Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything by Nancy Martin

Shall I bring back doughnuts?”
    His eyes lit up. Mr. Carver had a sweet tooth that Mae Mae rarely satisfied. “Oh, yes, that would be very nice.”
    I’d taken Miss Ruffles out every day since moving into Honeybelle’s house. It hadn’t gotten any easier. We jogged three blocks before Miss Ruffles made a U-turn, tripped me with the leash, and dragged me across a lawn to the edge of someone’s driveway where a trash can sat oozing a disgusting liquid onto the ground. I practically had to strangle Miss Ruffles with the leash to prevent her from lapping up whatever the goo was.
    On the next block, she spotted the Siamese cat that always sat tauntingly in someone’s front window. Miss Ruffles tried to throw herself against the window, but I was ready. I managed to divert her with a Milk-Bone.
    We’d gotten as far as the next corner when a black car pulled up beside me. It didn’t stop but kept pace with us, and the passenger window rolled down. I was close enough to be hit by a blast of air-conditioning.
    A man in dark sunglasses said, “Hey, there, young lady, could you give us some directions?”
    I stopped running. The car angled in front of me and braked. The passenger popped his door open, and a heartbeat later the driver’s door opened, too. Two men stepped out and adjusted their sunglasses against the intense glare of the early morning sun. They both wore dark business suits—one with a tie, one not—and even without an anthropologist around to confirm my opinion, I knew they were from somewhere other than Mule Stop.
    The first thought that popped into my head was The Blues Brothers go to Texas.
    â€œMiss McKillip? Sunny McKillip?”
    Maybe I should have taken off at a run. But I wasn’t thinking about the safety of Miss Ruffles or myself. No, immediately, I flashed back to the day a man came to tell me my mother was dead. I stopped on the sidewalk with Miss Ruffles at my side, and my brain tried to process all the possible bad things that could have happened. Whatever it was, the Blues Brothers must have shown up to break the news, I thought. So I was momentarily struck silent.
    The men took up position on either side of me and stepped closer until the moment Miss Ruffles flattened her ears and let out one of her most threatening growls. They stopped dead, giving me a chance for a second impression. They could have been brothers, all right. Besides dressing alike, both were heavyset, with lots of curly dark hair, and both with a certain element of menace in their postures.
    â€œNice doggie,” said the driver, sounding unconvinced. A splotch of his breakfast stained the front of his shirt—something yellow and something red. Probably eggs with salsa, a local favorite.
    â€œMiss McKillip?” said the other. He was buttoned up tight, all business. I could see my reflection in his mirrored sunglasses. He tapped a meaty thumb against his chest. “My name’s Costello.”
    When I could gather my breath, I said, “What’s wrong?”
    â€œHey, nothin’s wrong.” Costello raised his hands in the universal I-surrender gesture. “Take it easy, there. We’re just talkin’.”
    He wasn’t from Texas by any means. I guessed East Coast by his accent. New York or New Jersey, maybe.
    â€œWe just want to have a conversation,” said his partner. “You’re Sunny McKillip, right?”
    â€œR-right.”
    â€œYour mom was Rachel McKillip? The lady scientist who died?”
    â€œYes.” I was breathless, wondering what new catastrophe could have occurred.
    â€œWe’re sorry for your loss. We hear she was a nice lady. Pretty, too. Just like you.”
    â€œWhat’s going on?” My sanity was returning, and I felt stronger. It helped to have Miss Ruffles beside me, growling softly, ready to spring if needed. “Who are you?”
    Costello came closer, and Miss Ruffles swung on