Stopping, he gave a bite and a furious lick to his left shoulder, then licked his paw. With a little chirp, he continued in until he was lapping up the milk, purring like a tiny electric fan.
I watched him finish the milk and then give himself a bath all over. Finding a sack of dry cat food was apparently top on my list for my day off, and a few cans of wet food as well. Did I need to set up a litter box and all, too? As I turned toward where my purse hung from a hook, I jostled a chair, and kitty streaked out the still-open door. He could keep going to the bathroom wherever heâd been going up to now. At least until the ground froze.
I made and ate a piece of toast with peanut butter and honey, then grabbed my bag. Iâd seen cat food in Shamrock Hardware. I could pick up a bag there, for starters. As I locked the door behind me, kitty sauntered up again, purring with his chirping noise.
âThatâs it,â I told him. âYour name is Birdy.â
He eyed me with an inscrutable gaze as he crouched, paws in front of him, looking for all the world like a tiny black-and-white Sphinx. A Sphinx named Birdy.
Chapter 8
âIt needs fixed.â The male voice one aisle over at Shamrock Hardware was insistent. âDonât got no insurance.â
I cocked my head, but couldnât place the speaker.
âIâm not talking about this,â he said. âI donât want all of South Lick to know my bidness.â
I lowered my head again to stare at the array of cat treats. He was a local by the way he talked, but I hadnât heard another voice. I guessed it was a domestic spat being conducted over the phone.
Having no idea what kind of food my new buddy, Birdy, liked, and suspecting he wouldnât be picky, I threw a dozen little cans into the basket, then loaded up a sack of the most expensive dry food, the one saying it was made in the USA with organic ingredients. Only the best for my new family member. And from what Iâd read about the dangers lurking in pet food made in China, the cost was worth it.
I wandered the narrow aisles, trying to think if I needed anything along the lines of actual hardware. It was an old-style store, with shelves to the ceiling, and a good deal of rather dusty inventory that could have been sitting there for a century: mousetraps, nasty chemical cleaners, cast-iron C-clamps. I added a few sponges and scrubbers to my cart, then searched out picture hangers. I hadnât gotten around to hanging any of my framed art and that could be another easy task for today.
After adding a couple of packets of hangers to my shopping cart, I passed a wide locked glass cabinet and stopped to examine it. It was full of guns. Small ones, big ones. I didnât know anything more about guns than the terms that were tossed around on the news and in books: rifle, shotgun, semiautomatic. Revolver, pistol, weapon. But it sure looked like they were all in there, and for sale, too, along with boxes of what looked like bullets. It gave me a chill to think the gun that killed Stella might have been bought here, and the ammo, too.
Heading over to Barb, the cashier, a trim older woman with perfect makeup and a short cap of salt-and-pepper hair, I spied the frowning proprietor emerging from a door labeled OFFICE: NO ADMITTANCE . I waved.
ââMorning, Don,â I called.
When he saw me, he plastered a fake smile over his frown and walked toward me. âRobbie. How were your first couple days?â
âVery good, thanks. We had a great crowd both Saturday and Sunday.â
âHeard about the biscuit.â He leaned in and lowered his voice. âYou know. In Stellaâs mouth. Bad news for you.â
He had the nerve. I stood up as tall as I could. âNot at all. No one who ate in my store on Sunday seemed worried in the least that theyâd die from one of my biscuits.â
âI just thought . . .â His voice trailed off and his eyes got
I watched him finish the milk and then give himself a bath all over. Finding a sack of dry cat food was apparently top on my list for my day off, and a few cans of wet food as well. Did I need to set up a litter box and all, too? As I turned toward where my purse hung from a hook, I jostled a chair, and kitty streaked out the still-open door. He could keep going to the bathroom wherever heâd been going up to now. At least until the ground froze.
I made and ate a piece of toast with peanut butter and honey, then grabbed my bag. Iâd seen cat food in Shamrock Hardware. I could pick up a bag there, for starters. As I locked the door behind me, kitty sauntered up again, purring with his chirping noise.
âThatâs it,â I told him. âYour name is Birdy.â
He eyed me with an inscrutable gaze as he crouched, paws in front of him, looking for all the world like a tiny black-and-white Sphinx. A Sphinx named Birdy.
Chapter 8
âIt needs fixed.â The male voice one aisle over at Shamrock Hardware was insistent. âDonât got no insurance.â
I cocked my head, but couldnât place the speaker.
âIâm not talking about this,â he said. âI donât want all of South Lick to know my bidness.â
I lowered my head again to stare at the array of cat treats. He was a local by the way he talked, but I hadnât heard another voice. I guessed it was a domestic spat being conducted over the phone.
Having no idea what kind of food my new buddy, Birdy, liked, and suspecting he wouldnât be picky, I threw a dozen little cans into the basket, then loaded up a sack of the most expensive dry food, the one saying it was made in the USA with organic ingredients. Only the best for my new family member. And from what Iâd read about the dangers lurking in pet food made in China, the cost was worth it.
I wandered the narrow aisles, trying to think if I needed anything along the lines of actual hardware. It was an old-style store, with shelves to the ceiling, and a good deal of rather dusty inventory that could have been sitting there for a century: mousetraps, nasty chemical cleaners, cast-iron C-clamps. I added a few sponges and scrubbers to my cart, then searched out picture hangers. I hadnât gotten around to hanging any of my framed art and that could be another easy task for today.
After adding a couple of packets of hangers to my shopping cart, I passed a wide locked glass cabinet and stopped to examine it. It was full of guns. Small ones, big ones. I didnât know anything more about guns than the terms that were tossed around on the news and in books: rifle, shotgun, semiautomatic. Revolver, pistol, weapon. But it sure looked like they were all in there, and for sale, too, along with boxes of what looked like bullets. It gave me a chill to think the gun that killed Stella might have been bought here, and the ammo, too.
Heading over to Barb, the cashier, a trim older woman with perfect makeup and a short cap of salt-and-pepper hair, I spied the frowning proprietor emerging from a door labeled OFFICE: NO ADMITTANCE . I waved.
ââMorning, Don,â I called.
When he saw me, he plastered a fake smile over his frown and walked toward me. âRobbie. How were your first couple days?â
âVery good, thanks. We had a great crowd both Saturday and Sunday.â
âHeard about the biscuit.â He leaned in and lowered his voice. âYou know. In Stellaâs mouth. Bad news for you.â
He had the nerve. I stood up as tall as I could. âNot at all. No one who ate in my store on Sunday seemed worried in the least that theyâd die from one of my biscuits.â
âI just thought . . .â His voice trailed off and his eyes got