They now read straight erotica. If there wasn’t at least one act of pegging between the covers, the book was immediately vetoed.

“Of course it is. I didn’t doubt you for a minute.” Mrs. Orson traded her book for a cookie, which she dangled between her fingers as an incentive. Wheezy saw it the same time as Ruby, so she had to pounce quickly to beat him to it.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Ruby whisked the cookie away and shoved it in her mouth before either the dog or his owner could protest. The dry, cloying taste of cloves and molasses had her regretting her impulse about two seconds later.

Mrs. Orson saw her expression and laughed. “That’s what you get for stealing Wheezy’s snack. Darla brought over a whole plate of these earlier. I wish someone would take her oven away. She’s threatened a tea cake for tomorrow.”

Ruby suppressed a shudder. Darla Templecombe was a dashing widow who’d spent the majority of her life dining in five-star restaurants. Retirement had brought with it a fervor—but not the technique—for baking.

“I hate to be the one to break it to you, but you’re going to have to find another way to get rid of the cake,” Ruby said. Wheezy, deprived of his treat, whined once, heaved twice, and plopped himself at Mrs. Orson’s feet. “From now until the West Coast Canine Classic, Wheezy is officially on a diet.”

Mrs. Orson looked as outraged as Ruby had felt when Spencer had outlined the rules for Wheezy’s late-stage entry into the contest.

“You can’t mean to starve my poor darling!” Mrs. Orson cried.

Her poor darling, sensing that his life was about to be turned on its side, uttered a mournful groan. He’d been uttering them nonstop over the past hour—first to protest stopping at Ruby’s apartment so she could change into her uniform, then because he objected to the traffic on I-5, and finally because she’d had to park half a mile away. Parkwood Manor, a huge, sprawling retirement community that offered private detached residences, assisted living apartments, and a long-term care facility, was perennially short of parking spaces.

Ruby was ready to start groaning herself. Wheezy wasn’t the only one who objected to trudging along in the heat, but at least the dog didn’t have an eight-hour shift ahead of him. Mrs. Orson had one of the nicer private residences. There was nothing but relaxation and pampering in his future.

“He won’t starve,” Ruby promised, though not without first crossing her fingers. She’d spent far too many years of her life not starving to know that it was one thing to set a daily caloric budget and quite another to stick to it. “One of the judges recommended a few dog-food brands and a long walk every day. That won’t be so hard, will it?”