Free Tiger in Trouble by Eric Walters Page A

animals?” she said.
    “Isn’t everybody?” Danny answered.
    “Not everybody … at least judging from the number of campers we have,” she said, casting another look at Vladimir.
    We came up to the big house. An expensive sports-utility vehicle was sitting in front of it.
    “The bags are in the back seat and the trunk,” she said, passing her keys over to Vladimir and heading into the house. If she was heading that way, why didn’t she at least bring something in with her?
    Nick opened the side door while Vladimir popped the trunk. The whole trunk was filled with bags. Some of them were plastic grocery bags while others — most of the others — didn’t involve food. They held shoe boxes or had tissue paper sticking out and looked as if they had clothes in them.
    “Boss’s wife likes to shop,” Vladimir said as he hoisted some of the bags.
    “Does she ever,” I agreed. There were two dozen bags from a variety of stores, and the name
Granville’s
was written in fancy lettering on the side of almost half of them. “It looks like she went on a shopping spree.”
    “Spree? What is spree?”
    “It means she spent a lot of money on a whole lot of things,” I said.
    “Yes, she is always doing spree. Clothes, lots of clothes, and shoes. Many, many shoes.”
    “Are any of them good for walking on gravel paths?” I asked.
    Vladimir smiled and shook his head.
    We all grabbed bags and shuffled up the walk, following Vladimir to the side of the house and an open door. We entered and found ourselves in a new, modern kitchen. She was standing by the counter, pouring herself a mineral water.
    “This is beautiful,” I said.
    “Yes, it is,” she said smugly. “It lacks only one thing.”
    I looked around. I couldn’t see anything missing.
    “It lacks somebody to cook for us. I hate cooking.”
    “Sarah’s a good cook,” Nick said.
    “Is she?” the woman asked. “Which one of you is Sarah?”
    “Me. I’m Sarah. And this is my brother, Nick, and this is Samantha and her brother, Danny.”
    She nodded in their direction, a little smile on her face, as they mumbled greetings.
    “Is the whole house this fancy?” Samantha asked.
    Her smile became bigger, but no less phony. “The best of everything. My husband insists upon it.” She paused. “Would you like a tour?”
    “Sure, that would be nice!” Samantha said enthusiastically. She actually reminded me of a smaller version of this woman.
    “You can put the grocery bags right here on the counter. The other bags can come along with us, and you can leave them in my room.”
    We sorted out the bags, leaving some where she’d directed and carrying the others.
    “Before we start, I want everybody to take off their shoes and leave them in the kitchen. There’s no way I want muddy footprints all over my beautiful new white carpet.” She paused again. “By the way, my name is Krystal, with a K, but I suppose it would be best if you all called me Mrs. Armstrong, since I am the owner.”
    We trailed behind her from room to room. With each passing room, a number of things became more apparent. First, it was a really fancy home; second, everything in it was new and expensive; third, the only thing she liked better than her fancy things was herself; and fourth, I really, really, really didn’t like her.
    “And, finally, we’ll end our tour with the entertainment room,” she said, opening the door with a flourish.
    I walked in a few steps and stopped. The entire far wall was taken up by the biggest TV screen I’d ever seen in my life. A baseball game — the players so big they were almost life-size — was on.
    “That is … that is … amazing,” Nick gasped.
    A black leather chair spun around to face us. There was a man sitting in it. In one hand he held a drink, and in the other was a remote control. He pushed a button and muted the TV, while the action continued behind him. He was sitting at a desk, a computer on beside him.
    “Hello,