by Janet Dawson
“How are the studies going?” I asked him.
He nodded. “Good. I cut back my working hours and everyone here’s tutoring me on some of my tough subjects. My grades are up and I’m not feeling so stressed.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
The back door opened and Rachel came out onto the deck. “Hi, Jeri. Didn’t know you were here. I was up in my room studying and was lured downstairs by the sound of voices. I need a break.”
“How about some lemonade?”
“Looks good.” She went back into the house and returned with a glass, which she filled from the pitcher. I scooted down on the bench so she could sit down. “Say, Jeri. You remember that guy you saw at the clinic, Wellette? He got arrested.”
“Doesn’t surprise me. There in Oakland?”
“No. Blocking the door of a clinic in Pleasant Hill.”
A horn sounded from the street in front of the house. “They’re back,” Rachel said. “Sasha and Marisol. They went to pick up the furniture.”
“Time to get to work.” Ben finished his cereal and got up from the table. “I’ll go find my shoes.”
As we walked around to the street, Rachel and Vicki explained that Sasha’s insurance company had come through with a check for the needed repairs to the living room. Sasha had been haunting furniture showrooms during the interim and had picked out a replacement sofa. She and Marisol, in a pickup truck borrowed from Marisol’s cousin Ernesto, had gone to fetch the new furniture.
Marisol, at the wheel of the elderly Chevy, backed the truck expertly into the driveway. I saw Sasha on the passenger side, with Martin in between. The new sofa was tied in the bed of the truck and covered with a tarp. Marisol cut the engine and opened the door as Ben hoisted himself into the truck and pulled back the tarp to reveal resplendent new upholstery, a contemporary sectional sofa in a pale butterscotch.
“Beautiful,” I said. “Looks cushy.”
“There’s even a matching chair,” Sasha told me. “This new sofa’s much more comfortable than the old one. And I got a coffee table too.”
“Where’s Nelson?” Ben asked. “He said he was gonna help.”
“Here I am.” I turned my head and saw Nelson walking up the street with his usual take-out food sack in hand.
Emily was with him, looking a lot calmer than she’d been the last time I’d seen her. There was color in her face and she was smiling at something Nelson had said. She carried a big bouquet of spring flowers—iris, daffodils, tulips—which she handed to Sasha. “Here. In honor of the new living room.”
Sasha thanked her with a hug. Then she handed the flowers to Martin and we set to work, transferring the new furniture from the pickup truck to the newly plastered and repainted living room. We all took turns testing out the new sofa and chair, pronouncing them a success. Martin and Sasha put Emily’s bouquet in a glass pitcher and set it on the new glass-topped coffee table.
Then Martin tugged at my sleeve. “We have new kitties,” he said. “Come see.”
“Kittens?”
“Martin’s been after me to get a cat,” Sasha explained. “The woman who had Emily’s room last year was allergic, so we couldn’t. Now nobody here is allergic to cats. So we all went to the animal shelter.” She rolled her eyes. “You can just imagine this crew.”
I glanced around the room. “Yes, I can. The Five Stooges...” I ducked as Rachel tossed a sofa cushion at me. “And you got kittens, plural, as opposed to cat, singular.”
“They’re pretty singular,” Marisol said. “These two, well, they were brother and sister and we didn’t want to separate them.”
I followed Martin into his room off the kitchen. The kittens, one a silvery gray tabby and the other black with white paws and a white nose, were curled up on his bed, sleeping. “They sleep a lot,” he said.
“That’s what cats do best. What’re they called?”
“I named ’em Stan and Ollie. The gray one’s Stan. And the black one’s Ollie. Ollie’s a girl.” I complimented Martin on his choice of names. “Cats make a house better,” he said.
“They do indeed,” I told him.
I left the house on Garber Street to its own rhythms and went home to my own cats. As I came up the walk, I saw Abigail snoozing in her usual spot on the back of my sofa, where the window looked out at the flower bed. The lemon tree had been replaced by a rhododendron. I unlocked the door and walked into my home. Black Bart was stretched out in a spot of afternoon sun. He opened one eye, surveyed me, then closed it.
The phone rang. I answered it, expecting it to be Kaz, who was due to come over so I could run my hands through his hair.
Instead it was Cassie, calling to tell me she’d found the perfect wedding dress.
Don’t miss any of the Jeri Howard mysteries
by JANET DAWSON
“For readers who demand not only a fine mystery and wonderfully realized characters but a story filled with social conscience and heart that resonates long after the final page.”
—Mostly Murder
KINDRED CRIMES
TILL THE OLD MEN DIE
TAKE A NUMBER
DON’T TURN YOUR BACK
ON THE OCEAN
NOBODY’S CHILD
A CREDIBLE THREAT
Available in bookstores everwhere.
About the Author
JANET DAWSON’S first Jeri Howard novel, Kindred Crimes, won the St. Martin’s Press/Private Eye Writers of America Best First Private Eye Novel Contest. It was nominated for Shamus, Anthony, and Macavity awards in the Best First Novel category. In addition to the Jeri Howard series, she has written numerous short stories, including Macavity winner “Voice Mail,” and Shamus nominee “Slayer Statute.” For more information on Janet Dawson and her books, check her website at www.janetdawson.com.
