Читать книгу Penny Sue Got Lucky - Beverly Barton - Страница 8

Did you ever want to disown your entire family? I mean every last one of them. Or at the very least trade them in for another family? It’s not as if I don’t love them, although lately they’ve tried my patience almost to the breaking point. And I’m not an impatient person. Just ask anyone who knows me. Even my worst enemy—if I had one—would tell you that Penny Sue Paine has the patience of a saint. But I swear a saint would lose patience with this bunch. Of course, I’m not a saint, not by any stretch of the imagination. I am, however, a good person. I always— and I mean always—send thank-you notes. I give blood on a regular basis. I teach a Sunday-school class for preschoolers. I never wear white shoes after Labor Day or before Easter. I would not be caught dead in public without my makeup on and my hair fixed. I don’t curse. Unless you count saying “Lord have mercy!” as cursing. I never destroy anything of worth when I’m finally pushed to my limit and start breaking things. Except once—I accidently shoved my hand through the glass front door at Grandmother Paine’s house. Of course I was only three at the time and hadn’t learned to control my temper. And I do not throw hissy fits in public, which is no small feat, let me tell you, because the Paine women are known throughout the county for their royal hissy fits. Well, there was that one time when the Country Kettle was out of glazed carrots and I got a tad upset. After all, who ever heard of a restaurant that specializes in vegetable plates running out of carrots before the dinner crowd arrives? But I’m getting off the subject, aren’t I? I was explaining why I’ve had it up to my eyeballs with my family, wasn’t I? Aunt Lottie always said digression was one of my weaknesses.

“Get to the point,” Aunt Lottie would say. “Stop digressing.” Then she’d glance over at Aunt Dottie and say, “It’s a weakness you inherited from her, the silly goose.”

Aunt Dottie would giggle and reply, “I’m not a silly goose. I simply have an effervescent personality. And giving all the details when telling a story is a family trait I inherited from Daddy, so it has to be a good trait, doesn’t it, since Daddy was such a good man.”

Aunt Lottie would roll her eyes and mumble something unintelligible.

God love ’em both. Lottie was the elder twin, born five whole minutes before Dottie. Although they were identical, no one had ever mistaken one for the other. Grandmother Paine never dressed them alike, not even as toddlers, which set a precedent in their lives, allowing them to be individuals. Lottie was the brains, Dottie the beauty. Lottie was serious-minded, Dottie was frivolous. Lottie took a nice little inheritance from her parents and turned it into millions by making shrewd investments. On the other hand, what money Dottie didn’t spend on clothes, cars, fancy vacations and cosmetic surgery, she lost to a conniving swindler who stole not only her money but her heart. So, in their old age, Lottie financially supported her younger sister.

Oh, dear me. I’m digressing again.

Back to the current situation with my family.

I suppose the problem began when Aunt Lottie passed away. Well, actually, the problem began when Uncle Willie—that’s Wilfred Hopkins, Aunt Lottie’s lawyer, who isn’t actually a blood relative—read the will. His wife, Aunt Pattie, is dog-tail kin to us, of course, her mother having been a first cousin to Grandmother Paine. And in case you don’t know what dog-tail kin is—it’s when you’re distantly related, enough so that if you had a mind to, you could actually marry each other. That is if one was a man and the other a woman.

But as I said, the will is what caused the problem. We were assembled in the front parlor of Aunt Lottie’s Victorian house on First Street—Aunt Dottie, Uncle Douglas, all the cousins and me—when Uncle Willie dropped the bombshell. Even I was surprised, but I shouldn’t have been. After all, I knew better than anyone how much Aunt Lottie had loved Lucky.

You know, come to think of it, the root of the current problem actually began nearly four years ago. And I’m not digressing again. Really I’m not. To fully understand why Aunt Lottie did what she did, you have to understand things from the beginning. Well, not actually the beginning, since I wasn’t there when Lucky was born, but… Okay, I was digressing there a bit, wasn’t I?

It all started when Topper died. Topper was Aunt Lottie’s black cocker spaniel. If you look up the term spoiled rotten in the dictionary, you’ll find a picture of Topper right there beside the definition. I suppose having no husband and no children would make a woman love her pets more than most people did. And from childhood, Aunt Lottie had been a dog person and Aunt Dottie a cat person. When I was a child, Skippy had ruled the roost. He was Aunt Lottie’s feisty little half feist, half Chihuahua. He went to puppy-dog heaven when I was eighteen and my father, the younger of the twins’ two brothers, had promptly purchased Topper as a Christmas gift for his grieving sister. Within days, Topper had become top dog in every way, and until his dying day, he lived a life most humans would envy. Even Daddy often said that when he died, he wanted to come back as one of Lottie’s dogs. And truth be told, on more than one occasion, I’ve wondered if maybe at least part of Daddy’s spirit hasn’t returned in Lucky. I’ve never told a living soul about that. We Paines are considered the town eccentrics as is. No need to add fuel to the flames.

I know. I know. I’m digressing again.

When Topper died, Aunt Lottie was inconsolable. She hadn’t carried on half as bad when Daddy had died two years before, and he was her favorite brother. She loved Uncle Douglas well enough, but she’d said it herself, “Percy can be counted on. Douglas can’t be.”

One of my favorite charities is Animal Haven. It’s Alabaster Creek, Alabama’s equivalent to the dog pound, I suppose. Although Animal Haven shelters all sorts of animals, cats and dogs make up the bulk of their residents. I volunteer one afternoon a week at the shelter and back about four years ago, this precious little puppy, who had been abused by his previous owner, was dropped on the doorstep, the pitiful thing half-dead. The minute I told Aunt Lottie about the mongrel pup, she not only paid the vet’s bills, but after taking one look at the puppy, she adopted him that very day.

After Doc Stone had given him a clean bill of health, Aunt Lottie had lifted the puppy into her arms, stroked his little head and said, “Well, mutt, you’re one lucky dog. I’m taking you home with me.” And that’s how Lucky got his name.

Now, I’m not saying that Aunt Lottie loved Lucky more than any of her previous dogs, but there’s something special about Lucky. He’s not just smart, he’s super-smart. And he’s gentle and loving. Real friendly. And he adored Aunt Lottie. Actually the only flaw Lucky has is his intolerance of Puff, Aunt Dottie’s cat. But then again, nobody likes that darn cat except Aunt Dottie.

Now, this brings me back to when Uncle Willie read Aunt Lottie’s last will and testament, two months ago. I can still see Aunt Dottie swooning over in a dead faint. And Uncle Douglas’s face turning beet-red as he struggled for words. I’m not sure who whined the loudest or the longest, but I think it was probably Cousin Valerie. She and her hubby, Dylan Redley, were counting on inheriting a sizable chunk of Aunt Lottie’s fortune. They and their demon child, Dylan III—whom they call Trey—even moved home to Alabaster Creek two years ago so they could suck up to Aunt Lottie.

One little thing you should know about Dylan Redley. He was my high-school sweetheart and my fiancé. Yes, he’s the one who ran off with the preacher’s wife right before our wedding. And yes, my second cousin, Valerie, was the preacher’s wife.

I know, I know. I’m digressing again. I can almost hear Aunt Lottie saying, “Stop rattling and get to the point, Penny Sue.”

Well, the point is that Aunt Lottie left her entire twenty-three million dollars to Lucky. That’s what I said. My aunt left her very sizable fortune to her dog. I was surprised. The other family members were shocked. Some were outraged. And the whole town of Alabaster Creek found the turn of events quite amusing. Most folks are still laughing—behind our backs—about nutty old Lottie Paine leaving millions to a dog-pound pooch.

Now you understand, I don’t need Aunt Lottie’s money. My father, God rest him, left me well off. I’m not a multi-millionaire, not rich enough to have men beating a path to my door, but if I chose never to work another day in my life, I’ll still be financially secure. Percy Paine, like his sister, Lottie, had not squandered his inheritance. So, I suppose that was one reason Aunt Lottie made me executor of her will and Lucky’s legal guardian. That and the fact she knew I loved Lucky, that I love animals in general and dogs in particular. That’s one trait I did inherit from her.

The other heirs complained—loud and long. They shouted that they would protest the will, to which Uncle Willie immediately replied, “No point wasting your time. At Lottie’s request, I saw to it that her will is iron-clad. No judge in the country would overturn it.”

Now, you’d have thought that would be that, right? Oh, no. To a person, they—even Aunt Dottie—hired lawyers. Didn’t do them a darn bit of good. They should have listened to Uncle Willie and saved themselves the time and the money. All the heirs would inherit someday, of course—but only after Lucky died.

Like I said, I love my family, at least nearly all of them. I can’t say I’ve entirely forgiven Valerie for running off with Dylan. But I don’t hate her. And seeing what a good-for-nothing Dylan turned out to be, I suppose I should be grateful to her. Every family has its faults, its idiosyncrasies, its skeletons in the closet, etc., etc., and the Paine clan is no different. But all in all, we’re good people. God-fearing, flag-waving, all-American Southerners. So just imagine how totally traumatized I was when a member of my family tried to kill Lucky. I don’t know who did it, but I’m convinced it was a disgruntled, disappointed heir who is willing to kill a poor little innocent dog for money. And in retrospect, I realize that this latest attempt might not have been the first, just the closest to successful.

After being shot, Lucky is recovering nicely over at Doc Stone’s veterinary clinic and he’s due to be released tomorrow. Since I have been unable to convince the police that Lucky is in danger, that he needs protection—when I’m elected mayor, I’ll definitely be looking into local law-enforcement practices—I was left with only one choice. It’s what Aunt Lottie would have wanted, what she would have done herself.

I hired a bodyguard for Lucky.