“It's not a matter of that, doctor. I adore animals, but my husband doesn't. Or rather, they don't like him. Allergies. Severe ones. Dogs, cats, horses—anything with fur sets him off and he swells up like a balloon. As is, I'm going to have to take a bubble bath the moment I get home, or Monty will be wheezing the moment he sees me.”

She pulled something else out of the purse and gave it to me.

An AKC pedigree sheet for “Van Der Legyh's Lionel Barrymore On Stage.” A family tree that put mine to shame.

Mrs. Braithwaite said, “Isn't that noble?”

“Very.”

Robin said, “We'd love to take him.”

“Good. I was hoping you were nice people.”

Smiling, but she took another dubious look around the shop. “He likes his liver snaps and his sausage sticks. Cheese, as well, of course. Though he doesn't seem to have any affection for Edam—isn't that odd, his being Dutch?”

Robin said, “We'll support him in the lifestyle to which he's become accustomed.”

“Ye-ess . . .” She glanced furtively around the shop. “I'm sure he'll love your new home—will it be in the same location?”

“Absolutely,” I said, scooping up the dog and rubbing his tummy. “We've been happy there.”

CHAPTER 35

CHAPTER

35

It came in a plain white envelope.

Pressed into my hand as I walked out the shop's side door, Spike heeling.

I looked up to see Ruthanne Wallace's kid sister, Bonnie. Tight jeans tucked into cowboy boots, white blouse, no bra, nipples assertive.

She winked at me, tickled my palm with her finger, and ran to the curb. A dark blue Chevy Caprice with chrome wheels and black windows was idling there, blowing smoke. She jumped in, slammed the door, and the car sped off.

No postmark on the envelope, no lettering. Too thin to have anything in it but paper.

I slit it open with my fingernail.

A piece of notebook paper, torn evenly in half.

A note on the first:

Dear doctor.

I am fine. I am happy. Thank you for try to help us. Jesus loves you.

Tiffani.

A drawing on the second. Blue skies, golden sun, green grass, red flowers.

A girl sitting in what looked like an aboveground swimming pool. Fat droplets of water scattering, the girl's face a perfect circle bisected by a crescent-shaped smile.

A signature in the lower right corner: Chondra W.

A title next to the sun:

HAVING FUN.

“Sounds like a good idea,” I said to Spike.

Snort, snort.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ABOUT THE AUTHOR