“Hi, Mattie,” William says, his eyes focused on Hoover. “Who have you got here?”
“This is Hoover,” I say, and then I stiffen, recalling that William is deathly allergic to cats—one of the things that contributed to our first date disaster—and wondering if he might have a problem with dogs, too. I’m ready to pull Hoover back when William squeezes past my mother, squats down, and gives Hoover a little scratch beneath his chin.
“Hey, boy,” he says. “You’re a cutie, aren’t you?”
Hoover inches closer. Seconds later his nose is nestled in William’s crotch and he’s so happy his whole butt is wagging—Hoover’s that is, though William looks pretty content, too.
“Is he yours?” William asks me.
“He is,” I tell him. “I found him by a gar—” I catch myself before letting it slip that I found the dog next to a Dumpster. To my mother and William, that would be akin to saying the dog had rolled in toxic nuclear waste. “I found him behind a grocery store, begging for food,” I say. “I ran an ad in the lost-and-founds but no one answered. So I guess he’s mine for now.”
“He’s very cute,” William says.
Mother is frowning at the two of us as if we’re plotting against her. “Mattie wants to leave that creature here with us tomorrow,” she says, practically spitting the words out. “But I don’t need some dirty mongrel shedding and drooling all over my house.”
“I’ll bathe him tonight to make sure he’s extra clean,” I tell her. “And he’s quite healthy.”
“Come on, Jane,” William says, staring at Hoover with a smitten look. “It’s only for one day.”
Mother’s frown deepens. “Is he housebroken?”
“Absolutely,” I assure her. “He’ll let you know if he has to go and I promise I’ll poop-scoop anything he leaves in your yard when I pick him up tomorrow.”
“Fine, but just this once,” Mom says, acquiescing at last. William claps his hands together like a little kid.
“Thanks, Mom.” I lean over and give her a kiss on the cheek, which she promptly wipes off with the cuff of her blouse. Though she looks guilty for making the gesture, I know she can’t help herself. Sometimes I wonder how she ever managed to conceive Desi and me. Sex is about as messy an activity as there is between two humans, and when one of them can’t stand the thought of having someone else’s spittle on her cheek, it’s hard to imagine how any of her four husbands ever managed to score a home run. Despite my efforts to stop it, my brain makes the leap to wondering if William and Mom are doing it, and if so, how these two germaphobes deal with all the wonderful messiness that is sex. An image of the two of them outfitted in giant head-to-toe condoms that have a few strategic openings makes me smile. Then the ick factor of thinking about my mother and sex in any form hits me, and I quickly shift gears.
After leaving Mom’s house, I head back home and haul Hoover into the bathroom. Half an hour later he is thoroughly sudsed, scrubbed, and rinsed within an inch of his life. Hoping to further enhance his foo-fooiness, I work a bunch of hair conditioner into his fur and let it sit for a bit before rinsing that out, too. Rubbish sits on the side of the bathroom sink watching the entire affair with an air of disdain, though he briefly gets into the flow of things by licking his paw a few times and smoothing down his facial hair.
By the time I’m done, Hoover smells divine, feels soft and fluffy, and looks utterly humiliated. I’m pretty pleased with the results until he goes to the door and whines to be let out. As soon as the door’s open, he runs off to a patch of dead leaves, melted snow, and mud, flops onto his back, and starts doing the doggie version of the Macarena. By the time he’s done, he bears a strong resemblance to Swamp Thing but he looks much, much happier.
I decide to let him have his dignity for tonight, knowing that come morning I’ll have to bathe and humiliate him all over again. But I make him spend the night on the floor on a towel rather than in bed with me.
“Might as well get used to it,” I tell him as he tries to soften me up with his big, soulful, woeful, puppy-dog eyes. “If I ever get lucky again, this bed won’t be big enough for all of us.”
Chapter 15
Bright and early the following morning I let Hoover out before I throw him back into the tub. One wash and blow-dry later, I drive him over to Mom’s and drop him off, leaving a bag of food and his bowls since I know Mom would never let an animal drink or eat out of any dish she owns. I’m amused to see William’s car is still there, and given the hour, I suspect he spent the night, especially since I don’t see any sign of him inside the main part of the house.
I stay long enough to set up Hoover’s food and water in the kitchen, where the surfaces and floor are cleaner than the operating rooms I used to work in. Out the window I can see that Mom’s backyard is a slushy, muddy mess and I grimace, knowing that Hoover will be tracking it in anytime he’s let out. Before Mom has a chance to realize the same thing, I thank her and hurry off.
After nearly an hour and a half on the road, I arrive at the airport ten minutes before the appointed time and pull into the long-term parking lot. I’m not sure why Hurley wanted me to park here rather than in the short-term area, but he was pretty specific about it. As I drive up and down the aisles looking for a spot, I catch several people staring at me and realize Hurley was right; my car is not the most inconspicuous one in the world. I can’t help but wonder what’s going through these people’s minds as they watch a hearse cruise up and down the long-term parking lot.
I finally find an empty space, pull in, and shut the engine off. Per Hurley’s instructions, I get out, lock the car, and head for the Southwest Airlines terminal. Before I can cross the road where everyone is loading and unloading, Hurley’s car glides up in front of me and his window slides down. “Get in,” he says.
I run around the front of the car and settle in on the passenger side. As we pull away, I buckle my seat belt and glance over at Hurley’s chest, then at his lap.
When he catches my gaze, he flashes me a salacious grin and cocks one eyebrow.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I tell him. “I was checking to make sure you had your seat belt on.”
“I do.”
“Well, sort of. I don’t think having the chest strap behind you like that works very well.”
“I’m sorry. Did I miss something?” he says, his voice rife with sarcasm. “Did someone promote you to seat belt compliance officer and forget to tell me?”
“Ha-ha, very funny, smartass. I’m a nurse, remember? And I’ve seen what happens to people who are too stupid to wear their seat belts. Besides, it’s the law, you know.”
Hurley pulls aside his jacket to show me that he’s wearing his gun in a shoulder holster. “The shoulder strap interferes with this,” he says, gesturing toward the gun with his chin. “Okay?”
I shrug. “Whatever.”
As we leave the main part of the airport, I notice video cameras mounted on the roof of the overhang fronting the terminal. “This place has cameras everywhere,” I tell Hurley. “It wouldn’t be that hard for someone to verify that we met here.”
“True, but hopefully they won’t have any reason to suspect that we met up at all. And if they do, the airport isn’t exactly the most logical place to look.” He shrugs. “I know it’s not perfect, but it was the best I could come up with for now.”
“So where are we headed exactly?”
“Did you bring the items I told you to?”
I fish in my purse and pull out a steno notebook and pen. “Okay?” I say, and he nods. “Good. Now would you please answer my question?”
“The first place we’re going is the TV station where Callie worked. I want you to talk to her coworkers there and see if you can find out what it was she was doing up in our neck of the woods. See if anyone knows what story she was working on.”
“Okay, but Richmond said he already did that and no one knows anything.”
“That’s because Richmond’s a cop and TV people are funny when it comes to cops. They tend to get tight- lipped around us because we have a history of ruining their stories. They might tell you things they wouldn’t tell a
