by Ellen Riggs
His tail lashed with what he’d normally consider unseemly enthusiasm, and he gave a little yip.
“I thought Keats unsettled the colony,” Jilly said. “Cori told you to keep them stable and chill until the trapping and rehoming begins.”
Cori Hudson was a dog trainer and rescue expert from Clover Grove’s more prosperous neighbor, Dorset Hills, better known as Dog Town. In fact, she was part of a group known as the Rescue Mafia, and had been close friends with Hannah Pemberton, the heiress who previously owned Runaway Farm. After seeing coverage of my newsworthy rescue of Keats, Hannah had offered to sell me the farm for a deal I couldn’t refuse, and then moved with her family to Europe. Over time, her friends had crept out of the woodwork, and they’d recently helped me considerably. But my close connections with the police department meant we had to keep our contact minimal. Kellan had already voiced concerns about the Rescue Mafia’s tendencies to prioritize animal welfare over the law.
“I’m worried about the colony,” I said, turning the yellow parade float onto the highway and accelerating gently as we headed to town. “I think some cats are missing.”
“Missing! How can you tell? There’s over forty of them and they go and come as they like.”
“Normally it’s the same team of familiar faces. Some are quite friendly and let me pat them. But yesterday I didn’t see any of those cats. It’s like ten disappeared overnight. I went over later for a second look and still nothing.”
“Maybe they went back to the swamp.” Jilly looked a little worried now, too, probably fearing I’d ask her to come along to explore. Huckleberry Marsh was a spooky spot that sucked you right off the logs into the silty water.
“That was my first thought, so I went down there with Percy yesterday. There wasn’t a cat to be found.” I pressed the pedal a trifle harder, risking Buttercup’s umbrage. My mom’s umbrage over my being late was becoming the bigger concern. “What if Edna comes home and none of her cats are left?”
“I’m no expert, but I would assume feral cats roam. With Edna gone, they’re probably checking out their options for winter. They don’t know we have a master plan that will have them all basking by a warm fire before Christmas.”
“Maybe. I just have a funny feeling about it. Keats will let me know if anything suspicious is going on.”
“I’ll come too,” Jilly said, proving yet again why she’d been named best friend in college and continued to win the award year after year. “Another set of eyes might help. Besides, I want Edna’s homecoming to be peaceful. She deserves that after all she’s been through.”
“Agreed. I hope she comes home with some of her old feistiness, though. She was entirely too nice before she left. It was unnerving.”
“That was only because she wants to make sure her house and cats are cared for and that her gourmet meals will continue to appear like clockwork upon her return.”
We both laughed, and Keats dared to slip one dusty paw through the seats to see if Jilly might be amenable to sharing her prime spot. She flicked it off her dress promptly, killing that hope.
My throat started to tighten as we got closer to town. Mom and I were like camelids and dogs, and tension magnified our differences. This was one of the biggest nights of her life and she was bound to be combustible, which meant I needed to stay super cool.
“Breathe,” Jilly said, gesturing to her lower abdomen. “Count up to seven and back down.”
“Usually it’s only five,” I said.
“Seven’s right for tonight. Maybe nine. I’ll have to read the room and get back to you.”
Her warnings frequently saved me from actions I’d live to regret. Back in our corporate days I had more self control, but a serious concussion during Keats’ rescue had left me with a few deficits. A few assets, too. Most days I considered myself well ahead, if not fully right in the head.
I’d expected to nab a spot for Buttercup on Main Street because stores closed early and there wasn’t much of a nightlife in Clover Grove. There was no parking to be had, however, and the sidewalks were busy, too.
“There must be an event,” I said, as we slowed outside the salon.
“Yeah, silly,” Jilly said, laughing. “The opening of the salon.”
“What? All this is for Bloomers?”
Saying the word out loud made me wince. Mom’s family had a floral naming convention. My sisters were Daisy, Iris, Poppy, and Violet, and all of us shared the middle name Rose. The name Bloomers did double duty as a play on “late bloomers,” since Mom and Iris were starting all over. But Mom also knew the cheeky name would amuse the male customers she hoped to attract. Unlike its predecessor, Bloomers was a unisex salon and Mom would be offering simple cuts for men and classic straightedge shaving. Apparently she’d learned barbershop basics from her dad as a child—something I didn’t know despite revising her résumé countless times.
It turned out you were never too old to be surprised by your mother. Indeed, her late-blooming popularity among the men of Clover Grove, and indeed all of hill country, had been an even bigger surprise. She was the belle of the midlife ball, and now she had her own ballroom.
“Nine,” Jilly said, jarring me out of my trance. “In for nine, out for nine. I don’t need to read the room to know that.”
“I’ll be fine,” I said. “We don’t need to stay long.”
“I do. I’m helping Mandy with catering, remember? But I can ask Asher to run me home if you need to escape earlier. Just try to work the room a little with those business cards. You have a mission, remember?”
“In for nine, out for nine,” I said, piloting Buttercup into a large spot on a side street.
I let Keats out and stood with the door open for a moment, dusting off the pink dress as best I could. My feet were grimy and no amount of dusting could fix that. Hopefully Mom would be fluttering around too much to look down.
After dragging things out as long as I could, I shut the door and the three of us walked back to Main Street. It felt like I shrank with every step as confidence leaked out of me. By the time we reached the salon, I’d be the shortest “Galloway Girl” instead of the tallest. On top of everything else, I was worried people would ask questions about the murders that I didn’t want to think about, let alone answer.
“Good luck,” Jilly said, squeezing my arm as we walked in the door. “You just need to—”
Someone whisked her away before the last word was out of her mouth, but no doubt it was a reminder to breathe.
“Darling!” My mother hadn’t specified black tie on the invitation and as a result, she was the only woman in the room in a floor-length dress. It was slinky, strapless, and her signature shade of red. To give her credit, she could pull it off despite being just “five feet and a smidge.” Her wardrobe consisted of secondhand finds, most of them cleverly tailored so as to be unrecognizable to their former owners. No doubt she’d dyed her satin pumps, too. With seven mouths to feed and no job continuity, she’d learned to be creative.
She hugged me a little harder than usual and gave me a sniff.
“What are you doing?” I asked, pushing her away.
“Farm,” she whispered, casing me from head to toe. “You look like it and smell like it. Oh my sweet lord, Ivy Rose Galloway. Your feet! What happened?”
“There was an incident. Don’t ask.” I craned around the room. “What a wonderful turnout, Mom. I see Heddy and Kaye Langman from the antiques store, and Dina Macintosh from the pet boutique. There’s Teri Mason chatting to Mabel Halliday. It’s a veritable who’s who of Clover Grove.”
The decoy didn’t work. Still looking down, she said, “What is that thing doing here? I distinctly said no dogs.”
“Keats isn’t just a dog,” I said, as his tail beat quickly and steadily. “He’s an essential component of my mental health. Can we not argue tonight? It’s a special occasion.”
Keats never took Mom’s slings and arrows personally. He knew her moods and he knew she liked him. What�
��s more, he liked her. He wasn’t a dog to splash his affection around but he had plenty to spare for Mom.
“Dahlia!” A tall man came up behind Mom. He had plenty of hair that seemed oddly dark given the lines on his face. “You look stunning.”
His arrival distracted Mom in a way I never could. She introduced me quickly. “Ivy, this is Wayne Flagg. He’s been kind enough to let me practice my shaving and clipping skills on him.”
“Good news,” he said. “A reporter from the Clover Grove Examiner just interviewed me and took my photo to run with their story.”
Mom rarely flushed, but she did now. Her red lips pressed into a thin line and I knew she was uneasy about the direction the story would take. Like any small town newspaper, the Examiner was a mix of real news and thinly veiled gossip and speculation. Reading between the lines was half the fun… unless you were the subject of the story. Now there was way too much to say about us, what with Mom’s colorful history and the recent murders associated with my farm.
“All publicity’s good publicity,” Iris said, hovering with Daisy in a two-woman security detail designed to protect Bloomers’ reputation from Mom’s verbal indiscretions.
All five Galloway Girls took after our mother, with dark hair and hazel eyes. Daisy had a careworn expression that came less with age than carrying too much responsibility too soon. Even before our deadbeat father left she’d been looking out for the rest of us. When Mom began her revolving door of low-paying jobs, Daisy had become the de facto matriarch. Then she married and had two sets of identical twin boys who deepened the lines we’d started. Nonetheless she was pretty, especially when she offered a rare smile as she did now.
Iris was striking, rather than pretty. Her hair was still naturally dark and fell in artful waves tonight over the straps of her little black dress. She’d always been well put together, but lately she’d upped her game, perhaps sensing that she needed to be a walking billboard for the salon. For many years she’d been a curator in the small, quirky museums that dotted hill country, but the work paid a pittance and she’d been pondering a career change for ages.
“I’m glad to hear all publicity is good publicity,” I said. “Because I’ve had so much of it lately. That must mean I can expect an influx of new guests anytime.”
Daisy sighed. She still felt bad over her dealings with Lloyd Boyce, the local dogcatcher and first murder victim on my land. “Let’s introduce you around so you can spread the word about the inn,” she said. “You were away so long that you need to meet the movers and shakers.”
“There are movers and shakers in Clover Grove? Why am I just hearing this now?” I let her tow me away from Mom and Iris. “Or do you just mean the so-called pillars of the community, like the bridge club?”
The Bridge Buddies had recently stayed for a weekend at the inn, during which the third murder occurred. The tension made the club’s long-simmering feud erupt and they’d disbanded, at least temporarily.
“The real influencers aren’t always who you’d expect,” Daisy said. “They keep a low profile and do nice things for people without looking for glory.”
There was a row of folding chairs across the back of the salon. My sisters and Jilly had hung filmy curtain panels in front of the washing stations to make the small shop more party-friendly. People were rapidly filling the open space around the two prominent styling chairs. In fact, it was so crowded that Violet propped open the door to allow people to spill out onto the sidewalk. Keats threw back his head to sniff the breeze and then gave a little whine.
“I know, buddy,” I said. “I’m claustrophobic, too. Hang in there.”
Daisy pinched my arm. “Publicity, remember? You want to keep the farm afloat and here’s someone who knows almost everyone in hill country. She’s one of our most distinguished residents.”
The woman sitting on the folding chair looked surprisingly tranquil, given the crowd and the setting. “Daisy,” she said, in a deep, rich voice. “How nice to see you, dear. You were so kind to me after my surgery last winter. I haven’t thanked you enough.”
“You thanked me plenty, Miss Bingham,” my sister said. “I don’t believe you’ve met my baby sister, Ivy. And this is her dog, Keats.”
“Of course I’ve met Ivy,” Miss Bingham said. “But she was just a pretty young girl then. Always so quiet and well-behaved. It’s nice to see you again, dear.”
“I remember you, too, Miss Bingham,” I said. “You came to our fundraisers for the local animal rescue. Once you gave us a hundred dollars, and I’d never felt so lucky.”
She beamed at me. “I’ve never been able to resist a pet charity. And while cats are my true weakness, I had plenty of dogs in my time.” She braced herself on a four-pronged cane and waved to summon a balding middle-aged man and a woman with nicely highlighted blonde hair and a careworn look like Daisy’s. “This is my nephew, Michael, and his wife, Caroline,” Miss Bingham said. “I’m always so happy when they visit Clover Grove.”
“It’s good to be back,” Michael said with a pleasant smile. “I miss the old manor though, Aunt Hazel.”
“Times change,” she said, sighing and looking down. “Are you as brilliant as everyone says, Keats? I’ve heard stories.”
His tail swished briskly, giving Miss Bingham an enthusiastic pass in the character department. When it brushed Michael’s pant leg, his wife eased him away into the crowd. Not a dog lover, clearly, but more tactful than most.
“Keats is brilliant,” I told Miss Bingham. “Rescuing him was another lucky moment for me.”
The old woman gave me a keen glance. “Except for your injuries. You paid a high price, didn’t you?”
Keats tipped up his muzzle and his brown eye filled me with sunlight from the soles of my dirty feet to the crown of my head. “No regrets, Miss Bingham. He’s the best dog in the world.”
The best dog in the world darted away suddenly. There was a black-and-white flash between the sea of legs and then I caught a glimpse of orange.
Not just any orange: fluffy marmalade with a magnificent tail.
“Oh no! It’s Percy!”
“Percy?” Daisy said. “You mean the cat you just adopted from Edna’s feral colony?”
I knelt, trying to track the pair. “He adopted me. But yes.”
Seeing Keats somewhat successfully herding the cat toward me, I looked up to find Miss Bingham watching me with eyes as sharp as a crow’s. “You brought a cat to a party, Ivy?”
I heard Mom’s scream and shut my eyes briefly. “I’m not that far gone, Miss Bingham. Percy must have stowed away in the car as I dealt with an issue on the farm.”
An issue Percy had caused by releasing the llama. I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d created that diversion for the very purpose of slipping into the car. He hated being left behind. Now I realized Keats had tried to tell me something was up during the drive and I didn’t listen. Then, when I was dusting off my dress after parking, the cat must have slipped out. For an eye-catching feline, he could move like a shadow.
At the moment Percy had no compunction about making a spectacle of himself. To avoid Keats, he leapt onto an old man’s lap and then launched himself onto a high shelf that held a display of hair products. From there, the cat picked his way nonchalantly toward me, tail high, and completely full of himself.
When he was behind Miss Bingham, he sat and wrapped his tail around his paws, giving me what could only be called a Cheshire grin.
“Oh, Percy. Really?” I shook my head in disgust as Keats pressed into my legs mumbling canine profanity.
“That,” Miss Bingham said, “is a marvelous cat. And obviously as clever as your dog.”
Keats gave a sharp squeak of protest.
“Nearly as clever,” she corrected seamlessly. “Ivy, you obviously have a special connection with animals. I admire that in a person. Hannah Pemberton and I hit it off for the same reason.”
I tore my eyes away from Percy reluctantly. He was scanning the room with eye
s as eerily green as Keats’ blue one. There was no telling what he would do. I was quite sure what Mom would do, however, and she was snaking toward me now. Hands kept reaching out to stop her. Some of those hands wanted to congratulate her, while the many hands of my siblings tried to deter her.
“I’d love to hear about your friendship with Hannah,” I said. “But first I’m going to have to figure out how to get the cat back into the car.”
Miss Bingham gave an infectious laugh. “Good luck, dear. I suspect that cat is going to do what he wants, when he wants.”
Percy unfurled his fluffy tail, stood up, and then arched his back. He opened his mouth and out came an odd pop of sound. It was a combination of a hiss and a spit, and it was enough to bring Keats’ hackles up, too.
I turned to see what the fuss was about and found a woman standing right behind me. Her eyes narrowed to feline slits and her gray corkscrew curls seemed to puff like hackles, too.
“People like you don’t deserve pets,” she said. “I’m going to report you to Animal Services.”
Chapter Three
I straightened my shoulders, grateful to Jilly’s heels for giving me even more of a height advantage.
“Pardon me?” I said.
“You heard me.” Medusa doubled down on the fierce glare. “What were you thinking bringing a cat into town to run around? He could be hit by a car, or poisoned by shampoo.”
“First of all, I didn’t bring him. He brought himself.” I immediately regretted how crazy that sounded. “He stowed away in the car while I was rounding up a runaway llama.”
The woman smiled, vindicated by the new information. “A runaway llama? So you have zero control over any of your animals?”
My mouth opened but Daisy squeezed my forearm to hold back the hot words gathering like lava in my throat. Since my concussion, I’d had a bit of trouble with impulse control and Jilly and Daisy tag-teamed to keep me from stepping on local landmines. I couldn’t afford to offend the many people who offended me if I wanted my business to grow and my reputation to shine.
