Craig said with a lopsided grin, “here’s a new concept for you. Stop. Screwing. Up.”
Chapter 14
Nothing puts a hush over the land like a blanket of snow.
The golf course was a winter wonderland of white, dotted with yucca stalks standing stark against a brilliant blue sky. Excited, I jumped from bed and into the warmest clothes and shoes I had.
Set back from neighbors and traffic, the house was normally quiet, but this morning all sound seemed absorbed. The verandah’s half inch of snow was just too tempting to pass up. Scooping up two handfuls, I crept back into the house, over to Craig’s room, eased open the door and nailed him with a snowball.
Instantly awake, he launched a pillow at me, but not fast enough.
“You’d better have coffee ready, Hetta,” he yelled from the bedroom, “or prepare for a roll in the snow.”
I poured him a cup, handed it to him as he grumped into the living room in his Bugs Bunny flannel jammies. I’d already turned on the fireplace, so the lure of steaming coffee and a cheery fire diverted him from his threatened retaliation. “I’ll get the paper,” I offered, “just in case someone should drive by and witness those pajamas. I do have reputation to uphold, you know.”
“Yeah, a bad one.”
I shot him the finger and headed for the front door, threw it open, and my heart and feet stopped at the same time on the threshold. Inside the gated courtyard, footprints led to the front door, then out again. I slammed the door, which brought Craig to his feet.
“What is it?” he asked.
Pulling up the side window blinds, I pointed. “Look. We’ve had company.”
He got dressed, then together we reopened the door, crossed the courtyard and opened the gate. The Rottweiler across the road was silent, so we knew whoever had been there was long gone. Loca keeps close, vociferous, track of anyone she doesn’t know, and is the best guard dog I never owned.
“Did you hear Loca barking during the night?”
Craig, who sleeps like the dead, contemplated my question. “Maybe, but I’m a veterinarian. Dog barks are like white noise for me.”
“I think I heard her, but probably figured it was the paper guy punching her buttons.”
Two sets of tire tracks marred the fluffy snow. I grabbed the newspaper and we went back inside.
“Okay,” I said as we drank our coffee, “one set of tires belongs to the paper deliverer, but who walked to the door? It wasn’t him, or the paper would have been inside the courtyard.”
“I agree, Sherlock.”
“So, someone came to the door, but didn’t ring the bell, and it was after we went to bed because the snow just began falling in earnest when we got home.”
“Brilliant, my dear Watson.”
“Oh, hush. You didn’t see the security lights come on?”
“No, but then I sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
“Crap. Think I should call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
He was right, what would I tell them?
The snow was gone by noon, and golfers emerged. The whole thing seemed a little schizophrenic.
A FedEx shipment from Craig’s parents arrived. In it were letters, photos, birth certificates, and all manner of family memorabilia, as well as a fairly pointed note saying if he was determined to vacation in Arizona so long, he might as well delve into his roots. Doctors Washington, the elders, were obviously none too thrilled with their up-until-now responsible and predictable son, Doctor Washington Junior, taking off on a lark.
Man, oh, man, were they in for a rude awakening some day.
We sifted through the stuff and found a family tree leading back to one Abraham Lincoln Washington, born 1899, died 1949. A photo, with an inscription on the back identifying the man as A.L. Washington in Huachuca Arizona with Blackjack Pershing, showed a jaunty young black soldier leaning casually on his rifle stock, campaign hat tipped rakishly, jodhpur-like pants ballooning from his knee-high riding boots.
“Wow, did you know
Chapter 14
Nothing puts a hush over the land like a blanket of snow.
The golf course was a winter wonderland of white, dotted with yucca stalks standing stark against a brilliant blue sky. Excited, I jumped from bed and into the warmest clothes and shoes I had.
Set back from neighbors and traffic, the house was normally quiet, but this morning all sound seemed absorbed. The verandah’s half inch of snow was just too tempting to pass up. Scooping up two handfuls, I crept back into the house, over to Craig’s room, eased open the door and nailed him with a snowball.
Instantly awake, he launched a pillow at me, but not fast enough.
“You’d better have coffee ready, Hetta,” he yelled from the bedroom, “or prepare for a roll in the snow.”
I poured him a cup, handed it to him as he grumped into the living room in his Bugs Bunny flannel jammies. I’d already turned on the fireplace, so the lure of steaming coffee and a cheery fire diverted him from his threatened retaliation. “I’ll get the paper,” I offered, “just in case someone should drive by and witness those pajamas. I do have reputation to uphold, you know.”
“Yeah, a bad one.”
I shot him the finger and headed for the front door, threw it open, and my heart and feet stopped at the same time on the threshold. Inside the gated courtyard, footprints led to the front door, then out again. I slammed the door, which brought Craig to his feet.
“What is it?” he asked.
Pulling up the side window blinds, I pointed. “Look. We’ve had company.”
He got dressed, then together we reopened the door, crossed the courtyard and opened the gate. The Rottweiler across the road was silent, so we knew whoever had been there was long gone. Loca keeps close, vociferous, track of anyone she doesn’t know, and is the best guard dog I never owned.
“Did you hear Loca barking during the night?”
Craig, who sleeps like the dead, contemplated my question. “Maybe, but I’m a veterinarian. Dog barks are like white noise for me.”
“I think I heard her, but probably figured it was the paper guy punching her buttons.”
Two sets of tire tracks marred the fluffy snow. I grabbed the newspaper and we went back inside.
“Okay,” I said as we drank our coffee, “one set of tires belongs to the paper deliverer, but who walked to the door? It wasn’t him, or the paper would have been inside the courtyard.”
“I agree, Sherlock.”
“So, someone came to the door, but didn’t ring the bell, and it was after we went to bed because the snow just began falling in earnest when we got home.”
“Brilliant, my dear Watson.”
“Oh, hush. You didn’t see the security lights come on?”
“No, but then I sleep the sleep of the righteous.”
“Crap. Think I should call the cops?”
“And tell them what?”
He was right, what would I tell them?
The snow was gone by noon, and golfers emerged. The whole thing seemed a little schizophrenic.
A FedEx shipment from Craig’s parents arrived. In it were letters, photos, birth certificates, and all manner of family memorabilia, as well as a fairly pointed note saying if he was determined to vacation in Arizona so long, he might as well delve into his roots. Doctors Washington, the elders, were obviously none too thrilled with their up-until-now responsible and predictable son, Doctor Washington Junior, taking off on a lark.
Man, oh, man, were they in for a rude awakening some day.
We sifted through the stuff and found a family tree leading back to one Abraham Lincoln Washington, born 1899, died 1949. A photo, with an inscription on the back identifying the man as A.L. Washington in Huachuca Arizona with Blackjack Pershing, showed a jaunty young black soldier leaning casually on his rifle stock, campaign hat tipped rakishly, jodhpur-like pants ballooning from his knee-high riding boots.
“Wow, did you know
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