Fur Ball Fever

Chapter 3

After the fuss subsided and the cops had departed, Grace permitted Nick to drive her home and escort her to the front door, mainly because her legs kept folding. Flashing a bright smile, intended to reassure him she had no intention of sneaking over to the security kiosk as soon as his back was turned, she slipped inside. With a jaunty wave she closed the door, silencing his orders to stay safely inside. One way or another she intended to watch the video while Nick was at his meeting.

With the abrupt release of tension, adrenaline afterburn struck with a vengeance. She remembered the symptoms from the last time she was shot at: chattering teeth, trembling that wouldn't quit, legs that refused to obey her brain's command. This time, she knew enough to sink into a chair before collapsing.

While she waited for the weakness to subside, she congratulated herself for holding it together throughout the shooting and its aftermath—the initial shock of realizing she could have died, then the 9-1-1 call, followed by the hunt for the bullet, which Nick had found embedded in the wall. During the police debriefing, she'd kept her cool while Nick denied having enemies who might want to take him out, a little too strenuously in her opinion. Then again, who'd be dumb enough to shoot out a window in broad daylight? Consensus was that the shooter must have been a kid messing with his daddy's gun.

She wasn't one hundred percent convinced but hey, what did she know? Men in blue were on top of things. Nick, apparently unconcerned, had hustled off to prepare for his meeting, and here she was, wasting her narrow window of opportunity by having a delayed stress reaction.

She needed to pick Auntie Beth's devious brain for ideas.

Once her nerves settled down, Grace tottered into the kitchen on rubbery legs. At the sight of a well-padded figure draped in psychedelic polyester, an involuntary smile curled her lips. Auntie Beth was bellied up to the counter, stirring vigorously.

Her aunt's white pony tail, angelic expression, and bright green eyes surrounded by a network of fine lines hoodwinked most people into believing the aging hippie was the guileless, grandmotherly type who thrived on baking pies, packaging potpourri, and reading fairy tales to small children.

Grace knew better. In her opinion it was reasonable to ask her more-or-less permanent houseguest to lock the back door at bedtime, quit smoking illicit substances, and walk Murphy every day, preferably accompanied by a pooper-scooper.

So far, she was batting zero on all counts.

Auntie Beth scraped out a mass of brownish glop onto a pan of what appeared to be brownies. Grace's mouth watered. Chocolate would finish off her recovery nicely. She moved forward.

Auntie Beth's radar must have been working overtime because she whipped her head around and studied her niece. "Why are you walking all funny like that?"

"Am not," Grace said. She would not reveal that she'd been shot at.

"Yes you are." Auntie Beth's eyes narrowed. "You let Nick jump you."

"Absolutely not."

"I don't blame you in the least, dear. Any woman in her right mind would kill for the chance to jump a stud muffin like Nick. No wonder your legs are rubbery."

Grace wondered how Nick would enjoy being called a stud muffin. "Nothing happened."

"Then why are you doing the post-nookie shuffle?" Auntie Beth's eyes gleamed. "Here's a little tip, dear. After a long dry spell, you need to ease gently into the horizontal boogie."

Grace swallowed a moan. "Nothing remotely resembling a boogie happened, either horizontal, vertical, or upside down." She changed the subject. "What are you doing?"