Chapter 14 of Fur Ball Fever (Murphy Sabotages Grace’s Surveillance)
Posted by Maureen
From a safe distance across the street, Grace leaned against a scraggy pine and scrutinized the Hathaways’ condominium unit. Her vantage point provided an unrestricted view of her target. Hunter green shutters flanked tall windows overlooking a wrap-around porch. Two Adirondack chairs and a glider swing promised house guests a hospitable welcome — if a den of pit vipers could be considered hospitable.
The coast appeared clear for a preliminary reconnoiter of her main suspect’s residence. She was ready to rock ’n’ roll.
“Murphy, heel,” she said and snapped her fingers.
The dog dodged her outstretched hand and circled the tree, keeping his distance.
Moments later, a furtive curtain twitch on the ground floor disclosed the presence of an unseen audience.
Grace did a mental eye roll and lunged for Murphy’s collar, missing her target by a mile. “Heel, Murphy.” A curt bite to the words showed she meant business. She should never have allowed Auntie Beth to convince her that Murphy would make a good sniffer dog. Although his canine hatred of Miss Coco ran deep and true, there was no guarantee he would sound the alert if he detected evidence of the missing poodle’s presence.
With gleeful disregard of his mistress’ authority, Murphy danced away.
Dammit, she should have put him on the leash when she had the chance. If she couldn’t control her sniffer dog, how would she learn whether or not Miss Coco had visited the premises?
A crescendo of muffled yapping issued from inside the Hathaway homestead.
She ground her teeth and watched in helpless frustration as Murphy bolted across the road towards the racket, undeterred by a delivery van whose owner leaned on the horn and swerved.
Without any real hope of success, she yelled at Murphy’s disappearing backside, “Come, Murphy! Treats.” If challenged, at least she could say she’d tried to distract him.
She commenced a ponderous trot towards the street. Why, in God’s name, had she chosen today, of all days, to throw on seriously high platform sandals? Moving as fast as she dared, Grace shot a nervous glance at the window and caught a shadowy figure disappearing from sight. Marcia was undoubtedly pounding towards the door to prevent the unthinkable from happening. Sadly, it was too late to feign ignorance and scuttle away from the crime-in-progress.
“Marcia will kill me if you go near her flowers.” She panted hard, concentrating on keeping her balance as she skidded to a halt at the curb to let several cars whiz past.
Oliver’s better half, spent a great deal of money on a troop of gardeners, who fertilized, aerated, pampered, and generally fussed over her exquisite flowers and exquisite lawn in her exquisite garden. Grace envied Marcia her flower beds, tolerated her tight-assed perfectionism, and pitied her choice of a husband. As much as Grace despised Oliver, she didn’t have the heart to let Murphy appropriate Marcia’s tiny slice of heaven as his private toilet.
Murphy, unleashed and primed to poop, homed in on the Hathaways’ garden like a furry torpedo.
Frozen, she stared in horrified fascination. “No,” she yelled and waved her hands.
Her trusty sniffer dog merely quirked one pointy schnauzer ear and wiggled bushy eyebrows.
She crossed the street, puffing with the exertion. “Oh please, God, no. By all that is holy, not Marcia’s prize chrysanthemums.”
Murphy fired the day’s first offensive in the battle of Donnelley versus Hathaway. Eyes gleaming, he cocked his leg. A glittering geyser caught the sunlight as it arched into a clump of glorious bronze chrysanthemums that edged the interlocking brick walkway.
“No-o-o-o-o,” Grace moaned.
Murphy turned twice in a tight circle and squatted.
Grace felt as if she was in a slow-motion nightmare. Leaden legs refused to cooperate. Unable to muster up another burst of speed, she teetered across the lawn, a helpless witness to impending disaster.
With much panting and tail pumping, Murphy delivered his Ultimate Weapon, which landed to the left and a little in front of the Hathaways’ ornamental birdbath. To add insult to injury, he evaded Grace’s grasping fingers and followed his showstopper with a flurry of circling and grass digging, flashing a toothy grin while excavating shallow trenches in the emerald velvet with pistoning hind legs. When he’d marked turf to his satisfaction, he approached with his best, Aren’t I clever? Time for a reward! expression, taking care to stay at arms’ length.
Before she could remove the evidence, the front door burst open. Oliver blasted down the steps and skidded to a halt, aristocratic features mottled with rage and no longer remotely handsome. Patrician nostrils flared. Long nose quivered.
Grace figured this wasn’t the right time to ask if he’d cancelled his business meeting with Nick. Or to interrogate him about his whereabouts during Miss Coco’s disappearance.
Behind Oliver, a tall, loose-limbed figure loomed in the doorway, his features indistinct. Half-blinded by the afternoon sun, Grace still recognized that lanky silhouette.
Her heart slammed in her chest as bright, searing panic shot up her spine.
Nick emerged from the gloom to descend the steps and stand beside Oliver. A black scowl drew dark brows together over grey eyes, hard and unyielding, which narrowed on her face like a laser beam.
Marcia, unobtrusive as a wraith, lingered in the background.
Oh, God, oh God, thought Grace. Kill me now.
(to be continued …)