Over His Head. Carolyn McSparren

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СКАЧАТЬ Actually the coffee could probably strip the bristles off Lancelot’s back, but at the moment, that was what he needed. He wasn’t used to 5:00 a.m. crises.

      “Thanks,” she said. “Be back in a minute.”

      He watched her go into what must be her bedroom. He could see the corner of a high, unmade bed through the doorway.

      She still wore her cutoffs and a T-shirt. Even seminaked and embarrassed in his bedroom, Tim had appreciated the sight of his new neighbor as she dragged that blasted pig down his hallway. A man who didn’t enjoy looking at her long legs and tight rear end would have to be dead. Tim wasn’t quite dead. He was, however, turning into a randy old man. Celibacy tended to do that to the male of the species.

      He realized he was getting hard, took an almighty gulp of coffee, scalded the roof of his mouth and drank half of Eddy’s orange juice.

      “Hey!” Eddy protested.

      Tim laughed. In the past eighteen months Eddy hadn’t cared enough about anything to feel proprietary. Even a little thing like begrudging his father a swig of orange juice was a major victory. He put down his son’s glass and topped it up from the pitcher on the table. “You realize you’ve drunk an entire orange grove there, son.”

      “Oh.” Eddy looked away and set his glass down untouched.

      Tim wanted to kick himself. “Joke,” he said. “Tell you what. We’ll bring Miss Mayfield—”

      “Nancy,” Eddy corrected.

      “—Nancy a gallon of OJ from the grocery.”

      At that moment Nancy came back into the kitchen. She had combed her short, brown hair, but those delectable nipples were still very visible under the thin cotton of her T-shirt.

      “I called Mike O’Hara,” she said. “He’s the sheriff. Lives a couple of miles outside town. He’s going to stop by on his way into the office. He wants to talk to you, Eddy, find out exactly where you found your pup.”

      Eddy’s terrified eyes went straight to his father’s face. “Do I have to?”

      “He’s a great guy,” Nancy explained. “He’s proud of you, too.” The look on Eddy’s face didn’t change. “Say, I thought I heard a whimper. You better go check on your puppy. Why don’t you move his bed into my bedroom?”

      Eddy slipped off his chair, went over to the corner, scooped up pup and towels, and disappeared through Nancy’s bedroom door without a word.

      “Of course what was done to the dog is a crime,” Tim said. “I should have realized.”

      “A felony. There may be more hurt dogs out there that weren’t so lucky as Eddy’s puppy. He needs a name, by the way.”

      Tim started to say that the dog wasn’t actually Eddy’s, but stopped. Of course the puppy was Eddy’s. It would remain Eddy’s even if he had to fight half of Williamston for possession. “Eddy will come up with something.”

      Nancy took the chair across from Tim. “Okay, what gives with Eddy?”

      Tim sat up. “That’s hardly your business.”

      “The minute he dragged that burned puppy into my house, it became my business. At first I thought he must have burned the puppy himself—”

      “Eddy loves animals! He’d never—”

      “Calm down. I said at first. Nothing like this has happened in Williamston in the six years I’ve lived here.”

      Tim felt his temperature rising. “Then the first night we’re here, somebody burns a puppy in my yard?”

      “You do have two other children.”

      Tim wanted to snatch Eddy, stalk out and slam the door after him.

      “I’m not accusing you,” Nancy said.

      “The hell you’re not.”

      “You think Mike’s not going to ask these questions? You’re supposed to be this hotshot educator with degrees up the wazoo. You must know about kids who like to torture animals.”

      “Not my children.” Suddenly he felt his anger evaporate. She was right, although he didn’t like to admit it. He walked over and looked into Nancy’s bedroom. Eddy slept on the rag rug beside her bed with the puppy’s bed in the crook of his arm. Lancelot had moved to snuggle into the crook behind his knees and was fast asleep as well. The two cats, he noted, were curled up together on the foot of the bed where they could oversee everything. Tim closed the door softly and went back to his place at Nancy’s table.

      “A year ago my wife was killed in a drive-by shooting.”

      Nancy caught her breath. “Oh, I am so sorry!”

      “It’s been hard on all of us, but especially Eddy. He was the youngest and the closest to Solange, I think.”

      “Solange? Is that Angie’s real name?”

      He nodded. “Her father brought his family to Chicago from St. Nazaire in the fifties. He was a chemical engineer. Solange was born in Chicago.”

      “Of course I hear about drive-by shootings, but I guess nobody ever thinks it will happen to them.”

      Tim took a deep breath. “After she was killed, we did grief counseling, went a couple of times to groups for people who’ve lost loved ones to violence. The kids hated it. You can see how Angie reacted.” He laughed ruefully. “The day she dyed her hair jet-black, I thought her grandmother would have a stroke.” He glanced at Nancy. “Solange’s mother has been babysitter and substitute parent since Solange was killed.”

      “I’m surprised you didn’t bring her down with you.”

      “She wouldn’t have come. She thinks Chicago is barbaric. God only knows what she’d make of Williamston.” He wondered whether Nancy would notice his tense. He hadn’t actually asked Madame to join them. One of his reasons for leaving Chicago was to get away from her.

      “Anyway, Jason seemed to be doing okay bar the oversize clothes. Then his grades started falling, I caught him smoking—only tobacco, thank God—and he started hanging around with some local gang wannabes. Then he took up skateboarding. You’ve already seen the hair and the earring holes. The next step would have been tattoos. He’s basically sound, but I was afraid he wouldn’t stay sound if I didn’t get him away.”

      “And Eddy?”

      “Eddy shut down. He’s been a little ghost. Never speaks unless he’s spoken to, does what he’s told, makes A’s in school. A Stepford kid.” He ran his hand over his short hair. “Even the psychologists couldn’t get through to him. I certainly couldn’t.” He nodded at her. “But you did.”

      “Not me.” She nodded toward the bedroom door. “What’s the fancy academic phrase for therapy dog?”

      CHAPTER SEVEN

      SHERIFF MIKE O’HARA loved being sheriff СКАЧАТЬ