Master Palmer, though, was something else.
He got fooled. He went back the next night, arriving at the same moment Stoat was driving away, the silhouette of a woman visible beside him in the Range Rover. Twilly assumed it was the wife, assumed the two of them were going to a late dinner.
But it turned out to be one of the maids riding off with the litterbug; he was giving her a lift home. And so Twilly made a mistake that changed everything.
Ever since his previous incursion, the Stoats had been more scrupulous about setting the house alarm. But Twilly decided to hell with it—he’d bust in and grab the dog’s pills and run. He’d be in and out and on the road in a minute flat.
The kitchen door was a breeze; a screwdriver did the job and, surprisingly, no alarm sounded. Twilly flipped on the lights and began searching. The kitchen was spacious, newly refurbished in a desert-Southwest motif with earth-tone cabinets and all-stainless appliances. This is what guys like Palmer Stoat do for their new young wives, Twilly thought; kitchens and jewelry are pretty much the upper reach of their imaginations.
He found the dog’s medicines on the counter next to the coffee machine: two small prescription bottles and a tube of ointment, all antibiotics, which Twilly put in his pocket. The Lab’s leash hung from a hook near the door, so Twilly grabbed that, too. For the daring raid he awarded himself a cold Sam Adams from the refrigerator. When he turned around, there stood Desirata Stoat with the chrome-plated.38 from the bedroom.
“You’re the one who stole our dog,” she said.
“That’s correct.”
“Where is he?”
“Safe and sound.”
“I said where.'”‘ She cocked the hammer.
“Shoot me, you’ll never see McGuinn again.”
“Who?”
“That’s his new name.”
Twilly told Mrs. Stoat he hadn’t known about the dog’s surgery—not an apology but an explanation for why he was there. “I came back for his medicine. By the way, what happened to him?”
The litterbug’s wife said, “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you. Put your hands on top of your head.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Stoat, but that’s not how it goes in real life.” Twilly took a minute to polish off the beer. “You recycle?” he asked.
Desie motioned toward a closet. Inside was a plastic crate, where Twilly deposited the empty bottle. Then he turned around and calmly snatched the revolver away from the litterbug’s wife. He shook out the bullets and put them in the same pocket as the dog’s medicine. The gun he placed in a silverware drawer.
Mrs. Stoat lowered her chin and muttered something inaudible. She wore no shoes and a long white T-shirt and pearl earrings, and that was about it. Her arms were as tanned as her legs.
“You’re the sicko who put the bugs in my husband’s truck?”
“Beetles. Yes.”
“And left those nasty notes? And pulled the eyes out of all the animal heads?”
“Correct.” Twilly saw no point in mentioning the attack on her red Beemer.
Desie said, “Those were terrible things to do.”
“Pretty childish,” Twilly conceded.
“What’s the matter with you anyway?”
“Evidently I’m working through some anger. How’s Palmer holding up?”
“Just fine. He took the maid home and went over to Swain’s for a cocktail.”
“Ah, the cigar bar.” That had been Twilly Spree’s original target for the insect infestation, until he’d hit a technical snag in the ventilation system. Also, he had received conflicting scientific opinions about whether dung beetles would actually eat a cured leaf of Cuban tobacco.
“What’s your name?” Desie asked.
Twilly laughed and rolled his eyes.
“OK,” she said, “you’re kidnapping our dog?”
“Your husband’s dog.”
“I want to come.”
Of course Twilly chuckled. She couldn’t be serious.
“I need to know what this is all about,” she said, “because I don’t believe it’s money.”
“Please.”
“I believe it’s about Palmer.”
“Nice meeting you, Mrs. Stoat.”
“It’s Desie.” She followed Twilly out to the rental car and hopped in. He told her to get out but she refused, pulling her knees to her chin and wrapping both arms around her legs.
“I’ll scream bloody murder. Worse than bloody murder,” she warned.