Chapter 14
Cookie Caper, Chocolate Trouble, and Raising Caine
I wake up in a tangled wad with my covers twisted around my waist and the nagging feeling that something is wrong. The pillow on the other side of the bed is empty, so at least that is okay. Last night, as much as I was tempted to scoot across the hall and make up with Jack, I shored up my resolve and refused to let a naked Christmas tree in my living room be the deciding factor on taking back a man who has made it clear he’ll never be a father.
Turning on the lamp, I grab my pink plush robe and head to the bathroom. It’s not until I’m finished my bath that I start to wonder why Elvis is missing. He loves to lounge on the bathroom rug while I soak in a hot tub. I think he views all that steam as a sort of doggie spa.
With Jack in the house, though, his absence is not unusual. Elvis probably padded across the hall and is curled up in bed with him. I run a comb through my damp hair, jump into a pair of navy sweats with Frosty the Snowman on the front of the shirt, then go barefoot across the hall and tap on Jack’s door.
“Jack? Are you awake?”
“Come in, Cal.”
He emerges from the guest bath, naked from the waist up. I have to take several deep breaths before I can remember what I came to say.
“Is Elvis here?”
“I thought he was with you.”
“No. He’s usually right by my bed on his pillow.”
“What about Hoyt?”
“Come to think of it, he wasn’t on his pillow, either.”
“Don’t worry, Cal. They’re probably in the kitchen chowing down. Or maybe they’ve already gone outside. It’s a beautiful morning.”
Jack’s right. I have no reason to panic. Why wouldn’t Elvis and Hoyt use the doggie door? Elvis loves to sit on the gazebo in the sun and watch Hoyt trying to play with the cats.
“I guess all that business in Santa’s Court has me on edge.”
I head down the stairs to put on coffee and leave Jack in his room putting on a shirt. I hope. It would be just like him to come bare-chested into the kitchen and take my mind off coffee. Still, having him here is reassuring, but I’m not going to let myself get used to it. Soon he’ll be getting his cast off and leaving.
After Lovie and I see what we can find at Abel Caine’s house today, maybe we’ll to go to Magnolia Manor and air out Jack’s apartment. It’s not anywhere you’d want to live in the first place. Old. Tacky. On a treeless lot. The least I can do is let in a fresh breeze.
I round the corner of the kitchen and spot Elvis sprawled in the middle of the floor, napping.
“I’m glad to see you, boy.” He sits up, but without his usual sass, and when I squat beside him, he actually moans. Then I spot his distended belly and start screaming Jack’s name.
“Cal!” Jack’s crutches clatter on the stairs, and I figure the next thing that happens will be my ex breaking his neck.
“I’m okay, Jack. It’s Elvis.”
No sooner are the words out of my mouth than Jack is standing in the doorway with a lethal weapon drawn.
“Holy cow, Jack! Put that thing down.”
He ignores me. Stepping around the pile in the middle of the floor that just so happens to be me with Elvis in my lap, Jack stalks through the kitchen and around the corner to the utility room. In minutes he’s back with Hoyt limp in his arms.
“Looks like these two got into the Christmas cookies, Cal.”
Evidence is everywhere, a chair shoved up against the cabinet, the cookie jar overturned, crumbs scattered all over the floor. If I hadn’t been so upset about Elvis, I’d have seen that earlier.
I jump up and grab the kitchen phone. “Champ? I’ve got two dogs who ate some chocolate chip cookies. What should I do?”
“Bring them in, and don’t worry. They’ve probably done no harm except for a big bellyache.”
The minute I hang up the phone, Jack says, “What happened to our regular vet?”
“He’s old and not very cute.”
I know this is not a nice thing to say, but I’m in no mood for nice. If Jack will care to remember, he’s been gone a long time. There is no our regular vet. There is no our anything.
Besides, he knows good and well I’ve been taking my animals to Champ. And that lethal weapon in his hand is part of the reason. He’s the one who chose chasing criminal elements over life in Mooreville deciding which vet to use.
“Are you going to stand there with a Glock in your hand or are you going to help me get my dogs to the truck?”
He glances from me to the gun as if both of us have suddenly sprouted horns. Let him wonder how I know the name of his weapon.
“You’re too upset to drive.” He pulls his cell phone out of his pocket and starts punching in numbers.
“What are you doing?”
“Calling Lovie.”
“Stop it. She’s catering a Christmas breakfast for the Civi-tans.” I march past my ex and scoop up Hoyt. “Just get out of my way, Jack. I can take care of myself and my dogs without your help, thank you very much.”
Jack picks Elvis up and storms along behind me. He doesn’t say a single word till we get to the front porch.
“It’s thirty-five degrees, Cal.”
“When I want a weather report I’ll ask for one.”
“You might consider putting one some shoes.”
Well, shoot. I forgot that I’m barefoot. Totally ignoring him, I step onto the cold frost-covered grass. But I refuse to shiver.
“Unless you’re partial to frostbite.” He’s chuckling. I ought to slap him.
“For your information, if I get frostbite in the next three minutes I’ll go down in the Guinness World Records.”
Besides, my concern is not my feet; it’s my dogs. Stashing Hoyt on the seat, I race past Jack, who is placing Elvis in the truck. In the house, I step into cute L.L.Bean wool clogs, grab a blanket, and race back to the truck. Jack is still there, leaning over my pets and reassuring them with such tenderness I almost weep.
Why? That’s what I want to know. Why did everything go wrong between us? Why did we come to this, adversaries sparring over the dogs?
Jack spots me and acts as if he hasn’t been talking baby talk to Elvis.
“Tell the vet . . .”
“His name is Champ.”
“. . . that the cookies contained chocolate and the dogs ate at least a pound.”
“I know what to tell him.”
“If he needs to keep them overnight, he should put them in the same kennel so they won’t get lonesome.”
“He knows that.”
“It won’t hurt to remind him.” Jack opens the door for me, and I climb behind the wheel of the Dodge Ram. “Drive carefully.”
“I know how to drive.”
“When you’re upset, you speed.”
“Good grief.”
I slam the door and drive off while Jack’s still standing in my front yard, probably thinking up more bad advice. Giving my dogs reassuring pats, I head north on Highway 371 toward Mantachie. As soon as I’m satisfied that Elvis and Hoyt are still doing okay, I whip out my cell phone and call Lovie.
“How was the Civitan breakfast?”
“A roaring success. Everybody there bought a copy of my cookbook.”
“See. I told you they’d love it.” Quickly I brief my cousin on Elvis’ cookie caper. “And poor Hoyt. Whatever Elvis does, he tags along. I’m on the way to see Champ now.”
“This means you won’t be breaking and entering this morning.”
“Unfortunately, no. And neither will you.”
“Why not?”
“You need backup.”
“Caine won’t be there. I’m the one who picks the locks, anyhow. I can do this without you.”
“Don’t even think about it. I don’t want you alone in the house of an ex-con. We need to come up with another plan.”
“I could be a Welcome Wagon lady and take him a basket of cookies.”
“He’s been in Tupelo too long. We need a different plan.”
“If he consulted the horoscope and wore fingernail polish, we could offer him a free manicure with Darlene.”
“I think you’re on to something, Lovie.”
“A manicure? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“No. A free haircut.”
“He’s going to be suspicious. How’d he win it?”
“How about this? He’s one of four winners in a Christmas extravaganza giveaway at Hair.Net. We did a random pick from the telephone directory.”
“I hope he’s not bald.”
“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen him, and I think he was wearing some kind of baseball cap.”
“Atlanta Braves?”
“Holy cow, Lovie. I can’t remember that far back. What difference does it make?”
“I can’t see an ex-con coming to a beauty shop for a free haircut. Offer him a massage, too.”
“You’re right. Darlene also does massages.”
“People talk on the table.”
“I’ll rent a massage table and set it up in that empty back room I’m planning on turning into a south of Mooreville spa. But how are we going to get Darlene to ask the right questions without letting her in on what we’re doing?”
“I’ll do the massage.”
“You don’t know anything about massage, Lovie.”
“I’ve had my hands on more male bodies than any masseuse in Lee County. If I can’t fake it, nobody can.”
“All right. But I don’t plan to leave you in the room with him alone. And I plan to be packing heat.”
“Then you’d better practice, Annie Oakley.”
“Oh, hush up. I’ve gotta go, Lovie. I’m at Champ’s.”
He’s waiting for me in front of his clinic. I’m so happy to see him I almost burst into tears. I pride myself on being an independent woman, but when things go wrong it is very reassuring to know there’s a good man waiting to give you a helping hand.
Champ helps me unload my two pets, and I follow him into the clinic. Poor Elvis gives me this hangdog look that has guilt written all over it.
“I’m not mad at you, boy. Just get well. We’ll talk about forbidden cookies later.”
He understands every word I say. And anybody who tries to tell me any different will be cut off my Christmas card list.
Elvis’ Opinion # 12 on Pills, Pushups, and Pillows
Thanks to my clever plan, my human mom ditched her silly plan to break and enter into the house of a dangerous man. Soft touch that she is, she’s not even miffed that I broke the cookie jar, ate all the cookies, and conned that foolish cocker spaniel into getting belly deep into big trouble.
When you’re planning something illegal, it’s always best to have a fall guy. If worse had come to worst, I could always blame Hoyt for instigating the great cookie heist.
As it turns out, both of us are now back at home on our pillows. Mine’s bigger and made of silk, a clear indication that I’m top dog around the Valentine/Jones household. And of course, mine is right next to Callie’s bed. Hoyt’s was, too, but I shoved it over in the corner where it belongs. One snarl from me, and he didn’t even try to drag it back. If you’re going to be the boss, act like it, I say.
Callie has already made her phone call to Abel Caine, but so far he hasn’t called back. Meanwhile, I’ve spit out all the horse pills Champ gave me; my belly is back to normal, but I’m still milking my convalescence for all it’s worth. Listen, eating too much chocolate for the cause is not as easy as it sounds. I’m still not interested in being Santa Paws. I’m can’t even get my hackles up about that bushy-tailed William acting like Casanova and trying to steal my personal French poodle. The way I see it, it’s Ann Margret’s loss.
In other developments here in the heart of beautiful downtown Mooreville, the police have questioned Callie again about the Santa murders, Wayne’s body was released and she’s already fixed him up, and she’s been down on the farm shooting holes in trees. Naturally, I was the one she took with her.
Let me tell you, Callie doing target practice is not a pretty picture. She narrowly missed a milk cow or two, and if that .38 bullet had come two inches closer to Ruby Nell’s old bull, my human mom and I would be singing “All I Want for Christmas Is My Two Front Teeth” and a few other body parts I’d rather not live without.
Suffice it to say, we got back into her Dodge Ram in the nick of time and hightailed it out of the pasture with that old bull ripping and snorting behind us. He even got close enough to put a dent in her back bumper.
When Jack said, “How’d you get that dent,” she said, “Beats me,” and that was that.
Her secret’s safe with me. I’m not a dog to tattle. I don’t even indulge in gossip unless it’s the juicy kind.
Well, bless’a my soul. Who’s this coming through the front door but Jack’s personal physician? That just goes to show Jack’s status. Doctors don’t make house calls anymore unless you’re the King (that would be me) or a man of great importance (that would be my human daddy).
“Are you ready to get that cast off?” the doc says, and my tenderhearted human mom tears up. She won’t let Jack know, though. That’s how stubborn she is.
And he won’t let her see how grateful he is to finally get rid of the plaster that’s been holding him back. That’s how much pride he has.
My work’s cut out for me. Getting these two back together is going to be harder than a peace settlement in the Middle East.
With the plaster off, Jack’s doc pronounces him “good as new.”
That means he could be moving back to his apartment any time, a little fact Jack and Callie are careful not to discuss.
After the doc leaves, he picks up his crutches and say, “I guess I won’t be needing these anymore,” and she says, “Not anytime soon, I hope.”
And then he says, “Why don’t I grill steaks for supper?” and she says, “That sounds great.”
He wanders out to the grill, and she wanders upstairs to pull a box of Christmas ornaments out of her closet. I trail along behind Callie, of course. A dog knows which human parent needs him the most. I can smell her regret and uncertainty a mile away.
She’s sitting cross-legged on the carpet holding a Radko ornament Jack gave her on their first Christmas together, a quarter moon in a midnight-blue field of stars. He got it at the Christmas Store down in Tampa where they’d spent an idyllic week together.
I lean my handsome head in her lap and tell her It’s okay to cry. Don’t tell me good human moms can’t read their favorite dog’s thoughts.
She cuddles me close and says, “Elvis, I wish I knew what to do.”
Dogs have instincts about these things, but humans have washed out, drowned out, preached out, and legislated out their natural instincts. They twist and turn with every one of life’s storms. They get lost, start over, pray, agonize, discuss, debate, and rationalize till it’s a wonder a single one of them ever finds his way to peace and happiness.
If I could have one wish granted this Christmas, it would be that human beings would become more like dogs. We always listen to our instincts, are happy with leftovers, and almost never pee on anybody’s shoes.