Laying Down the Paw (19 page)

My emotions were all over the place. When someone was hurt in a violent crime, it was easy to assign blame. But a natural disaster was an entirely different story. Who was at fault here? God? Satan? Corporate polluters whose emissions caused climate change? All of us who drove cars that decimated the ozone layer, leading to more frequent and extreme weather conditions? And, while catching a criminal and bringing him to justice could provide some closure, where was the closure here? When would this tragedy be “over?” When the last victims had been either buried in a cemetery or released from the hospital? When the grief of those who'd lost loved ones became manageable, if ever it would?

Blurgh.

Though I could certainly use a spiritual fix this morning, I'd slept too late to make it to Mass with my family. Maybe I could hit the Wednesday evening service this week.

The only thing lifting my spirits after yesterday's tragic events was the fact that I'd be leaving this crappy apartment behind by the end of the day. Even mean Mother Nature couldn't put a damper on that.

I dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a long-sleeved tee—moving attire—and began to pack up my apartment, glad to have the distraction. Given that I wore uniforms to work, had a limited off-duty wardrobe, and virtually no remaining shoes thanks to Brigit's chewing habit, it didn't take me long to pack my clothes. My coffeepot, toaster, and blender went into a large box with my small collection of plates, pots, pans, and utensils. The few items from the bathroom fit in a recyclable shopping bag.

My books were another story. I had an entire bookcase full of them. Rather than pack them in a large box, which would quickly become too heavy to lift, I stacked them in a series of smaller boxes and, when I ran out of those, slid the remaining few into a rolling suitcase.

A knock sounded at my door a few minutes before one o'clock. Brigit normally announced a visitor's presence long before they reached our door, but today she'd been sound asleep on the futon, snoring even. She was as drained by yesterday's events as I was.

Seth and Blast stood on the walkway. Seth looked as tired and defeated as I felt. Being a first responder wasn't easy, physically or emotionally.

His green eyes met mine, clouding with concern as he seemed to assess my mental state. I must have looked even worse than I'd realized, because Seth immediately stepped forward and gathered me into his arms. I'd thought I'd cried every tear I had by then, but it turned out a few more had been hiding in reserve. I wet Seth's shoulder with them as he stroked my hair and held me. Neither of us said anything. But, really, what was there to say? Words couldn't change anything that had happened. But Seth's strong, comforting arms could make me feel safe and secure, give me some hope.

When my reserve ran dry, I gently pushed him back and wiped my eyes on my sleeve. Time to focus on the task at hand. Moving. “Thanks for getting the truck.”

Seth had rented a small Budget truck this morning and driven it to my place.

“No problem,” he replied, following me into my apartment. After he and Blast gave Brigit their standard greetings—a head pat from Seth and a butt sniff from Blast—Seth gestured to the futon. “Let's start with the big pieces.”

We waved the dogs off the couch. While our canine partners wrestled and wrangled noisily on the floor, Seth and I folded the oversized cushion in half and performed our own wrangling, carrying the cushion out the door, down the stairs, and to the truck, laying it on top of a clean tarp Seth had spread across the floor.

At the back of the truck sat a huge rectangular gift more than three feet long and nearly as tall and wide. It was covered in red Valentine's wrap covered with cartoon cupids, as was another flat box wrapped in the same paper. I had a Valentine's gift for Seth, too, though mine was small enough to fit into my purse.

Seth caught me eyeing the gifts. “Not yet,” he said with a coy smile. “Not until we've got you moved into your new place.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Party pooper.”

My current next-door neighbor, Rhino, was sitting on the wicker loveseat I'd bought secondhand several months ago and placed by the pool. He put down the guitar he'd been noodling around on and stepped to the chain-link fence that surrounded the pool. Rhino, so named because he wore his hair glued to a point over his forehead, had played in a seemingly endless list of alternative rock bands with such illustrious names as Crotch Rot and Toe Jam. Though his late-night practice sessions often impaired my sleep, he was otherwise a decent guy.

He draped his forearms over the fence. “You moving out?”

“Yeah,” I told him. “I found a roommate with a house. Brigit needs a yard.”

“Sweet!” he called. “I mean, not sweet that you're moving but sweet that your apartment will be up for rent. Our drummer's been looking for some new digs. If he moved into your place we could carpool to gigs.” He stepped out of the gate. “Y'all need some help?”

“We'd appreciate it,” I said. “Thanks, Rhino.”

He followed us up the stairs to my apartment. While he and Seth each took an end of the futon frame and finagled it out the door, I folded the legs on the cheap card table that served as my dinette set and collapsed the chair that went with it. I returned to the truck with these lightweight items and slid them into a space behind the futon.

Seth and Rhino brought the bookcase down next, while I carried the big box of kitchen utensils. After a couple more trips to load the boxes of clothing and books, the last thing I brought down were my most-prized possessions, my twirling batons and fire batons. I'd recently performed with my fire batons at the stock show and rodeo, earning loud applause and even a few catcalls from the audience.

I ordered Rhino a pizza as a show of my gratitude and, while Seth kept the dogs entertained outside, vacuumed the dog fur off the carpet and performed a quick cleaning of the apartment. It was a tiny place, so it didn't take long.

Once the vacuum and cleaning supplies were stashed in the moving truck, I went to Grigsby's apartment to return my keys.

He answered the door with a television remote in his hand. “You clean the place?” he asked without preamble.

“Yes,” I said. “You can go check if you want.”

I knew he wouldn't. The guy was as lazy as they come.

He waved a dismissive hand, which he then held out to me. “Keys?”

I dropped my apartment and mailbox keys into his hand. “Did you lease my apartment yet? Rhino has a friend who's looking for a place.”

“I thought I had it rented,” Grigsby said, “but the guy's deposit check bounced.” He leaned out the door and hollered across the lot to Rhino, who'd settled back on the wicker love seat and resumed his noodling. “Rhino! Come on over here!”

I left the two of them to their negotiations, rounded up Brigit, and put her in my Smart Car while Seth loaded Blast into the cab of the truck.

As I pulled out of the lot, I took one last look back at Eastside Arms, expecting a tug at my heart, a brief sense of melancholy. Nope. Couldn't muster up any feelings for the place other than a big sense of relief that I wouldn't be living there anymore.

C'est la vie.

Seth followed me in the truck to the rental house. We had to detour a few blocks out of the way to avoid the crews still working on Berry Street and the surrounding areas. Unlike yesterday, many of those working today were civilians. Tree trimming services. Contractors boarding up broken windows. Plumbers capping off leaking pipes. Store owners trying to salvage what they could from the remains of their shops. Insurance adjustors assessing damage.

I turned into the driveway of the house while Seth pulled the truck to the curb. Brigit and I climbed out of the car and met Seth and Blast in the front yard, which bore a scattering of broken tree limbs, leaves, and trash, evidence of yesterday's storm. The magnolia tree was missing several branches and the mailbox stood crooked now, but fortunately, the house itself was intact.

Seth's gaze traveled from the sidewalk, then across the front of the house. “Nice-looking place.”

The front door opened, and Frankie stood there, still wearing flannel pajamas even though it was the afternoon. Her short blue hair, which had mostly been covered by her helmet when I'd met her, stuck up all over the place, looking as if she'd styled it with a cheese grater. Her eyes were still pink and puffy, which meant she'd shed a few more tears over her ex, but at least she was able to smile today. Her cat stuck his head between her calves and mewed.

“Welcome, roomie!” she said.

I introduced her to Seth and Blast.

Frankie picked up her cat and bounced her gently in her arms. “This little girl is Zoe.”

Introductions complete, Frankie and I took Seth on a quick tour of the place.

When we'd shown him around, Frankie said, “I'll throw on some clothes and help y'all get the stuff out of the truck.”

“That'd be great. Thanks.”

We let Blast and Brigit out into the backyard to play while we worked. We started with the futon, which we placed in the empty spot where Frankie's ex's sofa had been before he'd left with it. I'd slept on the thing at my old place, but it was time to move up to a real bed. Especially for that sleepover I'd promised Seth.

It took Zoe less than five minutes to claim the futon as her own, and us humans only half an hour to unload my meager possessions. When we finished, I glanced around my new bedroom. The only furniture in the room was the card table and bookcase, unless you counted the plastic crates I kept my lingerie and socks in. I needed not only a bed, but also a dresser and a night table.

“Mind if we do some furniture shopping while we've got the truck?” I asked Seth.

“I'm all yours today,” he said, sliding me a sexy glance. “Do with me what you will.”

I slid him a sexy glance right back. “That's an open-ended offer.” One of these days—
soon
—I was going to take him up on it.

On our way out, I poked my head into the kitchen to let Frankie know we were leaving for a bit. “Need anything while I'm out?”

“Nah,” she said. “I work nights stocking groceries at Kroger so it's easy for me to pick things up after my shift.”

Good to know.

Seth and I loaded the dogs into the rental truck and set out for the nearest mattress store. Minutes later, Seth and the salesman were loading a plastic-wrapped queen-sized mattress and box spring into the rental truck, along with a metal frame and a padded headboard that would be great for sitting up to read in bed.

Next, I directed Seth to the home of Honeysuckle Sewell, an older woman who lived in an ancient wood-frame house on the east side of town and ran a perpetual yard sale on her front lawn. When one of the Tunabomber's explosives had detonated at the country club last fall, Honeysuckle had lost her left eye and three fingers on her left hand. She hadn't let the injuries slow her down, though. She was back in business and as busy as ever. More so, really. After the local paper ran an interview with her, people in Fort Worth had begun taking their gently used but no longer needed furniture to Honeysuckle to sell.

Dressed in her usual denim overalls and red Keds sneakers, Honeysuckle was discussing a framed oil painting with a woman as we pulled up. The painting featured an orange-and-white horned steer standing among bluebonnets, standard art fare in Texas. Honeysuckle's left eye socket was covered with a white patch, but her right eye performed double duty. She spotted my familiar face in the truck's window and gave me a smile and a wave. I sent a smile and wave back her way.

Seth and I leashed the dogs and climbed out of the truck to check out today's selection of furnishings. With the yard still soft and moist from yesterday's storm, Honeysuckle had her wares set out on tarps today. I found a tall maple dresser that looked promising, though the drawers seemed to stick when I tried to open them.

“Darn,” I said. I liked the look of this one but I didn't want to wrestle the thing for a clean pair of undies every day.

Seth lifted a shoulder. “It just needs a little sandpaper and wax.”

“You know how to fix things like this?”

“Sure,” he said, sliding me another sexy smile. “I'm good with my hands.”

Honeysuckle glanced our way and I pointed at the dresser, then myself, letting her know I'd called dibs on the piece. She nodded in acknowledgment before leading the woman to another painting, this one of a black-and-white striped lighthouse surrounded by seagulls in flight.

Seth and I walked farther into the yard and came upon a couple of bedside tables. Neither matched the wood on the dresser, but that was okay with me. At this point in my life, price and function were more important than style. “I think I like the white one with the oval top best.”

Finished bargaining with her other shopper, Honeysuckle traded the lighthouse painting for some bills, slid the cash into a fanny pack at her waist, and moseyed over. “How are you, Officer Megan?”

“Doing good,” I told her. I gestured to Seth. “This is Seth.”

She held out a hand to Seth, the eye patch raising along with her brow.

“I'm Megan's boyfriend,” he clarified.

Boyfriend.
Yeah, I still wasn't used to the sound of that. I mean, it's not like I'd never dated, but I hadn't been in a serious relationship since I'd finished college and started work at the police department over a year ago. Besides, given my unstable relationship with Seth, it felt a little strange to finally put a label on it. But maybe I was overthinking things. Every couple had their ups and downs, right?

Honeysuckle shook Seth's hand. “Nice to meet you.”

I glanced around, noting none of the pieces showed signs of hail or water damage. “What did you do with all of this stuff yesterday when the storm hit?”