Here Comes Trouble (9 page)

Debby Gregory's great-great aunt, on her
mother's side, had been full-blooded Comanche
and Debby liked everyone to know through her
decorating scheme. Her great-great aunt, on her
mother's side, was probably writhing in the Great
Burial Ground over said decor.

Of course, none of them had believed Irma Tipplemouse would follow through, but there was no
way they'd admit it to each other. They'd privately
supposed she'd be too embarrassed and so had
taken the task on themselves.

Each of them became quite busy and none were
able to meet each other's eyes. Miss Tipplemouse
sighed happily. "It's so romantic."

They had gathered, hoping to receive an up-tothe-minute report on the developing romance di rectly from the source, Quin's mother. She had
assured them that he was still at the park, cavorting
with the creature he seemed to think was a dog.

"Mrs. Gordon called." Debby's expression was
grim. "She said Quin is still intending to leave."

"What could have gone wrong?" said Mrs. Tipplemouse sadly.

"I'm disappointed in your son. Toying with my
daughter's affections in a cavalier way-"

"From what I heard," said Debby, "Your daughter started it by grabbing him and kissing him-"

"Ladies," said Cait with a bit more vigor than
necessary in such an overcrowded room.

They turned to face her.

"This is only a small setback," she continued.
"From what I understand, it's Stella who's putting
up the resistance. We'll continue as we planned,
with, perhaps, a tiny addition."

"What did you have in mind?" asked Miss Tipplemouse.

"Our secret weapon."

A shocked silence lasted only seconds, then total chaos reigned.

"You don't mean-"

"You can't intend-"

"Not-"

"-Ian Andrews."

The name of the five-year-old terror struck fear into the hearts of the entire populace of Littlemouth.

"If Quin were required to rescue Stella from the
evil clutches of the little-darling, surely that
would be romantic enough to turn the tide to our
favor?"

"Let's go for it," said Prissy Goody. "How
could my daughter resist?"

"Quin always enjoyed playing the hero," added
Debby. "It's just the touch we need."

"Brilliant thinking," said Miss Tipplemouse.
"Well done, Cait."

When Quin slammed into the house only seconds later, they each jumped as the door banged
shut, then grabbed the book they planned to discuss when Quin arrived.

Debby stood. "Quin, dear, I hadn't expected you
home quite so soon."

"Playing with Tramp wore me out." Quin took
a seat on the stairs facing the living room where
they were all gathered like witches in front of a
cauldron-at least he supposed that thing in the
middle of his mother's front room was a cauldron.
It could be a wash pot, he supposed, although he
was certain he'd never seen either turned into a
coffee table before.

His mother automatically asked, "Are you feeling well? Do you want some chicken soup?"

"I'm fine, Mom. Thanks, but no soup." Quin pointed to the book each of the Troublemakers
held, entitled, All Through the Day and Night, by
the bestselling novelist Constance Howard. "Is that
Constance Howard's new book?"

Janice nodded, something akin to an evil nod if
there was such a thing, leading him to assume
Howard's latest must be even more titillating than
her previous bestsellers.

Miss Tipplemouse clutched the book to her
bosom and sighed melodramatically. "I'll say,"
she said.

"I've been looking forward to reading it," he
added as further bait, but still they didn't take him
up on it and clue him into the discussion.

Cait Boswell stood and smoothed the wrinkles
from her skirt. "You know, Quin, there's something I've been meaning to tell you."

Prissy gasped. "You promised, Cait!"

Now this was getting good. Maybe there was
some hot Littlemouth gossip to be had. Quin
hitched up his pants legs.

"I most certainly did not promise. I agreed to
take it into consideration-and I have." She
smiled and all their faces became watchful. Too
watchful.

Man, this was going to be good. "What have
you meant to tell me, Cait?"

"You aren't the only famous writer in Littlemouth."

The entire room quieted enough to hear a pin
not only drop but also roll. "I'm glad to hear that,"
he said. "I've had a problem bearing up under the
pressure."

At that, his mother extended her copy of Howard's book to him. "Look at the author's picture."

With everyone's attention fixed on him, Quin
realized for the first time that he might not like
hearing what Cait had to say. What was going on?
What did a writer of sensationalist fiction have to
do with Littlemouth?

Pulling open the back cover, he skimmed the
short author's biography which mentioned the man
in the author's life, Doc Danger. Above the bio
was a grainy black and white photograph. Like so
many book cover photographs, the image wasn't
clear and he had to do a double-take to get their
meaning. Stella?

The woman pictured could certainly be mistaken for Stella, but they couldn't possibly be one
and the same. Stella was sweet and the author was
anything but. There was no way they could be the
same person.

"This is Constance Howard," he said and
couldn't help the tone of denial that crept into his
words nor the question that followed. "This is
Constance Howard?"

Prissy began fidgeting. His mother's bracelets
started their jangling. Cait sat down with a Chesh ire smile on her face while Miss Tipplemouse murmured something sounding like romantic. Janice
tittered and said, "We're discussing the final scene.
I contend that no one could write such a lurid
scene without having actually experienced it. Your
mother says it's purely drawn from the author's
febrile imagination. As a writer yourself, what do
you think?"

Just when Stella thought things might have
calmed down, she returned to her kitchen to continue straightening up. As she tossed the book
Miss Tipplemouse had brought her into a shopping
bag, she heard another knock at her door. She
shoved it on the kitchen counter amid the pile of
food ready to go in the freezer, then headed to the
door.

Stella threw the door open. "You."

"Hi." Quin stood there, looking every bit as
slug-like as the night before, irresistible grin and
all.

"It's all your fault."

"What is?" he asked.

"The fact my house has turned into Grand Central Station."

"How's that my fault?"

Like she'd tell him about all the books? If he
looked like a smug slug now, there was no telling
how he'd look once his too-large male ego was
complimented by a basement full of books on how
to snare him. Then, once it dawned on him that
the entire town had their sights on him, he'd flee
faster than he'd ever fled before. "I don't want to
talk about it."

He kept grinning. Why did that grin make her
suspicious? Then she noticed his companion, the
injured mongrel he'd been consorting with in the
dumpster.

"Looks like Doc Stephens patched him up, but he
appears to be hungry." Actually, now that she saw
him on all fours, he looked more like the kind of animal children had nightmares about. Too bad she
didn't keep dog biscuits on hand. Making sure he
was well fed might be an act of self-preservation.
"Do you suppose he likes coffee cake?"

"Can we come in?"

"Does he bite?"

"I don't think so." His tone didn't reassure her.

"Is he housebroken?"

Quin wiggled his brow. "There's only one way
to find out."

Stella didn't step back to let them in. She couldn't even if she'd been inclined to. The dog
looked evil and her body seemed to have perked
as soon as she'd caught sight of Quin. She had to
fight to keep from automatically tossing her hair.
Why did he have to make her react this way? She
felt like she was seventeen again and it was all his
fault.

"He's a great dog. This morning I took him to
the pet store and he stuck right with me."

"That's a good sign, I guess. But don't you
think such a great dog has a worried owner?" She
knew Quin's mother would never have such an
animal as a pet. "Does his owner know he's hanging out with you?"

"Doc Stephens said Tramp's a stray."

"I guess we'll have to take his word for it." It
wasn't too surprising. The animal would be the
perfect companion for the phantom of the opera.
With a mask to cover some of those scars, he
might actually be presentable.

"That's why I came to see you."

"What?"

Taking advantage of her momentary distraction,
Quin slipped past her and brought Tramp into the
house. Darn.

She directed him to the kitchen where she put
a couple of donuts and some coffee cake onto a
saucer and gave it to the dog.

Quin stared intently at her. "Speaking of Docs,
do you know someone called Doc Danger?"

"No. Why?"

"No reason."

Quin stood in the middle of her kitchen, so she
hung out by the sink, as far from him as she could
get. Her nerve endings were at a fever pitch. Down
girl, down.

"It's going to be getting cold at night soon,"
said Quin, his eyes on the animal. "I've been
thinking about it. That's probably how Tramp got
into that dumpster to start with. He'd probably
climbed in to get warm and the lid must have
fallen and trapped him inside."

"I'm glad you found him."

"When I brought him home, Mom took one
look at him and yelled, Not in my house! She
agreed I could keep him in the yard until I found
him a new home."

"There you go."

"I can't send him back to live in squalor, Stell."

"Squalor? Your backyard is hardly squalid."

"Yeah, but that's my point. He can't live in the
dumpster and it's going to get cold."

"With summer on the way?" Now Stella knew
what he was after and it wasn't pretty. Someday
she'd planned to get a dog, something small and
cute and pampered. Not a guardian of Hades.
"Why do I always let you talk me into doing things I don't want to do? Do I have a sign saying
`patsy' on my backside?"

Quin gave her his come-hither smile again. "If
it helps, you're a pretty patsy and your backside
is Littlemouth's finest."

Stella rolled her eyes. She wasn't up to Quin
flirting with her. To be honest, she was pretty annoyed with him. "If you're going to start talking
like that, I'm going outside to play with my dog."

"My dog."

"I thought you just gave him to me."

"I didn't give him to you. I asked you to keep
him." Quin couldn't believe Stella would jump to
such a ridiculous conclusion about Tramp being
her dog. That wasn't at all what he'd had in mind.
It's just that when he thought of the notion of
home, he thought of her.

"Same difference." She snatched up Tramp's
ball, then opened the back door. "You're not sticking around for long, so it looks like Tramp belongs
to me."

Quin followed Stella and the dog into the yard.
Stella tossed the ball high into the air. Tramp ignored it.

Quin's brow wrinkled. Tramp had thoroughly
enjoyed retrieving the ball earlier. What was
wrong now?

"Go get it, Tramp."

The mutt scrambled to the ball, scooped it in his
mouth, then offered the toy to Quin.

Quin patted his leg and whistled as he walked
over to join Stella. The dog followed him. "Looks
like he wants a mother and a father."

"I'm not ready for joint dog custody," Stella
said with a toss of her head. "Besides, I'm still
mad at you."

Amazing how Stella could look so attractive
when her face was covered in dirt and her hair
was all tangled. The urge to toss her over his
shoulder and drag her off to his cave came over
him. He tamped it down.

"You said it yourself. I can't keep him. Tramp
needs a home. He'll adjust." Tramp settled himself
at Quin's feet.

"Maybe he's trying to tell you he doesn't want
to live with me?"

"Nah. I hadn't thought about it before, but it'll
probably take him awhile to realize you're his new
mommy."

"Let's just stick with owner." She walked over
to join them. "You don't want a mommy, do you,
Tramp?"

Quin watched as she leaned down to allow the
dog to sniff her hand. He growled faintly. Stella
quickly backed off.

"My fantasies of motherhood involve children,
not ferocious beasts."

"Stop that, Tramp," ordered Quin.

The animal immediately silenced.

Stella crossed her arms and glared at both him
and their dog.

Quin took a step toward her and Stella's eyes
widened as she took a step away. He resisted an
urge to wipe his sweaty palms on his jeans and took
another step toward her. She took another step
back. He dashed after her. Stella turned and ran.