A wet tongue lashed at my face just before I heard Win in my ear.
“Dog, no! We discussed this, did we not? When introducing yourself to your new mistress, you must do so with aplomb. Not slather her with your slobber! That’s no way to treat a lady, bloke!”
My nose twitched with the scent of wet dog and saliva.
So I kept my eyes closed because that couldn’t be right. Besides, my neck ached today, taking over the lead from my caboose.
There was another long lick and a snort. Okay, couldn’t ignore this anymore.
“Win? When I open my eyes, will there be a dog there?”
“Good morning, Dove.”
Oh, I knew that tone. It was the tone that said he’d somehow managed to talk Belfry into changing the already-hashed-out color for the parlor yet again because he’s a fickle pickle.
“Answer the question, Spy Guy.”
“Define ‘dog’.”
“Four legs, comes in many varieties, shapes and sizes, occasionally known to eat their own poop.”
“Then I reply with sort of.”
“Sort of? How can there sort of be a dog there? There either is or there isn’t. It’s not a trick question.”
“Well, I wouldn’t define this handsome, nay, dare I say, majestic beast as a dog. That’s too little. Too underqualified a word. Though, while he certainly has four legs, I’m unclear as to whether he eats his own poop.”
Okay, there was no choice. I had to open my eyes.
When I did, I got a quick glimpse of this “majestic beast” before he was on the bed, muddy, sopping-wet paws and all.
“Oomph!” I protested before Mr. Majestic was on top of me, bathing my face with kisses. I held my hands up and bracketed his enormous head to take a good look at his face. A St. Bernard, for sure. He was a bit older, no doubt. The graying around his muzzle told the story, but his eyes, his soulful, chocolatey eyes spoke to me, peered into my gaze with warmth.
“Win? What have you done?”
He cleared his throat. “Soo, it went like this: Whilst you slept soundly, dreaming the dreams of the content, I took a stroll down by the Sound. Lovely morning, by the way. Beautiful sunrise, all purple and pink. Anyway, as I strolled, I watched a horrible woman bring this beautiful, terrified creature to the edge of the Sound, coaxing him in a cutesy voice. Once he’d realized there was water, where all good puppies like this one love to splash about, he became excited. She, on the other hand, literally turned tail and ran away from him, hopped into her overrated Range Rover and drove off, leaving Dog to wonder what bus just hit him. It was unconscionable.”
I gasped in horror. I’d never understand how anyone could do such a heinous thing as abandon a pet. To leave them all alone to face the world after having a warm bed and food in their bowls made me spitting mad. But…
“What a dreadful, horrible, despicably inhumane thing to do.”
“The despicablest, inhumanest, in my opinion.”
“Did you get her plate number? Let’s hunt her down and attach those jumper cables we’re always talking about to her toes then drop her in the Puget head first.”
Mr. Majestic burrowed his head against my shoulder and groaned. As I tucked him closer, stroking his huge, soaking-wet body, he began to melt into my side. Which, I admit, was kinda nice.
“I did not. I was too focused on Dog and his well-being. It took me over an hour to get him to trust me enough to talk him off the ledge and lead him back here.”
Mr. Majestic harrumphed a snort as though agreeing with Win.
“He can hear you?”
Win whistled and called out, “Dog? Who’s a good boy? Who’s the best boy ever?” His tone, all saccharine sweet, made me giggle. Who knew Spy Guy had a soft place in his heart for animals?
But Dog responded by sitting up, instantly looking in the direction Win’s voice had come from.
I scrubbed his head with the flat of my palm, dropping a kiss on the top of his broad skull, stinky fur and all. “So it’s true, then? Dogs really are attuned to the afterlife, huh, buddy? I’ve never encountered something like this before. Not in all my years as a medium.”
“So can we keep him, Mom? Huh-huh?” Win asked as though he were twelve, making me smile.
“What is that?” Belfry squeaked, pushing his way back up against my bed-head.
“It’s a puppy, Bel. Isn’t he cute?” I cajoled, squeezing the dog’s cheeks.
“He smells like pee and desperation. Not cute.”
“Aw, come now, bloke. You’d smell too if you were abandoned on the side of the road. Poor guy. Look at him. He’s just a big ol’ smooshy face, isn’t he?” Win cooed.
Dog noted Bel’s presence and immediately used his wet nose to sniff him, giving him a big swipe of his tongue in approval before sitting back and crossing his front paws.
“Gak!” Bel sputtered his distaste, rolling backward. “That’s no puppy. It’s King Kong disguised as a dog.”
I scooped Bel up and held him in my palm, keeping him just far enough away from the dog so he could see him. “But look at him, Bel. Look at that face. How can you resist?”
“Well, his breath for starters, that’s how. I’ll call Liza and have her book a dental and a bath pronto. She knows that vet in town. Went to school with his daughter, I think I heard her say.”
I fought a smile. Liza thought Bel was my virtual assistant who lived in Connecticut. They talked to each other all the time, arranged my Madam Zoltar appointments, helped to keep me on task.
“So he can stay?” Win asked, his voice more excited than I’d ever heard before.
I pushed my way up to a sitting position, my butt feeling decidedly better this morning. “First we have him checked for a chip. Who knows, maybe that appalling woman is a jealous girlfriend and she plans to tell her BF that Dog escaped. Also, if he’s not chipped, then we can only keep him if we give him a better name than Dog. And a bath. He needs a bath.”
“He needs a power wash,” Bel chirped, inching his way toward Dog’s wet snout by using his wings for leverage.
“Bloody good then!” Win agreed.
I ran my finger over Bel’s head before I hoisted myself out from under Dog and planted my feet on the floor to get a really good look at him. He covered the other half of my queen-size bed, his rust and white fur matted with mud. But he was precious. Beautiful. And I found myself already visualizing in my mind long walks with him on the beach.
Planting my hands on my hips, I then gave some thought to how hungry he must be after his trauma-filled morning. “Bet he eats a lot.”
“I hope he doesn’t eat me!” Belfry squeaked.
Tossing Bel upward with his nose, Dog somehow managed to roll my tiny familiar onto his big head, where Bel gripped his fur with his little bat hands.
“We’ll need food. I imagine a lot of it. Good thing the driveway’s almost done. If we’re going to have a dog, no way am I carrying food for one this size up those crumbling stairs. Must’ve been fate that you so generously agreed to the exorbitant cost of concrete, eh, Spy Guy?”
I knew wherever Win was, he was rolling his eyes. “Whatever helps you sleep at night, Dove. Now, on to today’s events. Tito’s funeral. I don’t relish this for you.”
Instantly, my heart sank, but I made my way out of the bedroom with Dog in tow, not nearly as stiff as I thought I’d be after yesterday’s butt injury, and down the stairs to find no Enzo, but a wonderful pot of coffee brewing.
When Enzo is done with renovations, I’m pretty sure I’m going to die.
Pouring an aromatic cup into the mug Enzo always left for me, I caught sight of the headline from the Ebenezer Falls Herald and gawked.
Local Food Truck Owner’s Daughter Questioned in Murder Investigation.
All the air escaped my lungs in a rush of surprise. “Oh no… What do you suppose made them bring Bianca in for questioning? And on the day before her father’s funeral? I know she sucks bags of rocks, but I can’t believe she murdered Tito, Win. I just can’t.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if they bring Maggie in, too, Stevie. Isn’t it standard procedure to question the spouse? Stats say it’s quite common.”
“Well, the Herald isn’t much help, that’s for sure. Few new details in this article other than its officially now being investigated as a murder, and they were more specific about cause of death this time. It says Tito ingested so much cheese he aspirated it. Clearly he didn’t dunk his own head in a vat of cheese. So, duh. Anyone who has two brain cells knows that.”
“It only says she’s being questioned and they have new evidence. That doesn’t mean much, Dove.”
“I guess not, but to make it a headline? Maybe the guy who wrote this knows more than we do. That means I’m going to make a point of finding him after the funeral and using my charms to get him talking.”
“Speaking of funerals, the hour grows closer, Stevie. You should prepare.”
Pushing off the counter, I moaned. “I have to dig out a dress that’s appropriate. Which means I’m going to have to go through some of those old storage boxes in the closet finally. I guess it’s as good an excuse as any to organize.”
“I hate that it’s because Tito is dead, but I don’t mind telling you, you’re a clutter bug and I’ll be grateful to see you clear some of it up.”
Looking out the window, I noted the rain had returned, the dark clouds in the sky crashing into each other just as the downpour began. “Why? Did you plan on needing half of the closet?”
“You never know,” Win answered mysteriously.
That was true. I definitely didn’t know. But I wanted to. I wanted to know how Win thought he could get back here to this plane—how he planned to do something no one had ever done before.
And then a thought struck me. “Speaking of things that are crazy…how did you get Dog inside the house?”
“The same way I’m going to open this and show you there’s more to breakfast than sugary squares of chocolate,” Win said, just before he popped open the fridge door.
Like wide open. And it stayed open.
Inside, the interior was chock full of Tupperware, all neatly stacked and labeled.
Color me astounded. “How…what?”
“Practice, Dove. It just took practice, and a favor or two with one Lawilla Johnson, who specializes in moving things on the earthly plane.”
I crossed to the fridge and looked inside. “But what’s all this?”
“Nourishment. Proper nourishment made by one of the best personal chefs on the planet. Seeing you eat one more cold can of squares stuffed with processed cheese would leave me bereft. If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. You must treat your body like a temple, not a bodega.”
“I thought it was the 7-Eleven?” I teased, taking in the stacks of plastic containers.
Win grated a sigh. “Anyway, they arrived just this morning. Enzo was kind enough to unpack and stack them for you. They’ll arrive every three days. All you have to do is heat them up, which should be no chore for someone as proficient at heating things in a microwave as you.”
Grinning at the picture frame I had with the fake picture in it, I grabbed it and held it up. “See Win nurture Stevie,” I teased, ignoring the food and reaching into the lone cabinet for my Pop-Tart.
“See Win protect his investment Stevie,” he shot back dryly.
Win did his best to remind me that I was essentially his physical eyes and ears here on planet Earth, but he liked me. I knew he did. He took too much care in providing me with outrageous things just like this to deny it.
Dog nudged my hand then sat at my feet, his beautiful eyes staring up at me. “You think there’s any kibble in there from the personal chef for you, buddy? Let’s look,” I coaxed.
I began scanning the Tupperware, eyeing the one that read: Steak Diane.
“Stevie. Don’t you dare. That’s a filet!”
I popped it open and, while I’ll admit, it smelled like heaven even cold, Dog here needed to eat something and I had no time to grab dog food before Tito’s funeral.
“I’m sorry, did I bring a stray dog the size of a cruise ship home, hungry and filthy? No. I did not. But he needs to eat, and I don’t have time to get him any dog food before we go.”
I set it down on the floor for Dog and watched as he happily scarfed the steak with groans of pleasure. “Who’s a good-good boy? Now, Mommy’s going to go grab a shower and dress for Tito’s funeral. You finish your breakfast all up and if you’re still hungry, we’ll find out what ‘chicken cordon bleu’ means.”
“Don’t you dare feed him that chicken, Stevie. It costs the earth!”
I chuckled as I made my way back through the kitchen and up the stairs toward my bedroom. “Better practice opening cans, Win. I have a feeling there’ll be a lot of them in Dog’s future!”
I grunted when I hit the top of the stairs. Maybe I’d overestimated how good my tailbone felt. As I rounded the corner, I winced. I wasn’t looking forward to digging through boxes, but I knew I had a secondhand vintage Halston, a classic, simple black dress, and completely appropriate for Tito’s funeral.
Sorrow gripped my heart as I opened the closet door and sank to my knees to begin digging.
I hated the reason I was wearing this dress. I hated that I hadn’t figured out who’d murdered Tito. But I was resigned to showing my support for Maggie and her family even if I still had no answers as to who’d killed him.
Popping open the first box, I winkled my nose at the one full of some of my clothes from Paris. All light apparel because Texas was hell-hot, all only useful here in Ebenezer Falls for a total of maybe three or four months.
Hoisting myself over the first layer of boxes, I tried to read the labels on them without a light when something caught my eye.
Way in the back, stuffed up against the corner, was a shiny jewelry box—and not one of mine, by the by. I wondered if the prior owner had left it—the prior owner still being a mystery at this point.
I’d asked around town here and there, but everyone had a different story. Some said it was a woman named Melissa or Melinda, and she’d died just after purchasing the house.
One story said she’d slipped off the cliff at the edge of my property and fell to the rocks below. Another told the tale of her disappearing and never returning.
I didn’t know what to believe. I only know whoever owned this beast of a house before Win was suspicious indeed.
With a grunt, I latched on to the jewelry box, the studded exterior flashing in ruby-red and green tones. My heart began to pound for no apparent reason other than whom this belonged to remained a mystery, and by now, we all know how I feel about one of those.
I slid out of the closet, forgetting about the dress and sitting on the plywood floor still waiting for the delivery of reclaimed wood to garnish it. My fingers grew stiff and clammy as I popped it open, my hands shaky and unsure.
The interior, deep ruby-red velvet, was as pristine as anything could be after surviving vagrants and teenagers squatting here.
And inside, there was a picture.
I yanked it out, fighting the race of my pulse.
The edges were worn, as though someone had worried the picture with their fingertips. It was composed of that thin photo stock one uses when they print their own pictures from a home computer.
It also looked fairly current, if I went by what the couple was wearing, and I was certain that was the Eiffel Tower behind them. Though the focus of the photo was more on the two of them.
A redhead with a thick cascade of bright curls smiled laughingly up a tall, dark-haired man, her profile distinct, her chin lean. He wore a navy-blue button-up shirt, fitted to hug his lean waist and wide shoulders, black jeans and black cowboy boots. He smiled down at her, his hand wrapped around her small waist, while hers were planted possessively on his chest.
She wore a black down vest over a red turtleneck, her breasts high and pert, her legs long in jeans that hugged her figure and led to heeled brown boots.
I couldn’t see her really well, I’d need a magnifying glass to distinguish her features better, but I saw the man. His grin was wide, carefree, and totally besotted—obviously with the woman. His curly dark hair fell just over his collar, but was slicked back on top, his coloring leaning toward almost olive-skinned, his cheekbones defined by a glint of the sun.
And he was so handsome I almost couldn’t breathe.
I stared at it for a moment or two longer, curiosity eating me up. Who were these people, and could this be the woman who’d owned the house before Win?
I don’t know what made me look at the back of the photo. Hardly anyone I know dates them like some parents used to do back in the day before the Internet and cell phones. Nowadays, you can find a time stamp on your phone or Facebook and Instagram.
But I did, and when I did, this time, I really gasped out loud, making Belfry, who’d obviously gone back to sleep, stir with a soft mewl.
The back right edge had writing on it, the first letter of the first name smudged and worn away.
But what I could read said: in and Miranda. Paris 2009.
Was I looking at what I thought I was looking at?
I blinked, rubbing my eyes and getting up to hold it to the light.
Could this Miranda be the Melissa or Melinda everyone was always speculating about?
And the letters I and N… If you put a W in front of them, it spelled Win.
My heart nearly beat out of my chest even as my knees trembled.
Was I looking at my Spy Guy?