Pink Balloons and Other Deadly Things (Mystery Series - Book One) by Nancy Tesler Page B

to see Ruth-Ann standing at my curb putting something in my mailbox. She started almost guiltily when she saw me. I pulled to the top of the driveway and stopped the car.
    “Looking for me, Ruth-Ann?”
    “Yes...no, that is I-—left something for you.”
    “Why didn’t you come to the door and ring the bell?”
    “I know today’s your day off. I...thought you might be sleeping.”
    From the backseat came the protesting chorus. “Not with this family.”
    “Oh, you have cats!” She peered in through the window. “I love cats. How many have you got?”
    “Three. On their way to the vet. And I’m afraid I’m late. What is it you have for me?”
    She opened the mailbox and pulled out a newspaper with a card attached. “It’s the Phoenix, ” she whispered. “That reporter wrote a story about you.”
    I tried not to look, but my eyes refused to obey my brain’s command. The headline struck me with the force of a whirlwind, sucking the breath from my body.
    LOCAL LADY IN LURID LOVE LIAISON
    A picture of my back as I’d scurried up the stairs to my office, with my name boldly printed under it, stared back at me. I could feel the heat creeping up my neck to the roots of my hair. “Throw it in the garbage, Ruth-Ann. I don’t want to know what it says.”
    “I showed it to my uncle. That’s his card. He’s a lawyer. He says you could sue for defamation of character.”
    “I’m not suing anyone. No one I know reads that trash anyway.” My breath was coming in short gasps. I couldn’t bring myself to look at Ruth-Ann. “I’m really late. I have to go. Tell your uncle, thanks anyway.”
    I felt her hand on my arm, her voice soft, urgent. “You shouldn’t let them get away with slandering you. You should fight back.”
    “I know you and your uncle mean well, and I appreciate it, really I do, but I don’t have the time or the money to go up against the Phoenix . So please just forget about it. I’ll see you in Group tomorrow.”
    And I took off as though pursued by all the paparazzi in the tri-state area.
    As I hit the accelerator my foot came in contact with a hard object wedged between it and the brake pedal. Rattled by the headline and what I imagined was contained in the Phoenix article, I kicked it aside. It wasn’t until I had driven through town and stopped at the stop sign on Broadway and Piermont Avenue that I tugged it loose and saw what it was. Dot’s key ring must have fallen out of my pocket as I drove back to my office Monday afternoon. The light changed, and I tossed the keys onto the passenger seat.
    The three girls who work in the office at the animal hospital all know me pretty well, but today they hardly glanced up from their computers.
    “Hi,” I faltered after I’d deposited the carriers on the bench. “I'm here for my cats’ shots.”
    “Dr. Stoner’ll be right with you, Mrs. Burnham,” Holly replied, without moving from her desk.
    “Thanks,” I muttered, and sat down on the hard bench next to my three loyal furry friends.
    Dr. Stoner had nursed one or another of my four-legged family members through many a crisis, the last being a really mean eye infection José had contracted and passed on to his brothers. The vet was a jovial man of gargantuan proportions, with a touch as gentle as Florence Nightingale’s. He took us right on schedule. The cats carried on as though they were being sent to the gas chamber.
    “Blow in his face,” Dr. Stoner instructed me as I struggled to keep a noisy, squirming Luciano on the slippery metal table.
    “They’re worse than usual today,” I panted between breaths. “I don't know what's gotten into them.”
    “Animals are pretty sensitive. They pick up on tension they feel from their owners.”
    “Really?” I mumbled, resolved to show no emotion.
    Dr. Stoner paused, needle in hand, and smiled at me. “You just hang in there. This’ll all blow over before you know it.”
    My resolve crumbled like dry rot in the face of his kindness.