The Most Famous Illegal Goose Creek Parade (2 page)

Aha! The truth emerged at last. Well, he'd better put the skids on this conversation right now. “We are
not
buying that house. Under no circumstances. Not even the slightest possibility. I refuse to discuss it, so put the idea out of your head.”

To prevent the inevitable argument he stalked away from her in the direction of the perfectly good home where they'd lived happily for nearly two decades, using his long-legged stride to its full advantage.

Quick footsteps scuffed on the road as she hurried to catch up. “But Louise says they told her they're desperate for money and need to sell quickly. She thinks they'd be willing to let it go at a fraction of its value.”

“Louise is not a very good realtor if she tells people her clients are
desperate.” He stared straight ahead, not slowing one smidge even though she had to trot in order to keep up with him.

“But they want her to,” Millie argued. “They don't care if everyone knows, because they want to unload—” She bit off the rest of the sentence.

Al pounced on the word with glee. “They want to
unload
a potential real estate catastrophe before the house collapses.”

“No,” she said as calmly as she could while huffing with the effort of staying beside him. “They need the money to renovate the restaurant they bought up in Cincinnati before the building inspector shuts them down.”

From the corner of his eye he spied a flush splotching her cheeks. Guilt pricked his conscience, and he shortened his stride. “They had no business opening that restaurant to begin with.”

“Oh, don't be an old poop.” She gave his arm a playful nudge and settled into the slower pace. “It was their dream. Everybody should follow their dream if they have the chance.”

A longing glance over her shoulder was no doubt designed to inflict the maximum guilt on the “old poop” who dashed her girlish dreams of living in a grand house. Well, he refused to succumb to her obvious machinations. He loved this woman intensely, so much that in quiet times of reflection he could scarcely breathe at the depth of his feelings, but he was not blind to her ways. Over the years he'd fallen victim to her womanly wiles more than once. That's how they'd ended up with two sets of golf clubs collecting dust in the attic and a bright pink Volkswagen Beetle with obnoxious curling eyelashes over the headlights. And Rufus, the world's smelliest beagle. Not to mention a third child, though Allison was a joy he'd never regretted for an instant.

He shook off the tenderness that always accompanied thoughts of his only daughter. Now was not the time for softness. Millie could sense the slightest shift in his mood and would not hesitate to press the advantage with a ruthlessness at odds to her sweet manner and delightful dimples.

“We are not buying that house.” He punctuated the statement with a firm shake of his head.

His proclamation was met with silence. Al risked a sideways glance, and was not comforted by what he saw. A smile, nearly imperceptible and composed of unbendable steel, hovered about the lovely full lips. He knew that expression well, and the sight of it set his insides to quivering. She had no intention of giving in. And the truth that he had come to realize over the years, the one he tried to hide from her at all costs, was that in a match of wills, hers was the stronger.

Millie held her tongue for the duration of their stroll. Aware of the cautious glances Albert shot her way every so often, she maintained a pleasant expression. Pouting, she'd learned long ago, would serve no purpose besides irritating her peace-loving husband. When Albert was irritated, he became even more mule-headed than usual. At this stage of the negotiations it was extremely important to keep every conversation cordial.

She knew how his mind worked. He would process their discussion over the next few days. At odd times he would utter an objection out of the blue. While buttering his toast he might say, “That lawn is a disaster, you know.” Or when he slid into bed at night, “The property taxes are probably triple what we pay now.” She would reply with a smile and a nod and revel in a secret satisfaction. Let him brood over the downsides, all the while becoming accustomed to the idea.

Turning the corner onto Mulberry Avenue, she eyed the familiar street with fresh eyes. Blacktopped driveways and arrow-straight sidewalks outlined squares of neatly maintained lawns, identical in size. Single-story homes of similar size and construction, though with enough individuality to give the neighborhood a pleasant, non-tract-like feel. Her gaze was drawn to their house in the exact center of the street. The holly bushes on either side of their mailbox, though winter-dull at the moment, were trimmed to perfect roundness. A
row of carefully tended Camellia shrubs, equally spaced in a strip of dark soil lining the sidewalk, led to the front door. At the moment they were mere bundles of sticks but had recently begun to show signs of producing the glossy dark leaves and pink blossoms that would lend an air of glory to the Richardson yard that none of their neighbors had managed to replicate. Thanks to Albert.

She cast a fond glance sideways, ignoring the stubborn set to his strong jaw. Such a perfectionist. It was one of the traits she admired about him. He approached every task with a thoroughness and determination that sometimes bordered on compulsiveness, and he never left a job half-done. He might grumble but she knew he loved the work, derived immense satisfaction from tackling new projects. The sight of a broken toilet handle or a chip in the wall paint rendered him positively gleeful. Without a doubt, his efforts to landscape their yard saved him from suffering a stroke after that alarming episode three summers ago. She herself had seen his blood pressure retreat to the normal range whenever he plunged his hands into rich Kentucky soil.

But now all the chores were done, inside the house and out. Retirement was only a few years away, and then what? Their home was in perfect repair.

Ah, but the Updyke property had
plenty
to do. Years' worth of projects to keep them both busy and healthy.

When they approached Violet's house, the curtains in the front window moved. Her best friend and next-door neighbor for nearly twenty years stood inside, peering at them through the binoculars she kept in readiness on the hall table. Probably beside herself with waiting to see how the conversation with Albert went. With a cautious glance at her husband, Millie gave a very slight shake of her head. The curtains fell back into place.

They stepped from the sidewalk onto their walkway, and Albert's face lost the perturbed expression. She spied the beginnings of a smile as he scanned the neat lawn, the gleaming windows, the front door he'd painted an inviting shade of red. Yes, their home was pleasant and
welcoming, and in excellent shape. According to Louise Gaitskill, it would bring a good price.

She allowed him to open the door for her and let her hand linger on his cheek with a gentle caress as she passed inside. After all these years of marriage, you'd think Albert would learn that she always had his best interests in mind.

Chapter Two

O
h, just the usual complaints,” the old veterinarian assured Susan. “You know. Ear mites. Hookworm. Acute moist dermatitis. UTDs in the cats, of course. And fleas are bad around here. Standard stuff. Nothing you can't handle.”

Susan worried the inside of her cheek between her molars. His vote of confidence in her skills meant absolutely zero since he'd only met her an hour before. How did he know what she, a brand new veterinarian with the ink barely dry on her license, could handle? On the other hand, she was certainly competent to diagnose and treat the common health problems of household pets. If he were telling the truth about his clientele, she shouldn't have any problems taking over his practice.

If he were telling the truth.
The suspicious thought snagged in her mental filter and dangled there at the front of her mind.

What's the matter with me? He seems like an honest man. There's no reason at all to suspect Dr. Forsythe of being untruthful.

No reason beyond her habitual mistrust of strangers and the certainty that all men except Daddy were out to take advantage of a female undertaking a business transaction alone in order to soak them for as much as they could. Which was ridiculous. This was a reputable doctor of veterinary medicine retiring from his practice, not someone trying to sell her a timeshare.

They stood behind a low counter in the otherwise empty reception
area, their conversation accompanied by cries for attention from a Yorkie and a Chow mix in the boarding room down the hall. The poor dogs had been excited to see them during her after-hours tour of the facility, and clearly expected to be let out of their kennels for a play period. The odors of disinfectant and pine lingered in the air and overpowered the more common smells that accompanied a vet's office, proof that the floors had been recently mopped.

“Will you be available for consultations if the
new doctor
has questions?” She emphasized the words in a clear message that she had not yet made a decision to sign the papers and become that new doctor.

“By phone, of course.” His pleasant expression did not fade in the least. “But the missus and I are moving to Florida as soon as we wrap things up here.”

She nodded, scanning the reception counter. A dog cookie jar sat on one end, and a kitty treat jar on the other. From this vantage point she could see into both of the small waiting rooms, four blue plastic chairs situated in each. A sign suspended from the ceiling in front of a partition between the two directed
Playful Pups
to the left and
Kuddly Kitties
to the right.

Where did Disagreeable Dogs and Cantankerous Cats wait?

Dismissing the snarky thought, she asked, “What about reptiles? Do you treat many of those?”

Though most of her vet school classmates avoided caring for reptiles if they could, Susan loved them. She shared her apartment with a bearded dragon she had inherited during a practicum when he escaped the confines of an inadequate enclosure and surprised his owner's mother in the shower. The stunt, apparently the last of many, had resulted in banishment from the family home. Susan had assured the tearful little boy that she would take good care of Puff and love him forever.

Susan never broke a promise.

“Not many,” the doctor admitted. “I'm afraid things are pretty common in Goose Creek. Very few exotics. Nothing out of the
ordinary to speak of.” His expression brightened with a sudden memory. “Though Clete Watson's boa constrictor did come down with a skin fungus last year.”

“You treated it with Canesten cream?”

“Yup. Cleared up in a couple of days.” The man's lips curved into a broad smile. “You know your stuff. I had to look up the treatment. Makes me feel better, knowing I'm leaving my patients in competent hands.”

Now he was flattering her, something to which Susan was not susceptible in the least.
If
she decided to buy the Goose Creek Animal Clinic from Dr. Forsythe, the decision would be based on a careful analysis of all available facts. And in order to thoroughly analyze the situation and make an informed business decision, there was one more thing she must do.

“I'll want to inspect your records,” she told him. “Accounting, payroll, and of course the patient charts.”

“I thought you would. It's all in here.” He patted the top of the computer monitor on the reception desk. “My receptionist convinced me to convert from paper last year. Against my will, I might add, but I figured I'd better get automated before I handed the place over to someone else. A young person like you probably knows your way around a computer better than your own living room, but an old man like me needs things written out.” He picked up a thin folder from the desk and extended it toward her. “The password and instructions are here. Have at it.”