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Nick positioned himself on the lawn beside Oliver and glowered at Grace, who shrugged and flashed an apologetic glance in his direction. Jesus, couldn’t she stay out of trouble for one lousy afternoon? He’d left her in the security kiosk to deal with the fallout from her aunt’s dumb-ass stunt with the brownies. The last thing he’d expected was to find her lurking outside Oliver’s condo, looking defiant, flustered, and guilty as hell. Now he had to find a way to do serious damage control in a touchy situation that showed every sign of exploding.

Any way you sliced it, he thought, his balls were in a wringer. If he pissed Grace off, she’d never talk to him again, though given her penchant for destroying his sanity with her kamikaze approach to life, a rebuff might be a blessing. On the other hand, if he pissed Oliver off, he could kiss years of grueling undercover work good-bye.

Nick locked his jaw and reminded himself of his vow to avenge his brother’s death. Hell, he’d worked too damned long and too damned hard worming his way into Oliver’s confidence to blow his cover because of one poorly-trained dog and its reckless owner.

With a delightful jiggle of breasts and a seductive sway of hips, Grace improved the view by bending over to snag Murphy, who scampered away.

Nick moistened his lips and nearly made the mistake of grinning at the dog’s antics until he remembered the stakes. With a mental groan, he wiped his face clear of all expression. As much as he hated to cast Grace to the wolves, she was on her own. He would only step in if matters got out of hand. Otherwise, she could damned well smooth things over without assistance.

He hoped she would understand.

*****

Grace’s gaze swept from Oliver to Nick and back to Oliver again. No one moved except Murphy. Nose down, ass up, the dog traced an erratic path through Marcia’s garden.

The preacher’s sculpted lips parted. His mouth opened and closed, opened and closed, reminiscent of a bullfrog. Grace cringed and waited, but no sound emerged. The barking inside finally ceased and a seagull’s scream emphasized the surreal stillness that encased the horrible vignette.

Nick broke the silence first. “Now don’t you go worryin’ about this here little accident, Reverend Oliver,” he ventured. “Gracie will clean it up, good as new.” To her annoyance, he countered her fulminating glare with a curt, “Won’t you, Sunshine?”

The September sun baked Grace’s bare head and she could feel freckles popping out on her nose and cheeks. In spite of a delicious breeze tasting of autumn, sweat trickled down her face as she struggled to swallow her outrage, dismay, and guilty embarrassment. Feigning a nonchalance she was far from feeling, she dragged a re-sealable baggie out of her pocket and wrestled it inside out. Damned if she would acknowledge Nick’s question or meet Oliver’s accusing glare. Instead, she averted her eyes and examined the preacher’s bare feet, dark hairs sprouting from the tops of pallid toes. The wiry pelt continued northwards to disappear under a pair of tattered khaki shorts, a far cry from the natty business attire or evangelical robes he favored. Oliver’s workday uniform safeguarded the unsuspecting Children of Purity from a multitude of eyesores.

A bellow sliced the silence and signaled Oliver’s re-discovery of his voice. Spittle flew from whitened lips. “Grace Donnelly! You should be ashamed. I won’t stand for this …this …” he sucked in a shuddering breath, “… effrontery any longer.” His voice softened. “Nick, even though she used to be your, er, girlfriend, I want you to know I recognize that this isn’t your fault.”

“Aw, thanks, Reverend. Murphy’s not as well-behaved as your little Pepita. I must have told Grace a hundred times to take the little rascal to obedience training.”

Grace thought she might puke. She swallowed her simmering anger and busied herself by scooping up Murphy’s mess, applying the inverted baggie with painstaking care and pressing the seal together, praying the edges would adhere.

“There we go. No harm done, Ollie,” she chirped. Damned if she would address him as Reverend Oliver as he preferred. She stared at the baggie, not quite knowing what to do with the sack of goodies that dangled from stiff fingers. Against her better judgment, she blindly placed her trust in the high-tech storage marvel of Ziploc and thrust the package into her pocket.

“Hey, man. Good as new.” A hint of relief tinged Nick’s voice.

Grace swiped her right hand against her jeans and held it towards Oliver in a lukewarm gesture of goodwill.

Oliver’s eyes bulged like a lantern fish, and he recoiled.

To appear composed, she shoved her hand back in her pocket, forgetting its contents. When her fingers hit pay dirt, she jerked them out again.

Purple-faced, Oliver bellowed, “Look at my lawn! My flower beds!”

She swiveled her eyes without moving her head. “Um …”

Marcia sucked in an audible breath, said nothing.

Nick examined the evidence, a frown furrowing his brow. “Gotta give it to Reverend Oliver, Sunshine. He has a point.”

Seen up close, brown dead patches punctuated by raw gouges marred the pristine sweep of green. Clumps of chrysanthemums drooped wilted heads and exhibited what looked like accumulated urine burn.

Oliver sputtered and pointed at the offending dog spots. “Your mangy cur did that.”

Sweat dribbled an itchy path between her breasts and she swept away an uneasy hunch. Ignoring her growing misgivings, she said, “No way.” Denial ran rampant in her family.

“Damn right, he did. And your she-devil of an aunt aided and abetted him.”

“Auntie Beth wouldn’t encourage Murphy to wreck your garden,” she lied, trying to sound convincing. Auntie Beth hated Oliver Hathaway with a passion only the Irish on a quest for vengeance could muster.

Oliver’s voice grated. “I warned Beth Donnelley three times already.”

Although she should have guessed the truth, this newsflash came as an unpleasant surprise. The ongoing vendetta against Oliver explained Auntie Beth’s sudden enthusiasm for nocturnal excursions with Murphy, not an inexplicable yen for physical fitness.

Grace blinked and tried to keep all traces of guilt out of her voice. “Auntie Beth didn’t mention anything to me.”

“Of course she didn’t. The woman’s a born criminal. She might fool others, but she can’t fool me.”

She resisted the urge to flap open the neck of her shirt to funnel cool air down her cleavage while issuing a mechanical protest. “She can’t be a criminal. She’s a former nun.”

True enough, except Auntie Beth had left The Church in a big hurry. Grace had always wondered if her leaving had something to do with the now-defunct Father Cecil.

Oliver snorted. “Even worse. Nuns should know better. Last night was the final straw. As God is my witness, I was sitting by the open window, reading my favorite Proust novel, and sipping a skim milk mochaccino latte …”

Grace stifled a gag.

“… when I overheard your aunt offering that mutt a liver treat for defecating on my lawn. The woman must think I’m deaf as well as stupid.”

If the shoe fits, slime bucket.

She could swear Nick’s eyes danced with amusement. Or maybe it was the sunlight.

No doubt about it, Auntie Beth deserved a tongue lashing. Nevertheless, Grace empathized with her motive, if not the execution.

She huffed out a long-suffering sigh. “I’ll talk to her,” she conceded, the closest to an apology she could muster.

“If you know what’s good for both of you, you’ll talk some sense into that old criminal of yours. She should be locked up.”

Grace stiffened. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He smiled as if the verdict was in. “She’s a danger to herself and everyone who lives here. I have a good mind to report her to the authorities.”

Even though she recognized an idle threat when she heard one, Grace’s stomach lurched at the thought of her vibrant aunt with her offbeat sense of humor and raucous laughter languishing behind bars or the ivied walls of the Sunset Villa Rest Home. If ever Nick was going to help her out, this would be a good time. She glanced in his direction, but she couldn’t penetrate the granite mask he wore. He’d taken a step backwards, as if distancing himself from the confrontation.

Sweat dribbled down her back. “You can’t prove anything against Auntie Beth. It’s your word against mine, and I have the only evidence in my pocket.” She would eat the doggie-doo bag before letting Oliver harm a hair on Auntie Beth’s head.

(To be Continued …)