by Nancy Martin
With a pang of horror, I rushed around to the front yard to check the rose garden. I pushed open the gate and found it beautifully silent, thank heaven—no sign of Miss Ruffles. I ran into the backyard to check the pool, suddenly dreading I might find her body floating in the pristine water. But no. I sagged with relief against the aluminum pool ladder. After that, I made a complete search of the big backyard. There were no telltale holes dug under the fence, no signs that Miss Ruffles had somehow scrambled over the six-foot stone wall by the garage or the hedge that ran around the rest of the property. She had never escaped before—not for lack of trying.
With concern rising in my throat, I stood in the middle of the large expanse of green grass and scanned the yard, trying to imagine where she’d gone. Down a prairie dog hole? Up a drainpipe?
I went out the back gate and stood on the driveway for a long moment, trying to quell the slam of my heart long enough to hear the snick-snack of her nails on the pavement as she trotted home. But the street was silent. Ten’s Jeep was long gone, tire tracks obvious in the slight coating of dust on the asphalt. The Blues Brothers sat in their black car. One of them waved at me through the windshield.
No sign of the dog.
I stumbled back inside the gate. Miss Ruffles had run away. The realization hit me like a body blow. That’s when I saw a slip of paper stuck between the slats of the gate.
I snatched it out and automatically unfolded it—a sheet of lined paper that had been hastily ripped from a ring-bound notebook. The ragged edge fluttered in my hand.
Block letters, printed in plain blue ink.
MISS RUFFELS IS SAFE BUT NOT FOR LONG. FOLLOW DIRECIONS AND SHE WILL BE RETURN TO YOU. YOU WILL GET ANOTHER NOTE ON MONDAY. DON’T TELL POLLICE OR ANYONE OR ELSE SHE WILL DIE.
I read the note twice before the message sank in. The paper slipped from my fingers and fell to my feet. Instinctively I stepped back from it. Then my brain kicked in, and I bent to snatch it up with trembling fingers to read again, hoping I’d been wrong the first time.
When the news came that my mother had died, I felt for a split second as if I were in the midst of a plane crash—as if time slowed down, postponing the inevitable blunt force trauma of impact coming, coming, but not here yet. I was not yet hurled against the ground, not yet changed. One moment she was alive, and the next she was dead—but it took forever for that moment to arrive. When it came, her gone-ness hit me as if the power and momentum of the plunging plane had thrown me into solid earth.
It felt the same way as I read the words printed on the note.
Miss Ruffles had been taken. She was gone.
I cried out and clapped my hand over my mouth.
Then I noticed the blood on the paper. Blood from Miss Ruffles?
No, I thought instantly. Miss Ruffles had bitten her abductor. My heart twitched to life again. Good for you, Miss Ruffles. The blood made me think maybe she had escaped her captor. Maybe she had gotten free and was running loose in the neighborhood.
I jammed the note into my pocket to hide it. I ran back through the gate and across the yard and went in the side entrance of the house to grab a leash. In the kitchen, I filled my pockets with Milk-Bone biscuits, her favorite treat. As I moved to let myself out the kitchen door again, Mae Mae caught me. She was in her bathrobe, coming out of the pantry with a bag of microwave popcorn in hand. Her Saturday night ritual was eating popcorn in bed while watching reruns of CSI programs.
“Where are you going?” she snapped.
“I’ll be back in a few minutes,” I said over my shoulder.
“But—”
I didn’t wait to explain or hear more. I ran across the backyard and let myself into the driveway by the gate. Out on the street, I whistled once, then bit my lip. I shouldn’t be advertising Miss Ruffles was missing.
The black car was still there. As I marched over, the driver’s window rolled down. Mr. Costello was reading a newspaper in the passenger seat, but he leaned over to speak to me.
“Hello, there, Stretch. How you doing tonight?”
“Where’s my dog? Where is Miss Ruffles?”
“Huh?”
“You grabbed her!”
“The cute dog? No, we didn’t grab her. We’re staying over at the Fairfield Inn. They don’t take dogs. Did she run off?”
“Did you see anybody in the street?” I demanded. “Did anybody stop by the gate?”
Both of the Blues Brothers craned around to look at the back gate, as if someone might be standing there right that minute.
Costello said, “No, we didn’t see nobody.”
“We took a drive over to the convenience store,” his partner said. “Gotta use the toilet sometimes.”
Costello poked him. “She’s a nice girl. Don’t talk to her like that.”
I said, “Are you sure you didn’t see anybody with Miss Ruffles?”
Costello lifted one large paw. “Right hand up to God. Want us to drive you around a little? We could talk about the money for Mr. Postle—”
“No,” I said firmly.
“Hey, wait up. We’ll follow you and—”
I didn’t stick around to listen what their plan might be. I cut across the lawns of several neighbors and lost them quickly.
I hiked the nearest blocks of the residential neighborhood, hoping Miss Ruffles was loose, had escaped, was still somewhere nearby. When I ran with her in the mornings, we zigzagged through all the neighborhoods, so I prayed she was roaming around the territory we often traveled together, maybe finally getting to knock over the trash cans that always tempted her. I looked between houses, under bushes, behind trash cans and fence gates—I saw no glimpse of her brindle coat. I stopped on a corner and held my breath, listening for her yip, or maybe the telltale yowl of a cat being chased. Nothing. No sign, no sound of Miss Ruffles.
I couldn’t believe she’d been kidnapped. I pulled the note from my pocket and read it again to be sure.
It was true. She was gone.
It was a human instinct to find someone to help me. Mae Mae and Mr. Carver would be no use, though, and I didn’t want to panic them. The police were out of the question—the note had said as much. I found myself jogging into town.
My mother used to say that scientific research started by knowing your organism. By that, I thought she meant knowing the environment or the community or whatever place your subject lived in. For her, it was the butterfly jungle. For me, it was the town of Mule Stop, and I was very glad I had spent so much time running its streets and learning about its inhabitants. Not just the place, but the people.
The football game was long over, and students thronged on the streets. Small, noisy groups hung out on the sidewalks as well as in doorways of the bars. Students held red plastic cups of beer and laughed with each other over the fiddle music of Crazy Mary.
I pushed my way past the students and barged through the door of Cowgirl Redux. My friend Gracie was leaning on one elbow on the counter. Her hair was in hot rollers. In front of her sat a cupcake with a burning candle stuck in it. The chocolate cupcake was positioned on a pink paper napkin. Gracie’s eyes were squeezed shut tight as if she were making a wish.
“Gracie?”
She opened her eyes and smiled. “Hey, Sunny. It’s my birthday. I got myself a cake.”
“Happy birthday,” I said automatically, catching my balance on the counter.
“Actually, I got myself a half-dozen cupcakes. Since I don’t have a date, I’m going to drown myself in buttercream frosting. You want one?”
“No, thanks. But Gracie—”
“Just let me finish wishing I could drown myself in Rico Vega instead. The bartender around the corner. He’s gorgeous, and I can’t get him to notice I’m alive.” She took a deep breath, shut her eyes again, and blew hard on the candle.
Instead of going out, the candle tipped over and fell out of the thick frosting. It landed on the napkin, and a small flame sputtered up. A second later, the tiny fire leaped from the
napkin to a bundle of receipts. Gracie yelped and grabbed the first thing she could reach—a polyester scarf—to put out the flame.
I blocked her arm and reached for the nearest display rack and a denim jacket decorated with a garish, hand-drawn skull—very ugly. I used the jacket to beat down the flames.
“Wow,” Gracie said. “You’re quick.”
With the fire was out, I handed the jacket over to Gracie. A plume of smoke wafted in the air around us. “You okay?”
“Yeah. But—dang.” Gracie waved the jacket to dispel the smoke. “I just lost my chance to meet some firemen for my birthday, didn’t I?”
“Sorry.”
“Hey, this jacket looks even more badass with the burn marks.” She examined the blackened edges of the fabric. “Cool.”
For her day job at the law firm, Gracie wore sensible suits, but when she hung out at the shop, she favored either cowgirl skirts with fringes or ruffled Mexican blouses overflowing with a feminine display that turned heads, although maybe not in the way she wanted. Deep down, Gracie wanted champagne and a handsome prince, but the message she was sending was all about margaritas and cheap motels. Tonight the blouse made her look like she was advertising cantaloupes.
Belatedly, the smoke alarm began to shriek, and it nearly gave me a heart attack.
I fell into the canvas chair in front of the big mirror.
Gracie waved the jacket at the smoke alarm until it stopped. Finally, she noticed the look on my face and the leash in my hand. “You okay, darlin’? What’s wrong? Where’s your pooch?”
“Gracie, you can’t tell.” I felt a clog rise in my throat, and my voice cracked. “You can’t tell a soul, but Miss Ruffles—she’s gone.”
Gracie dropped the jacket on the counter and came out from behind it to squeeze my quaking shoulder. “Catch your breath. It can’t be this bad. She probably went looking for love, that’s all.”
I could hardly breathe, and it wasn’t from the smoke. All my fears were suddenly boiling. I shook my head. “She’s in real danger. She’s been taken.”
“What? Taken? What do you mean? Why?”
“I don’t know. I don’t know what to do. Here.” I handed over the note.
Gracie skimmed it, growing more alarmed as she read each terse, misspelled sentence. “Wow! This is … it’s crazy! No, look, calm down. I’ll help you. Just … get a grip first. You need a drink? I’ve got some bourbon in the back.”
I realized I was rocking in the chair, hugging myself. My adrenaline was all used up. I wiped my eyes and shook my head. “No, thanks. I’m just … I’m scared for her.”
“I get that. But this note says she’s okay for now. That’s good, right?” Gracie went back behind the counter and returned to press a cold bottle of water into my shaking hand. “Tell me how this happened.”
I took a slug of water and blurted out the words. “She was out in the yard—nothing unusual. I was in the house. The gate is always closed. But someone just took her.”
“Why? No offense, but she’s not exactly cuddly with strangers, right?”
“Somebody stole her.” I couldn’t say the word “kidnap.” And I didn’t have time to explain it all—how if Miss Ruffles was truly gone, Mr. Carver and Mae Mae would lose their chance at comfortable retirements. It had taken me only a week to lose the dog and ruin their futures. I began to tremble all over again. “Whoever took her will ask for money. Gracie, I don’t have any money!”
Sensibly, Gracie said, “Maybe it’s a joke. When all the students left the football game, they came straight into town to drown their sorrows. Maybe on their way here, someone saw her and grabbed her. You know how college kids get when they’re drunk.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.” A fraternity prank. Hope dawned inside me. A freshman stunt, maybe.
“Let’s go ask around.” She checked her watch and began pulling the hot rollers from her hair. “Just give me a sec.”
I grabbed her arm. “We can’t tell anybody she’s gone. We have to keep this a secret.”
“We’ll just see if anybody’s talking about her.” She found a hairbrush and fixed her hair in a mirror, then lacquered it with spray. She muttered, “If I had better hair, I bet Rico would notice me. My problem is, it’s always older guys who like what they see.”
She locked the shop and took me around the corner to a college bar called the Last Chance Saloon. Inside, the jukebox was playing a country song by a singer who yodeled. Maybe a hundred students jammed close to the bar—all in shorts and Alamo T-shirts and yodeling along, their football team’s humiliating loss forgotten already.
Gracie dragged me through the mob.
“Hey, Rico!” She planted her bosom on the bar to get the bartender’s attention.
Rico Vega glanced her way, but kept his face neutral as he finished filling a pitcher from the tap. So much for good hair and cantaloupes. He plunked the pitcher on a damp tray before pushing it across the bar to the waitress, then wiped his hands on a bar towel and finally headed over to us. Rico had thick, strong shoulders and black curly hair. His face was secretive—dark brows, pug nose, square jaw, hooded eyes. An earring glittered in one lobe.
Gracie smiled brightly. “Anyone mention seeing a loose dog around?”
Rico snapped to attention and turned to me. “You mean Miss Ruffles? She ran off?”
So much for keeping secrets. I reached to shake his hand. “Hi, I’m Sunny. Don’t spread it around, okay? Have you seen her? Or heard anybody talking about her?”
“I’m Rico. I’ve seen you running with Miss Ruffles.” He shook his head, his gaze on mine. “Believe me, if she was running around loose, she’d be the hot topic around here. Everybody knows she bit President Cornfelter.”
Gracie was adjusting her long hair to better showcase her cleavage. “Sunny’s afraid she might be—”
I cut Gracie off before she revealed too much more. “I’m just worried she might get injured.”
Rico nodded. “My grandpa had a cattle cur once. It ran off all the time. What’s your cell number? If I hear anything, I can call you.” He passed a cocktail napkin and his ballpoint across the bar.
I quickly wrote my number on the napkin. “Thanks. Thanks very much.”
“Sure.”
Gracie grabbed the napkin and scribbled. “Here’s mine, too. You know, in case you can’t reach Sunny.”
“Yeah, okay.” Rico took the napkin and stuffed it into his shirt pocket. “Good luck.”
A minute later, Gracie and I were out on the sidewalk again, just in time to see a big car stop at the light on the corner. Not the Blues Brothers car, but a red sedan. A group of students eddied around the car, chanting a football cheer that suggested the worst thing an opponent could be was a native of Alabama.
The driver of the red sedan glanced our way, and through the crowd of students, I found myself making eye contact with Posie Hensley behind the wheel. Posie, the lizard.
Posie’s gaze widened on mine. A second later, she floored the accelerator, sending students scrambling. Her car screeched around the corner and disappeared in a hurry. The students shouted after her, but she didn’t stop.
I realized I was shaking again. My adrenaline was back. Fight or flight.
“Wow.” Gracie stared after the car. “Wasn’t that Posie Hensley? She got out of here in a hurry. Does she have an emergency sorority meeting or something?”
I swung on her. “You know Posie? Is she a customer?”
“Her, buy secondhand clothes? No, but she comes to our office now and then. Old Mr. Tennyson is big into fund-raising for the university, so he has committee meetings at the office. She’s always standing by my desk to make calls to her kids. She hardly lets them ride a bike for fear they’ll break their fingernails.”
For no reason, I said, “She doesn’t like me much.”
“How come?”
I didn’t know why, and I didn’t know why I’d brought it up. I could feel my brain starting to dissolve again. I
tried to gather my wits. “Gracie, could you take a walk down the street and look for Miss Ruffles for me? I’ll go around the corner and look for her on the next couple of blocks. Meet you back here in fifteen minutes? I want to be sure she’s not just running free.”
Gracie hesitated. In her face, I could see her concern for me, but she checked her watch before making a decision. “Sure, can’t hurt. Make it twenty minutes, okay? I have to turn off the lights in the shop first. I may not have much inventory, but it would be just my luck for a bunch of drunk students to bust in when my back is turned.”
“I’m sorry,” I said with all sincerity. “I shouldn’t have bothered you. Especially not on your birthday—”
“Of course you should have. I always wanted to be part of a posse.”
We split up, and I hurried up the street in the gathering darkness.
CHAPTER TEN
Don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s rainin’.
—SOUTHERN WARNING
I left behind the busy bars full of students and the cacophony of music. This end of town was quieter. I looked under parked cars and into shrubbery, softly calling Miss Ruffles in the faint hope that she’d escaped. Or been taken by students who maybe tied her to a tree somewhere once they sobered up.
I passed the old Victorian house that had been refurbished into law offices. The lighted sign in the front yard said TENNYSON AND TENNYSON, ATTORNEYS AT LAW. As I passed by, a light suddenly flashed on in an upstairs window, telling me someone had just come to work on a Saturday evening. Since the senior partners were on vacation, I could guess who. I hurried past the house.
Next to the law office, the Baptist church was blazing with light. From inside I could hear choir practice. I circled behind the church and went through its small picnic grove—a cool, shady place where Miss Ruffles and I had rested on a few of our walks. Maybe she had escaped her captors and come here? But no. Someone had left a beer bottle and a crumpled pack of cigarettes on one of the tables, but there were no other signs that anyone had been here recently. I kept going and soon found myself in the back parking lot of Gamble’s funeral home.
