either of you sniffing around, I’ll have you put down like the mangy dogs you are.”
Clues lit up my brain. “Kat? Kat Fontaine? Wait, you were in the store, weren’t you?” I remembered her now—mostly because she’d worn a dress almost the same shade of yellow as her car—wandering around the store earlier. She’d had giant sunglasses on then.
“Of course, I was, you idiot. That’s how I know you and that blond jailbait are scheming together. It’s just too much of a coincidence for the two of you to work at the same place. It makes sense too—you must’ve realized you were too old for—” She quickly clamped her pink lips together.
I wasn’t the smartest cookie in the box but finally started to work out that she thought I was after her husband. The blond jailbait had to be Olly. I guessed, from a certain light, it could’ve seemed that way, but that would’ve meant Clay Carson was susceptible to the charms of young men. Maybe it had been him in that photo after all. I would’ve very much liked to ask her more about that but remembered Nick’s warning to keep my nose clean. And she seemed liable to eviscerate me if I got too inquisitive. Better calm her down. “Ms. Fontaine, I can assure you, neither of us has any designs on your husband, and I promise you’ll never see us again. I swear.”
She studied me with eyes narrowed to slits, as if trying to figure out if I’d been putting her on. I did my best to look earnest. It wasn’t hard. All I wanted was to be as far away from her as possible. I must’ve convinced her, because, mumbling obscenities under her breath, she got into her car. She reversed out of the parking spot, but before taking off, she yelled out the window, “You! Remember to keep away, or you’ll regret it.” She formed the shape of a gun with her fingers and aimed it at me. The look in her eyes let me know she wished it was a real gun.
I watched her zoom out of the parking lot in a yellow blur. Yellow—never my favorite color. Too full of envy and jealousy.
I took the surface streets home, because if I was going to get into an accident—and the way things were going, that was a distinct possibility—I’d rather not have it happen on the freeway. My brain was overflowing with unhappy thoughts already. It seemed like no matter what I did or didn’t do, I kept getting into trouble and cheesing people off. Like a good boy, I hadn’t gone to that damn party and still got burned. If this wasn’t proof of the curse, I didn’t know what was.
Getting back to Burbank unscathed was at least a good sign. I checked in on Mrs. G, who was sitting outside in her usual chair in that weather. Old people were a lot like cats—they loved heat. I asked how her day had gone, and she rambled on about Bertie Wooster, the gas-company man, and the green parrots that had recently moved into the neighborhood. The birds made an awful racket, but only during the day. According to Mrs. G, they were house pets gone feral.
I puttered around the apartment and then had mac and cheese for dinner while watching the evening news. It was the usual mix of natural disasters, murder and politicians, but at least the weatherman promised a break in the heat by midweek. When the commercial with that stupid lizard came on, I scrambled for the remote and managed to knock my juice glass on the floor. At the sound of shattering glass, I burst into a string of heartfelt obscenities. I had to take several deep breaths and fight back the urge to grab whatever was at hand and hurl it across the room. It would’ve felt gratifying for a moment, but not worth the trouble of scrubbing melted cheese off the wall.
At least I had hardwood floors so I didn’t have to deal with soggy carpet. I cleaned up the mess and threw the rest of my dinner away. I’d lost my appetite. Back before Pancake had run away, this would’ve been a time when she sat in my lap purring while I scratched her head and felt less alone. I
Clues lit up my brain. “Kat? Kat Fontaine? Wait, you were in the store, weren’t you?” I remembered her now—mostly because she’d worn a dress almost the same shade of yellow as her car—wandering around the store earlier. She’d had giant sunglasses on then.
“Of course, I was, you idiot. That’s how I know you and that blond jailbait are scheming together. It’s just too much of a coincidence for the two of you to work at the same place. It makes sense too—you must’ve realized you were too old for—” She quickly clamped her pink lips together.
I wasn’t the smartest cookie in the box but finally started to work out that she thought I was after her husband. The blond jailbait had to be Olly. I guessed, from a certain light, it could’ve seemed that way, but that would’ve meant Clay Carson was susceptible to the charms of young men. Maybe it had been him in that photo after all. I would’ve very much liked to ask her more about that but remembered Nick’s warning to keep my nose clean. And she seemed liable to eviscerate me if I got too inquisitive. Better calm her down. “Ms. Fontaine, I can assure you, neither of us has any designs on your husband, and I promise you’ll never see us again. I swear.”
She studied me with eyes narrowed to slits, as if trying to figure out if I’d been putting her on. I did my best to look earnest. It wasn’t hard. All I wanted was to be as far away from her as possible. I must’ve convinced her, because, mumbling obscenities under her breath, she got into her car. She reversed out of the parking spot, but before taking off, she yelled out the window, “You! Remember to keep away, or you’ll regret it.” She formed the shape of a gun with her fingers and aimed it at me. The look in her eyes let me know she wished it was a real gun.
I watched her zoom out of the parking lot in a yellow blur. Yellow—never my favorite color. Too full of envy and jealousy.
I took the surface streets home, because if I was going to get into an accident—and the way things were going, that was a distinct possibility—I’d rather not have it happen on the freeway. My brain was overflowing with unhappy thoughts already. It seemed like no matter what I did or didn’t do, I kept getting into trouble and cheesing people off. Like a good boy, I hadn’t gone to that damn party and still got burned. If this wasn’t proof of the curse, I didn’t know what was.
Getting back to Burbank unscathed was at least a good sign. I checked in on Mrs. G, who was sitting outside in her usual chair in that weather. Old people were a lot like cats—they loved heat. I asked how her day had gone, and she rambled on about Bertie Wooster, the gas-company man, and the green parrots that had recently moved into the neighborhood. The birds made an awful racket, but only during the day. According to Mrs. G, they were house pets gone feral.
I puttered around the apartment and then had mac and cheese for dinner while watching the evening news. It was the usual mix of natural disasters, murder and politicians, but at least the weatherman promised a break in the heat by midweek. When the commercial with that stupid lizard came on, I scrambled for the remote and managed to knock my juice glass on the floor. At the sound of shattering glass, I burst into a string of heartfelt obscenities. I had to take several deep breaths and fight back the urge to grab whatever was at hand and hurl it across the room. It would’ve felt gratifying for a moment, but not worth the trouble of scrubbing melted cheese off the wall.
At least I had hardwood floors so I didn’t have to deal with soggy carpet. I cleaned up the mess and threw the rest of my dinner away. I’d lost my appetite. Back before Pancake had run away, this would’ve been a time when she sat in my lap purring while I scratched her head and felt less alone. I
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