Dogs Don't Lie (25 page)
Delia refused to press charges. I wasn’t so nice, but this was a small town and Chris got two to five, once he agreed to anger management classes. He’d be out in less than a year, if he played it right. A slap on the wrist? Sure—and I was ready to let loose. But when he spoke up at the trial, making a point of saying that Lily had only been acting as a good guard dog, I realized I needed to let it go. He could have made trouble for Lily, still, and she didn’t need the hassle. I wasn’t going to hold my breath waiting for an invitation to the wedding, though.
Delia took Lily, when Nora Harris was carted away. She might have been willing to take the dog on at first because she’d thought she’d have the drive on her—I’d figured out that Delia had been the one asking Creighton about it—but they’d bonded as women in crisis can. Lily would keep Chris at bay, when he got out, and once I saw the pit bull with the kitten, I knew who would end up ruling that household. It wasn’t either of the blondes.
And Creighton? Well, it might not all have been as neat as he’d like, but he saw that there was some kind of justice done. Supervised care for Mrs. Harris: a nice name for psychiatric lockdown. It meant she’d go to a hospital, rather than a prison, but I’d seen the state hospital. She wasn’t going to be coddled. Basically, nobody liked the idea of a mother killing her son, and her lawyer made a big deal about her reduced capacity and the paranoia that can accompany dementia. Who knows? Maybe Charles had grabbed her, shaken her out of frustration. Maybe she had yelled for
him
to let her go, even before she struck at him—those wicked metal teeth tearing at his throat. Maybe, for a moment, she didn’t know her own son. I didn’t know, and I didn’t have the heart to grill Lily, even if she could have given me more. Nora Harris was losing her home, her garden, her independence. Everything she had killed Charles for. Creighton was too much of a cop to like it, even if it meant less paperwork. But deep in his heart, he was okay with it. He was an okay guy.
The whole episode had been strange, but as things shook out, it was Floyd who surprised me most. Despite the betrayal, despite the loss, the big cat never stopped yearning for his mistress’ brutish ex. Eleanor never did take him back. Her absence was probably supposed to signal some kind of disrespect, but I read it as guilt. She’d lobbed that rock through my window out of jealousy, not having the sense to realize it was Delia all along—and that my face off with Chris at the funeral had been more interrogation than romance. I don’t think she thought about Floyd, other than as a possession. To people like her, animals don’t register as sentient creatures. So when Chris came calling as a condition of his sentencing, to apologize and offer to make amends, I let nature take its course. Chris had been inside a month by then, and already he sounded different. Like maybe he got it, finally. And Floyd hadn’t returned to his neurotic grooming, but he’d been sleeping more than was healthy, even for a house cat. When he heard Chris’ voice, he was downstairs in a flash, standing on his hind legs and pushing his smooth black head into Chris’ hand, insisting on pets.
“Big boy, there you are.” Chris scooped the cat up, his wood slab of a face positively glowing.
“His name is Floyd.” I was still cautious.
“
He can call me whatever he wants
.” I didn’t need Wallis to translate that one.
“And I’ll be waiting for him always.”
***
Such devotion wasn’t in my cards, though Wallis and I continue to iron out both our communication issues and our territorial needs. Having a big house helps, and what with one thing and another, I ended up with a bit of a name for myself. Enough to bring in some clients so that when autumn faded, we could afford to heat the old place, at least through March.
It was late October by the time we got everything sorted. Wallis and I were sitting by the fire, watching the flames and dozing.
“You could return Mack’s calls, you know.” Wallis settled on her pillow. We’d pulled the old sofa up close enough to feel the warmth.
“Yeah, I know.” I watched a log collapse and distracted us both by adding another. A complete luxury; in another twenty minutes, I’d have to bank it and crawl into bed. I had three dog-walking clients now, and it was getting late.
Tonight, I enjoyed the flames and let my mind mull over the handsome gambler. I did think about Mack occasionally, much like I thought of Tom and Leo and Stevie. But Mack was different. We’d never had a chance, really. Maybe I was getting more sensible in my old age. Or maybe Wallis was right.
“Gonna be a cold winter.” Wallis kept staring at the fire, trying to pretend she hadn’t read my thoughts.
“Having a man around is no guarantee of anything.”
She shifted, tucking her feet under her. I couldn’t tell if she’d ceded that point or not. I reached out to stroke her smooth back, grateful for her company, and found myself thinking about Delia. She was showing now, but I hadn’t heard of her hitting up Mack—or anyone else, for that matter—for support. With Nora Harris locked away I didn’t know if she had another source of income.
“She could marry Chris Moore when he gets out,” Wallis broke in. “She’s managed him all those years.”
“Oh, please.” I wasn’t going to forget that afternoon at Nora Harris’ place. His rage. The violence.
Wallis yawned and stretched out one white paw, showing her claws in the firelight.
“I get it, Wallis. I’ve lashed out in anger, in jealousy, before, too. But not like that.”
She was silent, and I tried to read her cool green eyes. “What?” I asked. “So now you’re saying he’s
not
a complete ass?”
“Well, of course not,” said Wallis, stretching once more. “He likes cats.”
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