Read Online Shepherd's Crook by Sheila Webster Boneham - Free Book Online Page B

present,” I said.
    Goldie clucked and got into Tom’s van, and I crossed the stretch of lawn between me and Mr. Martin and said, “Hi there. I’m Janet MacPhail. Welcome to the neighborhood.”
    â€œYou live right there,” he said, gesturing toward my house with his chin. He didn’t smile, and he didn’t tell me his name.
    And that pushed my pushy button. I held out my hand to force the issue, and said, “Yes, right there.”
    He was tall, close to six feet, and had a long, jowly face. He slowly shifted his writing tools to his left hand and offered me his limp right one. “Phil Martin,” he said. His voice seemed familiar, but of course it would. He was in the news from time to time.
    My skin was in contact with his for only a second, but that was enough. His hand was cold and clammy and shot me straight back to those god-awful square dancing sessions in fifth-grade gym class. With boys . And I always seemed to get matched with Herbie MacFadden. He had limp, clammy hands like that.
    â€œWe’re just on our way out, but I hope we’ll have a chance to chat soon.”
    I was turning away when he said, “Understand you have a lot of pets.”
    â€œA dog and two indoor cats,” I said.
    Martin shoved his clammy hands into his pockets, rocked his shoulders back and his belt buckle forward, and narrowed his eyes at me. “I saw two dogs out there just a little bit ago.”
    I almost answered, but a little voice whispered that I didn’t have to defend myself or our dogs to him. Actually, the little voice wasn’t that polite, but I decided to keep what I really wanted to say to myself. I found a smile somewhere in my over-taxed resources, pasted it on, and said, “We’ll talk soon.” I rejoined Tom and Goldie.
    Tom winked at me and drawled, “That looked right friendly, pardner.”
    â€œNice crotch thrust.” Goldie patted my shoulder. “Good for you not to engage.”
    I cranked my head around to look at Goldie and echoed her opinion of Phil Martin. “He’s a jerk.”
    â€œUnfortunately,” said Tom, backing out of the driveway, “he’s a jerk with some juice, so proceed with caution.”

seventeen
    A cold front swept in during the night, and Monday morning brought us a vicious wind and glowering sky. April is, as T.S. Eliot said, “the cruellest month,” or at least it can be in northern Indiana when you think spring has sprung and suddenly there’s ice on the birdbath and you need fleece and Gore-Tex. The eastern sky was bleeding a narrow slash of crimson light beneath a dark bank of clouds when I went out with Jay to police the backyard. I was wearing a long-sleeved T and the light jacket I’d worn over the weekend, and by the time I went back in I had my jaws clamped tight to silence my chattering teeth. Weather that made me want to crawl back into a warm bed turned Jay into a bouncing bundle of enthusiasm for, well, anything more fun than crawling back into bed, so we played an indoor game of “find the toy” to take the edge off. It warmed me up a bit, too.
    Goldie was usually up early, but her windows were dark, so after I changed into warmer clothes I wrote a note to remind her about our shopping trip and stuck it on the window of her back door where I knew she’d see it. I found one leather glove and, after rifling through all my dresser drawers with no results, I gave up and took a pair of fleece mittens instead. They’d make handling Jay’s longline more difficult, but I could always defy my own advice and wrap the nylon line around my hand for control. Just don’t break your hand for the wedding, said that annoying voice of caution. I would have traded a broken hand, though, for finding Bonnie safe and sound.
    The six-thirty news led off with a story about yet another insane cut to school funding, followed by one about a proposed new tax break