who has never had a birthday party.
He gambolled about like a puppy, trying to help, until I was forced to place him off to one side and tell him to sit. Chopping off his paw at this point would have been a great pity, seeing as we were getting along so well.
When I tossed him a piece of bark, the perfect size for fetch, he just looked at it, dumbfounded.
“It’s okay, Luggy,” I said. “Okay.” He whined and nosed the bark, perhaps wondering if I expected him to eat it.
I put the axe down and picked up the bark.
“Fetch!” I cried and threw it. He stood there, his tail waving just a little.
“Okay. Wait a sec.” I retrieved the bark myself, wondering if he knew perfectly well how to play the game, but was making the damn human go get it for once. I brought it back and let him sniff it.
“C'mon, Lug-nut. This is supposed to be fun.” He grasped it tentatively between his teeth and tugged.
“That’s it.” I whipped it away and threw it. “Fetch!”
The mental block in his furry mind gave way all at once. He leaped to his feet and fetched. And fetched. And fetched. I abandoned the woodpile and devoted myself to Lug-nut and the first recreation he had probably experienced since puppyhood. I felt like a Big Sister. Or a hospital volunteer. There should be big brownie-points for stuff like that.
I stowed the wood in the closet behind the stove and then got to work on the puppet. The arm I had made was dry now, and I made a second one, forming the hand in such a way that it could be made to hold something. A nightstick, maybe, or a gun. Or my thigh.
I didn’t want to sculpt the face yet, not until I saw the subject-model again and firmly implanted his looks in my mind. As I sat working, I realized that my uncharacteristic cleaning binge had been brought on by the knowledge that Becker would be coming up to the cabin at some point to take my statement about finding John’s truck. This was embarrassing. I might just as well have put on an apron and baked a cake. What was I trying to prove? That I was actually a little Suzie Homemaker in waiting?
It was an old story. Despite Aunt Susan’s influence, despite my life-long struggle for independence, despite what I thought was my deeply ingrained feminism, I had still absorbed the Cosmo-Imperative.
“To get a man, impress him with your femininity. Ask him questions about himself. Be interested in his answers. Always be well-groomed and keep your living space immaculate.”
In reality, I was, not to mince words, a slob. I always would be. I had made myself seem what I was not, many times before, in order to attract the interest of a particular man. It had never worked. Pretending was always exhausting and invariably ended in disappointment as my cover slipped. I would find myself tiring of the charade, and the man I had struggled to impress realized, poor sap, that I was not girly after all. I don’t know why I did it, but every time the hormones kicked in I would start playing the same old game.
I suppose, looking back, it just never occurred to me that my problem lay in the kind of man I was attracted to. Beefy macho dudes don’t generally want to get involved in romantic relationships with beefy macho women. End of story.
I had worked myself up into a lather of self-loathing by the time Becker showed up. Lug-nut was asleep on his pillow by the door and didn’t even notice the man’s approach until he knocked. The Great Watchdog woke up, shook himself, inhaled and commenced barking.
I grabbed Luggy’s collar and opened the door, inviting Becker inside. The policeman eyed the dog apprehensively and remained standing near the exit until things calmed down. I didn’t blame him. Lug-nut, in full bark-mode, was pretty convincing. I managed to convey to the dog, through a series of gestures, then sharp words, then soothing, “goodboy” type rubbing behind the ears, that our visitor was persona grata. Lug-nut subsided and returned to his cushion, where he sat, keeping Becker under close surveillance.
“Well,” Becker said. “You’re well protected.”
I smiled. Protected up to a point, I thought. “Thanks for reminding me about him,” I said. “He seems to like it here. Better than the pound, anyway.”
“That was Morrison’s doing, not mine,” he said. “He was the one who remembered the dog. I’ve been too tied up with the case to be thinking about animal welfare.”
“Oh. He said you suggested it.”
“I know. I asked him about that and he mumbled something about you not wanting to hear it coming from him. He has a dog of his own, eh?”
“A pitbull?”
Becker chuckled. “Don’t tell him I told you, but it’s actually a poodle. A little fuzzy white one.”
“Holy Toledo.”
“My words, exactly. There’s a lot about him that makes no sense.”
“I noticed that,” I said. “Hey, can I offer you a cup of something, or a beer, even?”
“Coffee would be good, if you have it.”
“You don’t drink, eh?” I should have known. A teetotaller. We were incompatible. It was hopeless.
“I don’t drink on duty, that’s all.” He sounded defensive.
“I thought that was a TV-thing.”
“It’s also a regulation-thing.”
“Too bad.” I meant it. I wanted a beer myself, but having one if Becker was going to have coffee wouldn’t be very ladylike. Of course, offering him a beer wasn’t particularly ladylike either, but I wasn’t thinking clearly. He was wearing aftershave and it was driving me crazy.
“You trying to corrupt me?” he said. I held his gaze. We had one of those moments again, and according to the rule-book, he had just issued Opening Flirtation Gambit Number One. Golly.
“Oh, no, Officer. I wouldn’t dream of being so forward.” I practically danced over to the kettle. “It’ll take a while, though. There’s no electricity and I have to boil water the old fashioned way over a candle flame.”
“I’m in no rush,” he said. “Now, talk to me about this truck. When and how did you find it?”
I told him the details, leaving out the bit about going into the house to get the dog food and neglecting to mention Eddie Schreier’s appearance and retreat. I liked Eddie and I didn’t want to get him into trouble, at least not until I’d talked to him myself.
“You said you thought you’d seen a gun in the cab of the truck, right?”
“Right. I just saw the barrel, sticking out a couple of inches. It was on the floor, I guess, leaning against the seat.”
“But you didn’t touch it.”
“God, no. After the way you acted in Francy’s kitchen, I almost didn’t look at it at all. Didn’t want to mess up the evidence, eh?”
“It was dark in there, wasn’t it?”
“Yes, but I
