school,” I reminded him angrily.
CJ conveniently forgot concerts, failing grades, and Miss Peach Pit when he spied his poker-playing buddy emerge from the storeroom. “Hey there, Beau. Saw a couple police cruisers at the curb. Some cook need cinnamon and decide to rob the place?” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and seemed surprised when no one joined in.
Beau cleared his throat. “Chief got Judge Herman to issue a search warrant.”
“Why’d he go do a crazy thing like that?”
“Have to ask the chief.”
CJ turned to me, his face flushed. “I warned you, Scooter! The man has it in for me. Has ever since high school. Can’t say I’m surprised he’s hasslin’ you—you’re a Prescott.”
“Hate to disappoint you, CJ,” McBride said as he came down the stairs, “but this has nothing to do with you—and everything to do with your wife.”
“Ex,” I corrected. “Make that ex-wife.”
The two men stood almost toe to toe, sizing each other up, gauging the changes the years had wrought. As much as I disliked McBride, he won the competition hands down. He was trim, fit, and still possessed good looks in abundance. To be fair, however, I had to give CJ points for trying. His teeth were a dazzling white that God never intended. His hair was styled, not merely cut, and restored to its original gold brilliance. His suit screamed designer and so did his pricey cologne. A girlfriend practically half his age added to his cache in the good ol’ boys club.
“Why, Judge Herman’s known my family for years. Dated my mother way back when. What trumped-up excuse did you use to strong-arm him to issue a warrant?”
“Gentlemen.” I cleared my throat. “Need I remind you, you’re no longer in high school.” Turning to McBride, I said, “If you and your men are finished, I’d like you to leave so I can put my home back in order.”
He held up a bag marked EVIDENCE . “I’m afraid it’s not going to work that way.”
Lindsey edged closer to my side. “Mom, what did the police find? What’s in the bag?”
I tried to think what they might have discovered, then groaned aloud when the answer came to me with knock-the-breath-out-of-you clarity.
“Care to explain the bloodstained shirt and bath towel we found in the trash?”
My mouth was suddenly as dry as burnt toast. “I know this looks bad, but it’s not what you think.”
“Then enlighten me.”
CJ’s head swiveled back and forth between us in a fair imitation of a spectator at Wimbledon. “What’s the guy talkin’ about, Scooter?”
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue, then directed my next words at McBride. Beau Tucker and his cohort listened with undisguised curiosity. “We’ve been over this before, McBride. I told you. I found a small dog, hurt and bleeding, outside my shop the night of the murder. I did what any person would do. I wrapped him in a towel and raced him to the vet’s.”
McBride widened his stance, his expression set. “That explains the blood on the towel, but not the shirt.”
“Are you dense?” I asked, exasperated that I had to spell it out for him when it should be crystal clear. “Apparently, I got blood on my shirt when I assisted Dr. Winters putting a chest tube in the dog.”
“A dog?” Lindsey asked. Forget about the bloodstains, I thought, “dog” was the only word that had lodged in Lindsey’s consciousness. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you had a dog?”
“I don’t have a dog. I found a dog. There’s a difference,” I pointed out.
She tugged on my sleeve. “Is he all right? Are you going to keep it?”
“Honey, right now, I have no intention of owning a pet,” I explained as gently as I could, knowing how much my daughter loved animals and hating to disappoint her. CJ and I had argued endlessly on the merits of owning a pet, always with the same results. CJ wanted nothing to do with cats or dogs. He claimed he had allergies to both. And that, as they say, was
CJ conveniently forgot concerts, failing grades, and Miss Peach Pit when he spied his poker-playing buddy emerge from the storeroom. “Hey there, Beau. Saw a couple police cruisers at the curb. Some cook need cinnamon and decide to rob the place?” He laughed heartily at his own joke, and seemed surprised when no one joined in.
Beau cleared his throat. “Chief got Judge Herman to issue a search warrant.”
“Why’d he go do a crazy thing like that?”
“Have to ask the chief.”
CJ turned to me, his face flushed. “I warned you, Scooter! The man has it in for me. Has ever since high school. Can’t say I’m surprised he’s hasslin’ you—you’re a Prescott.”
“Hate to disappoint you, CJ,” McBride said as he came down the stairs, “but this has nothing to do with you—and everything to do with your wife.”
“Ex,” I corrected. “Make that ex-wife.”
The two men stood almost toe to toe, sizing each other up, gauging the changes the years had wrought. As much as I disliked McBride, he won the competition hands down. He was trim, fit, and still possessed good looks in abundance. To be fair, however, I had to give CJ points for trying. His teeth were a dazzling white that God never intended. His hair was styled, not merely cut, and restored to its original gold brilliance. His suit screamed designer and so did his pricey cologne. A girlfriend practically half his age added to his cache in the good ol’ boys club.
“Why, Judge Herman’s known my family for years. Dated my mother way back when. What trumped-up excuse did you use to strong-arm him to issue a warrant?”
“Gentlemen.” I cleared my throat. “Need I remind you, you’re no longer in high school.” Turning to McBride, I said, “If you and your men are finished, I’d like you to leave so I can put my home back in order.”
He held up a bag marked EVIDENCE . “I’m afraid it’s not going to work that way.”
Lindsey edged closer to my side. “Mom, what did the police find? What’s in the bag?”
I tried to think what they might have discovered, then groaned aloud when the answer came to me with knock-the-breath-out-of-you clarity.
“Care to explain the bloodstained shirt and bath towel we found in the trash?”
My mouth was suddenly as dry as burnt toast. “I know this looks bad, but it’s not what you think.”
“Then enlighten me.”
CJ’s head swiveled back and forth between us in a fair imitation of a spectator at Wimbledon. “What’s the guy talkin’ about, Scooter?”
I moistened my lips with the tip of my tongue, then directed my next words at McBride. Beau Tucker and his cohort listened with undisguised curiosity. “We’ve been over this before, McBride. I told you. I found a small dog, hurt and bleeding, outside my shop the night of the murder. I did what any person would do. I wrapped him in a towel and raced him to the vet’s.”
McBride widened his stance, his expression set. “That explains the blood on the towel, but not the shirt.”
“Are you dense?” I asked, exasperated that I had to spell it out for him when it should be crystal clear. “Apparently, I got blood on my shirt when I assisted Dr. Winters putting a chest tube in the dog.”
“A dog?” Lindsey asked. Forget about the bloodstains, I thought, “dog” was the only word that had lodged in Lindsey’s consciousness. “Mom, why didn’t you tell me you had a dog?”
“I don’t have a dog. I found a dog. There’s a difference,” I pointed out.
She tugged on my sleeve. “Is he all right? Are you going to keep it?”
“Honey, right now, I have no intention of owning a pet,” I explained as gently as I could, knowing how much my daughter loved animals and hating to disappoint her. CJ and I had argued endlessly on the merits of owning a pet, always with the same results. CJ wanted nothing to do with cats or dogs. He claimed he had allergies to both. And that, as they say, was
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