Miss Ruffles Inherits Everything (21 page)

“He's kind of a runt for a Texas Cattle cur,” she said.

“He's small for a male,” I agreed, thinking he might even pass for a girl dog at a distance. He had the little bristle of longish feathering on his hind legs, too. If Mae Mae and Mr. Carver didn't look too closely, I might pull off the ruse long enough to get Miss Ruffles back safe and sound. I knelt down and exchanged the length of rope around his neck with the new collar and leash.

“It's none of my business.” Crazy Mary watched me work. “But are you sure this is a good idea?”

I patted Fred. “I'll make sure his last days are happy ones.”

She met my gaze calmly. “That's not what I mean. You're going to try to pass Fred off as Miss Ruffles, right?”

“I … well…”

“Don't worry. I'll keep your secret. Nobody talks to me anyway. I just wonder if you're doing the right thing. Do you think Miss Ruffles is dead?”

I gulped and tried to control my expression. The shock of seeing the conditions in the kennel had heightened my concern for Miss Ruffles. I could hardly get my voice to work. “I hope not.”

Mary nodded. “Honeybelle really loved that dog.”

“Did you know Honeybelle?”

“Sure. She gave money to a lot of people—anybody who asked, really. She paid my tuition.”

The grad student who was studying Appalachian music. I said, “Your banjo and violin. You're studying folk music.”

“How'd you know that?”

“I read it in … never mind. I get it now. You're always playing on the sidewalks.”

Crazy Mary turned slightly pink. “Honeybelle paid for my tuition, but I have living expenses. I used to give lessons, but the parents are a pain. So I thought I'd try being a busker, a street performer. It's not bad money. People give me cash when I play. I play in a band a couple nights a week, but there are a bunch of us, so when the kitty gets split up, I don't get much.”

“I've seen you play. You're really good.”

“Thanks. I'm working on recording and writing a book, too. I really plan to pay Honeybelle back. Even now that she's gone.”

“Was that part of the deal?” I asked. “I wondered if her will might have forgiven you the debt.”

“Honeybelle was really strict about the loan. I assume I'm still supposed to pay her back. I haven't been told otherwise. Is somebody in charge of her estate?”

“Her lawyers are on vacation.”

Hearing that information, Crazy Mary lost interest in our conversation. We said good-bye. Fred was so sleepy that I ended up carrying him to the car. I put him on the passenger seat, where he promptly began to snore and drool onto the carpet.

“This might be a crazy idea, and you're no Miss Ruffles,” I said to him. “But you'll have to do.”

 

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Don't accept your dog's admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.

—ANN LANDERS

First thing I did when we got back to Honeybelle's house was to give Fred a bath. He smelled like every dog that had ever done time in a kennel—more like dried poop than anything else. I lathered him up twice with the shampoo I used on Miss Ruffles. He stood still for the indignity of being squirted with the hose, his eyes full of sorrow. After the final rinse when I bundled him into a towel, his stumpy tail gave a disinterested wag.

I gave him some kibble, which he ate with care, as though his teeth hurt. Afterward, he wandered out onto the lawn and went to sleep in a patch of sunlight. I heard him sigh.

To stay out of range of interrogation by Mae Mae and Mr. Carver, I spent the afternoon cleaning the pool with the long-handled hose, trying to plan a way to confront Posie without breaking the law.

I kept an eye on Fred, too. I worried his low energy might attract notice. To me, he was obviously not Miss Ruffles. But that evening at dinner, Mr. Carver and Mae Mae paid no attention to him. He slept in the hot grass through our meal, and only perked up when I fed him more kibble in the evening.

That night I discovered Fred didn't like to be left alone. At first I closed him in Honeybelle's room to keep up the charade that Miss Ruffles was still in the house. But as soon as I scampered up to my room, he had enough energy to let out a mournful howl. I hustled back down to him before he woke Mae Mae with his lament.

“
Shh!
You can stay in my room if you're quiet,” I told him. I made a bed for him out of some towels on the floor. But just after I drifted off to sleep, he jumped up onto my bed and scared the bejesus out of me.

“You can't be on your last legs if you can jump up here.” I shooed him off and put him back on the towels, but he was determined. Every time I zonked out, Fred jumped up again, until I finally surrendered and let him sleep on the coverlet. Within an hour, he was under the coverlet. He put his cold nose against my foot and made me yelp.

Once he was in bed with me, I discovered he had the noisy digestive issues of a dyspeptic grandfather. I got up and opened the window and made sure his rear end was pointed away from me.

“You're sweet,” I said, climbing back into bed, “but you're disgusting.”

In the morning, Fred wasn't in any hurry to get out of bed. His eyes were open, but when I tried to lure him down to the floor, he only wagged his tail slightly and stayed put.

I said, “Miss Ruffles would be doing laps around the backyard by now.”

The mention of Miss Ruffles gave me a twist in my stomach. Was she okay? If my current plan worked, I'd know in a few hours. I wondered if my nerves would hold out that long.

I pulled out some of my little-used cosmetics and sat on the floor in front of Fred. With a brush, I touched up the white hair on his muzzle. He did look a little more like Miss Ruffles. Fred politely held still for his makeover. When I tried drawing her distinctive eyebrow over one eye, though, he sighed.

“Don't make me feel any more guilty than I already do,” I said to him, touching up the eyebrow.

Fred's stub fluttered.

“Ready to go downstairs now? How about some breakfast?”

Fred allowed himself to be carried downstairs.

My biggest problem on Monday morning was keeping Mr. Carver and Mae Mae in the dark.

I had already decided I needed a diversion. I tackled Mae Mae first. After feeding Fred and installing him on the patio for a nap, I found her in the kitchen making a pot of ultrastrong coffee before preparing breakfast. A carton of eggs sat on the counter alongside an onion and some mushrooms and a whole stick of butter. The iron skillet was warming up on the stove. It looked as if Mae Mae was once again making a meal that Honeybelle would have disapproved of. I opened the refrigerator and reached for the orange juice.

“Mae Mae, have you ever typed up your collection of recipes?”

“I don't type.” She frowned as she poured coffee beans into the grinder. “What would I do that for?”

“I was talking to Poppy Appleby yesterday. She's interested in doing a cooking show.”

Mae Mae kept her face averted as she worked. “What kind of cooking show?”

“She wants to produce a show for the TV station. You know, recipes and cooking and talking. Since she's doing research, I bet she'd be interested in your wonderful recipes. And you.”

Mae Mae punched a button with her blunt finger, and the coffee grinder snarled to life. “I never write down anything.”

I had seen Mae Mae cook. She knew instinctively what ingredients went into each of her dishes. I poured juice into a short glass. “Oh, that's too bad. I told Poppy about your cooking. And when Ten praised your food to the sky, she really got interested.”

Mae Mae didn't care about my opinion, but she perked up at the mention of Ten. “There's nobody who cooks like I do in this town.”

“I know. All the more shame that your recipes aren't written down.”

She jutted her jaw as she poured the ground beans into the coffeemaker and added water to the reservoir. “If I write them down, somebody's going to steal 'em.”

“Not if you get them copyrighted.”

“Copyrighted.” From her tone, it sounded as if she didn't know what the word meant, but she wasn't planning on admitting it.

“I'll bet Ten would help you with that part. It would be easy for him to do—wouldn't cost you a penny. You might have to make him dinner once in a while, that's all. He loves your cooking.” I drained my juice and rinsed the glass under the tap and put it into the dishwasher. “Too bad you're too busy to write them down. Well, I guess Poppy will have to look for recipes somewhere else.

Mae Mae was silent, thinking while her coffee brewed.

I grabbed the dog leash off the peg by the back door. “Miss Ruffles needs her walk. Need anything from town?”

She had never asked me to run any errands before, but she suddenly said, “Stop at the Tejas and go to the butcher. He keeps a special sausage for me. Get two pounds.”

“Of special sausage,” I said.

“Tell him it's for me. He'll know what you mean. Did you give that dog her pills this morning?”

“I … No, I guess I forgot.” I grabbed the bottle of canine vitamins off the windowsill and shook one into my palm. “Thanks for reminding me. See you later, Mae Mae.”

She grunted, but out of the corner of my eye I saw her reach for the drawer where she kept a large notepad. With luck, she'd be busy for the whole morning.

I tucked the vitamin into my pocket for Fred—he looked as if he could use vitamins—and went outside to check the back gate. I assumed the dognapper planned to leave me another note there, but I saw no signs of an envelope or paper yet. The Blues Brothers hadn't arrived this morning either. They were probably having their own breakfast somewhere in town.

When Honeybelle was alive, Mr. Carver always got up early to open the house, adjust the air-conditioning, and tidy up anything that Honeybelle had left out overnight. That done, he usually waited for his breakfast in the conservatory while reading the local newspaper.

Now that Honeybelle was gone, though, Mr. Carver waited in his apartment to be summoned for breakfast. Sometimes Mae Mae went out onto the back porch and bellowed for him. On the days she was feeling kinder, she sent me to bring him down from his apartment.

I climbed the outdoor staircase alongside the garage and tapped lightly on Mr. Carver's door. It was a little earlier than usual.

He opened the door promptly and stood before me in his usual trousers and white dress shirt. With an enormous guitar slung around his shoulders by a strap.

I tried not to stare at the guitar. “Miss Ruffles and I are going for our morning run now, Mr. Carver, and to run an errand for Mae Mae. I was hoping to take Miss Ruffles over to the football field again later. Mind if I borrow the car?”

“Go ahead. In fact, I should just give you the keys. I trust you with the car. Except for church, I use the van if I need transportation.” From a hook near the door, he lifted a set of car keys and handed them over. Then he glanced around me. “Is Miss Ruffles making any progress with her training?”

“We're making a little progress, but it's slow.” I hated lying to him, but I figured it was better for his heart if I kept the truth to myself. “Thanks for the keys. I'll take good care of the car, I promise.”

Formally, he said, “Thank you for taking such good care of Miss Ruffles. I haven't said that before, but it … well, it's important now. Thank you, Sunny.”

I couldn't respond to that. All our futures depended on me taking care of Miss Ruffles, and I had failed miserably.

I eyed the guitar. “Do you need some help?”

“No, no. Just doing a little … uh, rehearsing.”

Rehearsing? I peered around him.

After a moment's hesitation, he stood back from the door to let me see into his apartment for the first time.

I was expected a tidy living space, I guess, with an English tea spread out on an antique table perhaps, or an ironing board standing ready for Mr. Carver to press his always immaculate clothes into their usual perfection.

Instead I saw what looked more like a music recording studio.

An upright piano stood in the middle of the room with sheet music arranged on it. Beside it was another guitar on a stand, plus a small instrument about the size of a violin but differently shaped. The furniture was pushed to the edges of the room.

“May I come in?” I asked, unable to tear my curious gaze from the instruments. “What's going on?”

“You can't tell Mae Mae,” he said shyly. “Only Honeybelle knew about this.”

He closed the door quietly behind me, and I advanced into the room. The rest of the apartment was as clean as I might have expected from Mr. Carver, with simple, worn furniture that might have been Honeybelle's castoffs pressed into service as the furnishings of a modest bachelor pad. But half of the space was taken up by musical instruments of various kinds.

I touched a piano key, and the note rose softly in the air. “I've heard you playing late at night. I thought it was the radio.”

I turned to him and found the old man smiling uncertainly at me. “Are you surprised?”

“Yes, of course. You say Honeybelle knew about this?”

“Yes, she encouraged me. But … er … I don't tell Mae Mae about my music.”

“Why not?”

“You know how she gets.”

I did. If Mae Mae disapproved of something, she could make Mr. Carver's life miserable. “What kind of music do you play?”

“All kinds. Jazz, mostly, and blues. My mother was a singer in St. Louis. My father was a studio musician in Memphis, back in the day.” He couldn't stop himself from smiling at his memories. “It's just a hobby for me. I like to make new arrangements of old songs.”

“That's fascinating. I'd love to hear you play. Or am I interrupting?”