Feliz Naughty Dog by Roxanne St. Claire

Author:Roxanne St. Claire
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: South Street Publishing
Published: 2020-10-30T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter Eight

“He moves fast for an old guy,” Finnie said from behind Agnes’s shoulder.

“No, you move slow,” Agnes grumbled, keeping her gaze locked on the man in the red and white Santa outfit headed toward an escalator. “Where the hell is he going in Penney’s?” she murmured under her breath.

“Agnes.” Finnie underscored the warning with a gentle but firm hand, a touch Agnes recognized so well. She was trying to smooth out Agnes’s rough edges, which was normally appreciated, but Agnes was too frustrated by the day to appreciate anything.

“You really don’t want me to have any fun, do you, Finnie?”

“If by ‘fun’ you mean swearing and mocking my old legs that don’t move quite like they used to, then no.”

Aldo was stuck behind a group on the escalator, so Agnes took a second to turn, ready to sling back a comment that bubbled up from deep inside. But one look in those Irish blue eyes, and the volcano suddenly quieted.

And that was Finola Kilcannon’s secret power.

“I’m sorry, Finnie,” she said on a sigh. “It’s my nerves and disappointment, I guess. I thought he was going to be…wonderful.”

Finnie’s tiny shoulders dropped, and the fight went out of her at the same time. “Maybe he is wonderful, Agnes. Maybe we didn’t hear that whole business correctly.”

“But I’m afraid we did.”

“Donchya be worryin’, lass.” She gave a light nudge to Agnes’s shoulder. “If he gets off that escalator, and we lose him, we’ll never forgive ourselves. Haul your butt, Greek grandmother.”

Agnes snorted a soft laugh, a familiar affection welling up. “Okay, then hold my arm, and let’s power through the crowds.”

They did, parting people like Moses at the Red Sea, until they were about twenty feet behind him.

“He has fine shoulders,” Finnie whispered as they gazed at him.

“And a fine Santa rear under all that fur.”

They both giggled their way to the top of the escalator, spotting him heading to the Men’s Department, threading his way around tables of wallets and belts, all the way to the Customer Service Department.

“Bathroom?” Finnie guessed.

“Could have used the one downstairs,” Agnes said. “But—oh, look.”

A man came up to him, holding a shopping bag, stopping to talk. They were too far away to hear anything, but Agnes studied the man who didn’t look much older than any of her grandsons. He had dark hair, a gray hooded sweatshirt, and leaned in to talk to Aldo.

After a moment, he gave Aldo the shopping bag, chuckled about something, then shook his head as he walked away. Aldo headed toward the Customer Service entry, disappearing around a corner.

“’Twas a handoff,” Finnie said. “Drug deal? Money laundering?”

“Maybe a change of clothes?” Agnes suggested, since Finnie had clearly lost her mind.

“So he can slip out unnoticed by the feds.”

The feds? “You’ve been reading too many suspense novels, Finola.”

Not five minutes later, as they pretended to be fascinated by a selection of underwear, he stepped out, dressed head to toe in street clothes—which fit his tall frame rather nicely—the shopping bag gone.

Agnes exchanged a look with Finnie, and Finnie’s eyes were sparking with horror.

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