I turn to open the door to the hearse and faster than I can say “okay,” the pup is sitting in the front passenger seat, tongue lolling, his face showing the first light of real happiness.
I slide in behind the wheel and the pup’s excitement reaches a tail-wagging crescendo. “Settle down,” I tell him, and amazingly he does. “Remember, this is only temporary.”
He leans over, nuzzles my ear with his warm, wet nose, and then licks my cheek. It’s the most affectionate, nonsexual gesture anyone has shown me in a very long time and it totally melts my heart.
“Crap,” I mutter as I start up the engine. “I really need to stay away from garbage Dumpsters.”
Chapter 40
I’m a little worried about how Rubbish is going to deal with the addition of this new boarder so I make the pup stay in the car while I carry my groceries inside. Rubbish greets me at the door as usual, winding his way around my feet and purring up a storm. As soon as I set my purchases on the kitchen counter, I scoop Rubbish up, nuzzle him for a few seconds, and then promptly shut him inside my bedroom. Then I go back to the car.
I wonder if the pup will try to run once I let him out but he stays dutifully at my heels and follows me inside without hesitation. I lead him out to the kitchen and give him a bowl of water, which he makes disappear in about five seconds flat. After giving him a refill, I put my groceries away and rummage through the cupboards and fridge for something else to feed him. I figure as hungry as the little guy obviously is, it will be better if I fill him up before he meets Rubbish, lest he try to eat him.
There’s not much to offer but I manage to find a couple of hot dogs and some peanut butter. I cut each of the hot dogs into four pieces and then mix them in a bowl with some peanut butter, figuring the gooey consistency will force the pup to eat a little slower. But it has no such effect. The bowl is emptied in ten seconds flat.
“Wow,” I say to him as he looks up at me gratefully, licking his chops. “That’s impressive. Even I can’t suck food up that fast. You’re like a vacuum cleaner.”
A faint mewing sound emanates from the other room—Rubbish letting me know he wants out. The pup hears it too, and cocks his head from side to side a few times before heading into the living room to investigate. I follow him, watching him track his way to the bedroom door with his nose to the floor. When he reaches it, he sniffs at the crack beneath it, then suddenly jumps back, scared by something.
From beneath the door I see one long furry paw extending into the living room. It feels around a bit, then disappears. It returns seconds later—with the claws pointed upward this time—and wraps itself around the door.
The pup makes a leaping lunge toward the paw and then quickly backs away from it, letting out a yippy bark. His tail is wagging, his ears are pricked, and his eyes are totally focused. Rubbish, clearly not intimidated by the action and noise on the other side of the door, extends his paw even more. I watch the two of them play at this game for a minute or so and then decide it’s time for introductions.
I tell the pup, “Sit.” I move toward him, expecting I will need to push him into a sitting position so he learns what the word means, but to my amazement, he takes a step back, sits, and looks at me.
Rubbish is still feeling around with his paw, but as soon as I crack the door, he withdraws it and appears at the opening. He looks out at the pup, who looks back at him and then at me. The pup whimpers a little, wags his tail, and starts to get up, but when I tell him to stay, he does. Clearly, judging from his knowledge of basic commands, the dog isn’t just a stray. I realize I’ll need to do a lost-and-found ad and surprisingly, the idea depresses me. The little furball has already wormed his way into my heart.
Shoving the ad thought aside, I open the bedroom door wider and let Rubbish out. He stands his ground for a minute, studying the new intruder, and even tries a tentative hiss, turning sideways and arching his back. The pup looks from Rubbish to me several times, whimpering in an excited but friendly manner. I repeat the stay command and he does, but it’s obvious it’s killing him to do so.
Rubbish is curious, too, but seems determined not to show it. He ventures a little closer and then turns away and heads for the kitchen as if he couldn’t care less that another furry, four-legged critter is in the house. As soon as Rubbish disappears into the kitchen, I follow, calling the pup to come along with me. This time I let him approach Rubbish, who tolerates a brief butt sniff before turning and smacking the pup across the nose with his paw. Can’t say I blame him. I’d probably smack anyone who tried to sniff my butt, too.
Rubbish takes off running and the pup follows. The two of them race into the bathroom, where I hear a familiar thump-ump sound. It’s Rubbish entering his favorite hiding place: the floor cabinet beneath my sink. I find the pup sitting in front of the cabinet door, his head cocked sideways, staring at it and whining.
I figure that as long as I have the pup in the bathroom, I might as well take advantage of the fact to bathe him. I shut the door to the room, closing all of us inside. Then I start filling the tub.
Fifteen minutes later, both the pup and I are soaked and Rubbish is sitting on top of the sink cabinet rather than in it, looking at us both with disdain. The pup’s true color, which is a nice shade of blond that nearly matches my own, is revealed. I towel the dog off and as I’m starting to clean up the water mess, he walks over to the bathroom door and whines. I open it, thinking he just wants out, but he heads for the front door and repeats his behavior. Finally catching on, I walk over and let him out to do his business.
I make a mental note to pick up a collar and leash for him in the morning, though he makes no attempt to wander and returns to the house as soon as he’s done. I spend the next fifteen minutes blowing him dry and then shower myself.
Less than an hour later I am in bed, with a furry body cuddled on either side of me. And I have to confess, it feels nice to be sharing my bed again, even if it is with creatures who have four legs instead of three.
Chapter 41
The next morning I let the pup out again to do his business just before I head for work. We run into Izzy, who is backing out of his garage, and he stops and rolls down the window of his car.
“What is that?” he asks, pointing to the dog.
“It’s Hoover. I found him last night hanging out by a Dumpster behind the grocery store.”
“Hoover?” Izzy repeats.
“Well, yeah. It’s only temporary. I don’t know what his real name is. But given the way he sucks down food, I thought it appropriate. He was obviously hungry so I fed him and then he sort of insisted that I bring him home.”
Izzy shakes his head woefully. “Judging from his output, I’m guessing you fed him a lot.”
I look over at Hoover and see him in a grunting squat, his haunches quivering with the effort as he deposits a huge, steaming pile of dog doo-doo in the grass beside the cottage.
“I plan on taking out a lost-and-found ad in the paper. It’s only temporary,” I say again, worried that Izzy is upset about me having another pet in his cottage.
Having finished his morning ablutions, Hoover runs back to me and sits at my heels, his tail wagging.
Izzy studies the dog a moment and says, “He’s cute. And he seems well behaved.”
“He is,” I say hopefully.
“What are you going to do if no one claims him?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.” Actually, that’s not true. I’ve given it a lot of thought and sort of hope no one will claim him but I’m not about to fess up to that fact. “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug. “I guess I’ll deal with that if and when it happens.”
“I see,” Izzy says, and I suspect he does. “Are you coming in this morning?”
I nod. “I’m right behind you. But if you don’t need me right away I thought I’d stop by Kohler’s and take care of the final paperwork for the car.”
Izzy’s gaze shifts to the hearse and a hint of a smile crosses his face. �
��No problem,” he says, shifting into drive and pulling away slowly. “Just keep your cell handy in case I need to get a hold of you.”
“Will do.”
I breathe a sigh of relief that Izzy didn’t have a major meltdown over the dog and head back inside. I instruct both Hoover and Rubbish to behave and guard the house, give them both an ample supply of food and water, and then head out.
Bobby Keegan comes outside to greet me as I pull into the lot of Kohler’s Used Cars. “So what do you think?” he says. “It’s in great shape, no?”
“It is,” I admit grudgingly. “It seems to run fine and it’s quite comfy inside.”
“So do we have a deal?”
“I think we do.”
He claps his hands together with glee. “Great! Come on inside and we’ll finish up the paperwork.”
It takes me the better part of forty-five minutes to finalize all the details. When I’m done, I start to head for the office but then decide to take a quick detour instead. After a stop at the bank to replenish my empty wallet, I pull into a strip mall that contains, among other things, a pet store. I head inside and quickly fill up a basket with an assortment of doggie items: a collar, a leash, a spray can of flea and tick repellant, tennis balls, a brush, a chew bone, and a box of treats. I carry the basket up to the counter and set it down, then head back into the aisles for a bag of dog food. I toss a twenty-pound sack over my shoulder and when I pass a stack of stuffed doggie pillows on my way back to the register, I grab the top one by the corner and drag that with me, too. My mind keeps telling me I’m insane since there’s a good chance Hoover belongs to someone and I may lose him in a matter of days. But I’m in total denial.
Close to a hundred dollars later, I load the dog food and the pillow into the back of the hearse and toss the bag containing my other treasures into the passenger seat up front. Just as I start the engine, my cell rings. I see from the caller ID that it’s Izzy and my first thought is that he somehow knows where I am and is about to lecture me on the foolishness of spending money I can’t afford on a dog that I likely won’t be able to keep.
“Hey, Izzy,” I say, answering the phone. “I finally got everything tied up with the car and I’m heading your way.” It’s the truth in essence, even if I am leaving out a few significant details. In case he knows where I am at the moment, I don’t want to lie and say I’m just leaving the used car lot, but if he doesn’t know, I see no reason to clue him in, either.
“We have a death over on King Street,” he says, and I breathe a sigh of relief. “It’s an elderly person and probably a natural, but we have to investigate. Want to meet me there?”
“Sure.” He gives me the exact address and I plot a course through town that takes me along Hanover Avenue toward King Street. I’m halfway there when I come up on the Johnson Funeral Home, which is located on the corner of Hanover and Chestnut, another well traveled street. Apparently there is a funeral in progress because just ahead of me I see a hearse pull out of the funeral home parking lot onto Hanover and then make a quick turn down Chestnut. Two more cars follow before I catch up, putting me momentarily in the midst of the procession. Apparently my presence causes some confusion because rather than turning onto Chestnut, the remaining cars all fall into line behind me. It takes a couple of blocks before I look in my rearview mirror and realize what’s happening.
I try to shoo the cars away by waving my hand in the air but the driver of the car immediately behind me merely waves back. So I roll my side window down and try more hand gestures, but to no avail. Half a mile later I turn onto King Street with a fourteen-car entourage at my heels.
There is an ambulance parked in front of the house along with two cop cars. I see the EMTs and two uniformed officers standing on the front porch of the house. As I pull up and park behind one of the squad cars, the cars behind me start pulling to the curb as well. In less than a minute, both sides of the street are filled with parked cars going back an entire block.
I climb out of the hearse and head back to the first car in the funeral procession to inform them of their mistake. But before I can get to them, an unmarked sedan pulls up with Hurley at the helm. And right behind him is our office van with Izzy in the passenger seat and Arnie driving. They stop in the middle of the street since there’s nowhere else to park, and Hurley gets out of his car in a huff, looking annoyed.
“What the hell are all these lookie-loos doing here?” he asks me, shooting an angry look at the cops on the porch. “Don’t those uniforms know their job?” He starts toward the clueless cops looking like he wants to rip them both a new one, so I stop him by grabbing his arm.
“Hurley, hold up a sec. These people aren’t lookie-loos. They followed me here and those cops had no idea they were coming.”
“They followed you?” he repeats. “What, you have a fan club now?”
“No, it’s this stupid car,” I say, gesturing to the menace behind me. “I drove into the middle of a funeral procession and it confused some of the drivers. They followed me instead of sticking with the rest of the motorcade.”
Hurley looks from me to the cars and back to me again. Izzy, who has rolled down the window in his van and overheard our conversation, is trying vainly to suppress a smirk. Several of the drivers in the funeral procession have rolled down their windows as well, including the car directly behind me.
Hurley says, “They think this is a funeral?”
“My thoughts exactly,” the guy in the car behind me snaps. “What kind of Mickey Mouse operation is this, anyway? Are we burying Charlie in somebody’s backyard?”
“Who the hell is Charlie?” Hurley asks, sotto voce.
“I’m guessing he would be the deceased,” I surmise. I make a sweeping gesture toward all the parked cars. “And they all think he’s in the back of my hearse.”
Funeral Guy hears this and says, “You mean he’s not in there? What the hell did you do with him?” He gets out of his car, walks up to the back of mine and peers through the window, then turns and storms toward us, making me back up a few steps. Judging from his physique, I’m pretty sure Funeral Guy is a weightlifter on steroids. His thigh muscles are so big he walks like he just came in from a month of riding herd on his cattle. His arms are slightly extended because he can’t put them down at his sides and his biceps look like they are about to burst out of the sleeves of his suit. He’s almost as tall as Hurley, and judging from the way his fists keep opening and closing, I’m guessing his patience will burn out quicker than a magician’s flash paper.
“Sir, you need to calm down,” Hurley says, planting a hand on the man’s chest to stop his approach. “There’s been some confusion here.”
Funeral Guy’s face is the color of a ripe plum and I’m guessing his blood pressure is rising faster than a retiree on Viagra. “Damned right,” he grumbles. “Where’s the casket? Where the hell is Charlie’s body?”
“You followed the wrong car,” Hurley tries to explain calmly. “There isn’t any body here.”
“Well, technically there is,” I toss out, earning an exasperated glance from Hurley. “Just not the one you think.”
Funeral Guy looks momentarily confused, then the one brain cell that wasn’t killed off by the steroids finally fires. “What the fuck!” he yells, his voice resonating like thunder. “You assholes put the wrong body in Charlie’s casket?”
“No, sir,” I say quickly, trying to ameliorate the misunderstanding. “That’s not what I meant at all. There is no casket. The body I’m talking about is in that house over there. The body you want is—”
“You dumped Charlie in a house? You sonofabitchingcocksuckingbastards!”
Before I can so much as blink, Funeral Guy rears back and plants his fist in Hurley’s cheek with a sickening, bone-crunching thunk. Out of the corner of my eye I see one of the policemen and both EMTs leap off the porch and start running toward us. Hurley staggers sideways and then crumples to the ground. I let out a little yelp and start to head for hi
m to see if he’s okay, but Funeral Guy stands like an incensed bull between us and his attention is now focused on me.
I backpedal quickly, stealing a glance at the cop and EMTs heading my way. I can tell they aren’t going to make it in time, and judging from the crazed look on Funeral Guy’s face, the time for calm persuasion came and went some time ago. I turn, grab the handle to my car door, and pull it open. I dive across the seat and quickly turn to try to grab the door to close it, but Funeral Guy is too quick for me. He catches the top of the door in one of his meaty hands and yanks it wide open. Realizing that the idiot could kill me, I look around frantically for something I can use to forestall him until the cop gets to me. As Funeral Guy grabs hold of my leg and starts to pull me from the car, I let out a bloodcurdling scream, kick him with my free foot, and then fire off the only weapon I can find.
“Arrgghhh!” Funeral Guy screams, releases my leg, and clamps his hands over his eyes. “What the fuck!” He backpedals away from my car and straight into the arms of a uniformed police officer. “My eyes! My eyes!”
Hurley gets up from the ground, massaging his jaw, and makes his way over to me. “You okay?” he asks.
I nod.
“I didn’t know you carried pepper spray.”
“I don’t. It’s flea and tick repellant.”
Hurley starts to smile but it fades to a grimace as he massages his jaw again. “I’d say he’s been successfully repelled,” he says. “Serves the bastard right.”
Chapter 42
A second patrol car arrives and Funeral Guy is cuffed and hauled off to jail. It takes me a good ten minutes to explain to the other funeral attendees what has happened and to direct them back through the streets to the cemetery. Some of them are angered by the snafu, one guy is amused, and the others simply look embarrassed.
Scared Stiff Page 25
