Part 73 (1/2)
”She sleeps,” Claire rea.s.sured him, wiping her nose on a bit of old wadded-up tissue she'd found in the front pocket of her jeans.
”Admit it,” Austin prodded as they started back downstairs, the ghost having gone on ahead to fill Dean in on the details, ”you're a little disappointed.”
Claire stopped dead and stared at the cat. After a moment, she closed her mouth and hurried to catch up. ”All right, that settles it. We're taking a break in the renovations. You've been sucking up too many paint fumes.”
”You're not willing to wake her yourself,” Austin continued. ”But you'd love to know who'd win if you went head-to-head. Keeper to Keeper.”
”You're out of your furry little mind.”
”One final battle to settle this whole thing. Winner takes all.”
”Get real.”
”I can't help but notice that you're not making an actual statement of denial.”
PRIDE IS ONE OF....
”Yours. So you've said.”
HAS ANYONE EVER POINTED OUT THAT IT'S VERY RUDE TO INTERRUPT LIKE THAT?.
”Sorry.”
USELESS APOLOGY. SINCERITY COUNTS.
”Get out of my head.”
”Jacques told me what happened; is everything okay?” Dean asked as they descended into the lobby.
”Austin's senile,” Claire told him tightly. ”But other than that, things seem to be fine.”
He watched her walk down the hall toward the kitchen and shook his head. ”Once again,” he sighed, ”I'm left muddled.” Stepping back, he put his right foot squarely down in the paint tray.
Two things occurred to him as he watched the dark green pigment soak into his work boot.
He hadn't left the paint tray there.
And he couldn't possibly have seen a five-inch-tall, lavender something diving behind the counter.
For the first Sat.u.r.day since Claire'd begun handing out the money for groceries, there was considerably more than seventy dollars in the envelope. Dean whistled softly as she pulled out the wad and began counting the bills.
”One hundred and forty, one hundred and sixty, one hundred and eight-five dollars.” Tossed back into the safe, the envelope landed with non-paper like clunk. ”One hundred and eighty-six dollars,” Claire corrected as she pulled a loonie out of the bottom corner.
”Premium cat food all around,” Austin suggested from the top of the computer monitor.
”You're getting a premium cat food.”
”I'm not, it's geriatric. I don't care how much it costs, it's not the same thing as that individual serving stuff they show on TV.”
”And would you like it served in a crystal parfait dish, too?”