Free Angel at Troublesome Creek by Mignon F. Ballard Page B

bad news,” Delia said, refilling the iced tea in our glasses. “I think I know who bought your cookie jar.”
    “Great! When can I pick it up?”
    “That’s the bad news. There’s a problem. I ran into Lottie Greeson in the post office this morning—knew I’d seen her at the yard sale with Edith Shugart. They go everywhere together—cousins, you know. Anyway, turns out Edith was the one who bought the china dog, only the Shugarts are on vacation. Aren’t due back for several weeks.”
    “Isn’t there any way to reach her? A phone number or something?”
    “Not unless you want to try to chase her around Europe. They’re on one of those tours. You know, dinner in Paris, lunch in Venice—that sort of thing.”
    “But when will they be back? Isn’t there some way her cousin could get it for me?”
    “Not without checking with Edith first. I’m afraid you’ll just have to wait, Mary George,” Delia said.
    Still I wrote down the woman’s name. Delia didn’t think the Shugarts were due back anytime soon, but it wouldn’t hurt to call.
    Delia reached over and patted my arm. “We’ll find it, honey. Don’t worry. It isn’t going anywhere.”
    She was right. It wouldn’t help Aunt Caroline’s cause to get all worked up over something I couldn’t change. I took a long swallow of tea, sweet and cold, and closed my eyes, relishing the peace of the moment. At least that idiot Todd hadn’t come calling the night before, or if he had he hadn’t found me at home. And he hadn’t phoned today either. Yet.
    One of Delia’s four cats—the gray striped one with a white-tipped tail—rubbed against my ankles, making me welcome in spite of my dog scent. I would miss this old house. “When do I get a tour of the condo?” I asked. “I thought you were going to put your house on the market.”
    Clink! Clink! Delia rattled ice in her glass, stared into the amber liquid like a fortune-teller searching for the future. “They won’t take pets,” she said, more to the cat at my feet than to me.
    “Who won’t?”
    “Those people developing the condos. Pine Thicket Paradise, they call it. How can it be paradise if they won’t let me bring my kitties? Mary George, what am I going do?”
     
     
    “I can’t imagine Delia Sims without a cat draped around her,” I said to Augusta that night. “Why, she’d be miserable without her pets. I know how lonely I’d be without Hairy, even in the short time I’ve had him. I look forward every day to his being here when I come home.” And I reached down to stroke the dog’s head. He made one of his agreeable doggie grunts and pawed my knee.
    Augusta sat in my aunt’s rocking chair with a sewing basket on her lap. She was making a skirt for herself, a beautiful filmy skirt of gold and green and blue all melting into each other. It didn’t even look like the same cloth I’d bought for her at Dorothy’s Fabric Shop. “That’s all very well and good,” she said with a slight flutter. “But you’re much too young to rely on a dog for company, Mary George.”
    “You can depend on dogs,” I said. “Unlike some people I know.”
    She raised her eyes toward the ceiling. “For heaven’s sake, child, you’ve had one unfortunate romance …”
    “Guess again,” I said.
    “Oh. Well, then, there’s that young man upstairs. He certainly seems interested.”
    “Huh!” I said. “I doubt it. Desperate’s more like it.”
    Augusta frowned. “Now, why would you say that? I don’t like to encourage vanity, Mary George. Pretty is as pretty does, I’ve always said, but there’s not a thing wrong with your looks. In fact, you remind me a bit of Shirley Sue Hawthorne.”
    “Shirley Sue Hawthorne? Who’s that?” I tried to keep a straight face. I was still having a problem with the vanity bit.
    “One of my temp assignments back in the thirties—just after talkies came out. An actress. Did very well in silent films, but talked like she had marbles up her