Authors: Virginia Brown
Tags: #Fiction, #General, #Mystery & Detective, #Sagas
“Wish I could hurry it up for him. Before he ruins more lives. More people.”
Dempsey frowned. “Be careful sayin’ that kind of thing, boy. Some folks’d take that as a threat, and if it got back to Quinton, he’d
. . .
”
“He’d what?” he asked when Dempsey paused. “Ruin my life? He’s tried that already. He keeps trying. Everything he touches he has to own or destroy.”
Dempsey was silent for a minute, then he said, “Some folks’re so worried about dyin’ they forget how to live well. And then some folks’re so worried about livin’ well, they forget they’re gonna die. I reckon Quinton’s one of those last ones.”
“Yeah, well, I’d like to see a little more justice in this world. I’m not all that sure it’ll be there in the next. Or even if there is something after this.”
“I gotta believe there is, Chantry. Otherwise, none of this makes much sense. Why be put here on this good, green earth unless we leave it better than we found it? We all got to learn somethin’ in life.”
“Not sure we all have to learn the same thing.” Chantry drank the last of his iced tea. This wasn’t a conversational direction he wanted to pursue. It’d been a long time since he’d believed in life after death, or in a glorious reunion with those he’d lost. More likely, it’d just be oblivion. Not so much different than how it was now, maybe. He wanted to think there was something else, but so far, experience had taught him not to be foolish. Not to expect miracles.
“Maybe not,” Dempsey agreed, “but it’d be nice to think there’s a good reason for us bein’ put here on earth.”
“Other than bizarre chance or fate’s idea of a cruel hoax?”
“Guess that’s one way to look at it,” Dempsey said after a minute, “but maybe I’m more optimistic than some. I like to think we’re all here to help each other. If there wasn’t any bad things ever happened, guess then there wouldn’t be any chance for folks to show how good they can be.”
Chantry looked at him. “In other words, if there weren’t people like Quinton, there’d be no evil to overcome.” So far, it was the best reason he’d heard yet for evil to exist. He’d heard lots of theories, the yin and yang, East Indian philosophy, but Dempsey condensed it pretty well. He smiled. “You’re the delta sage, Dempsey. If word gets out, you’ll have folks paying to sit at your feet and learn.”
“And you’re still a smartass, son. Good thing I’m kinda partial to you.”
“Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
When he left, he drove home. He’d been avoiding the carriage house, knowing Cinda was giving a family barbecue. Knowing she was with Savona. It didn’t help that he kept thinking about them being together even when he did his best not to think at all. Images kept popping into his head. Like he didn’t have enough to think about right now.
If Savona was a family friend, why wasn’t he staying with the Sheridans instead of alone in Cinda’s house? It was a little too convenient. Too intimate. Not even the most trusting soul would buy the fiction that it was the only suitable place in town. If there was one thing Chantry wasn’t, it was trusting. He didn’t believe it for a minute.
Apparently, the barbecue was still going on. He saw strings of lights illuminating the back yard and veranda, heard laughter and music. He parked behind the carriage house, went in and turned on the TV just for background noise. It was weird, but he felt estranged. Left out. Like he had as a kid, when it seemed he’d always stood on the wrong side of the street from where he wanted to be. It didn’t matter that Cinda had invited him, probably even wanted him to come. He knew where he belonged and it sure as hell wasn’t at the same table with Philip and Cara Sheridan or Paolo Savona.
That’s why, when he heard a knock on his door, he remained stubbornly in front of the TV and ignored it. He wouldn’t be lured out. If the house caught on fire, he’d stay right where he was and pretend not to notice.
The knocking progressed to an urgent and insistent banging, accompanied by Herky’s plea for him to answer. “I know you’re in there, please come help me
. . .
”
Shit. He couldn’t ignore Herky.
When he opened the door, Herky stood there with a limp, furry body cradled in his arms, a look of distress on his broad face. “She grabbed a piece of chicken before anyone could stop her. Then she choked. I think
. . .
I think she’s dead.”
Chantry reacted. It was a pug, eyes bulging, tongue hanging out one side of the mouth. He grasped the small dog and turned her over, pressed two fingers firmly into the space between the ribs, gave a canine version of the Heimlich maneuver, and was rewarded with a chicken bone missile popping out after only two tries. The dog gasped, snorted, and then peed all over him. Herky smiled and took the dog he thrust toward him.
“You did it. We tried to get it out ourselves but it was too far back. Miss Cinda’s mama sure is gonna be happy ‘bout this. She’s up at the house carryin’ on something awful about her little dog.”
“This is Mrs. Sheridan’s dog?” He would have expected something more along the lines of Cerberus, a three-headed hound said to guard the ferry to Hades.
“Yeah. Used to be Miss Cinda’s, but she left it with her mama when she went out of town one year and now Mrs. Sheridan won’t give her up. Anyway, I told ’em you’d save her if they’d just let me bring her down here. Is she gonna be all right?”
“As long as you don’t let her near chicken bones again. Mrs. Sheridan might want to take her to the vet Monday just to be sure she hasn’t ingested anything that’ll give her some trouble later on.”
They’d left the door open. A voice he recalled only too well demanded, “What are you doing with my dog?”
Chantry didn’t reply. Herky turned to face an irate and obviously upset Cara Sheridan, who halted what had promised to be a furious tirade when she saw the wiggling pug.
“Chantry fixed her.”
“She—she’s okay?” Mrs. Sheridan’s voice quivered on the last word, and she stared at the dog with an expression somewhere between relief and disbelief. Then she reached out to take the little dog from Herky, tucked her close and didn’t even try to avoid the energetic tongue-lashing. So much for the old adage about children and dogs knowing the difference between good and bad people. Mrs. Sheridan had never struck him as the kind who’d care about dogs. Or children, for that matter. But now she looked very happy to have her dog returned, smiling at the wiggling pug and looking almost human.
Herky was nodding. “Yes ma’am, she’ll be just fine. Chantry got the bone out. He says you might wanta take her to the vet Monday just to be sure she didn’ swallow somethin’ else bad.”
After a moment, Mrs. Sheridan looked up. Her mouth pursed like she’d just tasted something sour and her tone was grudging as she held the dog even closer. “Did he. Well. I’ll send you a check. How much—”
“Forget it. I don’t want your money. Just my privacy.” He moved to the door and pulled it wide open, a pointed gesture that Mrs. Sheridan grasped immediately. Her eyes narrowed.
“This is my daughter’s house—”
“Which I’m leasing. That makes this portion my private property. Good night.”
Mrs. Sheridan looked past him. He heard footsteps on the walkway and knew Cinda must be behind him. This was all he needed. Not that she apparently intended to let her mother run the show, even though Mrs. Sheridan was obviously furious.
“Cinda, tell this rude
. . .
person
. . .
he’s no longer welcome on your property. All I did—”
“Yes, Mother, I heard you. And he’s right. You’re on his property at the moment. Until he or I tender thirty days’ notice to vacate, at any rate. He hasn’t and I don’t intend to, so perhaps you’d better take him up on his suggestion that you leave.”
For a moment, Chantry thought she’d refuse. She drew herself up, shot him a harsh glare and held her little dog more tightly in her arms, looking very much the same as she always had: icy and unapproachable. Frigid. Philip Sheridan probably had to wear wool underwear to bed to keep from freezing to death from her lying next to him.
“You’re making a grave error,” Mrs. Sheridan said, and he wasn’t sure if she was talking to him or her daughter, not that it mattered. As long as she left. As long as they all left.
Cinda looked at him, and must have read in his face what was on his mind. A faint smile briefly tipped one corner of her mouth. “Sorry to have bothered you. And thank you for saving Tinky.”
Tinky had to be the dog. He shook his head. “Tinky needs to avoid barbecues. Or chicken bones, anyway.”
“Mother spoils her. Not that she’d feed her a chicken bone, but
. . .
well, thanks for saving her. I
. . .
we’ve had her a long time.”
He just looked at her, watched as Mrs. Sheridan stormed out, head held high and the dog clutched tightly to her chest. Herky hung back, looking a bit bewildered but game enough to stay in case he was needed. Cinda looked uncertain, so he helped her out.
“No problem. You probably need to get back to your party.”
“It’s not really a party. Just my parents and a few other people. Friends. Relatives.”
Right. Paolo and Chris, he was willing to bet. And he was also willing to bet Tansy wasn’t on the guest list either.
“You’re welcome to come up and join us,” Cinda said after a moment, though she said it like she knew he wouldn’t. He shook his head.
“I’m a lot happier here, thanks.”
“All right. Well. Good night then.” She left with another quick smile, leaving in a wake of soft perfume that lingered in the room.
Herky turned back to look at him. “I hope I didn’t mess things up for you, Chantry. I didn’t know what else to do.”
“You did the right thing, Herky.”
When he closed the door, he cleaned the dog pee from the floor and took another shower. Life here could use some dull moments.
August started off hot and wet. Mold grew on stones, trees, and anything else that stood in one place too long. Chantry half-expected to find green fur growing on his feet if he didn’t move often enough. Stepping outside was like stepping into a sauna. A familiar heat, remembered no matter what part of the world he’d been in, rivaled only by Iraq.
It was the perfect time for the central air unit in the carriage house to go out.
Cinda appeared on his doorstep late in the afternoon, alerted by Herky, no doubt. She looked disgusted. “Damn contractors. I should have called Sears or some other reputable company rather than let my grandfather’s contractors install central air for me. I knew better. This is my own fault.”
Chantry handed her a cold beer. “A little hard on yourself, aren’t you?”
“Not as hard as I intend to be on Larry Thompson. I hate it when supposed professionals do a half-ass job.”
Amused, Chantry watched as she walked through the stuffy room toward the open doors leading to the terrace. It was a toss-up where it was hotter, outside or in, but with dusk coming on, the mosquitoes outside would be ferocious. That didn’t stop him from grabbing another beer and following her.
“Alcohol isn’t the best thing to drink in the heat, you know,” she said, eying him from where she’d sat in one of the Adirondack chairs. She put her feet up on the matching stool. “It only makes you hotter.”
Like he wasn’t getting hot enough already just watching her, the length of her bare legs a tempting sight, her cut-off shorts paint splotched but looking damn classy anyway. Cinda was like that. She could make a flour sack look good.
She lifted her beer in a brief salute, then drank half of it in just a few swallows. “I called a repairman. He’ll be here in the morning. Herky can let him in for you.”