Death Loves a Messy Desk Read Free Page B

she’d clicked on the news, we’d been indulging in girl talk. Such a lovely moment.
    I said, “Speaking of shriveled brains, it’s unseemly for a mother of four to have a crush for fifteen years on a man with such a big head and so little in it.”
    Sally said, “Unseemly? What are you, my grandmother?”
    “Allow me to point out that we’re not still in ninth grade at St. Jude’s when Todd was hot stuff. I mean look at him. All that fake tan. Ew.”
    “My grandmother’s grandmother? I think Todd looks hot. Always has. Always will.”
    “Well, I think he looks like some kind of . . . carrot. Plus I’m pretty sure he gets his eyebrows plucked and shaped. That’s just plain creepy. And since it’s a ‘back to high school’ moment, doesn’t his voice remind you of fingernails on a chalkboard?”
    “Don’t mute the sound, Charlotte. Give me that remote.”
    I hung on to the remote and clicked off the television. “Sorry, Sally. I don’t want to hear about someone being killed.”
    “But it’s the news. We have to stay on top of things. And we don’t know this person. It’s sad, but anonymous.”
    “Doesn’t matter. What a terrible way to end your life. Imagine his family when they learn about this. Gives me the shivers just thinking about it.”
    Sally said, gently, with no hint of her usual carefree grin, “It’s not about you, Charlotte. It’s not like those awful things could ever happen again. You don’t need to worry.”
    I grumbled, “I know it’s not about me. But I still wake up in a panic almost every night.”
    “I thought you’d decided on volunteer work to take your mind off all that.”
    “Yes. That’s the great news. I’m signing on for the Woodbridge League of Therapy Dogs with Truffle and Sweet Marie. The orientation is Friday. But don’t try to change the subject.”
    “I’m not actually changing—”
    “Read my lips: My new policy is: no more murder.”

    Sally conked out early for some reason. So there was plenty of evening left when I arrived home. I enjoyed padding around my own apartment in my frog pajamas and bunny slippers. Add the dogs to the mix and I was a one-woman petting zoo. I set up a new file for the Therapy Dogs project. I read the background material and finished filling out my forms.
    It wasn’t hard for people to get in: You needed two personal references and a clear police check. I hoped I’d pass that, as I had never actually been charged with anything despite a few high-profile trips to the slammer. Then I ruined the mood by studying the tasks for the evaluation. Truffle and Sweet Marie were going to present a challenge. Perhaps I should have read the criteria before getting quite so excited. Of the eighteen tasks on the list, there was one I was confident my dogs would manage. And only if there was a food reward. I bit my lip. Was it even worth going to the orientation session?
    SIT?
    Only when it’s their idea.
    STAY?
    Hardly.
    DOWN?
    Out of the question unless they wanted to sleep on a cashmere sweater freshly retrieved from the cleaners.
    LEAVE IT?
    You must be joking.
    Loose leash walking?
    In a parallel universe.
    Truffle and Sweet Marie had people to do things like that for them. The commands they might recognize were Drop that shoe! Where are my keys?! And Get out of the fridge!
    These did not appear on the list.
    I should have used more discipline with them in the early days, but it was tough to be tough with two tiny creatures who’d been through hell before they came to me. Well, now I had a new problem. What were the chances I could get them on an accelerated training program? How would I even go about it, as training dogs was obviously not my best thing?
    Jack Reilly would know. My landlord and best friend since elementary school knew everything there was to know about dogs, including how to rescue them. Jack had talked me into taking on two scrawny, flea-bitten miniature dachshunds found on the median of the interstate. Did I