Софи Райан - Two Tall Tails

“Mr. Harris, I understand you’re upset about your dog,” Officer Sullivan said. “I get that. I have two dogs myself. They get sick and it’s almost like your kid getting sick.”

He’d fallen for Jason’s act.

“My two, they get into everything. I have to lock up the trash cans because otherwise they’re rooting around in the garbage.”

“Matilda doesn’t eat garbage,” Tom said through clenched teeth.

“Good for her,” the officer said. “But my point is you don’t know what your dog could’ve eaten that made her sick. You’ll probably never know. But you can’t go trespassing on someone else’s property.” He indicated Jason. “Mr. Bates here is a reasonable man so we’re just going to forget about everything— this time . But I want your promise that you’ll stay off his property.”

Tom nodded slowly. His eyes never left Jason’s face. “I promise you, Officer, I will stay off Mr. Bates’s property.”

I noticed his choice of words. Mr. Bates’s property . The policeman didn’t seem to catch the distinction.

He turned to Jason. “Thank you for your patience, Mr. Bates,” he said.

Jason smiled. “No problem,” he said with a shrug.

The officer wished us a good evening and got back in his cruiser. Jason started back to the house and then turned and looked over his shoulder at us. Once again there was a cocky smile on his face.

“I’d like to wipe that smirk of that little piker’s face,” Tom said. He was still clenching his teeth and his shoulders were rigid.

“Please don’t do anything he can use against you,” I said.

Tom finally turned his attention to me. “Why didn’t you tell me about the ball?”

I let go of his arm. “I’m sorry. I should have. I was waiting to be sure that what was on the ball was what had made Matilda sick.”

“It was him, Sarah,” he said. “I know it was.”

I nodded. There was no use pretending I hadn’t been thinking the same thing. “Wait for the results of the blood tests.”

“He’s going to get rid of that bottle.”

“If you get arrested for trespassing, no one is going to believe you,” I pointed out. “They’re going to dismiss you as a crazy old man. Please just stay off Angie’s property until I can figure out what to do.”

Tom’s mouth moved but he stayed silent.

“Please,” I begged.

Finally the old man nodded.

I made my way back to my own house. Mr. P.—Alfred Peterson, Rose’s gentleman friend—was at the front door wearing Rose’s flowered apron over his brown trousers and long-sleeved navy golf shirt.

“I was coming to get you and I saw the police car go by,” he said, smoothing down the few tufts of gray hair he had left with one hand. “Is everything all right?”

I sighed. “For now.”

He patted my arm. “Rosie told me what’s been going on. Young Mr. Bates doesn’t sound like a stellar member of society.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s because he isn’t.”

“Come have supper,” Mr. P. urged. “I made shepherd’s pie.”

“Is that what smells so good?” I asked. Elvis had already disappeared into Rose’s apartment.

“Not to be immodest, but it is one of my best recipes,” Mr. P. said with a smile.

I followed him into the apartment.

Rose was setting the table. Elvis was sitting in the doorway to the living room washing his face. “Is Tom all right?” she asked.

I nodded. Rose gestured at a chair and I took a seat while Mr. P. bustled around getting me a cup of tea. Everything Rose and her cronies did was done with copious cups of tea. I brought the two of them up to date on the police officer’s visit.

“We have to do something.” Rose set the salt and pepper shakers on the table with a bang.

“Angie should be home in a day or two,” I said.

“I’m not convinced that’s going to make any difference.” I knew that determined glint in Rose’s gaze meant trouble.

Mr. P. set a cup of tea on the table in front of me. “Thank you,” I said.

He smiled. “You’re welcome, my dear.”

I took a sip from the cup and then turned my attention to Mr. P. “You said Rose has told you what’s been going on. What do you think?”

“I think that blood is thicker than water, Sarah,” he said. “Angelica Bates is a very nice person, but that young man is family, and if she has to take sides, I think that’s the one she’ll take. Wouldn’t you?”

I glanced at Rose over by the sink. She and Alfred and the rest of their merry band were family as far as I was concerned, and when push came to shove, I always took their side.

“We’ll come up with something,” Mr. P. said, his voice warm and reassuring. “We always do.”

Rose had moved to peek into the oven. “Alf, I think this is ready,” she said. She reached for the oven mitts. One of them slipped off the counter and skidded across the floor.

Before I could get up, Elvis had moved across the floor and picked up the quilted mitt in his mouth. He made his way over to Rose.

“Thank you, Elvis,” she said, bending down to take the oven mitt from him. Then she looked at Mr. P. and smiled.

I turned to him as well, narrowing my gaze. “Did you have anything to do with that?” I asked.

“Elvis is a very smart cat,” he said, raising an eyebrow.

“Merow,” the subject of the conversation added.

“You taught him to pick things up,” I said.

Mr. P. nodded. “It took very little effort on my part. He’s extremely intelligent.”

I looked over at the cat, who looked rather pleased with himself, it seemed to me.

“Being a cat, he only does it when he feels like it, of course.”

“Of course,” I echoed.

Mr. P. got to his feet. “Are we ready to eat, Rosie?” he said.

Rose had been staring at the cat, a pensive expression on her face. She started and shook her head. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I was wool-gathering. Yes, we’re ready to eat.”

Mr. P.’s shepherd’s pie, made with a sweet potato topping and a spicy ground beef base, was delicious. As much as I enjoyed the company, I couldn’t help yawning as I sat with a cup of tea and a dish of Rose’s leftover bread pudding.

She came up behind me and put her arms around my neck. “Go home, darling girl,” she said. “It’s been a long day.”

“I’ll just load the dishwasher before I go,” I said.

“You’ll do nothing of the sort,” Mr. P. said. He got to his feet and hiked the waistband of his pants up a little higher than it already was. “That’s my job.”

I knew better than to argue. Rose sent me home with a dish of fruit salad and another of the pudding. I was putting the food in the fridge when my phone rang. It was Nick.

“Hi,” he said when I answered. “I’m just checking in to see how your wrist feels.”

“Let me guess,” I said, dropping onto the couch. “You talked to your mom and she thought I looked tired.”

Nick laughed. “Busted.”

“I’m fine,” I said. “Between your mother, Liz and Rose, it’s not like I’m doing anything.”

“Good,” he said. “I think Mom still has that hammock in her garage. When I get back, I’m going to hang it in your backyard and you can go out there and just do nothing.”

“Because I’m so good at that,” I teased.

“Does Tom Harris still have that little dog?” Nick asked. “She could pull a wagon and bring you coffee and muffins from McNamara’s.”

I thought about the small corgi seizing on Tom’s lawn.

The silence went on a bit too long. “Did I say something wrong?” Nick said.

“No.” I leaned against the sofa pillows. “It’s just that Matilda—that’s the dog’s name—had a seizure a couple of days ago. She ingested some kind of insecticide.”