Deadly Obsession (A Brown and de Luca Novel Book 4) by MAGGIE SHAYNE Read Free Book Online Page B

for a
ride
? In the
car
?”
    She said “snarf!” but I knew what she meant was, “Do you really need to ask? Do you not yet know that rides in the car are my freaking raison d’être?”
    What? She’s a smart bulldog.
    I grabbed her leopard-print goggles and matching silk scarf from the peg on the wall, along with my keys, and we went out the front door. We could’ve gone straight from the kitchen into the attached garage, but the steps were a bit steep for her. This was easier. I pointed at the garage and clicked one of the buttons on the key fob. The door rose slowly, and Myrt, recognizing the sound, danced around my feet, snuffing and snarfing. “Come on, then.” We walked together into the garage. She went directly to the passenger-side door and then stood as straight as a pointer, smiling a mile wide. Yes, dogs smile. Don’t question it. It’s fact.
    I opened her door, and she did what she always does. Put one forepaw on the floor, just inside the door, to accurately gauge her position relative to the car. Then she placed it on the seat instead, put the other paw beside it and waited.
    I, her devoted servant, scooped her backside up for her and helped her get situated. I put her special harness on her while she panted for joy. Then I closed her door and went around to get behind the wheel. It was a gorgeous morning. Not quite warm enough yet to put the top down—I was leaving early and hoping to beat the press to my destination—so I lowered her window. She loved the wind in her face. Sitting on her ass, like a little person, leaning back slightly against the seat, she didn’t need to put any weight on her front paws. They were up. Think kangaroo pose. And her round, pink Buddha belly was fully exposed for all to see. She had no shame.
    We drove to the end of our narrow dirt road, which was edged by the giant lake-like Whitney Point Reservoir. Myrt couldn’t see the way the sunlight was dancing on the water’s surface like liquid gold, but I knew she could smell the water. She loved the water. Mainly because, now that it was summer, she’d discovered that froggies lived there, and she loved few things more than trying to catch froggies. Even hearing the word
froggy
sent her into paroxysms of pleasure.
    At the end of the road we took a left, putting us onto Whitney Point’s main drag. We did not pull in at the McDonald’s, because Myrtle needed to watch her waistline, and we’d already had a healthy breakfast. (Chicken breast for her, oatmeal for me.) Instead, we kept going all the way to the other end of the village, hung a right, followed by a left onto the on-ramp, and sailed onto I-81 south with the wind blowing in my hair and flapping Myrtle’s jowls. We got looks, waves, smiles and a few beeps from at least half the cars we passed. A bulldog wearing leopard-print goggles and a scarf, sitting up in the seat of a classic Inspiration Yellow T-Bird, was an attention grabber.
    My pleasure faded just a little when we passed the Castle Creek exit, just a few miles down. I couldn’t see Mason’s little farmhouse from the highway, but I knew it was there, almost within shouting distance, and my heart clenched a little. I missed him. And I missed his rug rats, too.
    But he was not my morning’s mission. Peter Rouse, the man who’d damn near killed him, was. And he was down in Endwell, not far from where Amy lived.
    Amy. I hadn’t told her I was going to be out when she arrived at the house for work this morning. Not that it mattered. She knew her job. She’d busy herself answering fan mail, updating my fan page and reading over the latest set of galley proofs until I returned.
    How would I ever get by without her?
    I wouldn’t, that was how. I’d curl up and die.
    Before long we were pulling into Rouse the Louse’s driveway. It was still only 8:00 a.m. No reporters were camped out. Yet.
    I put up the windows, left the AC on and took the extra key with me so I could lock the running car with Myrt