could have lived in Cincinnati. I'm so sorry.”
Ross's mouth hung open as Ernie stood up. “Dad, how could you? What were you thinking?”
“You and Sarah were all I had since your mother died. I just wanted to make sure you were nearby. Ernie seemed to ensure that.”
Ernie's face reddened again. “So you killed the other man so Sarah would be interested in me? Some prize that would be. Second place.”
The doorbell rang and I went to open it. Outside, the bells of a nearby church chimed the start of the holiday celebration. We'd have a present for the police on Christmas morning.
O Little Hound of Bethlehem
Taylor McCafferty
BARBARA TAYLOR McCAFFERTY has so many noms de mystère she confesses that she has no idea who she really is. As Taylor McCafferty, she is the author of the Haskell Blevins mystery series; as Tierney McClellan, she is the author of the Schuyler Ridgway novels. Moreover, with her twin sister, Beverly Taylor Herald, she has created a series about identical twin sisters Nan and Bert Tatum. “O Little Hound of Bethlehem” was written in memory of Taylor's dog, Ogilvy, who was her furry friend for seventeen years.
If I had not put up the Christmas tree the night before, I know I would've spotted him the second I walked in the door. There wasn't much in my sparsely furnished living room that a man as big as Harlan Campbell could hide behind. The seven-foot Scotch pine that I'd decorated with as many ornaments as I could buy at Wal-Mart for twenty dollars was, in fact, pretty much it.
It did cross my mind, as I closed the door behind me, to wonder why my dog Ogilvy wasn't standing there the way he always was—tongue lolling, quivering all over, waiting to give me his usual welcome-home licking. I got my answer as soon as I switched on the floor lamp next to my couch, and Harlan stepped out from behind my Christmas tree, moving quickly around the brightly wrapped presents encircling the tree's base. He came around all in a rush, as if he thought maybe I'd try to get away.
I just stood there and looked at him. My heart had started pounding, and my mouth had gone dry, but I would never give Harlan the satisfaction of running from him.
He'd have enjoyed the chase too much.
Not to mention, I'd tried to run from Harlan just once before—shortly after he and I started living together. What he'd done to me after he'd caught me was something that still made me shiver when I thought about it.
Ogilvy, the traitor, had apparently been keeping Harlan company behind the tree. It must've been a tight fit for both him and Harlan between the tree and the opposite wall. Ogilvy's mom had been a pedigreed Old English sheepdog, and his father a handsome German shepherd who evidently could jump six-foot chain-link fences. The eleven puppies that had resulted from their union had ended up with the shaggy coat and white/gray coloring of a sheepdog, and the erect ears and large frame of a shepherd.
Ogilvy's shaggy coat was quite a bit curlier than his brothers' and sisters'; he'd looked as if he'd just given himself an Ogilvie Home Permanent. I'd decided what his name would be the second I laid eyes on him.
As Ogilvy brushed past my Christmas tree to stand at Harlan's side, several branches shook so much a couple of glass ornaments dropped to the floor. When they hit the floor, they made little clinking sounds, but Ogilvy didn't even glance in that direction. He was too busy licking Harlan's hand.
What a guard dog.
“I think the damn dog remembers me, Beth,” Harlan said. I hadn't seen Harlan in almost three years, and yet the man spoke as if he were simply continuing a conversation that had been interrupted.
Some interruption. Three years at the Kentucky State Reformatory for Women. Three long, long years.
Harlan reached out and scratched Ogilvy's head. “He sure does seem happy to see me again.”
What could I say to that? Ogilvy has never been known for his discriminating tastes. If Ogilvy thought there
Ross's mouth hung open as Ernie stood up. “Dad, how could you? What were you thinking?”
“You and Sarah were all I had since your mother died. I just wanted to make sure you were nearby. Ernie seemed to ensure that.”
Ernie's face reddened again. “So you killed the other man so Sarah would be interested in me? Some prize that would be. Second place.”
The doorbell rang and I went to open it. Outside, the bells of a nearby church chimed the start of the holiday celebration. We'd have a present for the police on Christmas morning.
O Little Hound of Bethlehem
Taylor McCafferty
BARBARA TAYLOR McCAFFERTY has so many noms de mystère she confesses that she has no idea who she really is. As Taylor McCafferty, she is the author of the Haskell Blevins mystery series; as Tierney McClellan, she is the author of the Schuyler Ridgway novels. Moreover, with her twin sister, Beverly Taylor Herald, she has created a series about identical twin sisters Nan and Bert Tatum. “O Little Hound of Bethlehem” was written in memory of Taylor's dog, Ogilvy, who was her furry friend for seventeen years.
If I had not put up the Christmas tree the night before, I know I would've spotted him the second I walked in the door. There wasn't much in my sparsely furnished living room that a man as big as Harlan Campbell could hide behind. The seven-foot Scotch pine that I'd decorated with as many ornaments as I could buy at Wal-Mart for twenty dollars was, in fact, pretty much it.
It did cross my mind, as I closed the door behind me, to wonder why my dog Ogilvy wasn't standing there the way he always was—tongue lolling, quivering all over, waiting to give me his usual welcome-home licking. I got my answer as soon as I switched on the floor lamp next to my couch, and Harlan stepped out from behind my Christmas tree, moving quickly around the brightly wrapped presents encircling the tree's base. He came around all in a rush, as if he thought maybe I'd try to get away.
I just stood there and looked at him. My heart had started pounding, and my mouth had gone dry, but I would never give Harlan the satisfaction of running from him.
He'd have enjoyed the chase too much.
Not to mention, I'd tried to run from Harlan just once before—shortly after he and I started living together. What he'd done to me after he'd caught me was something that still made me shiver when I thought about it.
Ogilvy, the traitor, had apparently been keeping Harlan company behind the tree. It must've been a tight fit for both him and Harlan between the tree and the opposite wall. Ogilvy's mom had been a pedigreed Old English sheepdog, and his father a handsome German shepherd who evidently could jump six-foot chain-link fences. The eleven puppies that had resulted from their union had ended up with the shaggy coat and white/gray coloring of a sheepdog, and the erect ears and large frame of a shepherd.
Ogilvy's shaggy coat was quite a bit curlier than his brothers' and sisters'; he'd looked as if he'd just given himself an Ogilvie Home Permanent. I'd decided what his name would be the second I laid eyes on him.
As Ogilvy brushed past my Christmas tree to stand at Harlan's side, several branches shook so much a couple of glass ornaments dropped to the floor. When they hit the floor, they made little clinking sounds, but Ogilvy didn't even glance in that direction. He was too busy licking Harlan's hand.
What a guard dog.
“I think the damn dog remembers me, Beth,” Harlan said. I hadn't seen Harlan in almost three years, and yet the man spoke as if he were simply continuing a conversation that had been interrupted.
Some interruption. Three years at the Kentucky State Reformatory for Women. Three long, long years.
Harlan reached out and scratched Ogilvy's head. “He sure does seem happy to see me again.”
What could I say to that? Ogilvy has never been known for his discriminating tastes. If Ogilvy thought there
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