use to protect myself. Grapefruit were scattered at my feet. Pummeling an angry dog with fruit wasn’t an option. Mom stood on top of the lounge chair, bracing herself against the house.
A stern female voice called out from the driveway, “Rusty, sit. Now.”
The dog sat. Its master, a stout middle-aged redhead in a ragged hoodie, sweats, and hiking boots stopped at the gate. The woman looked at me, then at Mom, and scowled. “Who the hell are you?”
I held up my hands in surrender. “We’re Victor’s friends.”
She took stock of us. “What are you doing with my trash can and why are you sneaking around his yard? Where is he?”
“We don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been to work in two days and he doesn’t answer his phone or the door. We’re worried,” I said. Rusty eyed my leg. “If you call off your dog, I’ll show you my identification.”
She snapped her finger. “Rusty, come.”
The dog turned its head to her call. Then it turned back to us and growled again.
“Rusty. Now.” Her bark was more intimidating than the dog’s.
Rusty backed off, giving us one last look, and sat at the woman’s side. She clipped a leash onto the collar, patting the dog’s head.
Mom stepped off the lounge chair and crossed the yard. “If you don’t believe us, call the police. My son is a detective.”
The woman didn’t blink. Clearly unimpressed, she snapped her fingers toward the porch next door. “Rusty. Home.”
Once the dog settled on the porch, I reached into my back pocket and handed her my business card. “I’m Dr. Elizabeth Cooper. This is my mother, Vivian Gordon. As I explained, we’re Victor’s friends. Concerned friends. Have you seen him in the past two or three days?”
“No.” She pocketed my card then set off to roll her trash can down the drive.
I closed the backyard gate. Mom and I followed her to the curb.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Dr. Morales at home?” Mom said.
“I don’t remember. I don’t keep track of him.”
“What about the neighbors on the other side of him?” I said.
“If he’s on vacation and Richard and Suzanna are watching his house, they’re doing one crap-ass job of it. If it wasn’t for Rusty and me picking up newspapers, the whole damn block would be a target for burglars.” She raised an eyebrow.
Like you
.
“Was that yesterday’s paper in his backyard?” I said.
When the woman didn’t answer, Mom said, “We don’t want to be pushy.”
“I’d say climbing a fence to unlock a gate is already pushy,” she said.
“We’re worried,” Mom said. “We tried the house next door. No one responded. Can you give us Richard and Suzanna’s number so we can call them?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t give out numbers to people I don’t know. The doc keeps erratic hours. I rarely see him come and go. It takes an earthquake, fire, or flood to gather the neighbors outside at the same time. We keep to ourselves.”
The dog whined from the porch.
“Rusty wants his treat. I can’t talk anymore.” She left us on the sidewalk.
On the drive back to Good Samaritan, I braced one hand on the glove compartment and clutched my armrest with the other while Mom wove through traffic.
“I think we should report Victor missing,” I said. “He wouldn’t just take off like this.”
“I hope he wouldn’t,” Mom said.
“Come on, Mom. You’ve known Victor for years. You, Carmen, and the other Cherries would have unearthed his personal secrets or criminal tendencies by now.”
Mom smiled at me. “Everyone keeps secrets, dear, but you know how suspicious Kitty is. Before she let us commit to the fund-raiser for the clinic, Kitty ran a secret background check on Victor to be sure he wouldn’t misappropriate the money.”
Cherry Twist member Kitty Kirkland acted as the group’s legal counsel. Kitty knew about secrets—the beautiful attorney surprised her conservative law partners by coming out and marrying her partner,
A stern female voice called out from the driveway, “Rusty, sit. Now.”
The dog sat. Its master, a stout middle-aged redhead in a ragged hoodie, sweats, and hiking boots stopped at the gate. The woman looked at me, then at Mom, and scowled. “Who the hell are you?”
I held up my hands in surrender. “We’re Victor’s friends.”
She took stock of us. “What are you doing with my trash can and why are you sneaking around his yard? Where is he?”
“We don’t know where he is. He hasn’t been to work in two days and he doesn’t answer his phone or the door. We’re worried,” I said. Rusty eyed my leg. “If you call off your dog, I’ll show you my identification.”
She snapped her finger. “Rusty, come.”
The dog turned its head to her call. Then it turned back to us and growled again.
“Rusty. Now.” Her bark was more intimidating than the dog’s.
Rusty backed off, giving us one last look, and sat at the woman’s side. She clipped a leash onto the collar, patting the dog’s head.
Mom stepped off the lounge chair and crossed the yard. “If you don’t believe us, call the police. My son is a detective.”
The woman didn’t blink. Clearly unimpressed, she snapped her fingers toward the porch next door. “Rusty. Home.”
Once the dog settled on the porch, I reached into my back pocket and handed her my business card. “I’m Dr. Elizabeth Cooper. This is my mother, Vivian Gordon. As I explained, we’re Victor’s friends. Concerned friends. Have you seen him in the past two or three days?”
“No.” She pocketed my card then set off to roll her trash can down the drive.
I closed the backyard gate. Mom and I followed her to the curb.
“Do you remember the last time you saw Dr. Morales at home?” Mom said.
“I don’t remember. I don’t keep track of him.”
“What about the neighbors on the other side of him?” I said.
“If he’s on vacation and Richard and Suzanna are watching his house, they’re doing one crap-ass job of it. If it wasn’t for Rusty and me picking up newspapers, the whole damn block would be a target for burglars.” She raised an eyebrow.
Like you
.
“Was that yesterday’s paper in his backyard?” I said.
When the woman didn’t answer, Mom said, “We don’t want to be pushy.”
“I’d say climbing a fence to unlock a gate is already pushy,” she said.
“We’re worried,” Mom said. “We tried the house next door. No one responded. Can you give us Richard and Suzanna’s number so we can call them?”
The woman shook her head. “I don’t give out numbers to people I don’t know. The doc keeps erratic hours. I rarely see him come and go. It takes an earthquake, fire, or flood to gather the neighbors outside at the same time. We keep to ourselves.”
The dog whined from the porch.
“Rusty wants his treat. I can’t talk anymore.” She left us on the sidewalk.
On the drive back to Good Samaritan, I braced one hand on the glove compartment and clutched my armrest with the other while Mom wove through traffic.
“I think we should report Victor missing,” I said. “He wouldn’t just take off like this.”
“I hope he wouldn’t,” Mom said.
“Come on, Mom. You’ve known Victor for years. You, Carmen, and the other Cherries would have unearthed his personal secrets or criminal tendencies by now.”
Mom smiled at me. “Everyone keeps secrets, dear, but you know how suspicious Kitty is. Before she let us commit to the fund-raiser for the clinic, Kitty ran a secret background check on Victor to be sure he wouldn’t misappropriate the money.”
Cherry Twist member Kitty Kirkland acted as the group’s legal counsel. Kitty knew about secrets—the beautiful attorney surprised her conservative law partners by coming out and marrying her partner,
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