The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade (22 page)

An older model green Buick slowed as it approached from behind. The window lowered and Wilma Rightmier leaned out of the car. “You two seen anything yet?”

No need to ask what she meant. Today was Saturday, the day when
Whatever-It-Was would happen. That explained the unusual traffic. Half the town had taken to their cars to cruise the streets, hoping to catch sight of something interesting.

Wilma's husband slowed the car even further to keep pace with them as they walked, Rufus trotting happily beside her.

“Nothing so far,” she replied to Wilma.

Fred leaned across her lap to address Albert. “We're taking another pass through town and then heading over to Cardwell's for a burger. See you there?”

Albert flipped his hand upward in a noncommittal wave. “Maybe.”

Wilma examined Albert for a moment and then smiled at Millie. “See you there.”

The car pulled away from them, turned the corner onto Canada Avenue, and disappeared from sight. They walked on a few yards. From the corner of her eye Millie evaluated Albert's expression. His jowls had begun to sag in recent years, which tugged the corners of his mouth into a perpetual scowl. She saw beyond it, of course, but he did appear rather imposing. Perhaps some of that firming cream they advertised on television would help. She would pick some up at the drugstore.

“I wouldn't mind a chicken salad sandwich for lunch,” she commented. “Lucy's is the best, next to mine.”

He eyed her sideways. “You don't fool me for a minute, Mildred Richardson. Chicken salad is not the issue. You're expecting a spectacle, and you can't stand to miss it.”

No sense in trying to duck the issue. She held her head high. “If you don't want to go, I'll have Violet meet me there.”

Before he could answer, a high-pitched
toot toot
alerted them to an impending approach. A whir brushed by them on the sidewalk, and a boy's laughter rang in the air as his bicycle sped past. Albert jerked sideways and crashed into her, nearly throwing her off balance. He grabbed for her arm, whether to steady her or himself she wasn't sure, as a second bicycle raced by. Dark, unruly locks waved wildly in the
air, stirred by speed and rustled by a lack of exposure to a comb. Rufus, as startled as his owners, filled the air with a canine protest.

Albert cupped his hands around his mouth. “Slow down, you hooligans!”

The second boy turned his head to cast a quick backward glance, and Millie identified the unmistakable features common to the Wainright children.

“Those delinquents are out of control.” He followed their progress with a dark glare.

Millie thought of little Willow and her hermit crab. “Their poor mother is overwhelmed trying to support all of them alone. What they need is a man to teach them.” She eyed him sideways. “Maybe you could take them under your wing.”

The look he gave her stirred up a laugh from deep inside. Her Albert possessed many admirable qualities, but tolerance with children—even his own—was not among them.

When they turned onto Toulouse Street, Rufus suddenly realized where they were. He skidded to a halt and began a nervous pant.

“Come on.” She tugged on the leash. “You'll like Dr. Susan. She won't hurt you.”

The dog remained unconvinced. She tugged on the leash and he stiffened his legs, forcing her to drag him forward. Adopting the low, firm tone taught by the dog training videos, she commanded, “Rufus,
come
.”

That he knew what she wanted was obvious. That he had no intention of doing so, and was ashamed of his rebellion, was equally obvious. He lowered his head and refused to look her in the eye. No matter how she tugged and jerked, he remained stubbornly in place. Finally, she grasped the leash in both hands and walked backward to drag him down the sidewalk.

A chuckle from Albert drew her attention. He stood to one side, arms folded, and from his expression was thoroughly enjoying the conflict.

She didn't bother to hide her annoyance. “You'll have to carry him.”

His laughter faded mid-chuckle. “What? No.”

“I can't pull him down the block like this.” She allowed irritation to creep into her voice.

“Sure you can. You're the alpha dog, remember. Show him who's boss.”

“The poor thing's clearly terrified. Look at him.” Rufus watched them, nose drippy with nerves. “Besides, dragging him over concrete will hurt his paws.”

Albert's eyebrows descended, his frown deepening. “I refuse to touch the creature. He stinks.”

She couldn't argue with that. “Fine. Then I will.”

Stooping, she gathered the rigid animal in her arms and hefted him. Ignoring his whimper, she straightened and staggered a bit before finding her balance. Goodness, Rufus had put on weight lately. Perhaps she should switch to the low-calorie dog food.

With a determined step she marched past Albert, and felt only slightly guilty when, heaving a loud sigh, he reacted exactly as she'd known he would.

“Here, give me the wretched animal before you hurt yourself.”

Wretched indeed. After the switch had been made and they continued their trek toward the vet's office, Rufus extended his neck and began a low, mournful keen. Millie half expected an onslaught of animal activists to come running over. Thankfully, they arrived at the clinic without being challenged.

Susan's car occupied a lonely spot in the far corner of the otherwise empty parking lot. Not a good sign for a Saturday, which was typically the clinic's busiest day. She opened the door and ushered Albert and the howling Rufus into the empty waiting room.

The young veterinarian emerged from the back, her expression hopeful. When she recognized Millie, her face fell for only a moment, and then brightened again when her gaze lit on Rufus.

“Hello.” She marched toward Albert with an extended hand. “I'm Dr. Susan Jeffries. You must be Mr. Richardson.”

“Al,” he said, hefting the miserable animal slightly as an excuse for leaving her hand hanging in midair, unshaken.

Susan recovered quickly and turned her attention to the dog. “And this is Rufus. Your mommy has told me all about you.”

Millie stopped Albert's eye-roll with a quick glare. “We were out walking and decided to take a chance that you'd be able to, uh—” She glanced at the vacant seats and finished lamely. “—fit him in.”

A sardonic expression twisted the girl's lips. “Yes, well, I think I can make time for him.”

“Where's Hazel?” Millie glanced toward the receptionist desk, which looked deserted and a bit forlorn.

“She asked for the day off. Some event she wanted to attend.” Susan extended her hand again, this time tentatively, toward Rufus. “And what seems to be your problem today, pup?”

“He stinks.” Albert bent over to deposit the dog on the floor, where he stood trembling with his head drooping so that his nose nearly touched the floor. “Positively reeks, in fact. A foul, offensive odor that no amount of bathing eliminates.”

While Millie fixed a glare on him, Susan's eyebrows arched.

“Go ahead.” He gestured toward the wretched animal. A puddle of drool had collected on the floor beneath his dangling tongue. “Take a good whiff.”

Susan dropped onto her knees and reached for Rufus, who stood miserably stiff while she rubbed his head. “There now. I'm not so bad, am I?” She spoke in a low, even tone while she stroked his head and fingered his ears. “I'm just going to look in your ears to see if there's evidence of infection.” Gently, she folded one floppy ear over the top of his head and peeked inside. Her features scrunched, nose wrinkling. “He certainly does have an odor.”

Albert cast a triumphant glance at Millie. “I'd call it a foul stench.”

Now it was her turn to roll her eyes.

“A common reason for bad odor is infection, specifically in the ears.” Susan lowered herself to a sitting position beside her patient. “At a glance his appear fine.”

“Doc has checked his ears a gazillion times,” Millie told her. “They've always been healthy. His teeth too. I've worried it's something he's eating. You know, like when people eat too much garlic and smell like garlic.”

“Hmmm.” The young woman lifted the dog's front paw and leaned down to sniff it. Her face scrunched and she jerked back. “Oh, my. That's definitely the source.”

Millie dropped down beside her boss and sniffed Rufus's paw. His trademark smell slammed into her nostrils so strongly tears stung her eyes. “That's it, all right,” she confirmed, climbing to her feet.

“He has stinky feet?” An expression of mild interest crept over Albert's features. Millie restrained herself from pointing out the fact that he shared the trait with their pet.

Susan rubbed a hand over Rufus's back. “People's perspiration can sometimes pick up strong odors from their food. Canines don't sweat like people, but they do secrete an oily substance through their paws and hair follicles. Each animal has its own distinctive odor.” She grinned up at them. “As a kid I had a dog whose feet smelled like popcorn.”

“So it could be something he's eating?” Millie asked. “But I've tried several different dog foods and nothing seems to make a difference.”

“I'd like to run a few tests, just to rule out health issues.” With a final caress for Rufus's ears, Susan rose. “Can you bring in a stool sample?”

Millie turned to Albert. “When we get home you can clean up the yard and put some in a baggie. I'll run it back over here.”

He fixed her with a look of pure disgust. “I'm not picking up his poop.”

Now he was just being obstinate. She planted her hands on her hips. “But you always clean up the yard.”

The disgust became utter incredulity. “Mildred Richardson, what are you talking about? I've
never
cleaned up after that animal. That's your job. Always has been.”

The man had lost his mind, obviously. “I did it for a while after I brought him home, but not since then. You're the one who manicures our lawn.”

He drew himself up and announced self-righteously. “I draw the line at excrement.”

“Well, if you're not cleaning up the poop, and I'm not cleaning up the poop, then who's…”

The answer struck them at the same moment. Millie's stomach lurched, while horror crept over Albert's face. They looked down at the culprit, whose ears drooped sorrowfully.

Susan actually chuckled. “No need to look so shocked. Coprophagia is fairly common. There are at least a half-dozen reasons for the behavior. I definitely want a stool sample, and I'll take some blood to check his white count. Do you have time for a thorough exam?”

“Here.” Albert thrust the end of the leash toward her. “Keep him. Do whatever you need to fix him.”

Millie opened her mouth to protest. She had only intended to ask Susan to take a quick look, not monopolize her clinic time. On the other hand, she certainly didn't have patients lined out the door. And they
definitely
needed help in identifying the reason for this undesirable behavior. “We'll pick him up on our way home. Shouldn't be more than an hour or so.”

The young woman gave them a distracted nod, her attention fixed on her patient. When they left, Rufus was too absorbed in misery to do more than cast a tragic glance their way.

Outside, Millie paused on the stoop, face skyward, basking in the sparkling sunlight and a curious sense of lightness. “I feel just like I used to when we left the kids with a sitter for date night.”

“I smelled better then.” Albert sniffed his hands and grimaced. “Phew.
Eau d' Rufus
is a far cry from Old Spice.”

Millie giggled and looped her arm through his. “Come on, Stinky. I'll let you buy me a chocolate malt.”

They strolled down the street and joined a trickle of people. Cars lined Main Street in both directions, inching forward, the occupants' eyes scanning all directions. Millie took in the scene with a mounting sense of anticipation. Whatever Norman had planned, he would certainly have an audience.

“Good heavens!” Albert eyed the densely populated sidewalks, a frown gathering on his forehead. “The whole town's here.”

A waving hand caught her attention. “There's Violet.”

She waved back and plunged forward, pulling Albert with her. When she caught up with her friend, they retreated to the sidelines and planted their backs against the Freckled Frog Consignment Shop's display window.

“Like ants at a picnic,” Violet commented. “They're everywhere.”

Millie opened her mouth to agree, but was interrupted by a bellow.

“Bert! Hey Bert. Over here, Bert.”

Poor Albert froze, his eyes round as softballs. A tremor rippled through his frame. The resemblance to Rufus was unmistakable, but the misery in his expression stopped her from voicing the comment.

“No,” he whispered. “It can't be. Not on a Saturday.”