“Do I look that stupid? Of course he’s not loose. Jenny and I rigged up a temporary crate to use until we can get a real one.”
“Good,” Joanna said. “What about the other one?”
“Lady’s over there,” Butch said, nodding toward Joanna’s side of the bed. “See for yourself.”
The Australian shepherd lay curled into a tight ball on the rug between the bed and the wall. She looked up as Joanna came around the side of the bed. Her tail thumped tentatively on the floor, but she made no effort to raise her chin off her paws.
“Did you say Lady?” Joanna asked.
“Yup,” Butch replied. “Jenny picked it. She said she was dainty and ladylike, so that’s what she’s going to be called—Lady.”
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Joanna went over and patted the top of Lady’s head. “How did you get her to come in here?” Joanna asked.
“Don’t ask me. Jenny’s the one who finally persuaded her to come into the house.
She found your side of the bed all on her own.”
“Smart dog,” Joanna observed.
“Opinionated,” Butch corrected. “She’s fine as long as I don’t get anywhere near your side of the bed.”
Joanna undressed and then crawled into bed herself, sidestepping the dog as she did so. “You owe me,” he said.
“With Mother, you mean?” Joanna asked.
“I’ll say.”
“Sorry,” she said.
“I calmed her down eventually, but it took all of my considerable skill and charm.”
“I can make it up to you,” she offered, snuggling closer.
“Good,” Butch said. “I thought you’d know how. What’s the word on murder and mayhem?”
Right that minute, Joanna Brady didn’t want to think about Richard Osmond and how he had died. “Do you mind if we talk about this in the morning?” she asked.
“No problem,” Butch replied. “No problem at all.”
Fran Daly and George Winfield stood with their heads close together, leaning over something just out of Joanna’s line of vision. “The needle went in right here! Fran was saying. “Just at the base of the skull. He never felt a thing. Death would have been almost instantaneous.”
Joanna held back, not wanting to see what they were looking at. The air around her was thick with nauseating odors. She could barely breathe, and yet she felt compelled to move forward, to make her way around to where she could see the naked figure lying there exposed beneath the harsh, bright lights. She expected to find the naked dead man lying exposed on Doc Winfield’s autopsy slab to be Richard Osmond. Instead, it was Butch Dixon.
She awakened from the nightmare and scrambled out of bed. In her race for the bathroom, she stepped on Lady and almost fell in a tangle of legs and dog. Heaving, she made it to
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the bathroom in time, but only just barely. Seconds later, Butch was there as well, standing behind her with one hand on her shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he asked. “Is there anything I should do?”
Joanna was embarrassed to be found kneeling in front of the toilet and puking. “Go away,” she mumbled impatiently through chattering teeth. “Go away and leave me alone.”
He did. Finally, having survived that first powerful fit of nausea, Joanna showered, then pulled on a robe. Lady, waiting just outside the bathroom door, got up and followed Joanna through the house, trailing behind her like a four-footed shadow. The overhead skylights in the hallway shed a hazy gray glow as Joanna and the dog made their way to the kitchen. Butch was already there. The clock on the microwave read five-thirty as she hitched herself up onto one of the barstools positioned along one side of the island.
Butch looked up at her. “Are you all right?” he asked. She nodded. “Coffee’s almost done,” he added. “Do you want some?”
Just the smell of Butch’s freshly brewed coffee made Joanna’s queasy stomach turn flip-flops. She shook her head. “I think I’ll have tea,” she said.
“Tea?” Butch objected. “You don’t even like tea.”
“I do when I’m pregnant,” she told him. “The same thing happened when I was pregnant with Jenny. I couldn’t drink coffee the whole time.”
Obligingly Butch filled the teakettle and put it on a burner. “This is going to take some getting used to,” he said. “What do you eat for breakfast when you’re pregnant?”
“No juice,” Joanna said quickly. “English muffins with peanut butter and nothing else usually works.”
“Coming right up,” he said.
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Joanna huddled miserably in her robe while Butch bustled capably around the kitchen.
