[Jane Delaney 01.0] Undertaking Irene by Pamela Burford

Author:Pamela Burford [Burford, Pamela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781939215864
Amazon: B00MD5VDNS
Barnesnoble: B00MD5VDNS
Publisher: Pamela Loeser
Published: 2014-08-02T06:00:00+00:00

11

Father Martin’s Naughty Ramblings

SB RAN UP to me, barking a greeting. I gave him the obligatory scritches and he ran off to rejoin the menagerie.

The rest of my belongings were piled in boxes and leaf bags near the wide-open cellar doors. Martin stepped out of the car and opened the trunk, unable to drag his gaze from Sexy Beast and his glamorous new look.

“I’m going to get him a new sweater as soon as I have time,” I said, “so just shut up.”

“I didn’t say a thing.” He lifted a leaf bag crammed with my blankets and bed linens, and lobbed it into the trunk.

“You didn’t have to.” I wedged a box of toiletries next to the bag. “Don’t stare at him like that, you’ll give him a complex.”

Sexy Beast approached Luba, the orange chicken, and assumed the doggie play stance, chest down and butt high in the air. He gave a sharp Play with me! bark. Luba inspected him with jerky nods, then started pecking at the pink boa fringe of his sweater.

The side door of the house slammed and Mr. Franckowiak appeared, carrying a partially filled casserole. I estimated his age at somewhere between ninety and a hundred thirty. He hadn’t changed after his morning jog, I noticed. Orange gym shorts showed off his skinny white legs, while a white wife-beater, open bathrobe, and gigantic hearing aid completed the elegant ensemble.

I made introductions. Martin’s priest getup wasn’t lost on Mr. F. “I got no use for religion,” he declared. “Meaningless mumbo-jumbo designed to keep the proletariat in their place. Read your Karl Marx!”

“Yes, sir,” Martin said. “I’ll relay your message to the pope.”

Mr. F shuffled over to the big steel food bowl and shoveled the remains of the casserole into it. The cats made a beeline for it, as did the chickens and Sexy Beast. The animals shoved one another and jockeyed for position. Mindy yawned and scratched her flank. The plump dog didn’t need to compete with the rabble for kitchen scraps. When Mr. F prepared his meals, he always filled two plates. If he got Hamburger Helper and canned peas, with a Fudgsicle for dessert, so did Mindy, who sat on a kitchen chair across from him.

Martin watched the animals gobble food from the bowl. “What are they eating?”

“You’re not going to like this,” I warned. “Chicken stroganoff.”

I saw the instant my words registered, saw his helpless dismay as he watched the two hens attack Mr. F’s leftovers with gusto. “That is so wrong,” he murmured.

Within fifteen minutes the car was packed and we were back on the road, this time with Sexy Beast on my lap, secured with a safety strap connecting his harness to my seat belt.

Martin negotiated the side streets of Sandy Cove, shooting irritated looks at the dog. “Does he have to do that?”

The instant SB gets in a car, he begins to whine—a high-pitched mewling sound from deep in his throat. I’d long ago learned to tune it out.

“He gets excited in cars.

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