A Shot in the Bark (A Dog Park Mystery) (19 page)

"Are you suggesting I'm prickly?"

"Hello to you, too. How are you?"

"I'm wondering what it means when a guy gives you a cactus."

"You don't like it?"

"I don't know yet."

"I thought it was pretty cool when Alma told me how rare it is when they bloom."

"Hmmm."

"She also told me about that plant at Krohn Conservatory that blooms every hundred years and stinks like rotting meat, but I didn't think you'd go for that one."

"It wouldn't fit in my studio, anyway. They had to pull out part of the roof last time it bloomed."

"If you don't like the cactus, I'm sure Alma wouldn't mind taking it back. She has a big heart for rejected strays."

Lia gently brushed the tips of the spines with her finger. "Are you an Indian giver now?"

"I can't win, can I?"

"Probably not."

"Will you paint this one, too?"

"Maybe."

"If I buy you lunch, will you tell me what's wrong?"

Lia sighed. "I really like you, Peter."

"But?"

"I keep freaking out about Luthor being murdered. I hate what I'm finding out about him and what that says about me. And I can't take looking at all my friends and wondering who's going to pull out a knife. Everything is really squirrelly, you know? It makes it hard for me to think about dating."

"I wish I could make it go away. I'm almost sorry I told you about Luthor. But I couldn't stand to see you blame yourself."

"What about your investigation?"

Now it was Peter's turn to sigh. "It's going nowhere. I've been told to stop spending time on it, since there's no physical evidence at the scene to link to a suspect. We've got nothing unless your phone shows up. And if he was as smart as I think, he pulled the SIM card and tossed it."

"Will he do it again?"

"I don't know. I wish I could say it isn't likely, but since we don't know the motive, we can't speculate when, where or even if he'll strike again. It would be a very good idea to never agree to meet someone alone in an isolated area, especially if the invite came by text message."

The painting, when it was done, had an edgy feeling to it. Delicate tissue petals set against vicious spikes. A Jeckyll and Hyde kind of thing. Translucent reds and oranges against dull, dense greens. A study in contrasts. Lia thought it summed up how she felt, the tension of jagged edges of pain and mistrust against fluttery warmth.

Time made things no clearer to her. She felt awkward about Peter, about having jumped him on impulse and now having to deal with him. He wasn't hard to deal with, exactly. She just didn't know him and wasn't sure what his expectations were, or what she wanted. It had been a mistake, that afternoon in the studio. He was cute, but not exactly her type. He seemed to be a picket fence kind of guy. What did they have in common? After everything she found out about Luthor, maybe she shouldn't be with her type anyway. But what did it say about her that she hadn't been aware of the things Luthor had been up to? That she had been attracted to Luthor in the first place? Maybe she had no business being with anybody.

Lia finished the meditation bench and helped Bailey plant the garden while Jose excavated the pond and compacted sand on the twisting path. Next they would set in edging, lay the stones, then spread crushed limestone over the empty spaces in the path. She welcomed the long days and hard, sweaty work. It kept her from thinking about Peter too much.

She wasn't thinking about Peter . . . much. She
was
thinking about his warning. She turned to Jose and had a long talk about personal protection. Somehow she couldn't see herself carrying a taser all the time. Or a gun, or a snap-out baton. Surely she didn't need to be afraid, did she?

Then there was the problem with Bailey. Catherine was Catherine. And Catherine's frequent oversight was setting Bailey's nerves on edge. Not that Catherine wouldn't set anyone's nerves on edge, but in the past, Bailey had been able to toss off a joke, roll those protuberant eyes of hers, and stay focussed. Now she was moody. Lia worried that she was going to blow up on the job. Some days she was pumped up and raring to go, others she seemed like she could hardly crawl out of bed. And somedays, her mood turned on a dime, usually after a visit from Catherine. Bailey said it was just Catherine, and as soon as they finished the garden, she'd be better. Lia decided to take it on faith and let it go. Catherine was more inclined to talk to her anyway. So she buffered the two as best she could, and crossed her fingers that they'd make it to the end.

She saw Peter at the park. They had lunch, caught a Christian Bale movie, and by tacit agreement did not mention the afternoon they'd spent rolling on the floor in Lia's studio. Peter figured they were just catching up, doing things they should have done before rolling on the floor, and when the time was right they'd get back around to it. Peter had hunted as a young man in the Kentucky hills. He knew the value of waiting.

Peter had been pulled off the Morrisey case to chase down car-jackers operating on Hamilton Avenue. "Cheeky bastards," he said. "District Five is less than half a mile away."

"Do Kentucky boys say 'cheeky'?"

"They do if they've spent any time around Terry. How is he?"

"No change. Donna goes to see him every day and she reads Bernard Cornwell to him." Peter gave her a quizzical look. "Medieval war novels," she explained. "She keeps slipping in deviations from historical facts. She's hoping he'll bolt up and call her on it."

"I don't know if that's sweet or sad. What's the prognosis?"

"The swelling's gone down. So far, no obvious signs of long term damage, but with the brain it's hard to say. At least that's what they tell me."

For the hell of it, Peter read the fifth Harry Potter book,
The Order of the Phoenix
. He decided Cho Chang was a twit and told Brent so.

Terry's eyelashes fluttered. Donna's heart stopped. Frantic, she ran to the nurses station and demanded a doctor. By the time one arrived, Terry's eyes were open and he was talking.

"Sir," the resident asked, "Can you tell me what year it is?"

"Gregorian, Julian, Mayan, or Jewish?"

Confused, the resident doggedly continued. "Sir, can you name the president?"

"You mean that fellow who let a serial killer babysit his children?"

The neurological resident looked bewildered. "Sounds delirious," he muttered to the nurse. "Sir, can you give me a name?"

" Comrade Urkel? How about asking me something worth answering, like the Pharaohs of the 19th Dynasty, in order?" Tears ran down Donna's face. "Now, that was a government worth talking about. Ramses I, Seti I, Ramses II, Merneptah, Seti II, Amenmesse, Siptah, ah, and we must not forget little known and under-appreciated Queen Twosret." He punctuated the last name with a pointed index finger.

"Sir, you aren't making any sense."

"Only due to your limited intelligence. Fetch me a doctor with a real education."

The resident noticed Donna smiling through her tears and realized that she was not at all upset by his patient's behavior. "Is this typical?"

"Terry is never typical. But this is normal for him."

All wasn't normal. Terry could recite the periodic table. He could calculate pi to twenty decimal places in his head. This he chose to do instead of counting backwards from 100 by three, as requested by the doctor. He named all the prime numbers under 500. He could not remember falling, or even being on the roof. They told him it was expected to have some memory loss of the events preceding a concussion.

Terry was bothered. He suspected that somehow, he'd forgotten something important.

Bailey twitched the mosquito netting in place on their improvised butterfly house.

"It's a bit much, isn't it?" Lia asked, eyeing the plethora of hanging baskets full of Fuchsia and Tuberous Begonias. Pots of Geraniums in every color were stacked around the pavilion's support posts and along the perimeter of the tent.

"But it's made her so happy. Our Catherine loves overkill. The butterflies will certainly be entertained. They aren't native, but they will make a lovely splash of color, and she can decorate her deck with these after the party's over."

"I'm so impressed. You've got her being smug about her plants not being jammed in like sardines."

"It just took citing a few eco-conscious Hollywood types who've gone the native plant route, giving her a few names to drop. She now knows she's in exalted company."

"Lia! Bailey! Have I told you how wonderful this is?" Catherine picked her way across the stepping stones in her 'koi moat' to the little island. Lia watched her totter across the creek in her spike-heeled sandals and mentally shook her head. "How brilliant of you to come up with a canopy of mosquito netting so the butterflies would have sunshine. Is everything ready to let them loose?"

"Whenever you say," Lia responded. "We've placed extra pots of flowers for them to feed on while they're in here."

"It looks lovely! I thought about waiting until everyone was here later this evening, but then I thought, why keep them cooped up any longer? Their lives are so short, they should get all the sunshine they can."

"If you want, you can sit in the tent and open the hatchery. You'll get to watch them come out, and you can spend some time alone with them."

"What a marvelous way to get ready for the party!"

Lia pulled the hatchery out from under the bench. "We'll leave you, then. Just be sure to close the netting all the way when you come out." She showed Catherine the strips of magnets designed to ensure the flaps sealed securely.

They left Catherine to enjoy her island paradise and strolled the path, savoring bright splashes of blossoms. "It turned out well, didn't it, Bailey?"

"I'd say so. Maybe some of Catherine's society friends will want one of their very own."

"You going to be okay now?"

Bailey sighed, "For a while I was wondering if I was going to be able to see it through. Thanks for running interference."

"Hey, what are friends for? I could wait awhile before we tackle another one. I swear, I'll never agree to such an insane schedule on a big job again."

"It's like childbirth. They tell me you forget all the pain and that's the only reason anyone ever does it again."

"Yeah, you're right. I get in the middle of some huge project and I promise myself I'm never going to do it again and then I turn around and make a proposal for something twice as big. Come on, girlfriend, let's go put on our party shoes."

"Detective, Officer, I'm so glad you both made it." Catherine's smile was bright and impersonal as she ushered Peter and Brent into her side yard. "Have you seen the labyrinth? You
must
walk it. There's food and drinks by the back deck. Don't forget the sushi bar." She wafted off, the lavender and cerise silk of her caftan fluttering behind her. Peter suspected she had decided to take the butterfly theme to heart.

He heard strains of exotic music pulsing from the rear of the property. "What is that?" Peter asked.

"I think it's called Ethno-trance-fusion or something like that. Sounds like Mayan Ruins. Gotta love those drums, they're positively tribal," Brent said. "You go check out the labyrinth, I'm looking for a beer."

Peter followed the winding path into Lia's garden. He let jewel-toned mosaics lead him through the loops and turns. His mind wandered with his feet and he thought about the woman who could create such loveliness, for whom looking at the world around her was an adventure and a delight. He wondered what she saw in him, an ordinary guy with no special window on the world. One more turn brought him to the edge of the koi pond . . . no, koi
moat
, as Lia told him Catherine insisted on calling it. Brightly colored fish darted among rocks and aquatic plants. He looked up and saw Lia sitting on the bench, still as a statue while Painted Ladies and Swallowtails floated around her on dancing wings. He crossed the moat.

"I'd knock, but there's nothing to knock on," he announced.

"Come on in. I saw you on the path. Did you enjoy the walk?"

"Not as much as I'm enjoying myself now." He could swear the air around her sparkled as she smiled. "Is there room on the bench for two?"

"I suspect so." She scooted to one side. If you're quiet, they may land on you."

"Really?"

"Three of them have sat on me so far."

"That's because you smell so pretty."

"That's because I didn't have you here for competition. Just sit still and wait. Don't talk."

He wrapped an arm around her and she dropped her head against his shoulder. He imagined himself sitting with her, just like this, no butterflies necessary, when he was old and arthritic. Just Lia leaning on his shoulder, maybe looking at a fire, or watching a sunset. It was a warm thought. A Painted Lady fluttered down and sat on his shoulder. Lia grinned at him and he leaned over to kiss her, a brush of lips as soft as butterfly wings.

"Aw. She flew off," Lia pouted.

"That's okay. I got a grip on the prettiest lady here. I don't need any others."

"You're sweet."

"On you."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Hmmm," Lia considered.

"You can't be surprised."

"Guess not. You're not exactly the Sphinx."

"What do we do about this?"

Lia gave a contented sigh. "This is nice, just like this."

"Yes, it is."