As the sun came up, I found myself snuggled in bed with Philly. Guess he hadn’t locked the door after all.
Over coffee, Philly acted grouchy, but he didn’t mention last night’s man-pout attack. It was best to let him cool off for a stretch before I tested his will again. We had breakfast at home together, which was nice, instead of him eating at the tennis court snack bar. Dressed for pickleball, he mumbled about picking up Poochy before he drove away in the golf cart.
Driving to the vet clinic, I stayed on my side of Wayne’s truck bench seat. Straddling the stick shift and snuggling up to Philly would not work this morning. He cranked down the window, on purpose, and my hair whipped in a whirlwind of dry air, sapping the olive oil from my wrinkles and irking me to no end. I would not ask him to roll up the window, just like I wouldn’t knock on the door to get into the bedroom last night.
The vet tech brought my sweet baby out and I hardly recognized her. “Is that my Poochy?”
I put the back of my hand forward for her to smell. For a while me and Philly got stuck on one of those television dog training shows and learned how to introduce ourselves properly to a dog. She sniffed, gave me the evil eye but licked a taste of my hand.
Twenty-four hours was forever in puppy time. She’d be loyal to anyone nice to her. Forgetting the lady who saved her from licking air-conditioning condensation for the rest of her sure to be short life.
“Here are more flea tablets. Once a month,” the vet tech said giving me a white sack. “It’ll take care of worms and other parasites.”
Parasites made my turkey neck waggle, but I gathered Poochy into my arms. “Don’t worry I won’t forget. What about her mange?”
“We tested it. You wouldn’t catch it. Different kind of mange. You’re lucky this time.”
She passed a bottle of dog shampoo across the metal table between us, yammering instructions on how to treat the rash.
I nodded like I was listening, but as soon as we left the exam room, I gave Philly the bag. I carried Poochy under one arm. “Don’t she look great?”
He held a red harness vest and a leash. “Like a beauty queen.”
I snuggled Poochy, scratching behind her ears and she wagged her sweet little tail. “Did the DNA results come back?”
Philly held open the door. “Not yet, but they sure charged enough.” His neck flashed like a malfunctioning red stoplight as he handed me the new harness and leash. “Put this on her. I don’t want to lose my investment.”
He stalked ahead going for Wayne’s truck and opened the door, but hopped around impatiently while I sat on the bench outside the vet’s office and dressed Poochy in her new outfit.
I took my sweet time dillydallying. I knew he was having a fit over how much Poochy’s hospital bill cost.
When he had his knees replaced, I made sure he didn’t see that bill. He’s a major investment. If he knew how much his titanium joints cost, he’d want his money back.
Funny how tightfisted he was about some things and loosy-goosy about plucking down a small fortune for a new car. Good thing I’m around to keep him tempered, he’s apt to lose his shine like overcooked chocolate.
Sashaying, I let Poochy test her jaunty new duds. The red harness made her polka-dot coat shine, she took a few steps before the leash tugged on her chest. She stopped as if she said, “What the!”
I chattered, instructing how to twist her tushie the right way, heading toward Philly. “See, use your bootie this way.”
By the time we stopped at Philly’s feet, Poochy had sashaying down pat and he was grinning. “Shut up and get in.”
He grabbed Poochy, offered me a hand because Wayne was too cheap to buy running boards for damsels in distress to climb, and the Queen of the Oasis entered her chariot.
“Thank you, Lord Sweetie Bastard Grumpy Gus.” He dropped Poochy in my lap, shut the door and went around to the driver’s side.
Poochy put her dapper paws on the door, hung her head out the window, letting her tongue drool and yipped at everything and nothing. In a girl’s world, happiness can be as simple as a new red harness as long as the right guy was wrangling your leash.
I scooted over, straddled the stick shift as Philly shifted rumbling through the gears, and laid my hand on the old coot’s thigh. His arm muscles rippled sexily as he shifted those heavy gears.
Minutes later, I hadn’t paid attention to the route Philly took, he slowed going past the car dealership I had vacated before he signed the bottom line on the new car. Maybe I should’ve just let him buy it. Walking into Huey’s store snowballed events, and I wouldn’t be in the pickle, if Philly was thrifty.
He eased the truck along the row of cars parked facing the street, and I kept my mouth shut. I still wasn’t in the new car buying territory even if his muscles twitch sexily when he shifts gears.
A glint of flashing emergency lights caught my eye. “Look there.”
Up the block, an ambulance screeched to a halt, the doors popped open and two paramedics bailed, carrying black bags hitting the ground running. A police siren woofed behind us as the cruiser drove past flashing its lights.
“Stop!” Before Philly had time to slam on the brakes—we were barely rolling—I hopped out of the truck, scurrying toward Huey’s junk shop. Behind me, Philly swore and Poochy yelped. I waved backwards, but didn’t stop beelining toward the shop door.
All kinds of thoughts flashed through my mind. What if Huey had a heart attack? Could be, he was a prime candidate. What if he fell into a pile of junk and got trapped? Surely, he had his cellphone in his pocket and dialed 911.
I hadn’t treated him well and wasn’t in the least bit grateful he had given me the crystal ball. Why do I always think a person has an ulterior motive when they give me gifts?
Hunny Bunny, you aren’t gullible, that’s why.
I reached to open the shop door and noticed the broken glass on the sidewalk. A black-gloved hand grabbed my wrist, before I comprehended what I saw.
“Hold your horses, missy. Can’t let you in. Crime scene. Watch the glass, there.”
Shattered glass crunched under my Keds. My mouth gaped while my heart throbbed in my ears. Underneath the dull pounding noise, I repeated crime scene but my voice scratched like a record, hopping shakily over the words.
“Yes’m, Huey shot somebody and himself—”
I clapped my hands over my ears, I couldn’t hear anymore.
Huey killed himself? Did my lack of gratitude do him in?
“A lunatic.” The cop finished, chuckling. “Popped a good one in the kid. Nobody’s dead.”
I backed up, but my curiosity got the better of me. “Can I go in? Huey’s my… my… friend.”
Philly hollered from the truck. “Get outta there. That’s none of your business.” Wincing, I turned and shook my head at him. He stood outside the truck leaning on its side panel, holding Poochy in her darlin’ outfit.
“Better not.” The cop tsked confirming his denial of my informal request. “Crime scene’s gotta be cleared.”
“Okay.” I wasn’t willing to witness the blood and guts of the event.
Inside the shop, someone moaned, and I leaned closer, peering in… and oh how I wished I had minded my own business. Laying in the doorway was my dingy bag of alpaca wool albeit blood spattered, but the wool was strewn from the bag like a big wooly booger someone had sneezed out. The wool was easily recognizable, there couldn’t be two bags of that same wool on the planet, much less in Tucson.
“The kid and Huey got into a gunfight over that sack of wool. Not the first time Huey’s pulled a fast one on a kid trying to rob him. C’mon, clear the door. Your old man’s waiting on you.”
“A gunfight? Huh? Oh yeah.” How in double hockey sticks did my bag of alpaca wool get back here? It should’ve been locked in the knitting room.
Philly whistled that nerve-racking call he reserves for when he’s lost his patience. It’s loud enough to pierce a puppy’s eardrums.
Turning o
n my heel, I hollered. “Stop it, Sweetie Bastard. You’re gonna wreck Poochy’s sweet disposition.”
My disposition was worse than burnt goatsucker hair smelled.
Once, a long time ago and in another life, Daddy built a bonfire on a frigid February night. I was a lanky teenager, just blossoming. Under a big cold full moon, Candy and I watched from our bedroom window as Daddy tossed something with four legs onto the blaze.
Since I was older than Candy by two years, I took on the responsibility of informing the innocent child of our daddy’s shenanigan. “Gall darn it! He’s finally caught a goatsucker.”
Shivering, Candy huddled whining under the window, wrapping Mama’s floral print curtains around herself.
“Don’t do that. You won’t be able to hear its evil heart sizzle.”
I never asked Daddy what he sacrificed, but I figured he saved his family from a terrible fate—sucked dry of blood without a single mark.
That one incident might be the reason Candy doesn’t visit her sister often.
Chapter Twenty-One
A Scotch Cozy
Discombobulated, I hunkered into Philly, holding Poochy on my lap, smoothing her floppy ears, glad my He-man was protecting me. It’s easy to forget Tucson is one level above the wild west. One level meant Wyatt Earp wasn’t passing out judgement from the end of his six-shooter. Two murders and a robbery in the short time we’d lived here was too much skulduggery, especially since I was suspect in one murder. Granted, I wasn’t charged, but any minute the posse might arrive to take me to the hangin’ tree. A fair and unbiased trial would be impossible. It’d be my luck the clannish knitting club clique would populate and taint the juror box. Since they all believe I killed Sissy, my chances of escaping with a verbal warning were slim.
At the Oasis’ front gate, we cleared security only because Philly had enough sense to keep his photo ID in his shirt pocket. I left mine at home—I haven’t conceded to calling the Oasis home—and without Philly to take care of me I’m utterly helpless, at least, he likes to believe I am. Makes his role, as Hunny Bunny monitor, seem more important than my cooking, laundering, and cleaning up after him.
Philly parked the truck in Wayne’s carport, left the keys in the ignition, and we walked the furrow to our humble abode. Poochy piddled on every unturned stone and dried cactus flower making herself at home. I’m ninety-nine point nine tenths sure piddling on our neighbor’s rock lawn was against the pet pee policy. But hey, how am I to stop her from getting acquainted with her surroundings?
“Wasn’t that a nice trip?” Philly asked, heading for the veranda and the new bottle of scotch that magically appeared out from under Wayne’s truck seat. Was there a liquor store between the auto dealership and Huey’s shop? I don’t remember Philly making another stop.
“Sure was.” I tied Poochy to the veranda railing and went inside to see a lady about a horse if Sweetie Bastard can do it, so can I.
The day had whizzed by, but I was too antsy-pantsy watch the boob tube. I wouldn’t know the answers to Alex’s questions, so I poured myself a glass of sweet iced tea.
My gray matter whirled like a tilt-a-whirl at a carnival on Saturday night.
Once, on a summer night in August, I puked cotton candy on the tilt-a-whirl into Candy’s face. She was eight; I was ten, and she knew how to cuss better than I did. Mama threatened to wash her mouth out with soap as she wiped pink puke off Candy’s face. After all, she was wearing a pink shirt, and my puke hardly showed after Mama cleaned her face. I’m certain she hasn’t forgiven me for the small incident which makes two strikes against me. Candy is smart to stay away from her wild big sister.
I drank one glass of sugary iced tea and my blood pumped, thrilled with the spike in glucose. My doctors suggested I cut back on sugar after they scooped out my uterus with a backhoe, saying I was heading for diabetes. The way I figure it, if sweet iced tea would kill me faster than anything else, well bring it on. At my funeral, no one will say I wasn’t sweet enough, and I died happy because of it.
Madonna and Ann pranked me with a glittery bag filled with antique tarot cards and left it on my veranda throne. Philly got mad over the tarot cards and stomped off to pout. Double true.
Holding the cold glass to my forehead, I puckered and squinted staring into space adding the next ingredient to the bubbling cauldron of facts.
I got fuming mad at Philly, walked into Huey’s joint and he gives me his grandmother what’s-her-name’s magic crystal ball. True. Utterly worthless. Maybe not, if I can turn it into a lamp.
The yellowed bag of alpaca wool was worrisome. How did it get back to Huey’s place?
Wanda announced her intentions. Guardian angel? Nope. How can I believe a single word the so-called angel said? She needs to provide references and a letter from Saint Peter introducing her new position.
Ann and Madonna ratted Trudi out because she bought an afghan on Etsy. These girls weren’t the only Others who knew about her cheating. That water I heard running in the knitting classroom bathroom during my visit with Sissy still bothers me. She wasn’t alone? Did she know her murderer?
Connie’s creepy gift of an ivory palmistry hand and Fleshman’s book was the icing on the cake.
All very titillating. Maybe Connie could order a gypsy tent online. I’ll need a card table and chair covered with a fringy scarf for ambience before the next Texas dance, plus some jingling costume jewelry, black tights and a suitable hat. Maybe some big hoop earrings. Where does one go to shop for witch’s clothes? I’m not a witch or a psychic, I’m only funning with the Others.
The conundrums of the past twenty-four hours’ events muddled my brain. I gathered the granny square afghan kit Sissy had selected, getting misty-eyed thinking about her.
“Howdy,” Philly whispered as I sat on my throne. Poochy lay at his feet peacefully sleeping.
I forgot my reading glasses, so I held the crochet instructions close to my face, reading how to crochet a granny square twice.
“Stop that.”
I narrowed my eyelids, squinting at Philly even though he’s only inches away, some would call it a shut-up glare, but I’m only squinting. “Stop what?”
“Reading out loud. You’re getting on my nerves.”
“When haven’t I? I gotta learn to crochet before tomorrow’s silent memorial for Sissy begins.”
Philly huffed a chuckle. “Silent. That’s hilarious.” He’s been in a henhouse before, he knows hens can’t keep secrets or from blabbing what’s on their minds. Only thing, he doesn’t understand they’re discussing ways to kill the fox (him) that invaded their private bedroom. Most men aren’t born with the capacity to translate clunking hen talk, whether it be human or animals doing the clucking. They get it wrong every time.
My shoulders wiggled because I agreed a silent memorial would be impossible. Not one of the Others can keep quiet; I won’t be the first to break the code of silence. I’m betting there’s a million rumors flying around about Sissy’s death; some of them are about me.
I know one thing for sure. I won’t miss this memorial. If I don’t show up and crochet until my fingers bleed and my heart breaks with grief, I’ll be the talk of the Oasis again in nothing flat. My attendance wasn’t optional. More than a few knitters will hold their breaths awaiting my arrival. As far as the knitting club was concerned my lack of attendance would mean only one thing—G. U. I. L. T. Y. Women aren’t much on lynching from the highest tree branch, they love torture, slowly pecking away at a gal’s soul until she’d driven mad and jumps from the barn before she figures out how to straighten the lightning rod.
Once back when, Daddy dared me to climb up onto the barn roof to straighten the crooked lightning rod affixed to the topmost point on the roof. Naturally, I shimmied up the loft stairs to find the best way out onto the roof. I searched for a good hour before I figured out he was pulling my leg, there wasn’t a way to climb onto the roof from the inside. By the time I climbed from the loft, Daddy had forgotten his dare a
nd worked out by the corral, welding fence pipe. I took the longest to realize I had to use the ladder to reach the lightning rod, but luckily, for me, it was too big and heavy for a little squirt like me to carry.
Learning to crochet has to be easier than carrying a ladder. After Mama and Daddy died, Candy and I sold their place and left that crooked lightning rod behind. When Daddy erected the rod, he lashed it to the barn crooked. He knew good and well I couldn’t straighten the rod even if I figured out how to get onto the barn roof.
If you haven’t figured it out, I’m a big-time daddy’s girl and I still miss that ol’ coot.
Philly sniffed scotch before he took another sip. “What’s that crap?”
“Crochet.”
“I don’t like crochet.”
“I’m gonna crochet a cozy for your scotch bottle.”
“Don’t you dare.”
“Don’t dare me.”
Philly harrumphed, hacked and stood. I felt his fit coming. The siren song of the domino hall was calling his name; he’s weak and easily swayed. “I gotta go play with the boys.”
He hitched up his britches, jangled the change in his pocket and corked his scotch bottle.
“By the time you get back, I’ll have your liquor bottle cozy crocheted.”
He stomped down the three veranda steps to prove he was still head of the household, and Poochy stretched in her sleep. “Don’t forget to walk the dog.”
With my trusty crochet hook handy, I saluted him. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Fortified by liquor, he climbed into the golf cart, did a manly twist of the switch and fired up its engine. He backed out in a whir of battery power off to conquer the ivories.
Chapter Twenty-Two
True Gift
Philly had no sooner disappeared when I heard the clip-clop of high heels coming up the carport. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a flash of a snaky black boa.
“Oh, no you don’t! I don’t want company.” I gathered the crochet bag, the instruction sheet and reached for Poochy’s leash when Wanda sat in Philly’s chair.
Wool Over Your Eyes Page 11
