They’d sat chatting about the move Madison couldn’t seem to make, but Erin had seemed distracted, on edge.
Still, Erin had scored a major point when she’d claimed Madison was in denial. By searching for a large home to replace the one she’d shared with her ex-husband, Madison was attempting to hang on to the past. The last time Madison’s mother had telephoned from some remote island in the South Pacific, she’d told Madison the same thing—in different words. “Oh, baby doll. Try something new. Get on with your life.”
Madison had admitted Erin was probably right and had left after finishing a slice of cardboard-tasting pizza. She’d only realized the next day that she’d forgotten her cell phone. She’d tried to catch Erin on Saturday and again on Sunday but hadn’t been able to connect. Maybe she hadn’t even wanted to reach Erin, hadn’t wanted to explain why she was still asking the Realtor to show her large homes.
A bit of trivia popped into her head, which often happened when she was thinking of something distressing. How much wine does one grapevine make? The average vine yielded twenty-four pounds of grapes. That was enough to make ten bottles of wine. She hadn’t used this fact on Total Trivia because inexact measurements like “average” caused arguments and players would claim their answer was correct.
She told herself to forget about trivia and concentrate on finding a place to live. The owners of the house where she was staying would return soon. Gambling and trivia could both wait until she’d settled her life.
At this hour of the morning, Erin was probably out making sales calls for the sunglass company she represented. It didn’t matter if Erin wasn’t home. Madison had a key to her friend’s place. She could pick up her cell then call the Realtor. Signing the lease on the condo and making arrangements would take the better part of the day, but Madison didn’t care. She didn’t want to return to Total Trivia until she’d had a chance to consider Aiden’s proposal.
It was quieter in the middle-class neighborhood in South Miami where Erin lived. People were at work, children in school. She turned into the narrow driveway and shut off the engine. The white cottage with an attached single-car garage was a legacy of the early twentieth century, when snowbirds from the North built small, inexpensive bungalows where they could wait out the winter in Miami’s warm sun. Snowbirds now clustered like bees in the hives of condos that riddled the state. This neighborhood had morphed into a working-class section of the city.
She slung her purse over her shoulder and got out of the car. On her way up the walk to the front door, she selected the key Erin had given her from the seldom-used ring of keys at the bottom of her purse. She rang the bell and heard its chime echo through the small house. As she expected, Erin wasn’t home. She attempted to put the key into the lock. It didn’t fit.
Suddenly, Madison remembered her friend mentioning getting a new garage door opener and new locks. Erin had forgotten to give Madison a new key.
“Great, just great,” she muttered under her breath. Standing on the small porch, Madison noticed a silver Porsche had pulled to the curb across the street. It seemed out of place in this neighborhood. A tall, dark-haired man stepped out. He glanced in her direction, then locked the car.
Madison wondered if Erin had hidden a spare key in the small yard behind the cottage. She went around back, but didn’t bother to check under the flowerpots. Erin wouldn’t hide a key in such an obvious place. She looked around, thinking, then spotted a dog turd over by a bush. Erin was an animal lover and always had been, but she didn’t have a dog. The landlord wouldn’t allow any pets. Erin got her pet fix by volunteering at an animal rescue facility.
She toed the dried pile and it rolled over. Just as she suspected, there was a latch on the bottom. These rock-hard devices had become popular with pet owners. A close look revealed they were molded pottery of some kind, but to the untrained eye, they looked like a deposit a dog would make. She picked up the fake turd and opened it. A shiny new key was inside. Leave it to Erin to hide a key in plain sight—in a fake dog turd that looked disturbingly real. So real, you could almost smell it.
She rushed up to the back door. For a moment she paused and gazed up at the flawless blue sky, feeling inexplicably troubled. The key fit in the lock and the door creaked open inch by inch. She brushed her odd reaction aside and stepped into a small service area with a washer and dryer.
A noxious odor she couldn’t identify hung in the close, humid air and made her stomach roil. Obviously, Erin had burned a funky candle. She opened the door leading into the kitchen and was greeted by a golden retriever with runny eyes. A small pile of dog poop accounted for the odor. Why hadn’t Erin let this dog out?
“Hi, there. What’s your name?” When had Erin gotten a dog? She hadn’t mentioned a word about it when they’d gone out on Friday. She’d probably found the retriever at the rescue center and couldn’t resist even though her lease specified no pets. With Erin, you never knew what was going on.
“Erin, it’s me,” she called out, in case her friend was still home but hadn’t heard the bell. No response.
The dog kept scratching at the door. She opened it and he charged through the service area and out to the small backyard. He immediately lifted a leg on a low-hanging bush.
“You’re a boy,” she muttered, more to herself than the dog. He trotted back to her and she bent down to check his collar. It looked brand-new. “So, your name is Aspen.”
The dog cocked his head and looked up at her. His eyes were tearing the way some poodles’ did, leaving brown stains on their fur. She wondered if something was wrong with the retriever. Maybe that’s why Erin had brought him home.
She led Aspen back inside. The odor she’d smelled earlier was worse now. She covered her nose with her hand. On the counter was a fly-covered pizza box clearly left over from Friday night. Typical Erin. She wasn’t much for housekeeping.
Next to the box was a manila envelope marked “Aspen.” Coiled beside it was a nylon leash. She held her breath while she opened the unsealed envelope and found a bill of sale inside for a male golden retriever, age three years and seven months.
Erin had purchased the dog for twenty-five dollars. Interesting. It wasn’t much for a purebred, but maybe something was wrong with it, like an eye problem. And it wasn’t Erin’s style to buy a dog. She didn’t believe in buying from breeders when there were so many homeless animals, many of whom had to be put down when homes weren’t found for them. Yet she had purchased this dog. Very odd.
Madison returned the paper to the envelope and closed it. On the back flap, Erin had written something so quickly that it was difficult to read. “Rob—Monday noon. Don’t be late.”
Interesting, she thought. Very interesting. Madison had always believed Erin and Robert Matthews were meant to be together, but they’d broken up. Erin hadn’t mentioned the veterinarian in months.
Madison decided to leave the dog in the kitchen. Obviously, Erin had her reasons for keeping Aspen there. She opened the door to the small space that served as a living room with a dining area off to one side. With all the blinds drawn, it was hot, dark and uninviting.
She let the kitchen door close behind her. A denser cloud of the horrible, cloying smell saturated the air. The stench sent her stomach into a backflip. A fly zoomed by her nose, closely followed by a second one. The odor of urine was also present. That must be why Erin had left the dog in the kitchen. He wasn’t properly trained.
Despite the room’s darkness, she managed to spot her silver cell phone gleaming on the coffee table where she’d left it.
