efforts. Racing toward my bureau again, I dug through my underwear drawer until I found an extra pair of shoelaces. Then I sat on the edge of the bed and played a game called miss-all-the-tiny-fraying-sneaker-holes.
“Answer me, Ingrid, or I’ll stroke Ace Promazine down your throat.” Ben grabbed my sneaker and began to cobweb the laces like an efficient spider. “How do you make an elephant float?”
“Add two scoops of ice cream and one elephant to a quart of root beer. What on earth is Ace Promazine?”
“A pet tranquilizer more potent than Valium. I have some in my emergency doctor’s pouch.”
“Some Valium?”
“No, you nut. Ace Promazine.”
“Good. That’s good. Where’s your doctor’s bag?”
“Inside the trunk of my car. Why?”
“You said Ace Promazine is a pet tranquilizer. Wait until Hitchcock gets a whiff of Tonto.”
Chapter Eight
Tonto’s welcome volley didn’t bother Hitchcock. However, Sinead’s pussy perfume agitated the bloody heck out of him. Hitchcock roved through Patty’s borrowed house like a bloodhound, nose to the floor, paw and tail angled, a shaggy semaphore. Once I even thought I could decipher his frantic signal: E-X-I-T. When I pointed this out to Ben, he laughed and said, “Where did you learn semaphoring, Ingrid?”
“Girl Scouts.”
Hitchcock didn’t really know the difference between a cat and a caterpillar, but he could smell eau de feline, and he could growl, whimper, bark—lord, could he bark!
“Ace Promazine!” I shouted. “Hurry, Ben!”
“Ingrid, we don’t want to sedate our watchdog, do we? Hitchcock, sit! Hitchcock, stay!”
My mutt gave one last quivery sniff and flopped to the kitchen floor. His expression seemed to suggest that he had done his job, warned the stupid humans who, for some reason, were totally unaware of strong, distinctive, odoriferous scents. In other words, a morally offensive, carnivorous mammal lurked.
Not the prowler. He or she had vanished into thin, rain-slashed air.
“Ingrid,” said Patty, “your shirt’s on backwards.”
“Yes. I panicked needlessly, too.”
“There was somebody outside,” she insisted. “I’m not crazy. He shined his flashlight. I could see it shimmer.”
“Maybe it was the police,” Ben soothed.
“Police don’t skulk.”
“Ingrid says they do.”
“Wrong! I said they screw up. Skulk and screw are not the same…” I swallowed the rest of my words, thinking about how Wylie had, first skulked then screwed me inside my hotel room. As usual I stashed the image, like storing snagged pantyhose at the bottom of my bureau drawer.
“I’m such a baby.” Patty gave a tremulous smile. “That kid in Home Alone could cope better than I.”
“That kid,” said Ben, “had a script.”
“Well, I can’t thank you enough. Ingrid, too.”
“Don’t forget Hitchcock,” I grumbled, feeling cranky again. And hungry. After all, I had abandoned my ethnic feast for sexual gratification.
As if she had read my mind, Patty said, “I know it’s late but I have food already prepared. Lots of friends stopped by this evening. Alice and Dwight Cooper, Tad Mallard and Junior Hartsel, just to name a few. They all left donations. Tuna casserole, roast beef, soup-salad-and-breadsticks from Tad. She said it like it was one word. I think it’s restaurant fare. There’s also a blueberry pie, Ingrid, your favorite.”
“It used to be my favorite, before I joined Weight Winners.” Gazing enviously at Patty’s size six cranberry slacks and black cotton turtleneck, I tried to justify the consumption of pie. “Too bad you don’t have ice cream.”
“But I do. Häagen Dazs. Honey—”
“Vanilla. Wylie’s favorite. Okay. It’s an emergency, so I’ll break my perpetual diet with berry pie a la mode.”
Seated at the kitchen table, I savored every bite. “This is delicious, Patty. Very sweet. Who baked the pie?”
“I don’t remember. There had to be a dozen visitors and everybody
“Answer me, Ingrid, or I’ll stroke Ace Promazine down your throat.” Ben grabbed my sneaker and began to cobweb the laces like an efficient spider. “How do you make an elephant float?”
“Add two scoops of ice cream and one elephant to a quart of root beer. What on earth is Ace Promazine?”
“A pet tranquilizer more potent than Valium. I have some in my emergency doctor’s pouch.”
“Some Valium?”
“No, you nut. Ace Promazine.”
“Good. That’s good. Where’s your doctor’s bag?”
“Inside the trunk of my car. Why?”
“You said Ace Promazine is a pet tranquilizer. Wait until Hitchcock gets a whiff of Tonto.”
Chapter Eight
Tonto’s welcome volley didn’t bother Hitchcock. However, Sinead’s pussy perfume agitated the bloody heck out of him. Hitchcock roved through Patty’s borrowed house like a bloodhound, nose to the floor, paw and tail angled, a shaggy semaphore. Once I even thought I could decipher his frantic signal: E-X-I-T. When I pointed this out to Ben, he laughed and said, “Where did you learn semaphoring, Ingrid?”
“Girl Scouts.”
Hitchcock didn’t really know the difference between a cat and a caterpillar, but he could smell eau de feline, and he could growl, whimper, bark—lord, could he bark!
“Ace Promazine!” I shouted. “Hurry, Ben!”
“Ingrid, we don’t want to sedate our watchdog, do we? Hitchcock, sit! Hitchcock, stay!”
My mutt gave one last quivery sniff and flopped to the kitchen floor. His expression seemed to suggest that he had done his job, warned the stupid humans who, for some reason, were totally unaware of strong, distinctive, odoriferous scents. In other words, a morally offensive, carnivorous mammal lurked.
Not the prowler. He or she had vanished into thin, rain-slashed air.
“Ingrid,” said Patty, “your shirt’s on backwards.”
“Yes. I panicked needlessly, too.”
“There was somebody outside,” she insisted. “I’m not crazy. He shined his flashlight. I could see it shimmer.”
“Maybe it was the police,” Ben soothed.
“Police don’t skulk.”
“Ingrid says they do.”
“Wrong! I said they screw up. Skulk and screw are not the same…” I swallowed the rest of my words, thinking about how Wylie had, first skulked then screwed me inside my hotel room. As usual I stashed the image, like storing snagged pantyhose at the bottom of my bureau drawer.
“I’m such a baby.” Patty gave a tremulous smile. “That kid in Home Alone could cope better than I.”
“That kid,” said Ben, “had a script.”
“Well, I can’t thank you enough. Ingrid, too.”
“Don’t forget Hitchcock,” I grumbled, feeling cranky again. And hungry. After all, I had abandoned my ethnic feast for sexual gratification.
As if she had read my mind, Patty said, “I know it’s late but I have food already prepared. Lots of friends stopped by this evening. Alice and Dwight Cooper, Tad Mallard and Junior Hartsel, just to name a few. They all left donations. Tuna casserole, roast beef, soup-salad-and-breadsticks from Tad. She said it like it was one word. I think it’s restaurant fare. There’s also a blueberry pie, Ingrid, your favorite.”
“It used to be my favorite, before I joined Weight Winners.” Gazing enviously at Patty’s size six cranberry slacks and black cotton turtleneck, I tried to justify the consumption of pie. “Too bad you don’t have ice cream.”
“But I do. Häagen Dazs. Honey—”
“Vanilla. Wylie’s favorite. Okay. It’s an emergency, so I’ll break my perpetual diet with berry pie a la mode.”
Seated at the kitchen table, I savored every bite. “This is delicious, Patty. Very sweet. Who baked the pie?”
“I don’t remember. There had to be a dozen visitors and everybody
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