Tick Tock

into a romantic courtyard paved with the same quartzite, sheltered by five more dramatically lighted queen palms, softened with beds of ferns, and filled with the scent of night-blooming jasmine.
    Bewildered, he said, “I thought you were a waitress.”
    “I told you before—being a waitress is what I do. An artist is what I am.”
    “You sell your paintings?”
    “Not yet.”
    “You didn't pay for this from tips.”
    “That's for sure,” she agreed, but offered no explanation.
    Lamps glowed warmly in one of the downstairs rooms facing onto the courtyard. As Tommy followed Del to the front door, those windows went dark.
    “Wait,” he whispered urgently. “The lights.”
    “It's okay.”
    “Maybe the thing got here ahead of us.”
    “No, that's just Scootie playing with me,” she assured him.
    “The dog can turn off the lights?”
    She giggled. “Wait'll you see.” She unlocked the front door and, stepping into the foyer, said, “Lights on.”
    Responding to her vocal command, the overhead fixture and two sconces glowed.
    “If my cell phone wasn't in the van,” she said, “I could've called ahead to the house computer and turned on any combination of lights, the spa, the music system, the TV. The place is totally automated. I also had the software customized so Scootie can turn the lights on in any room with just one bark and turn them off with two.”
    “And you could train him to do that?” Tommy asked, closing the door behind him and engaging the thumb turn deadbolt.
    “Sure. Otherwise he never barks, so he can't confuse the system. Poor thing, he's here alone for hours at a time in the evening. He should be able to have it dark if he wants to nap—and light if he's feeling lonely or spooked.”
    Tommy had expected the dog to be waiting at the door, but it was not in sight. “Where is he?”
    “Hiding,” she said, putting her purse on a foyer table with a black granite top. “He wants me to find him.”
    “A dog that plays hide and seek?”
    “Without hands, it's too frustrating to play Scrabble.”
    Tommy's wet shoes squished and squeaked on the honed travertine floor. “We're making a mess.”
    “It's not Chernobyl.”
    “Huh?”
    “It'll clean up.”
    At one end of the generous foyer, a door stood ajar. Del went to it, leaving wet shoeprints on the marble.
    “Is my naughty little fur ball in the powder room?” she asked in an annoyingly cute, coddling tone of voice. “Hmmmm? Is my bad boy hiding from his mommie? Is my bad boy hiding in the powder room?”
    She opened the door, manually switched on the lights, but the dog wasn't there.
    “I didn't think so,” she said, leading Tommy into the living room. “That was too easy. Though sometimes, he knows easy works because it's not what I'm expecting. Lights on.”
    The large travertine-floored living room was furnished with J. Robert Scott sofas and chairs upholstered in platinum and gold fabrics, blond-finished tables in exotic woods, and bronze Art Deco lamps in the form of nymphs holding luminous crystal balls. The enormous Persian carpet boasted such an intricate design and was so softly coloured, as if exquisitely faded by time, that it must be an antique.
    Del's vocal command had switched on mood lighting that was low enough to minimize reflection on the glass wall and allow Tommy to see outside to the patio and the boat dock. He also had a glimpse of rain-dimmed harbour lights.
    Scootie was not in the living room. He wasn't in the study or the dining room, either.
    Following Del through a swinging door, Tommy stepped into a large, stylish kitchen with clear-finished maple cabinets and black-granite counter tops.
    “Oh, him not here, either,” Del said, cooing again as if talking to a baby. “Where could my Scootie-wootums be? Did him turn off the lights and quick-like-a-bunny run upstairs?”
    Tommy was riveted by a wall clock with a green neon rim. It was 1:44 in the morning. Time was running out, so the demon was sure to be seeking them with increasing fury.
    “Let's find the damn dog and get out of here quick,” he said nervously.
    Pointing to a tall narrow section of cabinetry next to which Tommy was standing, Del said, “Get me the broom out of there, would you, please?”
    “Broom?”
    “It's the broom closet.”
    Tommy opened the door.
    Squeezed into the broom closet was a huge midnight-black creature with teeth bared and fat pink tongue lolling, and Tommy bolted backward, slipped in his own wet shoeprints, and fell on his butt before he realized that it wasn't the demon