Page 33 of Your Every Wish
“Then euthanize it.”
“Whoa, a little harsh. Snow White is her pet. I’m sure other cats visit your yard.” Of course they do. He’s turned the place into a hunter’s paradise. “Look, you need to work this out with Rondi . . . and not with rat poison. What if she put a bell or some kind of chimes around Snow White’s neck, that way the birds can hear her coming from a distance?” They have to sell collars like that at Petco or wherever people go to buy their cat crap. It’s an inspired idea, if I do say so myself. “That seems like a fair compromise, right?”
He grunts. I’m not sure what that means but it doesn’t sound like a hard no.
“Then we’ve got a deal. Rondi puts a bell around her cat’s neck, and you stop calling the cops. And no rat poison. Agree?”
He gives an imperceptible nod, which I take for a yes.
“Okay, then we’re good here.”
I start to beat a hasty retreat, worried that if I linger, he’ll change his mind.
“When are you and your sister going to resurface the bocce ball courts? This has gone on long enough.”
“Soon, we’re getting quotes,” I lie, then make a beeline for the gate.
Back at Rondi’s, I give her the 411 on the compromise I’ve drawn up with Trapper, rather proud of myself. She’s less than enthused, calling it an insult to her cat’s “felineninity,” whatever the hell that means.
“How would you feel wearing bells around your neck?”
“It’s the best I could do,” I tell her. “It was this or he threatened poison again. The bells seemed like the lesser of two evils.”
“I don’t know.” Rondi pouts. “I don’t like it.”
Okay, kill me now.
“Why don’t you try it out for a few weeks? See how it goes. If it’s too big of an indignity to Snow White, we’ll come up with something different.”
I leave with a solemn promise that she’ll put a bell around Snow White’s neck. Whether she’ll actually do it, who knows? Either way, my work here is done.
* * *
Misty’s trailer doesn’t look like a witch’s home.
I never did tell Emma the gossip Harry told me about Misty’s illustrious career, that’s how much credence I give it. I wonder which police departments use her services. If I ever go missing, I pray it’s not one of them.
In any event, her house isn’t what I was expecting. It’s actually lovely. Lots of lace, throw pillows, floral furniture, and hook rugs that remind me of the potholders I made in a crafts class one summer after Madge sweet-talked her then-boyfriend into paying for it. There is a big woodenWELCOMEsign propped against the exterior wall next to the front door and an autumn wreath on the door. Everywhere I look are more signs: GATHER, FAMILY, FRIENDS, KITCHENCLOSED. They must’ve been having a closeout sale at HomeGoods.
The table has been set like an afternoon tea at Harrods with a flouncy white tablecloth and lots of tiered plates with finger sandwiches and tiny pastries. The napkins match the blue-and-white tea rose china and the silverware is so shiny I can see my reflection in it.
“Wow, you went all out,” I say.
Emma chimes in, “This is gorgeous, Misty. Do you have a background in design . . . or catering?”
“Neither. I just like to set a nice table, is all. I’m glad you girls appreciate it. Hardly anyone else here does. They’d sooner eat off paper plates and drink out of Solo cups.”
Yeah, I can’t see Harry, or even Rondi for that matter, dining off Blue Willow china or whatever this is. But it’s nice that she went to all this trouble for us.
“Sit, girls. Help yourself.”
Emma and I each pull out a chair and gingerly tuck ourselves in, careful not to bump or dislodge anything on the table. I hesitate to fill my plate because everything looks too pretty to eat. Sensing our reluctance, Misty digs in, silently encouraging us to follow her lead. The food is as delicious as her tablescape. I never imagined I’d be a cucumber sandwich fan.
“I can’t believe you made all this stuff.” Emma shovels another forkful of succotash salad into her mouth.
“I like to cook.” Misty seems delighted by how impressed we are.
At least my last meal before going to prison will be a memorable one. Emma says that even without Dex, we’ll find the money someway, but I’ve learned in our short time together that she’s an eternal optimist. The only way to get my hands on thirty thousand dollars is to sell this place and that’ll take more time than I have. My last hope is that Willy stashed a load of cash somewhere before he died and Emma knows where it is, though she swears she doesn’t.
