Lonesome Glove by Celia Kinsey

Author:Celia Kinsey [Kinsey, Celia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2020-01-02T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

It was just as I was trying to formulate a tactful way of saying that Georgia might be less than thrilled with both the mess in the living room and Maxwell being up well past the usual commencement of his lengthy going-to-bed routine when the woman in question walked through the door.

I won’t say there wasn’t some eyebrow raising, but Georgia remained relatively calm. She merely pointed to the clock over what used to be the tv stand and announced that filming could recommence when it wasn’t past Maxwell’s bedtime. She then started striking the set by winding up the tulle. It was unfortunate that she didn’t realize that she’d rolled up Hercules with it until she tried to lift the net monstrosity from the couch, discovered it was curiously heavy because it contained a juvenile potbellied pig and had to unroll it, release the piglet from captivity, then roll it up all over again.

“You’re mellowing in your old age,” I couldn’t help saying after Oliver had left, Janey had locked herself in the bathroom, Maxwell was in bed, reading himself to sleep, and Earp was snuggled up next to a snoring Hercules in the pen in the corner of the kitchen.

“Anything to keep Maxwell’s mind off Chupacabras,” said Georgia.

It was only as I was lying on the couch, on the brink of sleep, that I remembered I had forgotten to tell Janey that her house had been ransacked. I toyed with the notion of waking her up but decided against it. The possibility of a second burglar coming in through the destroyed back door during the night was remote, and Hugo, having failed to find what he was looking for, was unlikely to return.

I’d tell Janey first thing in the morning, I promised myself, but first thing in the morning came far sooner than I had anticipated. I felt like I had just drifted off to sleep when I was awakened by someone shaking me and Georgia’s voice, frantic in my ear.

“Maxwell’s run away,” Georgia said.

“Are you sure?” I sat up and looked around the apartment, bleary-eyed. “Why would Maxwell run away? That kid’s having the time of his life.”

“It’s the night of the full moon,” said Georgia, grimly handing me a piece of paper. “I found this on his pillow.”

The gist of the note, which was remarkably cogent for a six-year-old kid’s “I’m running away letter,” admonished us not to worry if we awakened in the middle of the night to find Maxwell’s bed empty. He’d merely gone out to observe Chupacabras in their natural environment. He’d be back before dawn.

“I’m going to tie Hank Edwards into a knot tomorrow morning,” said Georgia. “I’m going to turn him inside out. I’m going to—I’m going to—"

“Boil him with his own pudding? Run him through the heart with a stake of holly?”

Not very creative, I know, and shamelessly lifted from Dickens.

“That too!”

My mouth was dry, so I stood up and stumbled into the kitchen while I processed this startling turn of events.

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