THE next morning I woke up early and spent the first twenty minutes of my day hunched over the toilet seat, vomiting up not only last night’s dinner but also everything I’d eaten in the previous six weeks or so. Why do they call it morning sickness? It’s pretty much an all-day affair, and what’s worse, it can disappear for months and then suddenly rear its truly ugly head. During my pregnancy with Ruby, I had once been overcome by it on my way to work. There I was, walking up the front steps of the courthouse in my navy suit, holding my Coach briefcase and matching purse. I nodded a grave but courteous good morning to the jurors who were milling about, smoking their last cigarettes before heading inside to decide the fate of my cross-dressing bank robber. A few of them returned my greeting, then recoiled as I proceeded to lean over the balustrade and puke my guts out over the side. I then had the humiliating task of asking the judge to instruct the jurors that defense counsel’s tossing of cookies should not be construed as an indication of her confidence in the strength of her client’s case.
This time around I threw up with Ruby standing behind me, her chubby arms wrapped around my legs and her head resting on my ample behind. It would have been the greatest luxury to be able to deal with my bathroom business unaccompanied. I couldn’t remember the last time I was allowed the extravagance of a closed door.
Cooking Ruby’s scrambled eggs almost sent me back to the bathroom, but I managed to restrain myself, cram her into her booster seat, and put her breakfast in front of her. I then tiptoed into my bedroom and retrieved Audrey Hathaway’s father’s Oxford shirt. I washed it in cold water on the most gentle cycle of my washing machine. I was terrified that I would somehow damage it. I imagined myself standing at Audrey’s front door, a shredded piece of stained cloth in hand, explaining to the poor orphan how my spin cycle had eaten her prized possession.
By the time the shirt was dried, fluffed, and folded, Ruby and I were dressed and ready to face the day. I didn’t particularly want to take a toddler with me on this errand, but Peter was still sound asleep, and I didn’t have much choice. We set off for the Hathaway house.
I pulled up in front of the Tudor palace and looked in the driveway. Both cars were there. Suddenly something occurred to me. Yesterday, when I’d visited Audrey Hathaway, the cars had been in the driveway. Yet, her stepfather hadn’t been home. The BMW, however, had to be his. So why hadn’t he been driving it? Los Angelenos like Daniel Mooney do not take public transportation or taxi-cabs. They drive. Moreover, they drive themselves. People don’t generally drive one another around. It’s not at all uncommon to see convoys of cars following one another as their occupants go to dinner and a movie “together.” Maybe Daniel Mooney had two cars. Or, maybe, I thought, he had a friend. A very close friend.
I unsnapped Ruby’s car-seat straps and lifted her out of the car. Together, we walked up the path.
“Are we having a play date, Mommy?”
“No, peachy. We’re just dropping something off at this house. Then we’ll head over to the park.”
“Let’s go to the Santa Monica Pier!”
“Not today, Ruby. That’s a big outing. We’ll do that with Daddy soon.”
I glanced down and saw her fat lower lip begin to tremble ominously.
“Ruby,” I said, perhaps a bit too sharply, “no tantrums. I’m not kidding. If you throw a tantrum about the pier we’re not even going to go to the park.”
She mustered up every ounce of willpower in her three-foot body and calmed herself down.
“Maybe we’ll go to the pier tomorrow!” she said.
“Maybe. We’ll talk about it tonight. Good job holding it together, kiddo.”
By then we’d reached the front door. I let Ruby press the doorbell, grabbing her hand after she’d rung it six or seven times. Daniel Mooney opened the door. He was taller than I’d remembered, maybe six-foot-two or so. His long hair was gathered in a ponytail, a style I’ve never been that fond of, especially when sported by aging men with an outsized sense of “cool.” He was wearing a luxurious black shirt in a thick, soft-looking, sueded silk, and I had an almost irresistible urge to stroke it. Ruby had the same idea, and I had to jerk her arm back to keep her from fondling Abigail’s widower.
“Yes?” he said. “Didn’t you see the sign?” He pointed at the “No Soliciting” sign posted prominently on the door.
“Oh, no, I’m not selling anything. I’m just returning this to Audrey,” I said, holding out his stepdaughter’s folded shirt.
“Are you a friend of Audrey’s?” he asked suspiciously.
“Not really. I borrowed this shirt from her yesterday. I came over to drop off a lasagna and spilled most of it on myself. She lent me this since I had nothing else to wear. I knew your wife.” Babbling again. Terrific.
“Oh. You’re a friend of Abigail’s. Come in.” He opened the door and stepped back, making room for me to enter.
“I wasn’t really a friend,” I said as Ruby and I walked through the doorway. “I knew her from the school. I just wanted to bring something by for you two. You and Audrey, I mean.”
Mooney seemed to suddenly notice Ruby. “She’s a student,” he said.
“No, not yet.” I blushed. I decided that now wasn’t the time to tell him that his wife had rejected us.
“Please sit down.” He motioned toward an archway that led into the formal living room. “I’ll get Audrey.” He walked up the stairs. I noticed then that he was barefoot and that his toenails sported a decidedly glossy sheen. What kind of a man gets a pedicure?
Ruby and I walked into the elegant living room. The furniture was country French, and the chairs and couches were upholstered in a pale, pink silk. There were end tables everywhere, all of them covered with highly decorative and very breakable knickknacks. I grabbed Ruby just before she could send a collection of tiny music boxes crashing to the floor and sat gingerly in a spindly chair, holding her firmly in my lap.
“Honey, it’s too dangerous in here,” I said, wrapping her wiggling legs in my own. “I can’t let you touch anything. You might break something.”
“I won’t,” she whined. “I’ll be careful. Please. Please. Please.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
We were distracted from our wrestling match by Audrey, who came down the stairs wearing blue-and-green plaid flannel pajamas, and rubbing sleep from her eyes.
“We woke you up! I’m so sorry, Audrey.”
“That’s okay, I’ve been sleeping a lot lately,” she said in a small voice. I inwardly cursed her stepfather for letting her sleep all morning instead of getting her up and distracting her from the depression into which she had clearly sunk.
“I brought back your dad’s shirt, honey,” I said. “Thanks so much for lending it to me.”
“That’s okay. Is this your daughter?”
“I’m Ruby. Who are you?” Ruby piped up.
“Hi, Ruby. I’m Audrey.” She had crouched down so that she was eye level with the little girl. Audrey clearly had a way with small children. Maybe that was something she inherited from her mother.
“Hey, Ruby, will you thank Audrey for lending Mommy her shirt?”
“Thanks, Audrey.”
“You’re welcome, Ruby.”
“Hey, Audrey, are you okay?” I asked.
“No. I mean, I guess so. I dunno.” Her face began to turn a blotchy red, and her eyes filled with tears. Once again, I found myself sitting on the floor holding Abigail Hathaway’s daughter while she sobbed. Within moments, Ruby, who hadn’t seen that many grown-ups, or almost grown-ups, in tears before, also began quietly crying. I stretched out an arm to my own daughter and rocked them both for a while. I kept looking over Audrey’s head in the direction of the stairs, hoping that her stepfather would hear her and come offer his comfort. Nothing. Maybe I’m being ungenerous—maybe he didn’t hear her. But why wasn’t he there? Why wasn’t he with her? Why had he disappeared up the stairs to begin with?
Audrey soon gathered herself together.
“Sorry. I keep doing that to you,” she mumbled, extricating herself from my embrace.
“That’s okay. At least I didn’t spill anything on you this time,” I replied.
She smiled politely.
“I think I’m going to go back to bed.”
“Honey, do you really want to do that? Isn’t there someone you can call to spend some time with you? A relative? One of your friends?” By then I knew enough not to even bother mentioning her stepfather.
“I’m going over to my friend Alice’s house this afternoon. Her mom’s gonna come get me later.”
“Oh, okay,” I said, relieved. “Why don’t I leave you my number and you can call me if you need anything.” I handed her one of my old cards with my home phone number scrawled on it.
I gathered up a still distraught Ruby and headed to the door. Audrey walked me out. She surprised me by giving me a quick, almost embarrassed hug in the doorway. I hugged her back and carried Ruby to the car.
“She’s a sad girl,” Ruby said as I buckled her into her seat.
“Yes, she is.”
“Why is she a sad girl?”
“Well, Peachy, she’s sad because something terrible happened to her.”
“What happened?”
I dreaded having to say this, but I had no choice. “Her mommy died.”
“Did she get trampled by wild-a-beasts?”
“What?” I answered, shocked. “Wild beasts? No. Are you afraid of wild beasts?”
“No, not wild beasts. Wild-a-beasts. Like Mufasa.”
The Lion King. Right. Life lessons brought to you by Disney.
“No, Ruby. Her mommy did not get trampled by wildebeests. She died in a car accident.”
“Oh.” Ruby seemed satisfied by that answer, and I closed her door and walked around to the driver’s seat.
I started the ignition and pulled out into the street. I had just stopped at the stop sign at the end of the block when Ruby announced, “We don’t have any wild-a-beasts, but we do have a car.”
I pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car, and turned to her. “Ruby, I promise you Mommy is not going to die in a car accident.” I’m sure there are hundreds of child-development experts who would be horrified that I said that. After all, it is possible that I could die in a car accident. But, the way I figure it, the chances are pretty slim. And, if I do die, Ruby is going to have a lot more serious traumas to deal with than the fact that her mother promised she wouldn’t die. Sometimes you just have to tell your kids what you think they want and need to hear and hope for the best.
“Promise?” she asked in a tiny little voice.
“Promise.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Ruby. You are my most precious girl in the whole wide world.”
I turned around and glanced in my rearview mirror before pulling into the street. I was just in time to see a car come to a stop in front of Abigail Hathaway’s house. I couldn’t make out the driver of the cherry-red, vintage Mustang convertible. Curious, I idled at the side of the road.
The door to Abigail’s house flew open, and Daniel Mooney bounded out. He loped down the path and fairly leaped into the passenger seat, and the car pulled away from the curb with a screech. I didn’t have time to think about what I was doing—I just acted. As the Mustang blew by me I waited a moment and then gave chase.
Ruby and I followed the car all the way down the Pacific Coast Highway to Venice. I did my best to be discreet, keeping one and even two cars between us. Lucky for me, a bright red Mustang is maybe the easiest car in the universe to tail. It wasn’t hard to keep my eye on it. Luckily, also, Ruby fell asleep. I’d like to see Jim Rockford engaging in a car chase while handing juice boxes and Barbie dolls back to a demanding toddler. I certainly couldn’t have managed it.
Finally, the Mustang pulled up in front of a fourplex on Rose Street. It was one of the faux Mediterranean structures that had sprung up all over Los Angeles in the 1930s, all arches, plastered domes, and Mexican tiles. This one looked like it had seen better days, but it retained a kind of blowsy, overdone elegance.
I drove by the Mustang and pulled into a bus-boarding lane at the end of the block. Slouching down in my seat, I angled my rearview mirror so I could see the car. As I watched, the driver’s door opened and a woman got out. She was a tall, striking redhead, no more than twenty-five or twenty-six years old. Her hair hung in thick waves down her back, and she wore jeans and cowboy boots. She carried a large leather bag that looked artfully beat up.
Daniel Mooney got out of the passenger side, and the two of them walked into the building. Just as they reached her front door, I saw him grab her hand and press it to his lips. I gasped, although I’m not sure why, because by then I was sure I’d found his paramour and the motive for his murder of the woman I’d by then decided was a martyr in a miserable marriage to a selfish, heartless beast.
I circled the block and made sure I had the number of the apartment building correct. Then I drove quickly back home. I made it in record time.
Peter was sitting at the kitchen table, hunched over a cup of coffee, when I rushed in.
“You just get up?”
He grunted.
“Ruby’s asleep in the car. Will you go get her and put her in her crib?”
Grunting again, he got up and went out to get his sleeping child. I poured myself a glass of juice and drained it. Detective work made me thirsty.
Peter settled Ruby down for her nap and came back to his coffee.
“Listen,” I said, “do you mind if I run out? I’ll be back in about an hour.” I waited for him to ask me where I was going.
“Yeah, fine, whatever,” he mumbled. A morning person my husband is not.
I paused at the front door, giving him another moment to ask where I was off to. Nothing. I jumped back into my car and sped down the freeway in the direction of Venice.
The parking gods were not on my side. I circled the block twice before I finally gave up and parked in the tow-away zone directly in front of the apartment building. I flicked on my hazard lights, jumped out of the car, and walked quickly to the front door.
There were four buzzers next to the door behind which Mooney and his redhead had disappeared. Below each one was a narrow mailbox. One mailbox had no name tag, one read “Jefferson Goldblatt,” and one was marked “Best & Co.” Taped above the fourth bell was a small slip of cardstock elaborately decorated with scrolls and flowers in an Art Deco design. The name “N. Tiger” was hand-calligraphed in a luscious purple ink. The red-haired woman had to be N. Naomi. Nancy. Nanette. Nicole. Noreen. Nesbit. Nefertiti. Noodleroni.
I casually looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched. Satisfied that there was no one in sight, I pulled on the little metal door to N. Tiger’s mailbox. It was locked. Thinking it hopeless, but somehow not able to help myself, I yanked a little harder. With a tiny shriek of metal the door popped open, only slightly bent. I gulped but, the damage having been done, looked inside the narrow box. At first sight it appeared to be empty, but then I saw a piece of crumpled white paper flattened against the back of the box. I slid my hand inside, and with the tips of my fingers I could just reach the paper. I grabbed it between my index and middle fingers and eased it out. It was a piece of junk mail, one of those cards with the picture of a missing child on the front and an ad on the back. This one was for a dry cleaner. The card was addressed to “Miss Nina Tiger or Current Resident.” I had her.
I shoved the card back into the mailbox and closed the little door as best I could. I had bent the latch just enough to make it impossible to shut. I tried jamming the door shut, and when that wouldn’t work I opened it up again and did my best to bend the latch in the other direction. I was engaged in this futile and highly illegal activity when the door to the building opened. I jumped, in part because I was startled and in part because the door smacked me on the hip.
“Sorry,” I heard a woman’s voice say.
Cringing, I looked up into the face of Nina Tiger. She had brown eyes and a splash of freckles. She glanced at me and started to look away when she noticed what I was doing.
“That’s my mailbox. What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Um. Um. Nothing.” Quick with the retort as ever.
“Are you going through my mail?” She pushed me aside and reached into her mailbox. She grabbed the door and noticed the latch.
“You broke it? Who the hell are you? What’s happening here?”
“I did not break anything,” I replied indignantly. “I’m just leaving a note for my friend Jeff Goldblatt. I noticed that your mailbox door was open and that . . . that . . . a letter had fallen out of it. I picked it up and put it back for you. I was trying to close the door so that nothing else would fall out when you opened the door on my stomach.” I reached for my belly and gave a little grimace of imaginary pain.
She wasn’t sure whether to believe me. We looked at each other for a long moment. “You’re a friend of Goldblatt’s?” she finally asked.
“Of course,” I said. “I was dropping off a check, if you must know.”
That extra detail seemed to convince her.
“Well, sorry,” she said, and brushed by me.
“Apology accepted,” I called to her back and followed her down the path. She stopped at her car, opened the trunk, and took out a shopping bag. I walked quickly back to my car and jumped inside. Breathing heavily and more nervous than I’d ever been in my life, I drove off as fast as I could without speeding. I was home within ten minutes.
Peter was in the same position he’d been when I left, although he seemed to have finished the pot of coffee.
“Hi,” I said.
“Hi.”
“Awake yet?”
“Getting there.”
“Ruby still asleep?”
“Isn’t she with you?” He looked confused.
“Peter! You put her in bed forty minutes ago.”
“I did? Oh, right. Yeah. She’s asleep.”
“Will you wake up, already, for crying out loud?”
“I got E-mail from your mother last night,” he said, changing the subject.
“What? Why is she writing to you?”
“She’s been writing to you, apparently, but you haven’t answered. She asked me if there’s anything wrong.”
“I haven’t checked my E-mail in ages,” I said. “I’ll go log on right now.”
It took more than ten minutes for all my E-mail messages to download. I hadn’t checked my E-mail since the day before Abigail Hathaway died, and I had a huge backlog of messages. E-mail is a big part of my social life. I write regularly to friends from college and law school as well as to my old colleagues at the federal defender’s office. I don’t think I’ve spoken to my mother since she got her first laptop with a modem. She spends all her free time surfing the Web, so her phone line is permanently engaged and she communicates exclusively by E-mail.
After I’d finished answering my mail, I logged on to the Web. I was checking out a few of my favorite sites when an idea suddenly occurred to me. I clicked over to Yahoo, input the name “Nina Tiger,” and requested a search. It was only moments before I got my results. One hit. I clicked on the icon and found myself looking at a review of a children’s book called Nina Tiger and the Mango Tree. Probably not who I was looking for, unless the red-haired woman doubled as an exuberant tiger cub.
I leaned back in my chair, rubbed my belly, and considered the situation. If this woman had a computer and spent time on line, I should be able to find her. It was worth a try. I’ve never been a big one for newsgroups, those message boards of strangers who share a common interest, although at one point, when I was feeling particularly exasperated with my mother, I posted for a while to a group called alt.reddiaperbaby. While it was entertaining for a while to compare stories about socialist summer camp with twenty or thirty strangers, most of whom were named Ethel or Julius, ultimately I got bored. But I remembered how to use Dejanews, the site that digests all the hundreds of thousands of posts to the thousands of newsgroups on topics ranging from alt.misc.parents to alt.dalmatians to alt.gunlovers. I clicked over to it, typed in the red-haired woman’s name, and ordered a search. Success. I found an E-mail address registered to a Nina Tiger: tigress@earthweb.net. Cute. Crossing my fingers, I asked for tigress’s author profile. If she posted to a newsgroup, I would find out.
Tigress, it turned out, was a big-time cyber-geek. Dejanews provided me with listings of her participation in a whole variety of newsgroups. I checked out her postings to alt.postmodern—tigress was not a fan of Jeff Koons. She did, however, enjoy Star Trek: The Next Generation and French cooking. I scrolled down past postings to those groups and others, including one dedicated to the Rajneesh and another whose topic I couldn’t figure out—it had something to do with witchcraft, or rugby. One of the two. Then I found something interesting: Tigress spent a lot of time chatting with folks on the topic of alt.polyamory. That sounded like sex to me.
I clicked on tigress’s most recent posting to the newsgroup. The protocol of newsgroup participation is to include a portion of the person to whom you are responding’s message at the top of your own so that readers will know what the topic of conversation is. Otherwise it would be almost impossible to follow the train of various comments and responses. Tigress had excerpted a prior message from someone named “monkey65” and responded to it.
<<Given tigress’s frequent lambasting of this poor woman, I’m not sure why we are all expressing sympathy for her loss. IMHO, she didn’t lose jack other than an impediment to her relationship with Coyote. He deserves our support, but she certainly doesn’t.>>
My loss is immeasurable because my love’s loss is immeasurable. I feel his misery in my own soul. His wife’s refusal to embrace our love and make it part of her own doesn’t ease the pain of her being violently thrust from this life into the next passage. I ache with Coyote as I love with Coyote. Our intertwined souls feel this wrenching together as we feel all else together. We will celebrate her voyage into the next life with a tantric love dance.
tigress
It was difficult to keep myself from gagging. I wasn’t sure what made me more sick to my stomach: Nina Tiger’s pretentious, New-Age pseudomourning, or the idea of Daniel Mooney—it had to be he—performing a “tantric love dance,” whatever the heck that might be.
I snipped the message and copied it into a file on my computer. In the interests of security, however paranoid, I labeled the file “Animal Musings.” No way a hacker, police detective, or nosy husband would figure that out.
I then went back to Dejanews and searched for more information on my pair of tantric murderers. After about an hour I could stand no more. My back ached, my eyes were blurry, and I was thoroughly disgusted. I logged off, put my computer to sleep, and staggered out to the kitchen. I found Peter just where I’d left him. He was still hunched over his empty cup of coffee but seemed to have progressed through all the various sections of the Los Angeles Times. The Trades were spread out in front of him, and he was busily circling items with an angry red marker.
“Hey. Whatchya doing?” I asked.
“Figuring out who’s getting paid more than I am.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Pete, tell me you’re not serious.”
“Totally,” he said, miserably. “The Hollywood Reporter has this long article on some twenty-eight-year-old hack writer who just turned down one point seven million dollars to write the script for Revenge of the Killing Crows. Turned it down. Meaning, it wasn’t enough money. Meaning, he’s planning on making more money doing something else.”
“You don’t know that. Maybe the guy has some artistic integrity and doesn’t want to write the Killing Crows thing,” I said.
“Give me a break, Juliet. First of all, this is Hollywood. No one has artistic integrity. And even if they did, they wouldn’t for one point seven million dollars. And second of all, I would kill to write the movie that you seem to think is so artistically bankrupt.” He positively snarled at me. My sweet, unflappable spouse had turned into a character from one of his own scripts.
“What has gotten into you this morning?” I asked, trying to keep my own temper. For some reason, my moods always seem to adjust to match Peter’s. When he’s depressed, I’m depressed. When he’s angry, I’m angry. Unfortunately, his positive emotions don’t seem anywhere near as contagious.
Peter moaned, reached over, and hugged me. “I’m sorry, sweetie. I’m being a bear. I was up until four in the morning trying to finish that scene I’m working on. I am never going to finish this script. Which means I’ll never get another movie.”
Suddenly he dropped his arms from around my neck and looked at me, horrified. “Oh, my God, do you think I’m the reason we’ve been rejected at all the preschools? They know I’m going nowhere, and they don’t want their precious kids to associate with the spawn of failure.”
I rolled my eyes. Before I could express a reassuring word, Peter started scrambling around the table.
“Where’s a pencil? I have to write that down. Spawn of Failure. Great title.”
Laughing, I kissed the top of his head. “I love you,” I said.
“Love you, too. What have you been up to all morning? How’s the baby doing?” He scribbled on a corner of the newspaper and then leaned over and gave my belly a kiss.
“Isaac and I are fine. We were just . . . um . . . driving around.”
“What?” he asked. “Driving around?”
“I mean, Ruby and I went to Abigail Hathaway’s house to return the shirt to her daughter, and after I dropped her off at home I . . . I . . . I just drove around.” I paused. “I’m lying,” I said.
“What?”
“I didn’t want to tell you what I really did, so I lied. But I can’t lie to you. I did go to Ms. Hathaway’s house. But, then, I sort of followed Daniel Mooney.”
“You what?”
“I followed him. But listen, here’s why—”
“I don’t care why!” By now he was yelling. “You took our two-and-a-half-year-old daughter on a car chase?”
I yelled back, “It wasn’t a car chase! We very slowly and carefully followed Daniel Mooney and his girlfriend to her house, and then I immediately brought her back here before I went back to figure out the girlfriend’s name. Do you honestly think I would ever risk Ruby’s safety?”
Peter paused. “Girlfriend?”
“Yes, girlfriend. And you’ll never believe the stuff I found out about the two of them on the Web.”
Peter was interested despite himself. “Go on.”
“Turns out this creep is sleeping with this woman, Nina Tiger, or “tigress,” as she likes to call herself. They met about a year ago on a newsgroup for people interested in polyamory.”
“Poly what?”
“Love relationships among more than two people.”
“Ick.”
“My feelings exactly. Anyway, they met on the Web, and pretty soon were having very public and very raunchy Internet sex. Finally, it wasn’t enough for them. They decided they needed to consummate their cybersex. The whole time, mind you, they kept the entire population of their newsgroup apprised of every single sordid detail of their relationship. They started sleeping together, sneaking around behind Abigail’s back.
“Within a couple of months, the newsgroup freaks started hounding them. Remember, the whole point of this movement or whatever it is is that they are supposed to by polyamorous, not just adulterous. Tigress and Coyote—yes, that is indeed his nom de guerre—finally succumbed to the pressure and decided to include Abigail in their little love nest or cesspool, whatever you want to call it. And, get this, they decided, with the help of their comrades in arms—and legs, for that matter—that the best way to get Abigail to go along with this multiple-partner thing is to have her walk into her bedroom one fine day and find ol’ tigress and Coyote waiting there, buck naked.”
“Are you kidding?”
“Nope. They planned their moment, and one fine evening there they were, waiting for Abigail when she walked in from work. Surprise, surprise, Abigail was less than thrilled with the little Wild Kingdom tableau awaiting her. In fact, she freaked out—which, by the way, totally confused everyone in the newsgroup, all of whom apparently were under the impression that she would rip off her clothes and jump into the sack with the fabulous twosome.
“Not one to be trifled with, Abigail threw Coyote out on his butt, and he, bizarrely, to my mind, began this desperate siege to try to get her back. Finally, after about a week or so of flowers, phone calls, etc., she relented, on the condition that he stop seeing tigress and get some marital counseling, which he did. Go to therapy, that is. He did not stop sleeping with the hungry jungle cat. They just went back to doing the nasty in secret. They seem to have been under the impression that Abigail didn’t know about it, or at least that’s what they told the newsgroup.”
“Holy cow.”
“Cows say ‘Moo!’” a high-pitched voice squealed.
Peter and I spun around to find Ruby standing in the doorway. How long she’d been there and how much she’d heard we never did figure out. I didn’t have time to mention to Peter that Nina Tiger had caught me going through her mail.