Scoop to Kill (7 page)

“I stopped by the A-la-mode, but Bree said you were at home this morning.” His jaw tightened. “She didn’t mention you had company.”

“She didn’t know,” I said.

One dark eyebrow arched.

“No, what I mean is Finn just stopped by. He brought banana cake. You want some?”

Cal looked at me like I’d suggested he might want to streak naked through the courthouse square. “No. Thank you.”

“So what can I do for you?”

“I, uh . . .” He stopped and cleared his throat. “Thanks for coming to the, uh, the church yesterday.”

Funeral. I’d never known Cal McCormack to show a lick of fear, but he couldn’t say that little word.

“Of course, Cal. I hope you know how sorry I am. For you and for Marla.”

“Yeah, well, it means a lot.” He studied his boots. “You know, when bad things happen, you know who your friends are. They’re the ones who call or drop you a note and say, ‘Hey, if there’s anything I can do, just holler.’ ”

He paused again, and made a little sound in the back of his throat as though he were agreeing with himself. Then he looked up, and fixed me with the full power of that blistering blue gaze.

“You also learn who’s more than a friend. Who’s family. They’re the ones who walk right up to you and hold out their hands without even waiting for you to ask.”

I knew what it cost Cal to stand in the middle of my living room, a marmalade tabby winding between his feet, and let a little of the tenderness inside his hard cowboy heart show. And it did my own heart good to know that the bond we’d formed as children had survived our years of estrangement. I didn’t have much family, but what I had I held close. I’d gladly welcome Cal into that circle.

On impulse, I closed the gap between us and wrapped my arms around him. Cal stood nearly a foot taller than me, and I thought he might have a gun somewhere on his person, so the best I could manage was an awkward hug. I felt him stiffen, but then his own hands fumbled across my back until he held me tight against him.

I never saw a tear in his eyes or felt moisture against my cheek, but in his own way Cal McCormack cried that morning. Ripples of tension passed through his body, as though he were convulsing, heaving the pain from his body, and my hair muffled a raw sound that welled up from deep within him.

We stood that way for a long time, neither of us speaking, just letting the years melt away and feeling the old bonds of deep friendship.

Finally, Cal broke the silence. “Tally?”

“Hmmm?”

“Where’s the yarn?”

“What?” I asked, pulling away.

Cal pointed at the ground behind me. “Where’s the yarn?”

I turned and looked down at the floor. Sherbet crouched on the carpet, staring, slightly dazed, at the bare floor in front of him.

He belched daintily.

“Oh, crap,” I muttered, dropping to my haunches and searching the floor for the yarn. It didn’t seem possible that such a small cat, still little more than a kitten, could have consumed a whole ball of yarn in the blink of an eye. But the yarn had been there, and now it wasn’t. I lifted the edge of Grandma Peachy’s quilt from where I’d left it hanging off the couch, scattered the throw pillows, knocked over a stack of Alice’s schoolbooks. All in vain. The yarn was definitely gone.

Unless we had a ghost, the cat had eaten it. I’d never had a pet of any sort, much less a cat, but common sense told me that eating a yard of string couldn’t be good. I scooped up the cat, his body as sleek and firm as an otter in my grasp. “What do I do?” I said, looking frantically at Cal for guidance.

His emergency-response training kicked into gear.

“Where’s the cat carrier?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I wailed. “The house is such a freakin’ mess. I don’t know where anything is.”

“Calm down, Tally. It’s okay. We don’t need the carrier.” He disappeared down my hallway and returned a moment later with a bath towel. He shook it out and laid it across the back of the couch.

Gently, he pried Sherbet out of my hands, set the cat on the towel, and wrapped him up like a mummy. Just a blue terry-cloth football with a cat head sticking out of the top. Cal tucked the edge of the towel into a fold, so the bundle was secure, and handed the cat back to me.

“Come on, Tally. Let’s go. I’m driving.”

And just like that, our roles reversed. Strong, silent Cal had taken charge.

A
ll Creatures Animal Hospital smelled like wet dog and fear. I cradled Sherbet, still cocooned in his periwinkle towel, close to my body while Cal did the admitting paperwork for me.

A vet tech in hot pink scrubs directed us to the plastic chairs that ringed the waiting room and assured us a vet would be with us soon.

I looked down at Sherbet in my lap. He stared up at me with eyes like yellow marbles. I know he’s a cat, and I know they have very small brains, but I felt like we connected in that moment. He opened his mouth in a silent meow, and my heart about broke.

“I’m sorry, little man. I know you didn’t mean to do anything wrong. And I’m not going to let anything happen to you.”

I scratched behind his ears, and a tear escaped my eye to fall on his silky little head.

Cal’s big hand reached out and grasped mine, and he rested our twined fingers on Sherbet’s back.

“He’ll be fine, Tally,” Cal whispered.

“He’s a pretty cat.”

I hadn’t even noticed there was another person in the room, so her compliment startled me. The woman had a little kick-dog on her lap, one of those dogs that looks like someone stuck a small fox in a clothes dryer and let it get all puffy. This one had fur the color of ground cinnamon, but with a silvery muzzle and a frosting of white along the edges of his ears.

The woman herself looked like a shopping mall Mrs. Claus: an elfin woman with snow-white curls around peppermint-pink cheeks, a ring of delicate cream lace around the collar of her evergreen-colored blouse. She looked vaguely familiar, and I was pretty sure I’d seen her before. In real life, not just on a Norman Rockwell calendar.

The woman smiled, dimpling cheeks as soft and powdery as unbaked biscuits, and the dog’s tongue lolled out in a matching doggy grin. That’s when I placed her—she’d been at Bryan’s funeral, sitting with the faculty and representatives from Dickerson.

“Is your little friend sick?” the woman asked.

“He ate yarn,” I said. A nervous laugh escaped me. “That sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it?”

“Oh, no,” she said. “I’m a dog person, aren’t I, Ginger?” The dog on her lap shuffled his tiny feet, the tags around his neck jingling merrily. The woman’s voice sounded curiously flat and nasal to me. I couldn’t place the accent, maybe something East Coast, but she definitely wasn’t a Texan. “But my niece Madeline has a cat. She’s had terrible trouble with that cat eating all manner of things—strings, ribbons, dental floss, rubber bands. He’s already had surgery six times to remove foreign bodies.”

Six times?

I met Sherbet’s terrified yellow gaze again. I tried to send him a telepathic message:
let’s not make a habit of this, okay?

“What about Ginger, there? Is she okay?” Cal asked. I should have inquired myself, but I was way too freaked out by the thought of my little buddy going under the knife to be polite.

“He,” the woman corrected. “Ginger’s a boy. We’re here all the time, aren’t we, Ginger?” She lowered her face and the tiny dog licked the tip of her nose. She giggled girlishly. “Ginger’s getting up in years and has all the same problems his mommy has. Arthritis, diabetes, a heart murmur. Though thankfully he didn’t get the cancer.” She stroked a finger over the dog’s delicate throat, and he tipped back his head to give her better access. “I tell George, my husband, that he’ll probably have to have both me and Ginger put down at about the same time.”

She winked at us. “George is not amused.”

Despite my anxiety over Sherbet’s tummy, I found myself smiling back at the woman. That little bit of gallows humor showed a strength at odds with her delicate femininity. I pegged her as a tough old bird, and I had a soft spot for tough old birds.

“Detective McCormack, isn’t it?” she asked. Cal nodded. “I’m Rosemary Gunderson. My husband is George Gunderson, one of Bryan’s professors. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

Cal’s fingers tightened around mine.

“Thank you,” he said gruffly.

Rosemary stared at me expectantly. I didn’t feel like making small talk, even with this charming woman, but good manners demanded I introduce myself.

“I’m Tally Jones, and this here’s Sherbet,” I said, raising the cat a couple inches in greeting.

“Tally Jones, Tally Jones,” she muttered. Then her eyes lit up. “Of course, the ice cream lady!”

I laughed in spite of myself.

Rosemary prattled on. “Etta Harper is a dear friend, and she’s been urging me to come try your ice cream. Unfortunately, George doesn’t care for sweets much. I’ve been trying to tempt him into a lemon soufflé or a square of tiramisu at the Hickory Tavern every week for two years, and I still have yet to succeed. Their desserts are absolutely heavenly. Every now and then he’ll order one, but he never even touches it. Either I eat it for breakfast the next morning or he takes it to work to butter up the secretarial staff.”

That introduction packed a wealth of information about the Gundersons’ position in Dalliance society. Etta Harper was Finn’s mother, and the Harpers had helped found Dalliance. Etta Harper never socialized much with women outside her social stratum, and she’d been housebound for almost a year following a series of strokes. If Rosemary Gunderson still had contact with Mrs. Harper, she was a dear friend, indeed.

A comfortably wealthy dear friend, at that. The Hickory Tavern boasted the most upscale and expensive menu in town. My ex, Wayne, was a successful businessman, but the Hickory Tavern was still a special treat, the sort of place we went for anniversaries and birthdays. Yet the Gundersons dined there every week. Reggie had made it sound like professors lived in poverty, but apparently, being a professor could pay pretty well.

Rosemary looked from my face to Cal’s and back again. An impish sparkle in her eyes, she glanced down at our hands, once again clasped together on Sherbet’s back.

“I didn’t know you two were . . . close,” she said.

Cal and I jumped apart like we’d been stung.

I felt the blush licking up my cheeks. I cut my eyes to the side to catch a peek of Cal. To my surprise, his mouth twitched in something like a smile. And I can’t say I approved of the mischievous glint in his narrowed eyes.

“No, ma’am. I’m gonna have to get in line behind Tally’s other suitors.”

“Cal McCormack,” I gasped, mortified. “You make it sound like I’m the town tramp.”

He smiled for real at that, and a tiny corner of my heart fluttered to see him forget his troubles, even at my expense. “I think you and I have very different ideas about what that word ‘tramp’ means. I’m just saying you’re popular with the fellas these days. Not that you’re returning the favor.”

“Oh, for crying out loud,” I muttered, hugging Sherbet closer.

Rosemary giggled. “I think this young man is pulling your pigtails, dear.”

Cal laughed. “I might be at that.”

The vet tech came into the waiting room and called Sherbet’s name, saving me from having to respond to Cal’s teasing.

I picked up my little bundle and headed back to see the doctor.

“Don’t worry,” Cal called behind me. “I’ll be right here waiting for you.”

T
wo days later, on the Wednesday after the funeral, I emerged from my bedroom to find Alice waiting for me at the kitchen table, two cups of freshly brewed coffee and toasted bagels already laid out. Beneath the scent of French roast and warm cinnamon, I smelled a con.

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Can’t I make you breakfast without it being some scam?” she responded, eyes wide with forced innocence.

“You
can
make me breakfast, but you don’t. And given the events of this past week, I’m a little suspicious of your motives.”

Alice reached out to pick up my cup and plate. “Does that mean you don’t want it?”

I rapped her gently on the head with my knuckles. “Put that back, kiddo. Even a blackmail bagel is tasty.” She smiled as she let my breakfast go.

I slid into my chair, pulled my bagel a little closer, and took a sip of my coffee. “Spill it.”

“I made you a date,” Alice said.

I did an old-fashioned spit-take.

“You what?”

Alice laughed, a delighted musical sound. She snagged a handful of paper napkins out of the holder—fashioned out of two plaster of Paris handprints, Alice’s pudgy little toddler fingers splotched with red and yellow paint—and passed them to me.

“Not a real date,” she said, as she helped me mop up the drops of coffee. “I e-mailed Reggie Hawking last night to tell him you were interested in coming back to school and wanted to talk to someone about getting into Dickerson as a nontraditional student.”

“Nontraditional?”

“Not eighteen,” she clarified.

“Well, I’m definitely not eighteen, but I’m also not particularly interested in being a college student right now.” And I was crazy-not-interested in spending alone time with Reggie Hawking. Alice might be crushing on the boy, but I found him pompous and self-absorbed.

Sherbet, who had already recovered from his recent yarnectomy, leaped onto the table. His flexible Elizabethan collar, meant to keep him from chewing out his stitches, folded beneath him, and he had to scramble his front paws for traction, but he was highly motivated. He had a sixth sense about possible people food, and before I could push him back to the floor, he snatched half a buttered bagel and bolted. I sighed. Sherbet had wretched manners, but I didn’t know how to socialize him. Besides, after the yarn scare, I didn’t have the heart to chase him down and wrestle the bagel away from him. His bald little tummy broke my heart.