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“Clearly, she doesn’t want to talk to you.”
“Tough. I want to talk to her.” He took off around the corner. Gritting her teeth, she headed after him.
A square patch of manicured grass and a row of rigidly clipped shrubs grew in front of the garage, which was made of the same tan stone as the house. Not a flower in sight, just an empty concrete birdbath. Ignoring her protests, he walked up a set of four steps to the back door, which sat under a short overhang supported by the same carved brackets that ornamented the eaves. As he turned the knob and pushed open the door, Blue started hissing like a wet cat. “Nita Garrison’s going to call the police on you! Give me your wallet before you’re arrested.”
He glanced over his shoulder. “What do you want with my wallet?”
“Dinner.”
“That’s cold, even for you.” He poked his head inside. A dog gave a low, creaky bark, then fell silent. “Mrs. Garrison! It’s Dean Robillard. You left your back door unlocked.” And he walked right in.
Blue stared at the open door, then slumped down on the back step. Not even the Garrison Police Department could arrest her if she didn’t go inside, could they? She propped her elbows on her knees, ready to wait him out.
A querulous female voice shattered the evening quiet. “What do you think you’re doing? Get out of here!”
“I know this is a small town, Mrs. Garrison,” Dean said from inside, “but you should really keep your doors locked.”
Instead of retreating, her voice grew louder and shriller. Once again, Blue detected a trace of Brooklyn. “You heard me. Get out!”
“As soon as we talk.”
“I’m not talking to you. What are you doing out there, girl?”
Blue whipped around to see Mrs. Garrison looming over her in the doorway. She wore full makeup, a big platinum wig, wide-leg blue jersey slacks, and a matching boatneck tunic she’d accessorized with gold pendants. This evening, her heavy ankles spilled over a pair of worn magenta slippers.
Blue got right to the point. “What I’m not doing is breaking and entering.”
“She’s afraid of you,” Dean said from someplace inside. “I’m not.”
Mrs. Garrison propped both hands on her cane and regarded Blue as if she were a cockroach. Blue reluctantly came to her feet. “I am not afraid of you,” she said, “but I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and all I saw in that jail was a vending machine, and—Never mind.”
Mrs. Garrison gave a contemptuous snort and shuffled toward Dean. “You’ve made a big mistake, Mr. Hotshot.”
Blue peeked inside. “Not his fault. He’s taken one too many hits to the head.” Giving in to her curiosity, she crossed the threshold.
Unlike the stark exterior, the inside of the house was cluttered and unkempt. Stacks of newspapers sat by the back door, and the gold-flecked ceramic floor tiles could have used a good scrubbing. Mail lay scattered across the French provincial table, which also held an empty cereal bowl, a coffee mug, and a banana peel. Although the house wasn’t scary filthy, it had a musty smell and a sour, untended look. A very old, overfed black Lab with a grizzled muzzle lay sprawled in the corner where some of the seams on the gold-striped wallpaper had begun to curl. The gilded kitchen chairs and small crystal chandelier gave the kitchen a gaudy Las Vegas ambience.
Nita raised her cane. “I’m calling the cops.”
Blue couldn’t take it any longer. “A word of warning, Mrs. Garrison. Dean seems like a nice guy on the surface, but the brutal truth is, there’s not a player in the NFL who isn’t half animal. He just hides it better than most of them.”
“Do you really think you can scare me?” Nita sneered. “I grew up on the streets, sweetie.”
“I’m merely pointing out the reality of the situation. You’ve upset him, and that’s not good.”
“This is my town. He can’t do a thing to me.”
“That’s what you think.” Blue stepped past Dean, who’d crouched down to pet the ancient black Lab. “Football players are a law unto themselves. I know you’re used to having the local police force in your back pocket—and that was a nasty trick you pulled last week—but the minute Dean starts signing autographs and flashing a fistful of game day tickets, those cops won’t remember your name.”
Blue had to hand it to the old bat. Instead of backing off, she smirked at Dean. “You think that’ll work, do you?”
Dean shrugged and rose. “I like cops, so I might stop at the station for a visit. But, frankly, I’m more interested in what my lawyer says about this little boycott of yours.”
“Lawyers.” She spat out the word, then started in on Blue again, which was beyond unfair, since Blue was trying to mediate. “Are you r
eady to apologize for the way you spoke to me last week?”
“Are you ready to apologize to Riley?”
