Mama, her face a white mask of Ponds cold cream against a red satin robe, joined us in the hallway. “What in heaven’s name is all the fuss, girls?’’
I shushed her, and motioned for her to grab hold of her crazy dog.
Cracking the front door, I peeked out. What looked like a bundle of rags tied to a heavy brick sat on the porch, next to a potted Boston fern. Mama held a wriggling Teensy. Marty sidled up beside me, frying pan shaking in her hand. We stepped onto the porch.
The rag bundle was the only thing out of the ordinary. I stooped to pick it up. It was a white toy dog. Deep slashes crisscrossed synthetic plush, spilling stuffing from the head and sides. A collar dangled from the nearly decapitated stuffed animal.
I held the collar to the light spilling out the front door. Marty and Mama each crowded in over a shoulder. Together, we read the name in crude letters on the mutilated dog tag.
Teensy.
I heard a sharp gasp and then another thump on the wooden porch, much louder this time. I whirled around to find Marty collapsed in an unconscious heap. The frying pan had missed my foot by about an inch and a-half.
“Oh, my stars! Would you look at my poor baby?”
I glanced at Mama, and was relieved to see she was referring to Marty, not Teensy. She’d put down the stupid dog and was focused on her youngest daughter.
“Mace, let’s get her up and onto the couch. You know Marty can’t take shock of any sort. Then run get a cold cloth for her forehead. We’ll lift her feet up on two pillows to get the blood flowing. Better bring that bottle of wine, too.’’
Mama’s tone had turned all-business. She might flirt and fuss and swan about like a Southern belle, but if the crisis involves one of her girls, there’s no one better than Mama to have in your corner.
Marty didn’t weigh much more than the sacks of puppy chow I lift to feed the abandoned wildlife babies at the park. If it’d been Maddie who fainted, we’d have been in real trouble. Mama and I easily carried Marty off the porch and into the house. We settled her on the living room couch, printed with salmon-colored roses.
“Get down off of there, Teensy!’’
The dog, ignoring Mama, was busy climbing across couch cushions and onto Marty’s chest. He’d moved up to her head where he was sniffing at her ear. He looked shocked when, none too gently, Mama swept him off her youngest human child and onto the floor.
By the time I returned with the items Mama had ordered, Marty was coming around.
“How’ya doin’, darling?’’ Mama murmured softly, stroking Marty’s baby-fine hair.
“Uhmmmm … uhmmm,’’ Marty answered.
“That’s all right, honey. You just rest right there. Mace and I have got things covered, don’t we Mace?’’
Not exactly, I thought, considering that someone had just tossed a brick and a decapitated stuffed dog at the house.
“What … what? That … the porch …’’
“Hush, Marty.’’ Mama put a finger to my sister’s perfect lips. “Everything’s going to be all right.’’
I moved a crystal candy dish full of butterscotch toffee so I could sit on the coffee table. Mama perched on the couch, next to Marty. I watched closely as her eyes focused. Then they clouded, worry taking the place of the confusion evident a moment before.
“That dog, Mace,’’ Marty said.
“It’s just a stuffed animal, a toy. It was someone’s idea of a joke.’’
“Teensy’s always getting into things, honey,’’ Mama said. “That little dickens probably chased a cat up a tree or tore up a neighbor’s flower bed. It’s just a message to keep my dog inside.’’
Even Mama didn’t look like she believed that.
I headed outside to the porch. Now that Marty was safely prone, I wanted to bring that stuffed dog inside for a better look.
I slipped my hand into one of the plastic grocery bags that Mama keeps by the door to remove Teensy’s messes from her lawn. Using the bag, I picked up the white dog. I wasn’t sure if the police could get fingerprints off a fluffy fake dog or a brick, but I was taking no chances.
Once I had the hallway light on and the stuffed dog displayed on Mama’s salmon-colored carpet, I noticed a slip of paper taped under the brick. I turned it over with the toe of my boot. The misspelled message was in the same crude letters as the dog’s name on the collar.
Stop questons on the murder or the real dog gets it. Then your next.
I raised my voice to carry to Mama and Marty in the living room. “I think we’d better call Detective Martinez.’’
___
Mama’s house smelled like a field of lavender flowers in Provence. Not that I’ve ever been to France, but it’s how I imagine it, anyway.
After she changed out of her robe, Mama had gotten busy with her candles and essential oils, intent upon easing our anxiety through the miracle of aromatherapy. She dabbed lavender oil on the warm bulbs in her lamps. She lit two candles for the coffee table. Dried lavender and ylang-ylang petals simmered in a pan of water on the stove.
We might have a stuffed-animal-tossing psycho stalking us, but at least we smelled good.
“How long before he’ll get here, Mace?’’
That was Marty, sitting up now, crumpling and smoothing the hem of her beige-and-brown floral blouse in nervous hands. Her leather loafers were tucked neatly under the couch.
“He said he’d be here as soon as he can,’’ I answered.
We sat quietly, listening to the hips on Mama’s Elvis clock swinging back and forth. Tick-tock. Jailhouse Rock.
Only fifteen minutes had passed since I phoned the police department to find Martinez. He called back quickly. But it seemed like the wait was going on hours. We stared at each other, trying not to let our eyes roam to the mutilated toy dog on the carpet.
Mama finally got up from the couch and rubbed her hands together. “Well, I don’t know about you girls, but all this activity has made me hungry. I think I’m gonna have me a bowl of vanilla ice cream with butterscotch topping. Anybody care to join me?’’
Marty turned green. But, nerves or not, I’ve never been one to turn down ice cream. Teensy and I followed Mama into the kitchen. She was spooning out the dessert when the dog did a double take, its little head twisting from the ice cream carton to the door and the outside beyond. Finally, Teensy’s territorial nature beat out his sweet tooth. He ran to the living room, barking like he believed he was a Doberman. I followed.