eventually muttered that he had “commitment issues.” Frankly, I found this a bit insulting. He was afraid I wanted to wrap him in a wedding ring and apron strings? We were barely more than acquaintances!

So now he was going to be in Missouri in a few weeks. With nothing more than a Texas postmark, no return address or other contact information, I had no way to tell him I was
not
in Missouri.

Well, so much for Mac MacPherson,
I thought with mixed feelings of regret and relief that I wouldn’t be seeing him and having to muddle around in awkward “commitment issues.”

Thinking of Mac reminded me of another man back in Missouri. Jordan Kaine was a retired lawyer I’d met through mutual involvement in a vandalism situation at a rural cemetery. We’d had a brief but budding relationship that was cut short when I had to go into hiding before the murder trial, the trial that brought on the Braxtons’ thirst for vengeance.

The phone was ringing as I unlocked the door. I started to fumble with the security alarm panel, realized guiltily that I’d forgotten to set it again, and headed for the phone.

“Hi! May I speak to Sandy please?”

“I’m sorry, but Sandy is gone for the week. She won’t be home until Sunday evening.”

“Oh, I didn’t know! Skye didn’t mention it.”

She sounded dismayed, so I said, “Could I help with anything?” “Oh, I don’t suppose so. This is Tammi Ridenour.”

“Oh, I didn’t suppose so.This is Tammy Ridenour.”

“Skye’s …” I hesitated momentarily and then decided not to split hairs. “Skye’s mother?”

“Yes, that’s right!” Tammi sounded delighted with the identification, perhaps mistakenly concluding that Skye had referred to her as a mother. “Oh, you must be Aunt Ivy!”

Tammi apparently had an oversupply of exclamation points and intended to use all of them.

“Yes, that’s me. Ivy Malone.”

“Skye went in to Fayetteville with Brad this afternoon. He’s trying to interest her in TV as a career. I just now decided it would be great fun to run in and surprise them so we could all have dinner together after the early news! But I need someone to sit with Baby. That’s why I was calling Sandy.”

Maybe I was feeling adventurous. Maybe the evening ahead looked a little lonely. Maybe it was just that troublesome curiosity gene again. “I’d be happy to sit with Baby.”

“Would you? Oh, that would be marvelous! I need to leave in about an hour and a half, so …”

“Just give me directions to the house.”

She did that, and then I cautiously asked, “Is there, uh, anything special I need to know or should bring for … sitting with Baby?”

“Not that I know of.” She sounded mildly puzzled.

“I’ve never met Baby, you know,” I said, fishing.

“But you’ve heard all about him, I’m sure!” she said gaily and hung up before I could admit that I had no idea if Baby was animal, vegetable, or mineral.

I speculated, of course, as I followed Tammi’s directions to 422 Hickory an hour later. Something in the animal category, surely. But perhaps on the unusual side? A monkey, maybe? Parrot? Iguana?

The thought occurred to me that perhaps I should have pinned down this detail before blithely leaping into this.

9

The house on Hickory was low and rambling, an L-shape built around a big backyard with a high board fence. The height of the fence alarmed me. Perhaps Baby belonged in the giraffe or camel category? A coppery-colored Lincoln sat in the driveway.

I rang the bell, and a plump woman who had to be Tammi opened the door. But the woman was instantly eclipsed by the animal beside her. A dog? It did have the usual doggy attributes. Four legs, furry body, wagging tail, soulful brown eyes, and a damp nose instantly thrust into my hand.

Although this animal could almost as easily have thrust his nose into mine.

“This is Baby,” Tammi said with obvious pride. “And the first thing everyone wants to know, of course, is, how big
is
he? So I’ll tell you! He’s 31 inches tall at the shoulder and weighs 260 pounds! And if he stands on his hind feet, he’s taller than you or me!”

Here her oversupply of exclamation points almost seemed justified.

“He was only six weeks old when we got him. And he was such a soft, adorable little butterball that we just had to call him Baby. And then the name stuck.”

“He’s certainly … impressive. Is he … uh … some particular breed?” Or perhaps some mad-scientist combination of dog and pony? His tan hair was short but thick and rough rather than slick, his tail a darker bushy flag, his face and neck mottled with irregular splotches of brown.

“Mostly English mastiff, although he has smidgens of various other breeds. We think the brown may come from some St. Bernard blood. Although no one knows where that tail came from! His mother weighed only 175 pounds, and none of his littermates turned out nearly as big as he is.”

“I hope he’s good-natured?”

“Oh, he is! Baby loves to chase balls and wrestle on the floor and play with his teddy bear. And Baby loves everybody! Tell Aunt Ivy hello, Baby.”

Baby, very dignified, offered me a huge paw. With some reservations I shook it, although I noted that his nails were nicely manicured. Tammi stood back and motioned me inside the house. By now, after the initial shock of Baby’s size, I noted that Tammi was dressed for dinner. The tight, bright red dress complemented her fluffy dark hair, but … oh, dear … also emphasized every one of those plump pounds. Spike heels, apparently meant to slenderize her legs, unfortunately turned her feet into chubby stubs. But she also had a lovely, warm smile, a rose-petal complexion, dazzling white teeth, and, overall, was something of an adorable butterball herself.

“It’s so nice of you to do this!” She squeezed my arm. “Brad usually stays in Fayetteville between the early and late news shows, so we don’t often have dinner together. And it just seemed like a lovely idea to run in and join them, the three of us together!”

I wondered if Skye had perhaps been counting on dinner alone with her father, but I only murmured, “Yes, a lovely idea.”

“We didn’t talk about a sitting fee, but I always give—”

I waved a hand in dismissal. “That isn’t necessary. I’m glad to do it.” Although a thought occurred to me, now that I’d met Baby and he did seem like such a polite, well-mannered gentleman. “Why does Baby need a sitter?”

“Baby is very people sensitive.” She gave his big head an affectionate rough-housing. “If anyone is home, he’s quite happy to run and play in the backyard by himself. But if everyone leaves, he
knows
and immediately protests! Quite loudly, I’m afraid.”

Deep-chested Baby looked as if he could make enough noisy protest to start an earthquake.

“Which the neighbors object to, I suppose?”

“Very much so. As if their children don’t sometimes raise enough ruckus to—” She rolled her baby blue eyes and smiled. “Well, never mind. In any case, it’s better that Baby not be left outside when no one is home.”

“And inside?”

“Inside, he tends to … ummm … take out his frustration at being left behind on the furniture and carpet. He does love to go riding and stick his nose out the window.”

In what?
I wondered. Did they keep a Hummer in reserve for dog entertainment?

“But Baby can smile.” She stretched her mouth, baring her teeth, and Baby did the same. I’m glad I knew it was a smile, because there seemed to be an extraordinary number of teeth in Baby’s oversized mouth.

“And he’s just the biggest, sweetest, friendliest baby ever! Show Aunt Ivy your caterpillar walk.”

I appreciated that, in spite of all the exclamation points, Tammi was not into baby talk. She moved back a few steps and trailed her hand—bright red polish, big diamond engagement and wedding rings a little tight on her plump hand— along the carpet. Baby immediately dropped his belly to the floor. With legs stretched out behind him, front paws digging into the carpet, he scooted toward her, along the way cheerfully wiggling across whatever got in his way, which included my feet and a ragged teddy bear that was apparently one of his toys.

“His food is on the counter in the kitchen. You can give it to him about 8:00. He’ll let you know if he wants to go outside. Otherwise, just enjoy! There are people snacks on the counter and in the refrigerator. Help yourself to anything!”

“Thank you.”

“The TV remote is over there on the sofa. Baby will probably want to sit with you and put his head in your lap while you watch. Or there are magazines and books there on the coffee table if you’d rather read. I have tons of books, but they’re mostly on diet and exercise, and I can see you don’t need that!”

She bustled around gathering up purse, cell phone, and jacket. Baby watched her, tail swishing softly on the carpet. I wondered uneasily if the minute she was out the door he might turn into a rabid psycho-dog, a Woodston Cujo. But Sandy had Baby-sat him, apparently without disaster.

“My cell phone number is over there on the end table by the phone. Don’t hesitate to call me if you need anything.” She patted her purse where she’d tucked the cell phone. “I won’t stay in town for the late news, so I should be home by 10:00 or so. Bye, Baby.” She leaned over and nuzzled the big dog’s face. Not many women, I suspected, would be so agreeable to a slurp of doggy tongue across fresh makeup.

At the door she turned and gave me a little wave, looking as excited as a teenager going out on a date. “You know, we just
love
Sandy! She’s such a good influence on Skye.”

I watched the Lincoln pull out of the driveway, and then Baby and I regarded each other gravely. He offered his paw again, and I shook it. No, no psycho-dog here, just a big sweetie.

We watched TV together. I hadn’t realized that when Tammi said he’d sit with me, she meant exactly that. Draped right beside me on the wildly flowered sofa with his head and one big paw in my lap. I suspected sofa cushions had to be replaced regularly here, but if Tammi and husband didn’t mind, I certainly didn’t.

After a while Baby wanted to go out in the backyard. Stacked lumber and concrete blocks suggested some ongoing building project. Perhaps an oversized doghouse for Baby? He brought me a ball to throw, and he romped and played with surprising agility for his size. Later I fed him the dog chow Tammi had put out, and while he ate I snacked on cheesecake squares.

I flipped through several of Tammi’s diet and exercise books piled on the coffee table. Everything from Pilates to the Atkins diet, with a bizarre offshoot into
Weight Loss Secrets from
Atlantis: Amazing Discoveries from a Lost Continent
with a svelte mermaid on the cover. The book that looked as if it might be the most effective at weight reduction, however, was the heavyweight one Sandy had mentioned. It featured a cover model of a sleek cat and weighed, if not the ten pounds Sandy had claimed, at least six or seven. If Tammi lifted that book overhead enough times a day, she’d surely change some fat into muscle.