Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (20 page)

“I know you're not.” He pulled her close. Her hands slid around his shoulders. They had a moment, still laughing, but gentle with each other.

There wasn't anything for me to do except to kick off my shoes and go into the pool after her cell phone. I dove down and found it on the bottom, gently sliding toward the drain. I grabbed it and took my time getting to the surface, not in any rush to see them in each other's arms. In the sunshine again, I ducked under the water one last time to skim my hair off my face, and then I waded into the shallow end. By the time I climbed out, gushing pool water from my clothes, Poppy had pulled herself together and wore both shoes again.

Ten handed her the peashooter, and she put it into her purse.

To me, she said, “Did I scare you?”

“I'm not used to guns,” I admitted.

“Sorry.” Her smile was big again. “I have a tendency to shoot first, ask questions later.”

I twisted the tail of my T-shirt to get rid of the excess water, but it still clung to me like a second skin. My shorts sagged on my hips, dripping. I was never going to win a wet T-shirt contest, but I plucked the shirt away from my chest anyway. Feeling bedraggled and silly, I gave the wet phone to her.

She thanked me as she shook it in a vain attempt to get rid of the water. To Ten, she said, “I don't want to have our wedding here if there are prairie dogs. I don't care how pretty that rose garden is.”

Ten grinned. “The groomsmen could run a little target practice before the ceremony.”

“We're going to get rid of them very soon,” I said, not completely sure he was joking. “Critter Control is coming.”

Ten said, “Why doesn't Miss Ruffles chase them off?”

“I don't know. Maybe they're her kindred spirits or something.” I smiled. “You know how she likes to cause trouble.”

Maybe Poppy didn't like that I shared anything whatsoever with Ten. She forgot about her phone and glared openly at me.

“Sorry,” I said, feeling wet and foolish. “I don't mean to … that is, prairie dogs are a kind of squirrel, actually. And they're herbivores, although they do eat some insects. Anyway, they're harmless. More afraid of you than—”

“I'm not afraid, Miss Know It All,” Poppy snapped. “I was startled, that's all.”

“Poppy, maybe we ought to get a move on.” Ten's voice was still indulgent. “We don't want to be late for Sunday supper with your sister, now, do we? Your phone's going to be good as new, right?”

I said, “Put it in a box of kitty litter. In a few hours it'll be—” I saw his expression and stopped. Miss Know It All, indeed.

“Thanks for letting us have a look around,” he said, one hand already on Poppy's back to propel her away. “We'll be in touch.”

I stripped off most of my sodden clothes in the kitchen and left them in the sink. In my undies, I went upstairs to take a shower. I took one look at my lollipop mouth in the mirror and brushed my teeth with whitening toothpaste.

Dressed again, I cleaned up the kitchen and tried to think about how to get around a restraining order. When Mr. Carver and Mae Mae returned, I met them in the garage. I went to help a windblown Mae Mae out of the convertible's passenger seat while Mr. Carver made a fussy business of shutting off the car and running his handkerchief over the dashboard to remove any hint of dust.

“Who's that parked across the street?” Mae Mae asked. “There's two black cars over there.”

“Somebody visiting the neighbors, I guess. How was church?” I held Mae Mae's stout arm and pulled.

“It wouldn't do you any harm to find that out for yourself,” she said. “What have you been doing all morning?”

“Keeping Miss Ruffles out of trouble.”

Mae Mae glanced around, as if expecting Miss Ruffles to come charging out from under the bushes. “Where's that animal now?”

Keeping the dog's whereabouts a secret was definitely going to be a problem. “She's probably hunting for prairie dogs. Poppy Appleby and Ten Tennyson were here, looking at the backyard for their wedding. They were grossed out by the prairie dogs.”

Mr. Carver said, “Critter Control is coming on Tuesday.”

“Good to know. Mr. Carver, I was wondering if I could borrow Honeybelle's car this afternoon.”

“For what purpose?” he asked, frowning as he came around the trunk of the car.

I had my lie ready. “To take Miss Ruffles over to the football field to practice with a Frisbee.”

“Is it safe for her over there?”

“It will be empty today. I'm supposed to teach her tricks for the football games. I don't want to risk breaking any windows here.”

That convinced Mr. Carver right away. “You may take the car.” He handed over the keys. “Put a towel on the seat so Miss Ruffles doesn't dirty the upholstery.”

I hung around the garage while they shuffled into the house for lunch, and then I got into Honeybelle's car. I put the convertible top up, hoping to drive past the Blues Brothers without alerting them to my departure. They weren't used to seeing me driving a car. Luck was finally with me, because they remained parked by the curb as I drove by.

I had spent the last hour trying to come up with various ways to get Miss Ruffles back from Posie. First I needed to do some reconnaissance.

I knew the way to the housing development out by the interstate where the Hensleys lived. Big brick pillars flanked the turn-in. Posie's house must have been some designer's idea of a French country gentleman's estate, except with a vinyl fence around it. I had delivered some flowers there for Honeybelle. On the inside, it had been elaborately decorated with big, plush family furniture. On the outside, someone had planted cactus around piles of rocks.

I parked behind a small rise where a water tower stood, got out, and crept up to the top. Standing in the water tower's shade, I peered across the curving arrangement of huge houses, all with air conditioners humming outside. A couple of cars were moving slowly along the serpentine streets—one headed out of the neighborhood, the other probably delivering a family home from church. Some of the houses had big yards with green grass, obviously sustained with water sprinklers. The majority of homes had dry yards with desert plants to perk them up.

Posie's house had the largest piece of property and the most plantings—none of which required additional water. Honeybelle had sniffed at Posie's lack of flowers. But standing under the huge water tank with the West Texas scrub spreading endlessly in all directions, I wondered if Posie had the right idea. Mule Stop was a place that couldn't afford to waste any of its precious water supply. I felt a pang of guilt for running the water in Mae Mae's kitchen sink.

Beside a big cactus, I could see Ten's Jeep parked in the driveway. He and Poppy had gone to Posie's home for Sunday supper.

I don't know what I hoped to see while standing under the water tower. Maybe Miss Ruffles cavorting in the backyard, safe and happy.

I spotted a backyard shed and stood looking at it for a long time. It was the kind of shed where homeowners stored lawn mowers and bicycles. Might Posie have concealed Miss Ruffles there?

I couldn't very well march down and search the house or the shed. Not with a restraining order in place. Feeling very disappointed, I went back to the car and headed into town.

I had driven past the local animal shelter on my way to Posie's house. It was a long, low building the same color of the scrubland around it. As if drawn by a magnet, I impulsively pulled into the pitted gravel driveway. The shelter's front doors were propped wide, and the noise of yelping dogs could be heard from the parking lot.

Maybe Posie had dumped Miss Ruffles at the shelter. A tiny part of me still held out hope that Miss Ruffles escaped on her own. Or maybe she had found her way here. It was a long shot, but it couldn't hurt to check.

A woman with her long hair pinned up to stay cool was sweeping the floor behind the check-in counter. She wore a long skirt and a faded T-shirt. A mischievous black cat with a lashing tail sat on the counter watching her work. Behind the woman was a wall of cages, each with a meowing cat in it. Tabby cats, calico cats, gray cats, white cats, black cats, dozens of ordinary cats.

The woman didn't look up from her task. “Can I help you?”

In the car, I had decided on a plausible story that didn't make me look like a bad pet owner who carelessly let her dog run away. I said, “I'm here to see if you have any Texas cattle curs.”

She looked around at last, and I realized she was none other than Crazy Mary.

“Hi,” I said uncertainly. “Remember me? I'm Sunny.”

“I know who you are.” Without her banjo or violin, she pulled the broom handle close as if for protection.

I said the first thing that came into my head. “I'm surprised to see you here.”

She shrugged. “I volunteer on Sundays. It's hard to get people to work on Sundays. Everybody else goes to church.”

“That's … nice of you to volunteer.”

”Did you find Miss Ruffles?”

“Uh, not yet. Are you … Did you really hear her bark last night?”

“I heard Miss Ruffles yip, yes. She was in a car. What do you want with another Texas cattle cur?”

I was caught flat-footed. I wasn't a good liar, and I couldn't come up with anything that sounded remotely plausible.

Her gaze sharpened.

I swallowed hard. “Look, I know it's wrong to ask you to be quiet about this, but I need to keep it a secret. To tell the truth, Miss Ruffles is still missing. I was hoping maybe somebody found her and turned her in.”

That information was enough. She jerked her head toward another door. “Take a look at the inventory. Some curs might have come in this week.”

I thanked her and fled through the door. On the other side was a chain-link gate, and I let myself through that and refastened it behind me. I found myself in a hot concrete shed with dog kennels on both sides of an aisle that was damp underfoot as if it had been hosed down. The thought of Miss Ruffles stuck in such a place made me feel like crying.

As soon as I appeared, dozens of barking dogs suddenly tripled their noise and began flinging themselves at their chain-link prisons. There were more large dogs than small dogs—mostly pit bulls and shepherd mixes, but several cages with multiple Chihuahuas, too. The Chihuahuas ran around in circles and took turns jumping against their gates. Some of them huddled together and trembled. The barking and yelping was deafening.

At the last kennel, my heart leaped. For a second, I thought I had found her, but as soon as the snoozing dog lifted its head, I could see it was not Miss Ruffles but another Texas cattle cur—this one older than Miss Ruffles. His muzzle was almost completely gray. He didn't have her distinctive eyebrow, either. And he certainly didn't have her energy. But the brindle coat was similar, and he was only a little larger than Miss Ruffles.

There was a big red sticker attached to the front of his kennel. I put my fingers through the chain link, but the dog didn't have the energy to get up to sniff me.

Crazy Mary appeared behind me. “I forgot about that one. His name is Fred. He came in a couple of weeks ago. Somebody found him out in the middle of nowhere, half-starved and sick. People from all over just dump their dogs out there—especially old ones like this. They can't afford to have a sick dog put down, so they leave them. We named him after Fred, our accountant, because he sleeps all the time.”

“He looks depressed.”

“Well, this place upsets most dogs. After a while, some of them just shut down.”

“How sick is he?”

“Our vet says he doesn't have much longer.”

Fred put his head back on his paws and heaved a sigh that sounded hopeless.

Mary said, “The red card means he's scheduled to be put down this week.”

A plan sprouted in my head. Perhaps I'd have Miss Ruffles safe at home after tomorrow night's meeting with the dognapper. But until I got Miss Ruffles back, I was going to be spending a lot of time convincing Mr. Carver and Mae Mae that Miss Ruffles was just outside digging for prairie dogs. Maybe I needed a stand-in.

And if Fred only had a short time to live, I could make his final days a heck of a lot more comfortable than the shelter could.

Over my shoulder to Crazy Mary, I said, “What would it take to adopt Fred?”

“Why would you want him?”

“He's been through a lot. I can feed him, give him a nice place to sleep. There's lots of room at Honeybelle's house.”

“There's a strict adoption policy. Lots of forms. And technically, he's supposed to be neutered before he leaves the shelter.”

“At his age, and the shape he's in, I don't think we have to worry about him making puppies.”

Crazy Mary continued to frown. “Probably not.”

“I can make him happy.”

I must have sounded genuine enough. After a thoughtful minute, she sighed. “If you have all the right information and the adoption fee, I don't see why you couldn't take him home today. I hate seeing him so miserable.”

When Miss Ruffles came back to Honeybelle's house, she might be delighted to have a companion, I thought. And maybe Fred's calm temperament would rub off on her a little, too.

Firmly, I said, “I'd like to adopt him.”

She shrugged. “Okay. This way.”

She made me fill out multiple forms that promised I had a fenced yard and a relationship with a trustworthy veterinarian. I was glad I'd looked in Honeybelle's file and seen the name of the vet who took care of Miss Ruffles. I showed Crazy Mary all the ID I carried in my wallet, and out of my meager pocket money I paid the small adoption fee. I signed a paper that said I'd get Fred a checkup within a month. I bought the required leash and collar from the display by the front desk. I was starting to think I'd have to give up my firstborn when Crazy Mary finally brought Fred out and turned him over to me.