Keegan heard claws scratching down low on the door and then the sound of footsteps coming down the hall. He sucked in a breath and braced himself. The door opened a crack, and a tiny black Pomeranian darted out, yapping. It startled Keegan more than it should have. The dog quivered, sniffing at the hem of Keegan’s trousers.

When Keegan looked up, Kipper Lusk was standing in the doorway, a half-smile on his face. He wore an undershirt, dungarees and a pair of moccasins. “Careful,” he told Keegan. “He’s likely to piss all over your shoes.”

Keegan took a reflexive step back from the dog and felt a cactus spine prick his calf through his trousers. He jumped forward and squelched one foot in a puddle of fresh urine.

Lusk shook his head, wryly amused. “It’s a world full of peril,” he observed wryly. He stepped back into the hallway and called the dog. “Come on, Sugar Drop,” he said. “It’s okay. The big dope’s a friend of mine.” The dog hopped back up the step and darted ahead of Lusk down the hallway.

Keegan scrubbed the damp sole of his shoe on the welcome mat and stepped inside. Before he could pull the door shut behind him, a red-headed woman rushed down the hall in his direction, pinning on a pillbox hat. She kissed Lusk’s cheek as she passed him.

“James,” Lusk said. “This is my wife, Laura.”

The woman stopped and smiled brightly at Keegan. She was pretty, in a sturdy, Midwestern sort of way, and she was a good three inches taller than her husband.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. James,” she said, as she pivoted past him, “but I’m late for choir practice. You boys have fun. There’s leftover pot roast in the refrigerator if you want sandwiches.”

She pulled the door shut after her. The sound of heels on concrete faded down the walkway.

Keegan looked at the closed door a beat before he turned back to his host. For some reason, it had never occurred to him that Kipper Lusk might be a married man, or that he might have a house in the suburbs. The idea would take some getting used to. “Choir practice?” Keegan said.

Lusk shrugged. “First Methodist,” he said. “Their only alto.” He led Keegan to the living room. It smelled of Darjeeling tea and lemon furniture polish. One whole side of the room was a wall of built-in fish tanks, each one lit up brightly. Two easy chairs faced a fireplace. There was no television, just an old console record player with beige fabric speakers.

Keegan turned slowly, taking it all in. “You live here?” he said.

“You thought I had a cot in the newsstand?”

“No,” Keegan said. “I just wasn’t expecting anything so—I don’t know—domestic. This is right out of Father Knows Best.”