hand was bandaged where Boris had bitten him. I noticed because it was by his mouth, holding onto a cinnamon bun. Bobbi was watching him happily. She made fabulous cinnamon buns, but Dr. Vidur appeared not to notice them. He was smiling at Bobbi.
She saw me before he did, and squealed, then hugged me very gingerly. “He’s fine, I saw him,” she said before I could ask. “He’s just in a bad mood. And Raj doesn’t mind about the bite, so it’s okay.”
After Bobbi’s cinnamon buns, anything would seem okay. They have that effect. It’s probably the two pints of heavy cream and the pounds of sugar. They’d sure gotten her from “Dr. Vidur” to “Raj” in a hurry.
“Can I take Boris home?”
“Sure,” said Vidur around another mouthful, his eyes fixed on Bobbi. “He just needs to rest a few days.”
The way Aunt Marge was eyeing us, I had a feeling bed rest was going to be in our futures for more than a few days. I cleared my throat and said, “Not a problem. Boris?”
Doris Hutchins—no relation to Tom that I knew of—came out of the back with a cat carrier wrapped in a blanket. “He’s a little freaked out,” she said, placing the carrier on the counter. “Will that be check or charge?”
I handed over my credit card and flipped off the blanket. “Boris!”
Two huge eyes stared out at me, the gold and green nearly obliterated by black. He was trembling. I popped open the carrier door and he bolted. Doris cried out, but I knew my Boris. He tore along the counter, then spun, tail fluffed, ears flat. For a moment he stared malevolently around the room. Then he tried to twist around to lick his shoulder. No good. They’d put one of those lampshades on him. He sauntered to me, tail whipping, and butted his head against my chin. The plastic lampshade conked me on the nose. I didn’t care. But my dignity had to be spared. Sheriffs get no respect if they coo at their cats in public.
I hefted Boris onto my shoulder, careful of my ribs and his stitches. “Thank you, Dr. Vidur.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He had yet to take his eyes off Bobbi, who was returning the favor. I would have giggled if my ribs would’ve let me.
Boris snuggled up as well as he could with the plastic cone around his head. I walked out to Roger’s car. Now that I had Boris, I had a ridiculous feeling that everything was all right.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. When we got out of the car, a man rose out of the rocker on Aunt Marge’s porch. It was my cousin Jack Littlepage. Average height, mousy hair, the Littlepage eyes, and that aura of handsomeness that is really the result of a perfectly nourished and pampered childhood. I had no idea what he wanted, and I saw Aunt Marge and Roger trade a worried glance. It was Aunt Marge who took the lead, walking forward with a bright smile. “Jack, what a pleasure! How are you?”
“Miz Turner,” said Jack politely. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Are you here to see Lil?”
“Yes,” he said, and harrumphed. “Cousin Littlepage.”
“Jack,” I returned, and we did that sort-of hug you do with people you’re not sure you should hug. I was glad. My ribs felt like someone had used me for kickboxing practice. I put Boris on the porch. He was growling to himself. Unhappy about the lampshade, the bald patch around his cuts, and God only knows what else. He hissed at Jack on principle. My cousin didn’t seem to notice.
“I hope you’re not hurt badly,” he said, then smiled awkwardly. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
“Not badly,” I said, and gestured to the rocker he’d already been occupying. I took the padded bench nearby. Boris leapt up on my lap, half-purring, half-grumbling. He sighed a little as he settled. “Thanks for the flowers. What brings you by?”
Jack rubbed at his eyes. I expected him to comment on allergies, which is what most people do around that time of year. “Ah, well. I know this is hardly a good
She saw me before he did, and squealed, then hugged me very gingerly. “He’s fine, I saw him,” she said before I could ask. “He’s just in a bad mood. And Raj doesn’t mind about the bite, so it’s okay.”
After Bobbi’s cinnamon buns, anything would seem okay. They have that effect. It’s probably the two pints of heavy cream and the pounds of sugar. They’d sure gotten her from “Dr. Vidur” to “Raj” in a hurry.
“Can I take Boris home?”
“Sure,” said Vidur around another mouthful, his eyes fixed on Bobbi. “He just needs to rest a few days.”
The way Aunt Marge was eyeing us, I had a feeling bed rest was going to be in our futures for more than a few days. I cleared my throat and said, “Not a problem. Boris?”
Doris Hutchins—no relation to Tom that I knew of—came out of the back with a cat carrier wrapped in a blanket. “He’s a little freaked out,” she said, placing the carrier on the counter. “Will that be check or charge?”
I handed over my credit card and flipped off the blanket. “Boris!”
Two huge eyes stared out at me, the gold and green nearly obliterated by black. He was trembling. I popped open the carrier door and he bolted. Doris cried out, but I knew my Boris. He tore along the counter, then spun, tail fluffed, ears flat. For a moment he stared malevolently around the room. Then he tried to twist around to lick his shoulder. No good. They’d put one of those lampshades on him. He sauntered to me, tail whipping, and butted his head against my chin. The plastic lampshade conked me on the nose. I didn’t care. But my dignity had to be spared. Sheriffs get no respect if they coo at their cats in public.
I hefted Boris onto my shoulder, careful of my ribs and his stitches. “Thank you, Dr. Vidur.”
“My pleasure,” he said. He had yet to take his eyes off Bobbi, who was returning the favor. I would have giggled if my ribs would’ve let me.
Boris snuggled up as well as he could with the plastic cone around his head. I walked out to Roger’s car. Now that I had Boris, I had a ridiculous feeling that everything was all right.
I should’ve known it wouldn’t last. When we got out of the car, a man rose out of the rocker on Aunt Marge’s porch. It was my cousin Jack Littlepage. Average height, mousy hair, the Littlepage eyes, and that aura of handsomeness that is really the result of a perfectly nourished and pampered childhood. I had no idea what he wanted, and I saw Aunt Marge and Roger trade a worried glance. It was Aunt Marge who took the lead, walking forward with a bright smile. “Jack, what a pleasure! How are you?”
“Miz Turner,” said Jack politely. “You’re looking well.”
“Thank you. Are you here to see Lil?”
“Yes,” he said, and harrumphed. “Cousin Littlepage.”
“Jack,” I returned, and we did that sort-of hug you do with people you’re not sure you should hug. I was glad. My ribs felt like someone had used me for kickboxing practice. I put Boris on the porch. He was growling to himself. Unhappy about the lampshade, the bald patch around his cuts, and God only knows what else. He hissed at Jack on principle. My cousin didn’t seem to notice.
“I hope you’re not hurt badly,” he said, then smiled awkwardly. I noticed his eyes were bloodshot.
“Not badly,” I said, and gestured to the rocker he’d already been occupying. I took the padded bench nearby. Boris leapt up on my lap, half-purring, half-grumbling. He sighed a little as he settled. “Thanks for the flowers. What brings you by?”
Jack rubbed at his eyes. I expected him to comment on allergies, which is what most people do around that time of year. “Ah, well. I know this is hardly a good
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