D. A. Ratliff: The Last Banana Split

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

The Last Banana Split  

D. A. Ratliff  

My grandmother’s voice echoed as I raced on foot, chasing a car thief along a residential sidewalk. Gram told me to be thankful for something each day. In her honor, I gave thanks that this was a cool February morning in New Orleans and not a hot, humid July morning and kept running. 

The radio pinned to my shirt cackled, and my partner’s voice boomed. “Marks, turning the corner. I got eyes on you.”  

I heard an engine rev, and a flash of white sped past me. My partner, Sergeant Chis Fairbanks, found an opening between ancient oaks and abruptly turned the SUV to the right onto the sidewalk. The perp tried to stop, but his momentum carried him into the fender, and he bounced backward as I reached him. I rolled the guy over, twisted one arm behind his back, got one cuff on him, and then got the other arm handcuffed before Chris got out of the car. Two other squad cars arrived to render assistance. 

“Get off me, Po. I ain’t done nothing.” He bucked, and I pushed him back down.  

“You ran. I’m arresting you for leaving the scene of the accident.” I proceeded to recite his Miranda Rights as he continued to squirm.  

“You were running like the wind.” Chris grinned as he pulled the perp to his feet, placed him against the fender, and patted him down. “Got a cut on his forehead. Get a bus down here.” 

I radioed EMTs to our location. They checked him over, bandaged the cut, and released him into our custody. Chris placed him in the cage, and we returned to the scene.  

The accident occurred at an intersection of St. Charles and a residential street in the Garden District. Our prisoner, now identified as Edward Thorn, or Eddie T., hotwired a car parked at a bed and breakfast in the District and had turned onto St. Charles when he sideswiped a city bus as passengers were getting off at the trolly stop. Several people were injured, two severely.  

We remained long enough for witnesses to identify Eddie T. as the driver of the stolen car that stuck the bus and fled the scene. Then, we headed toward District Seven station. 

During the drive, our ‘guest’ ranted about police brutality, spewing one curse word after another. We pulled into the sallyport, waited for the garage door to close, and then extracted him from the car, kicking and screaming. I was never happier than when the intake officers took him off our hands.  

After writing our reports, we walked to the car, passing the roll-call room where the shift held my promotion party that morning. Chris caught my slight hesitation as we passed.  

“Second thoughts, Valerie?” 

“No, I’ve wanted to be a detective since I joined the force. You should do this, too.” 

“I will, but gotta get Mimi through her last year of college. Then, with two incomes, we can afford daycare, and she can work, and I can apply for a promotion.” 

“You know that I waited until Ben was out of residency before I made the move, so I understand. One more year, and then we can be partners again.” 

The morning flew by as we handled numerous calls. A rear-end collision, a shoplifter at a convenience store, a missing delivery package, and a report of shots fired brought several squads to a residence only to discover a guy working on his car that kept backfiring on him. We answered a call about a fight at a local tavern and transported one of the participants to the station for booking on a drunk and disorderly. There was never a dull day on the streets of New Orleans.  

Back on patrol, passing an ice cream shop, it hit me. I have a tradition to honor today. I had to have a banana split. I laughed aloud, and Chris gave me a “what’s so funny “look.  

“I almost forgot! It’s the last day of my job on the beat. I have to have a….” He said it with me, “… a banana split.” 

“Val, that tradition is one I wish my family had.” 

“Not good if you want to keep your weight down. But now and then, not so bad.” 

“We’ll go to Chubby Boy’s for lunch. Best ice cream in town.” 

“That’s sounds….” I was interrupted by dispatch.  

“Unit 217, 10-16 549 Baimbridge St. Neighbors report loud screaming from inside the house.” 

I responded. “Dispatch, Unit 217, 10-4, 549 Baimbridge St. Screaming from inside house. En route.” 

Chris flipped on the blues and sirens, and we arrived at the scene within four minutes. I gave the arrival-on-scene code, and we exited the car. A neighbor rushed off their front porch to meet us.  

“He beats her all the time. They have a new baby, and I hear him yelling that she spends too much time with her. I heard the baby crying, but she stopped about ten minutes ago.” 

Chris clicked his mic. “Unit 217, Dispatch. Requesting backup my location.”  

Dispatch responded, and with guns drawn, we approached the front of the house. We were about ten feet from the front door when we heard glass shatter. We ducked behind a tree as shots rang out. 

I tapped my mic. “Unit 217, 10-32 Shots fired.” 

Chris yelled out. “Police, drop your weapon. Come out, hands up.” 

The response was more shots from inside the house. We took cover as more officers arrived, along with a supervisor. With an active shooter and at least two suspected hostages, the supervisor called for the SWAT unit. 

As first officers on the scene, we remained with the supervisor as other officers evacuated the neighboring houses and cordoned off the area. A negotiator arrived, but after an hour passed with mounting fear for the infant inside, SWAT decided to move in. 

The command post pulled back as the SWAT team prepared to make entrance. I have total admiration for the men and women who become SWAT officers. I joined the police force right out of college. I studied criminology and forensics because I wanted to be a detective. Becoming a beat officer takes more training than civilians realize, and most of us learn how to be a good cop from our training officers. Detectives require even more training, but SWAT officers are the most skilled police of all. They aren’t all swagger and macho. They are brave and motivated to serve and protect.  

With precision, SWAT fired smoke canisters through the living room window, and with one swift motion of the battering ram, they entered the residence. Within seconds, we heard the Code 4 broadcast indicating SWAT was now in control of the scene. EMT’s were allowed access and transported the mother and infant to the hospital. I rode with them while Chris followed in the squad car.  

I hopped out of the ambulance in the bay and followed the gurney into the emergency department. The mother was barely conscious due to a head wound, but the doctors whisked the baby to the children’s ER as she was pale and lethargic, and while awake, she was far too quiet. As I waited for a report from the doctors and the arrival of a detective, I looked around for Ben, my husband, who was working a noon to midnight shift. I spotted him at a small alcove where doctors write orders.  

“Ben.” He looked up, and as always, his green eyes made me weak in the knees. 

“Hi, babe.” He leaned in for a kiss. “What brings you here?” 

“Hostage situation—mom and baby injured. Just brought them in.”  

“Tough.” He glanced at the intake screen.” Looks like Rob is on that patient, but I’ll keep an eye on her and let you know how she does.” 

“Thanks, the baby, too. Just waiting for the detectives to get here.” 

He smiled. “Day after tomorrow that will be you. Excited?” 

“I am, but I will miss partnering with Chris.” 

“I know you will, but I won’t miss you being in uniform.”  

“Just need to get through today.” 

Ben frowned. “Don’t say that. Don’t jinx it.” 

“I won’t, I promise. I need to leave you to your paperwork and go wait for the detective.” 

“When you leave, text me if I’m with a patient.” 

I kissed him, muttered, “I will,” and joined Chris at the nurse’s station. While we waited, we began filling out the incident reports to get ahead of the paperwork. The detectives arrived, we filled them in, and they released us back to duty. 

As we left the hospital, I texted Ben. Chris chuckled. “Your last day has been eventful. Hope things get a bit more routine from now on.” 

“Routine? You mean more murder and mayhem in NOLA?” 

He shook his head. “Too much of that already. Hungry?”  

“Famished.” 

“Let’s go to Chubby Boy’s. Best banana split in town.” 

“Sounds perfect.” 

We were two blocks from Chubby Boy’s when a late model blue sports car blew through a red light heading north on Melpomene, narrowly missing an oncoming vehicle. Chris flipped on the blues and sirens, and I called it in. He sped up as much as he safely could with all the cross streets so that I could get the license number. “Dispatch, Unit 217 requesting wants and warrants on Louisiana tag ….” As I rattled off the make and number, the vehicle clipped the rear of a panel truck just clearing the next intersection.

“Dispatch, Unit 217, Unit 27 Code 10-57, Melpomene and Prytania, hit and run, second vehicle struck utility pole. We are in pursuit. “  

Dispatch radioed. “Unit 217, be advised vehicle registered to Martin Longines, 1230 Camp Street, reported stolen at 1007 hours by owner.” 

We approached busy St. Charles Street, and I noted additional units heading toward us on MLK Blvd. The light turned red, and Chris muttered, “This isn’t good.” He backed off, hoping the vehicle we were pursuing would slow down. It didn’t.  

The driver swerved to avoid one car traveling east on St. Charles but slammed into the front fender of a pickup truck, sending both spinning. The momentum rolled the sports car onto its passenger side, coming to rest across the intersection, precariously perched on the curb. Chris slid to a halt, blocking traffic, and we exited the cruiser to check on the driver.  

When we reached the car, the driver was upright and trying to open the passenger door. Chris and I climbed onto the fenders and drew our weapons.  

“Keep your hands up where I can see them.”   

“Man, I ain’t got a weapon. Get me out of here.” 

I nodded to Chris and pulled open the door. “Can you climb out?” 

“Yeah, chick. I got legs.” The driver pulled himself up to sit on the door frame. Chris handcuffed him, and two officers lifted him onto the street. Before I jumped off the car, I glanced down Melpomene, where a sea of blue lights blocked three intersections. This dude left chaos in his wake.  

We transported a prisoner to the station for the third time on this shift. This time, I felt the tiniest bit of nostalgia as I left. I knew I’d be back. While I would be working for the Central Investigative Division, I asked for assignment to District Six as I live in the area and cultivated numerous contacts during my time on patrol. I’ll report for duty to the same building, but I know the pulse of my day will change. 

Chris started the cruiser. “I’m starving, and it’s three-forty-five—time for Chubby Boy’s and your banana split.” 

“Sounds like a plan.” 

We parked, and I radioed 10-7, out of service. The aroma of fried food hit us as we walked in, making my stomach growl. We sat in awkward silence at a small laminate table. We’d been partners since I finished my rookie rotation and were more than friends. We were family. I might even be closer to Chris than much of my blood family. A bond between partners is unbreakable when you trust each other has the other’s back.  

I took a breath, and Chris did too, and we spoke simultaneously. We burst out laughing, but I fought back tears. “Chris, this is tough.” 

“I know. But thankfully, you’ll still be working out of the sixth district—will just be my boss now.” 

“I will never be your boss, not in that sense. I have to tell you, I’m a bit scared.” 

“Feeling apprehensive before a major change in our lives is normal. You got this, Val. You’re going to be a great detective. Besides, you still have to keep the kids when Mimi and I go away for a weekend, and Ben is the crawfish king, so we expect those Louisiana Crawfish boils often.” 

“None of that will ever change, and we will keep Wills and Lyla whenever possible.” 

“And Muggs.” 

“That crazy dog? Yes, we’ll keep him too.” 

Our food arrived, and as we were ravenous, we ate in silence for a moment. We always know we are on borrowed time when taking a break. Half my Philly steak sandwich was gone before I took a breath.  

Chris grinned at me. “Keep eating. Not letting you eat in the cruiser since that milkshake incident.” 

“You’re the one who went over that speed bump too fast.”  

“Excuses. Better save some room for the banana split.” I nodded, my mouth full of beef and grilled onions. “Tell me, how did the banana split thing get started?” 

I took a sip of tea and then answered. “When I was in kindergarten, we had a morning graduation ceremony, and when it was over, my parents took me and my brother for pizza, and we had banana splits. The following year, when first grade ended, they did the same. Dan was in second grade, so they took us out for pizza, and we asked for banana splits. From then on, it was a thing. One night, the night before Dan’s birthday, Dad suggested that since it was the last day Dan would be twelve, we should celebrate.”

Chris laughed. “Hence, the reason you served banana splits as dessert at your rehearsal dinner. Last day of being single.”  

“Yes, it has become a New Year’s Eve tradition even when we are all not together, and well, any holiday, anniversary, birthday, or milestone—like changing jobs.” 

“Shouldn’t you be having this banana split with Ben?” 

“Maybe, but he’s working until midnight, so second best is you.” 

“Thank you. Now, eat up so we can order splits.” 

Two more bites and that plan changed—our radios activated. 

“All units: 9-1-1 reports Code 222 Active shooter, Multiple victims down, Cresent City Studios 1542 Religious, cross street Market. Time out-16:27 hours.” 

Chris and I stood and ran. This is why we always paid for our meals before we ate. As we pulled away from the curb, I radioed dispatch we were en route.  

“Listen, you know the drill. We’ve trained for this. Keep focused on the shooter regardless of how many vics there are. Got extra ammo?” Chris’s voice was more serious than usual 

“Yes.”  

“When we get there, grab the rifles and flak jackets out of the trunk. We need to make sure our body cams are on.” 

As we raced toward the scene, time slowed. I could hear the muffled thudding of my heart. My senses heightened as adrenaline pumped through me. I learned a long time ago to control the flight or fight sensation and use it to my advantage. As we turned west onto Religious Street, we could see another squad car heading east toward us. A crowd hovered around two women lying on the sidewalk across the street from the studio.  

Chris stopped, and a man approached us as we exited the cruiser. Chris talked to him while I put on a full flak vest and grabbed the rifles. “He’s crazy. We’re filming a commercial, and he just came in and started shooting. Director fired him yesterday for ruining several takes. As we ran out, we realized he had shot people in the front office. Got two of the gals out that were hurt but alive.” 

I handed Chris his rifle and vest and then asked the witness. “What kind of weapon does he have?” 

“One of those automatic rifles.”  

“Way in?” 

“Front door, everything else is locked.” He pointed to a small, nondescript door. 

“Where is he?” 

“Studio C, back right corner.”  

Officers from the second unit joined us, and as the first contact team, we made entry into the building. Chris’s words echoed as I stepped over a body. Focus.  

We made our way along a corridor lined with doors—some marked dressing rooms. A sign demarking Studio C hung before double doors at the end of the hallway. As we neared, we heard a burst of bullets. Larry Jessup, one of the officers, opened the door. Chris took a quick look and motioned the perp was on the right. “He has an AR-15 on his back, holding another, has a handgun strapped on his hip.” 

I looked in and spotted movement in a sound booth across the room. A head popped up for an instant, then another, and more civilians could be hiding inside. 

The gunman yelled toward the sound booth. “You bastard, show yourself. I only wanted to kill you, but everyone started running. So, you all die.” 

Chris yelled. “Police. Drop your weapon!” 

The response was a spray of bullets toward us. We had little cover. We ducked behind large equipment cases and cameras and fired in his direction. The gunman hid behind the lift of a boom mic and fired again.  A grunt of pain rang out.  

I keyed my mic. “Jessup?” 

“Ian’s hit. He’s okay.” 

Over the radio, the supervisor advised SWAT was four minutes out. Chris glanced at me. I nodded. No time. We had to take this perp out now. 

Chris tried again. “I said, drop the weapon. You aren’t getting out of here.” 

“Then we all die.” He stepped from behind the boom and aimed his weapon. Chris, Jessup, and I fired our rifles. The perp dropped to the floor on his side. 

Jessup and I kept our rifles pointed at the gunman as Chris kicked the AR-15 away and removed the other rifle and handgun. He handcuffed him before rolling him on his back and then checked for a pulse. He looked up and shook his head.  

Strangely, a calmness settled over me. The only thought I had was to wonder which of us fired the fatal bullet. Ballistics would answer that question.  

SWAT rushed into the room, and the commander radioed a Code Four for that location and took control of the scene. He then ordered his unit to fan out and check the remainder of the building. Chris directed them to the sound booth, where they freed six people, three of them wounded, who had taken refuge there. EMTs arrived to check out Ian’s wound, which appeared worse than we thought, and check out the civilians.  

Chris pulled Ian and me aside. “The incident commander will be here in a minute to begin officer shooting protocol. This was justified, so don’t worry. Answer all their questions truthfully and do as told.”  

I glanced at Jessup. He was soon to celebrate two years on the job and was ashen. Chris squeezed his shoulder. “You did great.”  

“But Ian, I didn’t protect Ian.” 

“Any of us could have gotten hit. Ian’s injury is not your fault. You did everything by the book.” 

Captain Grainger, the incident commander, and Sergeant Peterson, our shift commander, approached us accompanied by three officers.  

Grainger spoke first. “Officers Fairbanks, Marks, and Jessup, as required by department policy, please relinquish your service weapons and body cameras to these officers. You are hereby relieved of field duty and placed on administrative duty. Do we have your permission to conduct blood alcohol and drug tests?” 

We answered yes.  

“These officers are assigned to escort you to the hospital for drug and alcohol testing. Your peer officer will join you at the hospital. You will then be returned to main headquarters for initial interviews with Criminal Incident Investigation Team members. Your union representative will meet you at headquarters.”  

They took our weapons, and once SWAT had cleared the building, the captain asked us to walk him through the incident from the time we arrived. When we finished, the officers assigned to us led us to separate waiting squad cars and drove us to Tulane Medical Center, thankfully not Touro Hospital, where Ben was. Although I would give anything to see him, I didn’t want him to worry about me and be distracted from his patients.  

I was in an exam room after getting vitals taken. I had blood work and a urine sample taken and was awaiting discharge before going to headquarters for the incident debriefing. They had not taken our phones, and I held mine, itching to talk to Ben and trying to talk myself out of calling him. He had texted earlier while we were at the studio to tell me that the mom from the morning case had a concussion but that the baby also hit her head, but no concussion. I should let him know about this. As I started to dial, the phone rang. I nearly fell off the bed. It was Ben. 

“Hi, honey.”  

“Val, are you okay? We got victims here from the shooting. Marcus Lang, one of the cops who came with the vics, told me you were on the first contact team. We received LeMieux here. Baby, tell me you are okay.” 

“I’m fine. A bit shaky after the fact and very tired, but I’ll be okay. How is Ian? The wound in his arm looked serious.” 

“Stable, bullet broke his humerus bone. He’s in surgery, but the orthopedic surgeon expects a full recovery. What is happening with you? Undergoing the shooting review?”  

“Yes, just getting the drug and alcohol test and got checked over. All is good. I’m waiting to be released. Then, we go to headquarters for debriefing. I have no idea when I will be home.”  

“Do you want me to come get you?” 

“No, the peer officer they assign me will probably bring me home. I might be there when you get off duty.” 

“Baby, I am so relieved you are okay.  I love you.” 

“I love you, too, Ben.”  

My peer officer, Daniela Benoit, was an old friend from academy days. I was relieved to see her and felt comfortable with her watching over me for the next few days. She rode with me to headquarters, where we met with the union representative before I had an in-person interview.  

First, I had to provide a written report. My nerves remained raw, and reliving the afternoon events brought back the adrenaline rush. I focused on the task and answered in as much detail as I could remember. When I finished, we waited in a conference room where food was available. Daniela insisted I eat something despite my not being hungry.  Surprisingly, a turkey and cheese on rye and a cup of coffee helped settle my nerves.  

Forty minutes later, an officer escorted us to the fourth-floor conference room, where the CIRT members were waiting to interview me. My union rep joined me while Daniela remained in the hallway. The members sat at one end of a conference table with me at the other end, the union rep beside me.  

The chairman introduced himself. “Good evening, Officer Marks. I am Detective Captain John Clairmont of CID, and am sorry to meet you under such circumstances. I believe your union representative has explained the nature of this hearing to you.” 

“Yes, sir.” 

“If you have any questions, please ask the committee.” 

“Captain, could I ask the total number of victims involved in the incident.” 

“Of course.” He picked up a piece of paper. “The latest report is seven deceased, six injured, including Officer LeMieux. Two of the injured are in critical condition and undergoing surgery. Our last report on Officer LeMieux is that he is in surgery but classified as stable.” 

“Thank you, Captain.” 

“Now, Sergeant, please state your name, rank, and home address for the record.” 

I complied and spent the next hour recounting the incident and answering questions. Despite attempts to remain strong, my voice shook when talking about Ian’s injury. I had put the bodies we had come across out of my head, but the victims’ images evoked strong emotions.  

When it was over, I spoke with the union rep for a few minutes before Daniela and I returned to the lobby. As we walked to her car, I heard my name called. It was Chris. 

He came over to us and hugged me. “I was waiting for you to come out. How was it?” 

“It was fine. They seemed very fair. How about you?” 

“Same. As I told Jessup, it’s a justified shooting. It will be fine. However, you know that your start with CID won’t happen until CIRT issues their report.” 

“Yeah, the union rep told me that. It’s okay. I think I need a few days to decompress.” 

“Okay, I told Mimi I’d be home after I saw you. What a last day. And  we never got your banana split.” 

“It’s okay. We made it through, and we got the bad guys. All that matters.” I hugged my partner, knowing he would always be the partner I treasured, working together or not. We’d fix that when he got to CID.  

Daniela dropped me at the house after I promised to call her in the morning. She insisted on driving me to the first psychologist appointment starting tomorrow. I unlocked the door and stepped into the quiet house. It was eleven-twenty, and Ben wouldn’t be home until at least one a.m. or later because he’d have to finish charting.  The house was too quiet. We needed a dog. No, we were not here enough to take care of a dog. A cat, we could get a cat—no, two cats that could keep each other company.  

Exhaustion crept over me, and I stumbled to the bathroom, stripped out of my uniform, and took the hottest shower I could stand. After drying off, I grabbed Ben’s terry cloth robe, which was oversized on me, and headed to the kitchen for something to drink. I had just reached the kitchen when the front door opened, and Ben walked in. I ran to him.  

The strength of his arms around me took the day’s pressures away, and I clung to him, not wanting to let go. He whispered, the emotion in his voice palpable. “Val, I was so scared when I heard what happened. So glad you are okay.”  

“It was frightening, but we did our jobs. What we had to do.” I brushed a kiss on his lips, then pulled back. “What are you doing home so early?” 

“Well, a little birdie called me and reminded me of something.” He reached down, opened a cooler sitting on the floor, and pulled out an oblong styrofoam container. “So, I called Mario, who was coming on at midnight, and asked if he would come in early and cover for me, and he did. I hurried to Chubby Boy’s before it closed and got this.” 

Ben grinned as he opened the container to reveal a banana split. Scoops of vanilla, strawberry, and chocolate ice cream lay nestled between banana halves, covered with whipped cream, drizzled with strawberry and chocolate sauce, sprinkled with nuts, and topped with two maraschino cherries.  

He glanced at the wall clock. “It’s not midnight yet, so we keep the tradition intact.” 

“Chris called you.” 

“He did, and I am glad.” 

Right then, I realized I was the luckiest woman in the world. I had Ben, who I loved more than I thought possible, and Chris, a man I respected and admired and considered family. 

“There are two spoons. Help me eat this.” 

We cuddled up on the couch, each taking a bite. Between the “mms” about how delicious the ice cream was, I decided to tell him my decision. 

“I want to get a cat tomorrow—no, two cats.” 

Before taking another bite, Ben looked at me quizzically and then laughed. “Okay, tomorrow we get two cats.” 

As we each grabbed a maraschino cherry, I decided things turned out well despite a difficult day. I have my guy. I have my best friend, my traditional banana split, not to mention the cats, and in a few days, I will receive my detective’s badge. Overall, it’s not shabby work for a novice detective.  

Case closed.

Please visit Deborah on Vocal Media:  https://vocal.media/authors/d-a-ratliff 
And on her blog: https://daratliffauthor.wordpress.com

Images are free use—image by WillieWonka070 on Pixabay 

Enzo Stephens: A Wonderfully Feckless Morning

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

A Wonderfully Feckless Morning 

Enzo Stephens 

Ten am on a Tuesday morning, and the Riverwalk was packed, teeming with moms out with kids whose last day of school (‘prison’) was the preceding Friday; several retirement/assisted living shuttle buses loaded with walker-toting blue-headed senior women out for a fresh morning on the town.

Which was sheer joy for a middle-aged man relaxing on a wrought-iron bistro chair, just outside a cool little place called Sonny’s Creamery. It was once owned by a Marky Rollins, who claimed to have the finest damned recipe for vanilla ice cream in the world, though Ben & Jerry might offer a different opinion. That middle-aged man, Socrates Ribisci, also known as Sonny, tended to side with Rollins on that question.

The morning was absolutely stunning. Such weather made a man grateful to be able to breathe it in, basking in the sharp warmth of the sun as light breezes lent a brief, cooling respite.

Not hot enough to cause a man to sweat, but enough to be considered pleasant.

Tiny puffs of clouds speckled cerulean skies, catching Sonny’s eye. He leaned back against the seat cushion, forming fantastic shapes from the clouds scudding overhead, losing himself in the exercise until…

“Here you are, Mister Sonny.” He saw a short, portly guy with a prominent handlebar deftly flip a white tablecloth over the black, filigreed tabletop with one hand while in the other rested the object of Sonny’s desire on this fine morning (one might even consider this morning as somewhat feckless if viewing from Sonny’s perspective).

Rollins gingerly placed a large aluminum vessel (made to look as though it were pewter) in which rested a glistening masterpiece. He stood back with a smile hinting at the corners of his mustache. “Just as you like it.”

Indeed. There was that massive scoop of the world’s finest vanilla ice cream, dead center of the

creation, and flanking on either side were additional scoops: one chocolate, the other strawberry, from the same recipe Rollins used to make the world’s finest vanilla.

“Good God, Marky, you’re going to turn me into one of those dudes with a flopping gut-tongue.”

Rollins tsked. “You’re in as fine a trim for a thirty-something man as I’ve seen. Besides, one could argue that my creation is good for you.”

“Thirty-something? Good for me?” Sonny arched a thick eyebrow as he adjusted his seat to face the delicacy glittering beneath the dappled sky.

Marky handed Sonny a folded, cloth napkin in which rested a long-handled teaspoon. The men smiled at each other, and then Rollins gave a slight bow and spun on his heel to allow Socrates the sheer, uninterrupted joy of savoring the creation.

Synchronicity!

The word sprung to Sonny’s mind as he plunged his spoon into the center of the mass. How else would one describe such a treat? An unhealthy dose of butter, pure cane sugar and freshly pasteurized heavy cream from Geo’s Dairy just outside of town; in and of themselves, a pedestrian mix. But in the hands of Marky Rollins, a masterpiece.

Just beneath the mounds of multi-colored ice cream rested a banana, the underrated vehicle to this heavenly treat. Sonny considered it as offsetting to the negative dietary impact of ice cream, especially at this hour of the morning. But it was an indulgence he allowed himself on a weekly basis, and since it rained less than 70 days per year, Sonny rarely missed due to inclement weather. He would cherish this treat.

Sonny eschewed the freshly made whipped cream slathered over the top of the mounds of ice cream and went straight for the vanilla, cupping a small chunk of the gorgeous confection neatly into the bowl of the delicate spoon and held it up for the world to see.

Sonny smiled. “Vanilla first always the rule.” Not a soul spared a glance in his direction, so no one cared about his silly rules and rituals, and that was just fine with Sonny. Okey dokey from Muskogee.

Across the street, just in front of the new O’Reilly’s Auto Parts store, a young girl – no more than

fourteen or fifteen wrestled with a pair of small-breed yapping dogs that were pulling in opposite

directions and Sonny smiled at the annoyance in the girl’s visage at the situation while she struggled to manipulate her phone.

Serves her right!

These phones and kids anymore, it was out of control; an epidemic of lazy swiping and doodling with the damned things, creating a generation of hypersensitive weenies.

He plunged his spoon into the round mound of chocolate bliss. A sudden squawk behind him caused Sonny to spin in his seat at the abrasive disturbance, only to spy a huge, white seagull standing on the sidewalk, staring at him.

“Piss off, you dinosaur wanna-be! You ain’t getting a peep of this.”

Someone nearby cleared his throat; Sonny turned back to Rollins’ creation, and there sat a man across the table from him, perched sideways, legs crossed (sitting like a girl) with flinty, ice-blue eyes and a clean-shaven, razor-sharp chin.

A flash of annoyance flashed in Sonny’s eyes, and he grimaced momentarily before getting his anger under control. “Who the hell are you and I didn’t invite you to join me?”

“Indeed, you did not.” 

Deep, and sonorous, the man could have been a televangelist, and as Sonny eyed him closely, he felt a pang of familiarity. The man was impeccably dressed in a pair of lightweight, tan linen slacks with a matching linen sportscoat over a black shirt from which a candy-blue and white tie dangled. Sonny looked at the man’s feet, clad in tan loafers that looked outrageously expensive, and completing the air of casual elegance was the lack of socks.

“You ain’t wearing socks.” Sonny slipped a dollop of strawberry ice cream in his maw, waiting for the man to answer.

The man glanced at Sonny narrowly, disdainfully. “Your powers of observation defy your apish appearance.”

Sonny’s teeth clamped down on the spoon as anger sparked at the man’s insolent sarcasm.

“You look like a queer. Are you a queer?”

“If you’re referring to my sexual preferences, the answer is no. Are you?”

Sonny found the maraschino, snared it by the stem, and popped it in his gob. “What do you think?”

The man glanced at his slacks, smoothing down a crisp crease. “You know, I tell my laundry staff not to put such creases in my summer clothes. It makes them look… pretentious.”

Sonny let loose with a quick, loud laugh. Then, “As if a crease in your pants makes you look pretentious.”

The wit was lost on the man. “I see you agree.”

Annoyance sparked in Sonny again. He growled, “Who the hell are you, and what do you want? 

You know I could have you killed for parking your effeminate ass here uninvited.”

“But you won’t.”

“We’ll see.”

“As to who I am…” He continued to sit sideways at the table, seeming to speak to the telephone pole several feet away. “I am Boz Sharp.”

A warning bell went off in Sonny’s mind. Sharp. Boz Sharp. The name was achingly familiar. Sonny’s mind raced, trying to place the man.

“You ought not to beat yourself up over not recognizing me. My name is not exactly heard in many households.”

The door to Rollins’ shop opened with a jingle, and the proprietor stood behind Sonny, working a white towel in his sizeable hands. “Everything okay, Mr. Ribisci?”

Sonny kept his eyes locked on Sharp. “All good Marky. Please get the man what he wants.”

“Do you have tea?”Rollins nodded.“Please bring me a service of your finest Earl Grey.”

“Ha! I have Lipton. Teabags.”

Sharp sighed. “There are things about your barbaric country that are unpardonable. Such as Lipton teabags.” His clean-shaven lip curled upward in a sneer; neither Rollins nor Sonny reacted, the former waiting, tapping his sandal-clad foot.

“I’ll have the… Lipton then.”

Rollins spun to fill the order as Sonny took another bite. He’d finally hit the banana, and it was nothing short of luscious. “So how is it that a man wears the kind of rich leather on his feet without socks? Your feet must stink like a farting dog’s ass.”

Sharp leaned forward. “I’ll let you in on a little secret. I use dryer sheets in my shoes.”

“Damn! Seriously? You got Bounces in your shoes?”

Sharp dangled one of his shoes from his toes, Sonny detected a flash of white beneath where the man’s foot would rest. “It really works too. I use the cotton-scented ones, and my feet and shoes smell fresh. I see you’re enjoying that… mess?”

“You ain’t never had a better banana split in your life, and I really can’t smell your feet at all!”

“And I will not be having one now either. How can you eat that slop at this time of the day?”

“Easy!’ He shoveled a hunk of banana crowned with a mound of whipped cream in his mouth while Sharp looked away. He added, “Good Lord, this is nothing short of heaven-sent.” Smudges of white whipped cream rested on Sonny’s upper lip; his tongue darted out, circling his lips. Whipped cream gone.

“Now, what the hell do you want?”

“I have a contract—”

“Big surprise there.”

“I’ve been paid quite handsomely to take you out. Very public.”

Sonny slid his spoon around the tin banana boat, finding more bits of goodness. Where did it all go? A burp slipped out. That’s where! “So let’s say you do it. What makes you think you can get away?”

Sharp began to respond but was cut off by Sonny. “Alive?”

Sharp glanced at his fingernails. “Oh, not to worry. I’ve got my escape well-planned.”

Sonny carefully rested his spoon beside the now vacant aluminum boat. “Do I look worried to you? At all?”

Sharp nodded, then raised his left hand to rest a Glock G29 10mm auto on the table.

“See, the thing about worry is this: worrying is like telling God He’s not doing His job.”

“I’ve loaded it with heavy rounds, so even if I miss center mass – and I do not miss, you’ll still bleed out, even if I only hit your hand.”

Sonny nodded. “Heavy rounds are for big game.”

“A man who eats like you do should be considered big game. Heavy rounds have a much higher kill percentage.”

“Even if you hit my hand.”

“Even if I hit your hand. But hitting center mass; one round will blow you back a bit with a good-sized crater in your chest.”

And now that tickling sense of familiarity bloomed. Boz Sharp was an assassin. A good one. He

remembered hearing his uncle in New York bitching about the man, how he seemed so elusive; how they cut loose with a manhunt to find this slippery bastard and… Deal with him.

Sharp watched Sonny closely, their eyes locked over the table. “Now I know who you are, you

effeminate bitch. You worked on some of my family in New York!”

“Very good, Mr. Ribisci. Yes, I did, but it was nothing personal. A contract is a contract, and while it was certainly nice chatting with you here this morning, I’d rather be paid for taking you out than you…expiring over a heart attack or some such due to your lack of dietary control.”

Sonny grimaced. “So you can tell the future? You know how I’m gonna die?”

“All I had to do is watch you eat. You have no self-control.”

The door to Rollins’ shop jingled again. Sharp glanced up, his hand moving toward the weapon on the table… Just as Sonny snared the empty banana boat, leapt across the table and drove the handle into Sharp’s throat.

Sharp jerked back in his chair, banging against the seat back just as Sonny smashed the palm of his hand into the edge of the boat, burying the handle in the flesh, crushing Sharp’s larynx and windpipe. Sharp’s hands clutched at the aluminum vessel as Sonny kicked the table aside and stood over Sharp, holding the boat firmly in place, grinding it deeper and deeper in the man’s wrecked throat. 

Sharp’s eyes rolled up as blood flowed over his black shirt and linen sportscoat, and then the two men crashed to the sidewalk with Sharp still in the chair, his foot stuttering out a frenetic twitch in the air as his life slipped away.

Sonny stood, turned, and saw Rollins standing there, eyes huge and in shock. Sonny plucked the firearm from the pavement and then ejected a round from the chamber. He wrapped his arm around Rollins’ shoulder and led him back into the ice cream shop. “Don’t worry none, Marky, I’ll have this cleaned up in no time. Why don’t you go on home, I’ll close up the shop for you.”

If Socrates Ribisci was anything, he was a nice guy. And wet work always made him hungry, and what would be better on this fine, feckless morning than another banana split?

Please visit Enzo on Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Enzo.stephens.5011

Images are free use—image by WillieWonka070 on Pixabay 

Laura Brady DePace: Outfoxed

Welcome to Write the Story! Each month, Writers Unite! will offer a writing prompt for writers to create a story from and share with everyone. WU! wants to help our members and followers to generate more traffic to their platforms.  Please check out the authors’ blogs, websites, and Facebook pages and show them support. We would love to hear your thoughts about the stories and appreciate your support! 

Admin Note: Laura’s wonderful story was overlooked for the May Write the Story! and not published. We apologize to the author and would like to share her story with everyone

Outfoxed

Laura Brady DePace

The castle stretched before me, warm gray stone basking in the sun, perfect blue sky arching over it, puffy white clouds floating above it for decoration. It waited, arms outstretched, to welcome its princess back home.

To be clear, I wasn’t the princess. I was the princess’s dog-walker. 

The dog in question was, of course, as pure-bred as her owner: a gorgeous Pomeranian by the name of Princess Foxworth Aurora of the Sonoran Dawn. However, since the name was bigger than the dog, everyone just called her Foxy. She looked very much like a fox, with an elegant, soft, thick, fox-red coat that was utterly caressable. Her eyes were bright, shining buttons full of excitement and adventure. Her long, elegant muzzle was crowned with a constantly-busy nose and fringed with sparkling white teeth. She wore a joyful doggy-grin, her dainty pink tongue peeping out with her smile, and lived every day, in true dog-fashion,  as the Best Day Ever. 

Six inches tall at the shoulder and gracing the scale at six pounds, Foxy’s luxurious coat added a few inches on all around. Her fur was fox-red at the tips and pure white beneath, and was unbelievably soft and thick. One could bury one’s hands in Foxy’s soft plush, and they completely disappeared. Her tummy was white, as was her mane, and her tail curled gracefully over her back, an artful intermixing of fox-red and snow-white.  

She had a disposition to match her attractiveness. She was quite simply the most appealing dog I had ever had the good fortune to meet. I was incredibly lucky to be entrusted with her grooming, feeding, exercising, and training, and couldn’t wait to serve as her fairy dog-mother and grant her every wish. Living in the castle was just the icing on the cake. 

The princess was not quite as wonderful as her dog. After all, what human could compare to a perfect Pomeranian? But she was alright, as far as princesses go. I guess. Honestly, she was the only princess I had ever met, so who was I to judge? On the plus side – a very important plus – she treated Foxy well. She was quite fond of the little dog, and enjoyed lavishing attention on her when she wasn’t too busy being a princess. On the minus side, she really was often too busy being a princess to give Foxy the love and attention that I – and Foxy herself – believed she deserved. But the princess’s busy-ness was the reason for my dream job of dog-servant, so I selfishly hoped that she would continue to be busy. More opportunity for me to enjoy Foxy’s company.

Foxy had her own room at the castle, with everything a little dog could possibly desire. She had a marble fountain from which to drink, and silver dishes from which to eat. She had a dog-sized canopied bed to sleep on, should she so desire. She had a window-seat, furnished with velvet cushions, for gazing out over the estate, equipped with Pomeranian-sized steps to make the ascent easy for her if she didn’t feel like exerting herself to jump. Beneath the window-seat was a silk-lined doggy-den to which she could retire if she was feeling antisocial (which seldom happened) or frightened by a thunderstorm (which did happen fairly often. Poor baby, she hated thunderstorms.) 

In her closet – yes, she had her own closet – hung her wardrobe: a Santa suit, complete with hat; Easter bunny ears; an Irish-green leprechaun get-up for St. Patrick’s Day; an angel suit, complete with wings and halo; various Halloween costumes, from a bumble bee to a hot dog in a bun; a bright-yellow slicker to keep her dry in the rain; a wool jacket for cold days. Her leashes, collars, and harnesses also hung there, sparkling with rhinestones. 

She had several toy-baskets scattered around the room. A playful pup, she loved her toys. One basket was full of “stuffies” – stuffed toys of all shapes and sizes. Another contained her chew-toys, from tough pig’s ears that she could gnaw on for days, to Pomeranian-sized chew-bones and breath-freshening Greenies. Her most-favorite toys of all were balls: tennis balls, soccer balls, squeaky rubber balls, balls-on-a-rope for playing Fetch, inflatable beach-balls. Although I tried to keep her room neat, she pulled the balls out almost as fast as I could put them away. 

My own room was next door to hers, with a connecting door between us that I usually left open. Not as elaborately furnished as Foxy’s room, it was still a very nice room. I had my own canopied bed and my own window-seat. There was a recliner and an overstuffed chair, big enough to comfortably share with my furry charge. I also had a closet and a dresser for my clothes, though mine were understated compared to Foxy’s. 

A bathroom opened off of the bedroom, sporting a marble tub and sink with golden fixtures. Foxy and I shared this bathroom: beside the sink was a marble dog-tub, and the counter had plenty of room for completing Foxy’s grooming. She had her own set of brushes and combs, her own fluffy white towels, and her own hair – er – fur dryer. 

It was probably the most elegant place I had ever lived. Foxy and I were both quite pleased with the arrangements.

Princess Diamony Amber Haversham of Lochsleah had just returned home from a multi-country meet-and-greet Tour that had lasted for the past three months. Naturally, she wanted her faithful dog at her side for these travels. However, royal politics being what it is, she spent much of the time attending various fancy dinners and balls to which Foxy was not invited. I was delighted to have Foxy all to myself, and we went on many adventures of our own. Foxy loved a Park – any Park – and if said Park contained entertaining creatures like other dogs and other adoring human fans, all the better. And if there were squirrels! Best Day Ever.

Even so, three months is a long time to be away from the castle. All the glamor and elegance was fun at the start, but as time dragged on, Foxy and I became heartily tired of hotels, grand as they were. We were both pleased to be home at last. (I imagine the Princess was equally glad.)

Opening Foxy’s wardrobe, I selected two leash choices. Offering them to her, I asked, “Which one do you want?” I respectfully waited while she looked from one to the other, then finally decided on the purple one, indicating her choice by a tap of her paw. She waited patiently while I slipped it on, then gave my nose a quick lick of approval. “Thank you for the kiss!” I laughed, taking the leash in hand while Foxy danced excitedly around my feet. 

We headed out to re-acquaint ourselves with the castle grounds. We visited the duck pond, where Foxy startled several frogs into leaping into the water. She stared bemusedly at the ripples where they had disappeared, barking a confused “Hey! Where’d you go?!” The ducks, willing to cooperate in return for the food I always brought them, allowed Foxy to chase them, clucking away and returning over and over, to Foxy’s immense satisfaction. We moved on through the woods (squirrels!) and across the meadow (butterflies! birds!) then circled back past the gazebo and the greenhouse.

Suddenly, as we approached the greenhouse, Foxy yanked her leash out of my hand and rocketed into the glass structure, barking ferociously! I stood frozen in shock for a moment. She never behaved like this! What the – ?

“Foxy!” I shouted, racing for the greenhouse. “What is wrong with you? What are you doing?” The glass door was ajar. I anxiously followed her in. The greenhouse was crowded with plants of all shapes, sizes, and colors, a jungle that blocked my view of my little charge. She was still barking, though, so I pushed my way through the greenery in pursuit. Suddenly, her yaps ended mid-yap with a yip of pain. “Foxy!” I shouted, really alarmed now. “Hey! Is someone there? What’d you do to my dog?!” I heard the far door open and close, and the sound of running steps on the crushed shell path.

Before I could chase after the culprit, I found Foxy. She was lying on her side beneath a large pot, with shards of pottery all around her. “Oh, Baby!” I gasped, dropping to her side. She raised her head and gave my hand a weak lick. I carefully checked her over for injuries and found nothing. She wriggled out of my hands and crawled into my lap. She didn’t appear to be hurt, thank God, only scared. With my touch, her Pomeranian bounce came back, and she cuddled into my lap as if nothing had happened. I lifted her, hugging her close, and made my way to the end of the greenhouse. I looked out the door, checking the path and the meadow and what I could see of the estate from here. Nothing. No one was there. Whoever had heartlessly tossed Foxy aside in the greenhouse, slamming her into the pot hard enough to break it, had disappeared.

I turned back to examine the greenhouse. There was a long table along one side, piled high with pots and plant saucers, clippers and hand-cultivators, and bags and bottles labeled with chemical compound names that I couldn’t make heads or tails of. In one section, a stack of pots had been tipped over, shattering on the table, and several bottles had been broken, their contents leaking onto the table and dripping down to the dirt floor beneath. 

Foxy leaped out of my arms and suddenly began barking ferociously at something on the floor under the table. “What is it, girl?” I asked, squatting down to see what she was up to. “Did you find a mouse?” She continued growling and yapping at a black lump of some kind under the table, then turning to look at me. Her message was clear: “There’s a problem here! You need to take care of it!”

“Well, I’m not sticking my hands into the dark under this table to grab God-knows-what!” I told her firmly. “Come here, Munchkin,” I said, gently grasping her with both hands and pulling her struggling body out of the darkness under the table. The yapping and growling continued. “Okay, okay!” I told her, smoothing down her raised hackles. “Give me a sec.” She seemed to understand me, and settled down to a grumble while I looked around for a pair of gloves. “Stay!” I said firmly, placing her into an oversized pot. “I don’t need your help.” She whined in protest, but stayed put, peeking over the edge of her temporary prison. 

I located a pair of gloves, pulled them on, and dropped to my hands and knees beside the table. Pulling out my cell phone, I turned on its flashlight. Its feeble glow showed me a black lump which, to my relief, did not appear to be alive. I took a quick cell phone pic before I disturbed it, then reached in with a gloved hand to retrieve it. Upon examination, it turned out to be a black rubber glove. “Look, it’s just a glove,” I reassured Foxy, showing it to her. Immediately her hackles rose again, and she launched into a surprisingly vicious-sounding growl. “Huh,” I muttered, examining the glove more closely. With vague thoughts of TV detective shows, I looked around the table until I found a box of plastic bags. Feeling a little overdramatic, I slipped my “evidence” into a bag and tucked it away in my jacket pocket. 

I retrieved Foxy from the pot, checked her over one more time, and carried her back outside. Her scare forgotten, she was ready to trot again, so I put her down, holding tightly to the leash, and we made our way back to the castle.

The castle was bustling with activity. I’d forgotten, there was a “Welcome Home” party scheduled. Some of the higher-class neighbors had been invited, along with local dignitaries. I picked Foxy up, keeping her out from underfoot, and headed up to our rooms. She played with a few of her stuffies, then brought me a ball for a little fetch. Finally, the pooped pup settled down in her window seat, head on her paws, gazing out over her realm.

I left her there and went into my own room, leaving the connecting door open in case she should need me. Sitting at my little desk, I drew the bagged glove out of my pocket and laid it on the desktop, still in its protective bag. I drummed my fingers on the desk. What to do? The Princess would be busy with her guests for the evening. Even if I could talk to her, what would I say? That Foxy had run barking into the greenhouse? That some unknown, unseen person had flung her into the pots? Even to me, it sounded crazy.  But still, doing nothing seemed like a poor choice. What if something happened, something that I could have prevented if I had handled this incident more efficiently?

But I didn’t really know many people at the castle. The Princess, of course, but she only saw me as the Foxy-bringer; it’s not like we were friends who sat down to chat over tea. Her parents, the King and Queen, didn’t know me from a hole in the wall, and, anyway, they were seldom at the castle. The servants were dedicated and faithful to “The Family,” not to minor help like me. Other than Foxy, I was pretty much on my own here. 

Except…. Well, he might listen to me. At least I should try. Lifting the telephone from the corner of the desk, I rang Evan, the Butler. I knew my call would be answered, not by the Very Important Evan, but by one of the fleet of under-staff who did the real work here. 

The phone was picked up on the first ring. “Anna,” the young female voice answered. Oh, good, Anna was one of the nicer maids. At least she knew my name.

“Oh, hello, Anna, it’s Emma. Could you please ask Brady to stop by my room? There was an … incident … on my walk with Foxy.”

“Of course, Miss Emma,” Anna replied. “I’ll find him and send him to you immediately.” She hung up before I could tell her it wasn’t an emergency. Oh, well, maybe it was.

Not ten minutes later, there was a knock on my door. “Emma? It’s Brady.”

I opened the door, inviting him in. Brady was a rather gorgeous young man who was on the Security team for Princess Diamony. Not the Head of Security, Brady was just far enough down the pecking order to be fairly friendly with me, the lowly dog-walker. 

“Brady, come on in. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

“Anna said there was an incident? Are you all right?”

“Well, yes, I -”

“Is Foxy?” He half-turned to go through the connecting door into Foxy’s domain.

“Yes, I -”

He stopped and turned back to me a bit impatiently. “Well, what is it? A spider? A bat? Did a sparrow fly in the window again?” 

I stood, tongue-tied, feeling foolish. How to tell him about the “incident” without sounding completely mental? Maybe this was a bad idea. He was probably pretty busy, what with the party and all. But, after dragging him up here, I’d better tell him something.

“I’m sorry, Brady. I don’t mean to waste your time. But I didn’t know who else to talk to…”

He smiled. “Come on, Em, you must have had a reason for asking for me. I don’t have all night. In case you hadn’t noticed, we’re a little busy tonight, with the Welcome Home Party. Spill.”

I told him, as quickly and completely as I could. About Foxy’s barking rush into the greenhouse; how I’d heard the sound of her being flung into the pottery; how I’d raced in there and found her, a little stunned, in the middle of the broken pottery; how I’d gathered Foxy up and gone through to look for the intruder, but he or she was already gone, and I’d seen no one.

To my relief, Brady didn’t laugh at me, or yell at me for wasting his time. He said, thoughtfully, “How odd. Who would be in the greenhouse, and why would they go there in secret? The way they flung poor Foxy, then ran off, they must not have wanted to be discovered. Was anything disturbed?”

“There was a bit of a mess on the table in there. Broken pots, some smashed bottles and jars. And I found this under the table,” I added, handing him the bagged glove. “Well, really, Foxy found it. She was quite upset, growling, with her hackles up.” I added wonderingly, “I don’t think I’ve ever heard her growl before! She managed to sound quite ferocious!”

Brady examined the glove, carefully avoiding touching it with his bare hands. “Why would she growl at a glove?” he asked, bemused.

“I think it must have smelled like the person who hurt her. Like, he or she was wearing gloves and dropped one.”

“Huh,” he said, then carefully tucked the bagged glove into his pocket. “We might be able to get fingerprints off of it. Maybe even DNA.” He looked at me again. “Was anything missing in the greenhouse?”

“Not that I could tell,” I answered. “I’m not that familiar with the greenhouse, Foxy and I usually don’t go in there. That’s why I was so surprised when she pulled away from me and charged in there.”

“Very well,” he said decisively, “I’ll check it out when I get a chance. It seems more like a botched burglary than anything else, but I don’t know what would be worth stealing there. Still, it’s odd.” He squeezed my hand. “You did right to tell me,” he assured me. He nodded to me, then made his way out the door. 

“Thanks, Brady,” 

I closed the door, leaning on it. I felt better for having told someone. It was up to Brady now to decide if my “incident” was important or not.

The telephone rang, making me jump. Flustered, I picked it up before it could ring again. “Yes?”

“Miss Hastings?” a very proper voice asked. “Roderick here.” Roderick was one of Evan the Butler’s underlings, fairly high up the food chain.

“Yes?” I said again, unconsciously straightening to Attention.

“Princess Diamony would like Princess Foxworth Aurora to attend her.”

“Oh!” I gulped. “Yes, sir. Of course, sir. I’ll bring her right down.”

I quickly washed my hands and face, and pulled my black dress uniform out of my wardrobe. I dressed quickly, making sure that the creases lined up correctly, then combed my hair and pulled it back into a rather severe ponytail.

I crossed into Foxy’s room. She looked up attentively and thumped her lovely fluffy tail.

“Hi, Baby!” I crooned at her. “Ready to socialize? Mommy wants to see you! Mommy wants to see her good girl!”

Foxy jumped to her feet and did three excited spins on her window seat, grinning, tongue lolling out attractively. She loved spending time with the Princess, being made much of, graciously accepting the adulation that she felt was her due. She really was an adorable dog, and she loved to flaunt it.

I chose her silver collar-and-leash set and lifted her onto the bathroom counter to give her a good combing. She had a few blades of grass between her fluffy toes, and had collected a few “hitchhiker” seeds in her plumy tail. Her face, as always, was immaculate. She was a tidy little thing.

We set out for the Reception Hall, my charge dancing excitedly by my side. Two guards stood ready at the double doors, nodding to me and sweeping the doors grandly open. The room was full of people: the gentlemen looking elegant in their tuxes, the ladies sparkling in their gowns and jewels, the staff circulating through the room. The crowd parted like the Red Sea before us as we strode down the red carpet and crossed the room to where Princess Diamony waited on her throne.

“There she is!” the Princess cooed, clapping her hands. “There’s my pretty girl!” 

I unhooked Foxy’s leash, allowing her to complete the journey to the Princess on her own. She grinned a doggy grin for her mistress, and leaped gracefully into her lap. Wriggling with delight, she stood on her hind legs, reaching her dainty paws up to the Princess’s shoulders, to deliver a kiss to the tip of her nose. Princess Diamony laughed and planted a kiss on the top of Foxy’s head. The two of them gazed at each other adoringly. Finally, the Princess rose, cuddling Foxy to her heart, and began to circulate among her guests. I followed at a respectful distance, standing ready to meet any need. 

Foxy graciously accepted the attention, comfortably nestled in Princess Diamony’s arms. Guests were allowed to caress the top of her head and fondle her fluffy ears, while Foxy grinned her doggy grin of pleasure. The Princess made her way around the room, spreading the wealth of Foxy’s adorableness. 

Black-garbed servers circulated among the guests, carrying trays of champagne and canapes. One approached the Princess, offering her a tray full of stuffed mushrooms. She smiled graciously and reached for one.

And then, It Happened.

Suddenly, I could see the little dog tense. Her hackles rose, and I heard a very distinctive growl! The Princess froze mid-reach, gaping at her normally-docile fluffball. Foxy compounded her extraordinary behavior by lunging at the server, teeth shining in an unmistakable threat that was all the more startling for its being so out-of-character. The server leaped back in terror, then turned and stumbled towards the kitchen. Foxy let out one more murderous growl. Then, licking the saliva from her jaws, she settled back into her mistress’s cuddling arms. Princess Diamony stared down at her. Foxy looked up, doggy grin back in place, and licked the Princess’s nose.

Recovering from my shocked stupor, I immediately stepped forward to the Princess’s side. She shook her head daintily, smiled her gracious smile, and gave a little laugh. “Dogs will be dogs, I guess!” she pronounced indulgently. “And in front of guests! Really, Foxy!” Addressing the crowd, she continued, “Please, forgive my darling for her bad manners. Enjoy the party!” 

The guests returned to their conversations as Princess Diamony oh-so-casually drew me aside to a quiet corner. “What was that?” the Princess whispered to me. “She growled! I’ve never heard her growl before! And she snarled at that poor man! I thought she was going to bite him!”

She looked up at me, concern showing in her lovely blue eyes. 

“I don’t know, Your Highness,” I whispered back. “Today is the first time I’ve heard her growl in all the time I’ve known her.”

Two security guards discreetly approached, stopping protectively a few feet away. From the other side of the room, I could see Brady making his way in our direction.

“Perhaps she’s just tired, Your Highness,” I offered nervously. “We did just get back, after all, and traveling can put a dog off.”

“It never has before,” she pointed out. “You don’t think she could be sick, do you?” She looked up at me, worry for her furry friend creasing her lovely brow. She hugged the little dog closer.

“Oh, no,” I reassured her. “I’m sure she’s fine!” Foxy gave her a loving lick, which brought the smile back to the Princess’s face.

“Perhaps you should take her back to her room,” Princess Diamony suggested reluctantly. “If she is overtired, that’s the best place for her.” With another kiss to the top of the little dog’s head, she tucked Foxy into my waiting arms.

“Yes,” I said, “I’m sure a good night’s sleep will put her right.” With a bright, confident smile of reassurance, I carried Foxy out of the room. Brady followed us at a discreet distance.

“A moment,” Brady said softly once we were in the hall. He stepped to my side as we headed in the direction of the grand staircase, taking my elbow as he leaned in close. “What just happened?” he asked.

I took a quick look around. The hall was deserted apart from us. 

“She growled!” I hissed. “And she went for that man!”

He chuckled. “Well, she’s a dog!” he pointed out. “Dogs do that!”

“Not Foxy,” I protested fiercely. “She has never growled before! In all the time that I’ve been with her. Not once. Until today.” I gazed up into his deep brown eyes, allowing my worry to show. “Just now. And earlier, in the greenhouse.” I waited for the significance to sink in. 

“You don’t think -” Brady began.

“I think that there’s something up with that server! You should track him down and check him out. I’ll bet he’s the one who was in the greenhouse, the one that hurt poor Foxy! And he got far too close to the Princess!”

Brady nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll have a quick word with Security Head Warrington and make sure he puts extra men on her detail for the rest of the evening. And I’ll track down that server. He must have been caught on camera, and the other servers may have noticed something off about him. Let me walk you and Fluffy here to your room,” he added with a smile.

“Foxy,” I corrected him frostily. When we reached our suite, he preceded me through the door and made sure it was safe. Then, with a pat on the head for Foxy and a smile for me, he was gone.

I took Foxy into my room for a good cuddle. I was tired, but I couldn’t possibly sleep yet. Foxy settled down quickly enough, melting into a warm, trusting puddle in my lap. Before I knew it, I was asleep.

I was stiff when I woke up the next morning. And alone. Foxy had returned to her own bed sometime in the night. I yawned, stretched, and dressed quickly for Foxy’s morning walk. We had both slept late; it was nearly 9:00. She greeted me enthusiastically and bounced down from her bed, ready for her walk. I chose her pink collar and leash, slipped them on her, and we headed out the door.

The house was quiet, with that post-party sense of exhausted abandonment. The staff were undoubtedly still dealing with the clean-up from the party. Foxy and I slipped out unnoticed.

We avoided the greenhouse today, and stuck to the wide open spaces of the lawn, the duck pond, and the formal gardens. Foxy chased grasshoppers and butterflies in the gardens and stayed by my side even when I took her off her leash. 

Suddenly, she yipped her “Hello” yip. I looked up from my study of a perfect pink rose to see Brady striding towards us, a confident smile on his handsome face.

“Good morning,” I greeted him. “You look pleased with yourself.”

“And a very good morning to you! And to you, Princess Foxy.” He bent to caress her head, and she smiled her doggy grin at him, button eyes shining. He straightened, meeting my gaze. “You and your little dog have done the Princess a great service,” he said gravely.

“We were right?” I gasped.

“You were right,” he agreed. “I tracked down that server, using the security camera footage in the Reception Hall and in the kitchens. He was definitely up to no good! He had sprinkled poison onto those mushrooms that he offered the Princess. Probably got the slug poison from the greenhouse, and you and the fluff-ball here surprised him at it. I turned the glove that you found over to the police, and they’re working on testing it. I’d bet a week’s pay that it’s his, and it probably has traces of the poison on it. They took him away last night. He’ll be gone a long time.”

I bent to pick Foxy up, giving her a big hug, and a kiss on top of her adorable head. She gave me a lick in return, looking very pleased with herself. “You did it!” I congratulated her. “You knew that man was a bad man! You saved your Momma’s life!”

“Well, you and I had something to do with it,” Brady added. “Sometimes it helps, being human,” he laughed.

“Well, yes,” I admitted. “But Foxy is the real hero!”

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