“No sweaters.”
As we sign off, my stomach growls, reminding me I haven’t eaten since I left Denver hours ago. I head back to the café across the street. If I’m lucky, I’ll find a quiet corner and a sugar-free hot meal.
The woman who worked here earlier is gone. Behind the counter, a woman with a cloud of white hair and a no-nonsense stare looks me up and down. Her name tag reads,Mae.
I point to the mini easel on the counter. “I’ll take the soup and sandwich special.”
“Coming right up.” Then, “You’re the guy auditing Oopsie Daisies?”
I pause, blink. I’ve spoken to only two people sincearriving. “Griffin Renshaw,” I say, not answering her question. “I’m theowner, not auditor.” It’s like that old game of telephone where words get distorted when passed around.
Her demeanor slightly shifts. “I know the shop’s been struggling but people around here love Oopsie Daisies. In case you’re thinking of shutting it down, it’s not what Clara would have wanted.”
I’ve been in town half an hour and I’m already in the running for least popular man in Silver Pine.
“You knew my aunt well?” I ask.
“Of course. She left us a year ago. Half the town made the trip to Denver for her funeral.”
Come to think of it, there were plenty of guests I didn’t recognize.
“That was nice,” I say.
“She was one of us.”
She doesn’t need to add “and you’re not.” The message is clear. Anyone who sells the shop will be persona non grata.
I mutter something about needing to eat, then take a seat. I can practically feel the letter burning a hole in my pocket.
Mae brings over my order without a word. Fine by me. The less chitchat, the better.
When the bill arrives, I ask about places to stay.
“Winter’s a tough time for a last-minute booking.”
“Any suggestions?” I ask.
Mae says, “The owner of Paws and Claws Rescue rents out the apartment upstairs. Not fancy, but clean. And the rent helps the animals.”
I stifle a sigh and thank her. I pay the bill, find the address on my GPS, and walk over.
Ten minutes later, I’m standing in front of a storefront painted a bright turquoise, paw prints marching up the door, and a sign that reads: “Adopt, Don’t Shop!” I pull a pack of tissues from my pocket and step inside where I’m assaulted by a chorus of barking and the powerful scent of Eau de Wet Dog.
Behind the counter, a woman in a faded hoodie is coaxing a kitten out of a laundry basket. She glances up, eyes narrowing at my suit and briefcase.
“Can I help you?” she asks, like she isn’t sure if I’m here to adopt a puppy or sue one.
“I heard you have an apartment for rent?”
Her face softens. “You must be the city guy.”
Seriously?
“I’m Harper. The place is upstairs. One bedroom, tiny kitchen. You’ll share the stairwell with a couple of rescue cats but they’re harmless. Mostly.”
I glance at the staircase, ignoring the itch in my throat. A tabby sprawls across the third step, tail flicking like a warning.
The first sneeze hits. Then five more.
