Read No Such Thing As a Good Blind Date: A Brandy Alexander Mystery (No Such Thing As: A Brandy Alexander Mystery) for Free Online

ammonia-scented stench that permeated the rug. How long had Rocky been using this room as a litter box?
    Just as I started to close the door again, I heard the same eerie noises that, last night, I’d attributed to an overactive imagination. They were coming from the closet. I picked up one of Toodie’s size twelve work boots and cautiously opened the closet door. In a flash a furry, twenty-pound mass of energy leaped out at me, knocking me to the ground. “Son of a bitch,” I yelled, echoing Russell’s sentiments. Toodie snuck a dog into the house and then just dumped it in my lap!
    I tried to grab the little yapper, but Rocky strolled by at that moment, stopping in the doorway to lick her crotch. The dog bolted out of reach and took off after her. Rocky freaked and puffed herself up to three times her normal size. She hissed and clawed at him and then flew down the stairs with the dog in hot pursuit. I stumbled after them, pausing briefly to pick up the phone extension. “Russell, I’ll call you back.”
    I found Rocky cowering under the sofa. The dog was playfully swatting at her, wiggling his shaggy brown butt in the air as he tried to join her under the couch. He was actually very cute, with huge dark eyes and a water fountain tail. He was about as big as a cocker spaniel and seemed inordinately good-natured—somewhat like Toodie. Toodie!
    “Okay, toughie, leave the kitten alone.” I tugged on his belly and he immediately rolled over onto his back, gazing up at me with those big brown eyes.
    “No. Don’t look adorable. I refuse to be taken in by your cuteness. You peed in my guest room. I’m mad at you.” It was hopeless. I was hooked.
    I wondered if the little guy was hungry. As if he could read my mind, he followed me into the kitchen and jumped up onto a chair, seating himself at the table. I looked around for a suitable meal for him and settled on Rocky’s cat crunchies. I poured a little into a plastic bowl and placed it in front of him. He sniffed at it for a minute and then took a swipe, knocking the bowl onto the floor. I wanted to be mad, but he gave me such a bewildered look I just cleaned up the kibble and made him a fried egg instead.
    I sat down at the table next to him, watching him plant his face in the dish, egg yolk smeared all over his snout. Leaning back in the chair, I assessed my situation: jobless, penniless, mate-less, dining at the kitchen table with a stray mutt of undetermined origins. My mother would be so proud.
    After I cleaned up his face I took him into backyard to pee. When I say yard, I’m exaggerating. It’s really more of a four by four slab of concrete with weeds sticking out of the cracks in the cement. The dog wandered around in a circle, stopping once or twice to chase something that wasn’t there. It was cold and I was running out of patience.
    “Come on, do something already.”
    On cue he squatted and did his business. At least he tried to, but nothing came out. Finally, he gave up and waddled back into the house.
    I tried calling Toodie’s cell phone but all I got was his voice mail, so I left a brief message urging him to call me. In all probability, Toodie had gone on a bender and had forgotten where he lived. He was no doubt shacked up somewhere sleeping it off. At least, that’s what I hope happened. Because, like it or not, I’d really grown to care about the guy; he was like the pet I’d never had as a child and I kinda felt responsible for him. If he didn’t show up, how was I going to tell his grandma that I’d somehow misplaced him? I had enough trouble already. The dog was eating my shoe.
    “Am I as boring as I think everyone else is?”
    “If I say yes, will you still help me make dinner?” It was Saturday afternoon and John was seated at my kitchen table, arranging layers of fresh pasta into a large casserole dish. John is an expert photographer and an excellent cook all rolled into a five foot three inch, adorably egotistical package.
    My