Mean Woman Blues

midair, and bounced off.
    “Pretty good, huh?” He slipped Angel a treat. “The next step’s jumping up to my shoulder.”
    Layne said, “She’s too little. She’ll never do that.”
    “She can. She just has to use my chest like a stepping stone. It’s in this book I got.”
    Sheila came outside, in jeans that rode on her hips and a T-shirt that barely grazed her bottom rib. She was a big girl, like Skip, but somehow, she got away with the bare midriff— on aesthetic grounds, at any rate. Uncle Jimmy was another matter. He didn’t bother to hide his frown; Sheila didn’t bother to acknowledge it. “Anybody know how to fold stuff in?”
    For a moment, everyone tried silently to make sense of the question. Finally, Layne said, “You mean, like egg whites?”
    “Yeah. Egg whites. How’d you know?”
    “Come on. I’ll show you.” He got up to save the soufflé, and Skip took it as a cue.
    “Gotta motor— I have to stop at Matassa’s for some of my fabulous homemade hors d’oeuvres. Angel, you’re a good dog. I want to see the whole trick by tomorrow.”
    Steve’s house looked fresh and inviting in its new blue paint. Skip had been able to talk him into a little fuschia trim, which had turned it downright spiffy, never mind the feasting insects that infested it.
    She stepped lightly to the door, carrying a bottle of decent wine bought a week earlier and the bag of cheese and crackers that was all she’d managed to score at Matassa’s. The few sips of wine she’d had in the courtyard had lightened her mood even more than the shower.
    She rang the doorbell, bracing herself for Napoleon’s onslaught, not even particularly dreading it. She was greeted with silence. In fact with even more silence than a non-barking dog. The house was spookily quiet.
    Fear flamed up her spine. Carefully, she set the groceries down and felt for the gun in her shoulder bag. She edged her way down the steps and around to the side of the house.
    As she neared the gate, she heard faint noises, but what they were she couldn’t figure out. She stopped to listen: It was a person’s voice, twisted in an odd anguished sound, as if the owner were hurt. And the owner had to be Steve.
    She wondered if she should call for backup and dismissed the idea. She had a key to the house; she could go in and assess the situation. She was about to move back to the door when she suddenly realized what the sound was. Someone was crying.
    It occurred to her that a person had a right to cry in his own backyard without a cop with a drawn gun traipsing through his house. He wasn’t pleading with anyone and wasn’t the sort to cry if he were being held prisoner.
    She decided to behave like a normal person instead of a paranoid fool. “Steve? Steve, it’s Skip. Are you all right?”
    “Skip? Oh, God. I’m coming.”
    She heard him walking toward her, which was reassuring, and when he opened the gate, she saw that he was alone, which was even more so. He was a big man, with a big chest and a lot of hair on his head. (Not for nothing did Jimmy Dee refer to him as her “bear.”) The sight of him coming apart was nearly as upsetting as finding him in a hostage situation. In some ways, she was frightened, but she was also sad, soaked in his sadness, whatever its cause. She felt as if a relative had died and thought that must be what had happened.
    She was frantic, danced up and down while he fumbled with the gate. “What is it? Steve, what is it?”
    He didn’t speak until he had his arms around her, giving her the bear hug they both needed, nearly crushing her ribs, a not-so-easy task given that she was nearly as tall as he was and had plenty of heft to take the pressure. “Someone killed Napoleon.”
    “Oh, Steve!” She’d never liked the dog, but she loved Steve, and the person who subjected him to this kind of misery would have her to answer to. “He got run over?”
    “Come here.” He drew her down the passageway and into the courtyard, where Napoleon lay on the flagstones, a miserable pile of rumpled fur. He looked helpless in death, nothing like the formidable animal he had been, a dog that never could make up its mind just to settle down and live a peaceful life.
    Now, looking at all that was left of him, she felt herself tearing up.
    Steve said, “They threw something over the back fence; that’s all I can figure. See, the Harrisons aren’t home.”
    “Harrisons.” Skip couldn’t follow.
    “My next-door neighbors.