Crazy Like a Fox (Lil & Boris #3) (Lil & Boris Mysteries) by Shannon Hill Page B

bushes and yards. Elk Branch came down off Elk Hill between Third and Fourth, but the rest was a good attempt at civilized lawns and shrubs and gardens. Idyllic if you didn’t know better.
    And then I was back where I started. I didn’t bother with the short stretches of street on the west side of Main, right on the creek. Those are basically glorified shared driveways. I also avoided Eller Lane. Once past Old Mill restaurant, it was gated, manned, and pointless. My Eller relatives didn’t like me, I didn’t like them, and knowing I had to go thank them for that ransom stuck in my gut.
    At least Boris was happy. He loves prowling. He sits in his fancy cat-tailored car seat with his eyes bright, his ears twitching, just like any cat on the hunt. He growls to himself in a little singsong, too. I find it soothing. Aunt Marge says it sounds like the kind of thing our cave-dwelling ancestors hid from.
    I stopped in at the Emergicare on the my third pass through town. Dr. Hartley was between patients and took a minute to check my hands. “Good,” he said. “Looks like we’ve got it licked. Still sore, I bet.”
    “Tender,” I modified. I clucked to Boris, who was stalking Dr. Hartley’s ancient dog, snoozing under his desk. “Otherwise, I’m fine.”
    He harrumphed. He didn’t believe me. I glanced quickly at my cat. Yes, his tail had given two hard twitches. I have no idea if he smells falsehood or what, but he’s fairly accurate in my experience. Dammit.
    “Stressed,” I decided to say. Honesty is a good policy even when your cat can’t rat you out. “I heard about Rucker.”
    “Vernon was a lout even in grade school,” Dr. Hartley confided, polishing the end of his stethoscope. “But I’m sure it’ll work out, Lil.” He patted my shoulder. “I suppose it’d be a waste of breath to tell you to leave this to someone else for a change.”
    I grinned, but not happily. “Pretty much.”
    He shook his head. I think they teach that particular shake of the head in medical school. It’s the one that says, If only you’d listen… and is probably designed to get patients out of the office at a sprint, to avoid impending lectures.
    My cell phone rang. The one good thing about the Ellers and Littlepages keeping a presence in Crazy is that we have a lot of infrastructure you don’t see in other tiny towns like this. High-speed wireless internet. A huge, I mean huge , dish system to provide cable television. Enough cell phone towers that we get consistent coverage in most of the county.
    Okay, that last part is mostly good.
    I pulled over before I answered the phone. We have a law in town about not talking on the cell phone while driving. I try to obey it. Law enforcement loses credibility if they have to write themselves tickets.
    The call was from Aunt Marge. “I was thinking,” she told me, “it would be a good idea if you made your thank-yous in person.”
    I felt six years old again, being told to eat the lima beans I hated. “Do I have to?”
    “It’s appropriate.”
    I growled to myself. The Turners didn’t run out of money after World War Two, though they certainly lived in reduced circumstances, and they’d sent Aunt Marge to a very good finishing school in Europe. That’s where she and my mother met and became best friends, though they’d both been born and more or less raised in Crazy. I wondered if my mother would’ve been this set on protocol. Knowing my luck, she’d have been worse.
    “They didn’t do it for me,” I pointed out. “They did it because the PR would’ve been bad, and the money’s insured.”
    “They did it,” said Aunt Marge firmly. “Their motives are irrelevant, Lil. You have to thank them properly.”
    I growled out loud this time. “I am not baking them bread or cookies!” Another thought occurred. “And I’m not taking a fruit basket, either!”
    “Your presence will do,” replied Aunt Marge. I knew that tone. I’d have better luck getting the creek to