Free Catwalk by Sheila Webster Boneham

carrier, draped his other arm around my shoulders, and steered me toward the house.
    When everyone was settled inside, Tom handed me a glass of wine and looked the question at me. I was too angry to say anything suitable for polite company, so I emptied the glass and handed it back to him. When the refill was in my hand, Tom said, “So, what’s that all about?”
    I was being sued for civil trespass, vandalism, and a few other violations of Charles Rasmussen’s property and person. I set the glass down and said, “Next time I see that guy, I’m inclined to commit a few more violations on his person.”
    â€œThat’s my girl.” Tom took the letter out of my hand and went on. “Don’t get too worked up. This stuff won’t go anywhere. It’s too ridiculous. The police already refused to arrest you, right? That’s what Hutchinson said?”
    â€œMore or less.”
    â€œWell, there you go.” He paused for a moment, then said, “Call Norm after dinner and make an appointment. He’ll know what to do.”
    â€œAn appointment? He’s my brother-in-law.” I was still getting used to saying that, but it was true. My brother, Bill, had married Norm in New York, and even though Indiana doesn’t recognize the marriage legally, everyone who mattered to their lives does.
    â€œExactly why you don’t clutter up his evening with business. But you’ll feel better if you let him know something’s up, and make the appointment. So do that much.”
    Smart man, that Tom. I took a deep breath and felt the oozy heat of the alcohol wind around me. I stared at the glass in my hand and sank into my own little emotional world. The last time I was served with legal papers, that simple act was the start of months of nastiness as my unemployed cheating soon-to-be-ex husband dragged me through a vicious property settlement over shockingly little property. And he didn’t have Rasmussen’s resources to play with.
    Suddenly I felt I was being watched and looked around. Tom was gazing at me from the edge of his recliner, his expression concerned but patient. Leo had assumed a Bast-like pose on top of the bookcase, tail wrapped around his front feet and half-closed eyes fixed on my face. Jay and Drake lay side-by-side, sphinx-like and focused, eyes wide and worried and kind.
    I sipped a little more wine and said, “Right. You’re right. Let’s eat.”
    Everyone jumped up at once. Tom let the dogs out and turned the heat up under the water and the clam sauce. I went to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face.
    â€œDo I have time to call Norm before we eat?” I asked when I came back to the kitchen.
    â€œIf you can do it in under ten minutes.”
    I opened my phone to make the call and saw that I had three new messages. I debated for a moment, then called Norm and told him the basics. I declined his offer to look at the letter right away and suggested we meet for breakfast near his office the next day. I glanced again at the message notice. Good girl , whispered Janet Angel as I dropped my phone into my tote bag. It’s so hard these days to disconnect from the e-world and i-world that I was trying very hard to wrest control of my time from all the gadgets in my life. It was a small victory, but I ignored the messages for the moment. I’d see what they were after dinner.
    Have I mentioned that Tom is a terrific cook? It’s true. I can barely boil water, mostly because I don’t care to do much more than that. If I can’t eat it as is or nuke it to readiness in a few minutes, I’ll go out for it, thank you. The salad I had assembled for us at the carry-out salad bar was about as creative as I get in the kitchen.
    Tom had also been right about my state of mind. I felt much calmer since I’d spoken to Norm.
    And then the phone rang. Not mine. Tom’s. But he held it toward me and said, “For