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Authors: Susan Conant
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mask. But what good’s it going to do now?”
“Crying wolf,” his wife agreed. She again wore a running outfit—cream-colored tights and layers of sweatshirts. “Although I must say that I’m not sure these personal alarms do any good, anyway, in terms of personal safety. What if no one hears them? Or hears them and doesn’t do anything? A dog might be afraid of the sound, but a flasher?”
“Low curs, aren’t they?” Douglas joked.
Oddly, Pia didn’t seem to object to his making light of her unhappy encounter. On the contrary, she smiled flirtatiously at Douglas. “You and your puns, Douglas,” she said.
“It isn’t a laughing matter,” Wilson protested.
“I’ve recovered,” his wife told him. “The police said these sickos usually just do what they do. They get off on exposing themselves. They aren’t rapists. If they were, they’d—”
“Pia, enough,” Wilson ordered. “We know what they’d do. It’s obvious. Enough.”
Pia flushed. “Would you not talk to me like I’m a dog?”
Wilson apologized and went on say, “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
“Well, that’s what you always say to Llio. Enough! Not that she listens.”
“Llio listens better than Zsa Zsa does,” her husband countered. “Not that that’s saying a lot. Oh, God! Here she comes.”
A glance showed Sylvia emerging from the woods. Zsa Zsa was waddling beside her.
“Rowdy and I are going to disappear,” I said, “and Ceci, I think you should get Quest away from here, too.”
“Don’t you have your—?”
“We were lucky last time. It might not work, especially... let’s just go.”
Ceci being the upbeat, if somewhat unrealistic, person she was, said, “Well, yes, it probably is time for us to head home. You have work to do, I’m sure, Holly dear, and we’ve all had our exercise for the day, haven’t we, Quest?”
Although our exercise had consisted of traversing the short distance from the car to the middle of the field, I didn’t argue. Ceci believed so fervently in the benefits of fresh air that she considered outdoor breathing to be a vigorous aerobic activity. I intended to have a talk with her about the importance of maintaining muscle tone in dysplastic dogs and to prod her to walk Quest on the paths in the park. But not now.
I cut her good-byes short. As she, Rowdy, Quest, and I made our way toward my Bronco, I checked on Zsa Zsa’s whereabouts. Sylvia and the golden had covered about half the distance from the woods to the dog group, which is to say, about half the length of a football field. I relaxed. Even if Zsa Zsa decided to tackle Rowdy again or to go after Quest, we’d reach the Bronco before she could get to us. In passing, I noticed a runner whose route would intersect Sylvia and Zsa Zsa’s. Someone had mentioned that Zsa Zsa pestered runners. I couldn’t remember whether she chased them, jumped on them, nipped at their heels, or irked them in some other way. This runner, a dark-haired woman, moved with speed and energy; she looked more than capable of outdistancing a dysplastic dog. Besides, even from afar, she somehow radiated an air of taking no grief from anyone, human or canine. She wore black, a bulky black top and, in defiance of the cold weather, black stretch shorts.
Ceci spoke. “I can’t decide whether to tell Althea, because, you see, in some ways, Althea is quite worldly, if you know what I mean, and in others, she is really very sheltered, living as she does in a world of books with all that Sherlock Holmes make-believe and so forth, not to mention that I am her junior by more than a few years, and once a little sister, always a little sister no matter how many years pass and how much water runs under the bridge, don’t you think?”
The language-processing centers of Ceci’s brain must be larger and more complex than mine. Even before my concussion, my mind would digest the first half of one of her sentences and then choke on the final half.
“Crying wolf,” his wife agreed. She again wore a running outfit—cream-colored tights and layers of sweatshirts. “Although I must say that I’m not sure these personal alarms do any good, anyway, in terms of personal safety. What if no one hears them? Or hears them and doesn’t do anything? A dog might be afraid of the sound, but a flasher?”
“Low curs, aren’t they?” Douglas joked.
Oddly, Pia didn’t seem to object to his making light of her unhappy encounter. On the contrary, she smiled flirtatiously at Douglas. “You and your puns, Douglas,” she said.
“It isn’t a laughing matter,” Wilson protested.
“I’ve recovered,” his wife told him. “The police said these sickos usually just do what they do. They get off on exposing themselves. They aren’t rapists. If they were, they’d—”
“Pia, enough,” Wilson ordered. “We know what they’d do. It’s obvious. Enough.”
Pia flushed. “Would you not talk to me like I’m a dog?”
Wilson apologized and went on say, “I didn’t mean it to sound like that.”
“Well, that’s what you always say to Llio. Enough! Not that she listens.”
“Llio listens better than Zsa Zsa does,” her husband countered. “Not that that’s saying a lot. Oh, God! Here she comes.”
A glance showed Sylvia emerging from the woods. Zsa Zsa was waddling beside her.
“Rowdy and I are going to disappear,” I said, “and Ceci, I think you should get Quest away from here, too.”
“Don’t you have your—?”
“We were lucky last time. It might not work, especially... let’s just go.”
Ceci being the upbeat, if somewhat unrealistic, person she was, said, “Well, yes, it probably is time for us to head home. You have work to do, I’m sure, Holly dear, and we’ve all had our exercise for the day, haven’t we, Quest?”
Although our exercise had consisted of traversing the short distance from the car to the middle of the field, I didn’t argue. Ceci believed so fervently in the benefits of fresh air that she considered outdoor breathing to be a vigorous aerobic activity. I intended to have a talk with her about the importance of maintaining muscle tone in dysplastic dogs and to prod her to walk Quest on the paths in the park. But not now.
I cut her good-byes short. As she, Rowdy, Quest, and I made our way toward my Bronco, I checked on Zsa Zsa’s whereabouts. Sylvia and the golden had covered about half the distance from the woods to the dog group, which is to say, about half the length of a football field. I relaxed. Even if Zsa Zsa decided to tackle Rowdy again or to go after Quest, we’d reach the Bronco before she could get to us. In passing, I noticed a runner whose route would intersect Sylvia and Zsa Zsa’s. Someone had mentioned that Zsa Zsa pestered runners. I couldn’t remember whether she chased them, jumped on them, nipped at their heels, or irked them in some other way. This runner, a dark-haired woman, moved with speed and energy; she looked more than capable of outdistancing a dysplastic dog. Besides, even from afar, she somehow radiated an air of taking no grief from anyone, human or canine. She wore black, a bulky black top and, in defiance of the cold weather, black stretch shorts.
Ceci spoke. “I can’t decide whether to tell Althea, because, you see, in some ways, Althea is quite worldly, if you know what I mean, and in others, she is really very sheltered, living as she does in a world of books with all that Sherlock Holmes make-believe and so forth, not to mention that I am her junior by more than a few years, and once a little sister, always a little sister no matter how many years pass and how much water runs under the bridge, don’t you think?”
The language-processing centers of Ceci’s brain must be larger and more complex than mine. Even before my concussion, my mind would digest the first half of one of her sentences and then choke on the final half.
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