Paint the Town Dead by Nancy Haddock Page B

by the cat, who hopped up onto the sink and broke my too-aware-of-him spell.
    â€œLooks like they’re taking the tour with us, doesn’t it?” He turned back to the living room. I followed. So did Cat and Dog.
    â€œAnywhere else that will work for the cat box?” he asked, talking a mile a minute, “How about over there.” He pointed at my would-be dining room. “Whoa, that is some amazing craftsmanship.”
    He strode past the boxes I still hadn’t unpacked to the paneled back wall of the dining room, and almost reverently ran his hand over the wood. “This can’t be original to the building.”
    â€œThe story is that my several times Great-Aunt Sissy had it built when she lived here in the early 1900s,” I said, grateful for the subject change. “And it’s not just ornamental. Watch.”
    I pushed on a section and it sprang open to reveal deep shelves.
    â€œGreat storage. There are shelves down in the store, too, aren’t there? Behind where y’all set up the antique counter with the glass front and top.”
    â€œYes, that’s where the downstairs lift access is.”
    He blinked. “The what?”
    â€œThese two panels hide a lift.” I gave the two middlepanels a quick push, and doors popped open to reveal an ornate iron door. “I don’t know exactly how old the lift is, but it’s in perfect condition.”
    â€œAnd this is how you get furniture up here. Through the store, up the lift, and through this dining room. That Aunt Sissy of yours was one forward thinker.”
    I grinned at his enthusiasm.
    A squeaky
meow
interrupted us. We both looked down into green eyes.
    â€œUh-oh, do you think she needs to go?”
    â€œI don’t speak cat, but let’s set up her litter in here for now. You can always move the box.”
    He went to the kitchen peninsula, where he’d left the critter supplies, and I followed. He added the box liner, opened the litter bag, and poured slowly to minimize the dust. I carried the pan to the dining room, set it down near a wall, and backed away as the cat came to inspect her toilet. When it looked like she was going to do her thing, I turned and found the pup sitting a foot away, big golden brown eyes pinned on me.
    â€œI suppose she should go out, huh?”
    â€œI bought a collar and leash.”
    â€œOf course you did.”
    â€œAnd a halter and leash for the cat.”
    I sighed. “Of course you did.”
    Eric used his pocketknife to first cut the tags off the turquoise collar and coordinating leash. I snapped my fingers and the pup trotted right to me. No squirming when I fastened the collar, although the cat came over to sniff and then rub her cheek against it. Then, when Eric handed me the now tagless halter that matched the dog’s collar, Cat stood on her hind legs for a better look.
    â€œYes, this is for you,” I told her. “I’m not sure how to get you in it, but we’ll figure it out.”
    With a little coaching from Eric, I held the haltercorrectly, and then knelt hoping I wouldn’t have to wrestle Cat into the contraption. I didn’t. She daintily stepped right into the thing and stood still as I snapped it closed. Maybe this pet deal wouldn’t be so bad after all. In the short term, that is.
    â€œUh, Nixy, do you have any plastic bags?”
    â€œUnder the sink. Why?” Then I got it. Dog poop. Oh, joy.
    *   *   *
    Eric and I walked the dog around a block away from the square where there were more houses, and where grass grew between the sidewalk and the street. The dog could do her business without being in someone’s yard proper. It was nice, walking through the town at dusk. With Eric. Even if he was carrying a bag of dog poop.
    The cat trotted right beside of her canine BFF, both seemingly proud of their new accessories. Striding next to them as we strolled, I realized the dog’s