Read Online Swan for the Money by Donna Andrews - Free Book Online Page B

meant the harness. The dog we got from Michael’s mother.”
    “Hmm,” she said. She walked around to inspect Spike from another angle. Following some form of obscure, contrary canine logic, Spike reacted to her attention by sitting down, lifting one leg, and vigorously grooming his bottom.
    “Very interesting,” Mrs. Winkleson said. To each her own; I usually tried to look away when Spike did that. “What kind is it?”
    “No idea,” I said. “He’s a pound puppy. Probably a mix.”
    “How much will you take for it?” she said.
    “I beg your pardon?”
    “I want to buy it,” she said. “How much?”
    “I’m sorry,” I said. “He’s not for sale.”
    I never thought I’d hear those words coming out of my mouth. Although adopting Spike had never been my idea or Michael’s, I was still hoping that some soft-hearted relative, like my brother or Rose Noire, would decide to adopt him.
    But surrendering him to the care of a besotted animal-lover was one thing, and allowing him to be used as a fashion accessory quite another.
    “Nonsense,” Mrs. Winkleson said. “Everything has a price. And money’s no object.”
    “He’s a member of the family,” I said. “Do you really think I’d sell you a member of my family?”
    “If the price was right—”
    “Spike’s not for sale,” I said. “Though come to think of it, if you’re interested, I could give you a really good deal on my brother. Or a brace of cousins. Or even—”
    “ Design in America is coming over Sunday to do a feature on the rose show and a spread on my house,” she said. “I need a dog to add a touch of warmth. And as you know, mine’s gone.”
    Gone? Was she giving up on her dog that easily? And as for adding a touch of warmth, she could bring in the entire population of the local animal shelter and it wouldn’t be enough to overcome the chilly perfection of her house. But that was probably not something I should say. At least not until the rose show was over.
    “Well, then you don’t need a dog permanently,” I said. “Especially not a dog like Spike, who’s so fond of chewing up furniture and peeing on rugs. But if the chief doesn’t find your dog by Sunday, perhaps we could arrange for you to borrow Spike for the photo shoot. I’ll ask my husband if he approves.”
    “You do that,” she said, and strode off. We watched in silence as she slid open the door to the horse barn, slipped inside, and closed it behind her.
    “Don’t let her have him,” Caroline said.
    “Have him, no,” I said. “If she wants to rent him, that’s another matter. I’ll set a high fee. We can use the money. Why doesn’t she just go down to the animal shelter and adopt a dog?”
    “I don’t think she’d have much luck,” Caroline said. “They’ve heard about her down there.”
    “Heard about her? What’s she done?”
    She and Dr. Blake looked at each other.
    Something I’d barely noticed earlier suddenly clicked.
    “Come on, spill,” I said. “You already knew something about Mrs. Winkleson’s dog, didn’t you? In the car, you called it ‘she,’ and I hadn’t mentioned the dog’s name or gender yet. Most people would say ‘he’ or ‘it’ if they didn’t know the gender.”
    “She’s a four-year-old Maltese bitch,” Caroline said. “Mimi’s short for Princess Marija Sofija of Mellieha.”
    “Silly name for a silly little lap dog,” my grandfather muttered. His taste in dogs ran more to Irish wolfhounds.
    “And then she bred Mimi to the most expensive AKC champion Maltese she could find.”
    “ ‘Money’s no object,’ ” I quoted. “It didn’t work out?”
    “Mimi went AWOL one night a few days before her rendezvous with her champion,” Caroline said. “Until the puppies arrived, it never occurred to Mrs. Winkleson to wonder what happened during Mimi’s night on the town. Apparently the pups’ dad had remarkably diverse ancestry.”
    “Had to have been several fathers,” my grandfather put in.