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Bidulka

    Errall Strane is my landlord, lawyer, sometime dogsitter, sparring partner, and oftentimes reluctant friend. She owns PWC, the downtown building that is home to my workplace, as well as her own one-woman law practice, Beverly Chaney’s psychology office, and Alberta Lougheed’s psychic realm of bizarreness. Errall was also Brutus’s former owner.
    Her greeting upon my arrival was just as verbose. She had both dogs on their leashes, waiting for me on the front porch. It was Saturday night, but it was obvious she wasn’t entertaining guests.
    All the windows were dark. Even the front porch light was off. I could barely see her face when she said, “Here,” and handed me the leads.
    Barbra and Brutus are not effusive dogs. They lean more toward graceful and reserved, but I could tell they were thrilled to see me. As I was them. Their little tails were whirring fast enough to set them into flight, and they were letting out barely restrained whimpers of delight. Errall, on the other hand, was in a black mood. No tail wagging from her. She didn’t bother to invite me in.
    I took the leads. “Did Barbra and Brutus behave themselves?”
    They always did, but I liked getting a report anyway.
    “Sure.”
    “Errall,” I said, “Is everything all right?” I suspected it wasn’t.
    “Yep.” She pulled back inside the house and turned away, kicking the door shut with her heel.

    It was a beautiful August evening, but I didn’t dare leave the top down. Not with two antsy dogs in the seat next to me. So I went through the machinations of covering up. I love my little car, but it is twenty years old. It doesn’t have any of the push-one-button technology of newer convertibles. I had to unfold the top canopy, flip some flaps and doohickeys, get back in the car, turn a knob, wait for it to lift and fall into place above our heads, flip the flaps and doohickeys again, and then it was done. Barbra and Brutus watched and waited with admirable patience. It was a little tight quarters for all three of us in there, but all the better for a few minutes spent cuddling, petting, patting, and licking (I was the lickee, DD6AA2AB8
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    Aloha, Candy Hearts

    not the licker). We’d missed each other.
    When that was done, I shifted into drive and headed off, planning to go straight home. It was late. I hadn’t had much sleep in the past twenty-four hours. Someone I knew, however briefly, had just been murdered. You’d think home was where I’d want to be.
    But somehow I found myself steering the car in an entirely different direction.
    I ended up on a leafy lane in an old part of town. I parked across the street from a charming house painted in hues of bur-gundy, harvest yellow, and dusk blue. A hand-carved sign swing-ing from a newel post identified it as Ash House, the home (and business) of Ethan Ash. Ethan was a man I’d met while on a case a couple of years earlier. I waited for a truck to pass before rolling down my window for a clearer view.
    What are you doing here, Quant? I asked myself. Barbra snuffled her wet nose into my ear, asking the same thing. Or maybe she was wondering when she could finally get out of the cramped car.
    Both very good questions.
    I shook my head. This was insane. I shouldn’t be skulking around outside some guy’s house like a lovesick schoolboy. I’m an engaged man. I love Alex Canyon. I’d accepted his offer of marriage. So why, oh why, can’t I let this go? Another vehicle passed by. Damn traffic.
    For years, my friends had chided me for being devotedly single and liking it. I’d been in love once, a long time ago. But when that was over, it seemed, so was my ability and desire to fall that far again. I’d had my crushes—usually on men who were totally unsuitable or un-haveable—like my best friend’s boyfriend, or a Roman Catholic priest, or a guy who lived in New York City, or my best one yet: a murderer. Was I unlucky at love, or just not