CHAPTER TWO
A loud rat-a-tat made Gretta yelp in surprise and set Bertie off again. He scrambled past her, his claws clattering on the lino, and dashed into the hall.
Gretta got to her feet, relieved that her dog-sitting duty was at an end.
It wasn’t until she saw who was on the step that the anomaly struck her: a relative of Mr Butler wouldn’t be ringing the doorbell because they’d know he wasn’t here.
It was Harriet Brown from two doors up – two doors from Gretta, that is. Harriet (call me Hattie) lived on Mr Butler’s other side.
‘Is he in?’ Harriet demanded. ‘I want a word about his bloody dog. I take it you’re here for the same reason?’
‘No, actually—’
‘For goodness’ sake, get down!’ Bertie was on his hind legs, front paws scrabbling at Harriet’s knees. ‘Tell Mr Butler from me, that if he can’t keep the bloody thing quiet, I’m phoning the police.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Mr Butler died this morning.’
Harriet’s irate expression changed instantly. ‘Oh, the poor man. How did he—? Was it a—?’
‘I don’t know the details. I found him collapsed on the floor when I came to talk to him about the dog barking. I’m surprised you didn’t see the ambulance.’
Harriet looked cross that she’d missed it. ‘I had to pop out.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘If it happened this morning, why has the dog been barking all afternoon? And why are you still here?’ This last was said with a degree of suspicion.
‘Mr Butler asked me to look after him. I was hoping you were a relative. I can’t keep popping back and forth every five minutes to see to him.’
‘You can’t let it bark all the time. The noise goes right through you, it’s that loud.’
‘Could you take him? I can’t – I’ve got a cat.’
‘ Me? No chance. My hubby’s allergic. Can’t you hang onto it until someone shows up?’ She peered past Gretta, her eyes darting around the hall. ‘The vultures will soon be here, mark my words.’
‘Do you know who they might be? Did he have any children?’
‘I don’t think so. I believe there’s a niece, or maybe not…’ She trailed off and stared down at the dog.
Gretta followed her gaze. Bertie was sitting on his haunches, his sad face staring up at them, and she felt a twinge of sympathy for the little chap. He must be missing his owner dreadfully and was probably wondering what was going on.
Harriet said, ‘Someone at the post office might know who Mr Butler’s next of kin is.’
It was a good idea. After thanking her, Gretta ushered the dog inside the house and locked the door. She’d pop back later and—
Bertie began howling again, and Gretta gritted her teeth.
‘Right, that’s it,’ Harriet announced. ‘I’m calling the police. They can deal with it. I’m not prepared to listen to that for the rest of the day. And what if he keeps it up all night?’
Gretta was tempted to let Harriet call the police, but she’d made a promise and in all conscience she couldn’t renege on it. Besides, she felt sorry for the old man. How would she feel if she wasn’t able to look after Zaza, and her little darling was left all alone for hours on end? Besides, Gretta couldn’t do that to the dog. There was nothing else for it – Bertie would have to stay with her for the duration.
Aware of Harriet glaring at her, Gretta hastily unlocked the door again, and the noise immediately ceased.
‘There you have it,’ Harriet announced in satisfaction. ‘He’ll have to stay with you until you find Mr Butler’s next of kin. Either that, or…’ She ground to a halt and waggled her eyebrows meaningfully.
Gretta wasn’t keen on dogs, but she couldn’t be that heartless.
With a sigh, she went back inside to fetch everything she thought the animal might need for an overnight stay and prayed it wouldn’t be any longer than that. She’d drop him off at hers, then go to the post office and ask whether anyone had any information on Mr Butler’s relations.
On second thoughts, she’d better take the dog with her, because she daren’t leave him alone with Zaza.
Oh, gosh, Zaza!
The sooner Gretta could hand Bertie over to someone else, the better, because Zaza was not going to be pleased.
Jakob was forced to carry Trixie. When he’d taken her out of the kennel, the little dog had stood there, refusing to move, her tail tucked under her tummy, her back hunched and her ears flattened to her head. And she’d quivered so violently, Jakob thought he could hear her teeth chattering.
The sooner he got her away from this situation and settled with him, the better. His two were used to having unexpected guests and wouldn’t bat an eyelid. Hopefully, his pooches would be a reassuring and calming influence on the terrified dog.
Opening his estate car’s rear door, he gently placed Trixie in a crate. He kept two permanently in the back, and both were well used because he took his dogs with him most places, except to work. They’d be delighted to see him when he got home, but first he wanted to nip into the village on the way for a few bits and bobs, and he had a parcel to send, so he’d do that at the same time.
He found a space on the high street and pulled in. The post office was a short walk away, as was the small convenience store, and he considered leaving Trixie in the car. But one look at her scared face made him decide to take her with him. She’d be okay tucked under his arm, plus he wanted her to get used to his scent and voice.
Speaking softly, he lifted her out of the crate, holding her with one arm, and his heart went out to her when she buried her nose in the crook of his neck.
‘I know, sweetie,’ he crooned. ‘It’s very scary, isn’t it? You’re safe, little one.’
As Jakob strode along the pavement, he noticed she’d gone into shut-down mode again, her body floppy, and he silently cursed whoever had allowed an innocent little creature to get into such a state. Some people shouldn’t be permitted anywhere near animals, and certainly shouldn’t be allowed to own something as loving and as sensitive as a dog. Some people—
Jakob’s train of thought was derailed by the sight of a black and white French bulldog doing its business right outside the post office. Its owner, a pretty woman around thirty years old, wore a disgusted expression.
‘Aren’t you going to pick that up?’ he demanded, as she began to walk away, the dog having finished.
She stopped. ‘I, um…what with?’ Now she looked embarrassed as well as disgusted.
And this had to happen just as he’d been thinking that some people, like this one for instance, shouldn’t be allowed to own a dog, not if they weren’t prepared to pick up after it and were happy to leave the mess in the middle of the pavement for anyone to step in.
‘A poo bag?’ He knew he was being sarcastic, but the silly woman deserved it.
The Frenchie jumped up at him, paws on his leg, and sniffed at Trixie, who stared at it lethargically. It was going to be a while before she came out of her shell.
The woman said, ‘I don’t have…I haven’t…’
Annoyed, Jakob pulled a couple of bags out of his pocket. ‘Here. And next time, bring some with you.’ He ruffled her dog’s ears, hoping the animal hadn’t picked up on his irritation, but guessing that he probably had. ‘There’s a good boy,’ he said, and received a lick on the hand in return.
‘How do I—?’ the woman began, stopped, then said, ‘I don’t have a scoop.’
‘A scoop? ’ He barked out a laugh. ‘It isn’t an ice cream. It’s dog sh—’
‘I know what it is,’ she snapped, interrupting him. Lifting her chin, she gave him a fierce glare. She had the most gorgeous hazel eyes, he thought distractedly, large and luminous with thick dark lashes.
Her expression haughty, she said, ‘I have a cat. I use a scoop to clean out her litter tray.’
Jakob shook his head in disbelief. ‘You bring a scoop out with you? Why? ’
‘No, you misunderstand me. I don’t bring a scoop with me.’
‘But you just said— Never mind!’ His patience was growing thin. ‘How do you usually pick up your dog’s poop?’
‘I don’t.’
His mouth dropped open. ‘What? Never? You’re one of those dirty, disgusting peop—’
‘This isn’t my dog! I don’t have a dog. I don’t want a dog, but I seem to be saddled with one.’
‘Ah. I see. In that case…’ He took another poo-bag out of his pocket and dealt with the mess himself, with a bit of a flourish to show her how it was done.
The woman looked horrified and Jakob chuckled. ‘Haven’t you seen anyone pick up dog poo before?’
‘It’s not something I take any interest in.’ Her reply was lofty.
‘If he goes again, that’s how you do it,’ he explained.
‘He won’t, will he?’ She looked down at the little dog anxiously.
‘Hopefully not on this walk,’ Jakob chortled. ‘But I’m sure you understand how these things work: at some point he will go again.’
She closed her eyes. It was brief, but it gave Jakob the opportunity to look at her properly. She was considerably shorter than him (but then, most people were) and curvy, with dark hair falling to her shoulders and an elfin face with a generous mouth.
When she opened her eyes again, her gaze landed on the poo bag he was still holding. She looked a little green around the gills.
‘Would you like me to dispose of this for you?’ he asked, surprising himself. He wasn’t usually this accommodating. Or chatty.
‘Would you mind?’
He shrugged.
‘Thank you, I appreciate it.’
He shrugged again, suddenly all out of conversation. He was done with people for today.
Conscious of the need to go home and get Trixie settled in, he walked away, not giving a single hoot that the woman might think him rude. What people thought didn’t concern him.
But when he reached the bin, he couldn’t help glancing back – at the dog, naturally.
Or that’s what he told himself.
Zaza took one look at the intruder and fled. Bertie, possibly unable to believe his luck at finding a cat so close, gave chase. Fortunately for Zaza, he was still on the lead. Unfortunately for Gretta, he was stronger than he looked and, caught unawares, she was yanked forward, lost her balance and fell, sprawling the length of the hall. Thankfully, she kept hold of the lead.
As she lay there cursing, her arm being pulled out of its socket by a yipping, lunging ball of excitement, Gretta’s compassion for Bertie began to wane. Clearly, looking after him in her house, even if only for a short time, wasn’t going to work. But keeping him at his own wouldn’t work, either.
At a loss and feeling frustrated, Gretta yelled, ‘Will you behave!’
The result was instantaneous. Bertie froze. Then the lead went slack as he stopped pulling and turned to look at her with wary eyes.
‘You don’t like being shouted at? Tough, because I don’t like you trying to yank my arm off.’ She clambered to her feet and unwrapped the end of the lead from her hand, noticing the indents on the back of it where the leather had dug into her skin. For such a small dog, the little blighter was unbelievably strong.
One thing was certain, she wasn’t going to be able to let him off the lead any time soon – she couldn’t risk him upsetting Zaza more than she already was – so the next few hours were going to be intolerable. She just hoped that Mr Butler’s relatives wouldn’t take long to arrive. Unfortunately, her enquiries at the post office hadn’t yielded anything more than pity for Mr Butler and a general moan about funeral expenses.
If his next of kin hadn’t put in an appearance by tomorrow, she’d phone the hospital again and ask whether they had any details.
Praying that she wouldn’t have to look after Bertie overnight, Gretta ushered him into the kitchen. She’d leave him in there for a few minutes while she soothed Zaza’s shredded nerves.
Gretta slipped the dog’s lead under the leg of the table to anchor him in place, then closed the door on him.
The howling began immediately.
Gritting her teeth, she went in search of her cat, finding her hiding under her bed, fur fluffed up, tail like a bottle brush, and eyes flashing. Zaza was growling, almost vibrating with fury.
It took Gretta a while to coax her out. ‘I won’t let that nasty dog get you,’ she promised, but from the way Zaza arched her back and puffed herself up even more, Gretta guessed her cat wasn’t convinced. And no wonder, with all the noise coming from the kitchen.
Actually, she realised it had stopped a few minutes ago. That was a good sign, right?
Gretta left Zaza crouching uneasily on the bed, the cat looking considerably less cross but still on edge. Gretta knew how she felt…
And when she saw what Bertie had been up to in her absence, her stress levels soared. The little sod was still attached to the table, but he’d dragged it halfway across the room, close enough to get to the bin, whose contents were now strewn all over the floor.
Gretta recoiled in dismay.
The dog had his back to her and was busily nosing around in the rubbish, making little snuffling, grunting noises.
‘Get away from there!’ she cried and clapped her hands. Then she let out a shriek when she saw his face as he whirled around to look at her. The white parts of his fur were yellow, and the black bits weren’t much better.
The dog was covered in fine yellow powder and so were his paws, and the rest of the kitchen would shortly be covered in it as well, she realised, as he lunged towards her. Fortunately, the lead he was still attached to brought him up short.
It was custard powder. She’d had her quarterly clear-out of the kitchen cupboards yesterday and had thrown out a tin because it was past its best-before date. Somehow the dog had got the plastic lid off.
For Pete’s sake! Bertie had only been in her house for half an hour, and he’d already caused chaos. And now she was going to have to bath him, because how else would she get the yellow out of his fur!
Bertie’s ears went down and his whole body drooped, as though he could read her mind. Then she realised it wasn’t the bath that bothered him, it was his stomach, as he promptly threw up a mass of yellow slime.
Gross!
‘Bertie! Nooo! ’ Gretta wailed, as the dog scrambled out of the bath, slopping yellow-tinged sudsy water all over her and the floor. She was already wet from wrestling with him to get him in the bath and keep him there long enough to lather him up, and now she was utterly drenched.
Bertie, she’d discovered, wasn’t keen on being bathed. And Gretta had discovered that she wasn’t keen on the process, either.
‘Agh!’ she cried as he shook himself violently, his little ears flapping, his solid body rolling from side to side, the shake ending at his stumpy little tail as she tried to throw an old towel over him.
He wriggled out from underneath it, then clamped his jaws on a corner of the fabric and began to tug, issuing ferocious-sounding growls.
Alarmed, Gretta relinquished her grasp on the towel and threw herself backwards, frightened that Bertie was about to attack her.
Bertie, who had been tugging with all his might, slid on the wet floor and thudded into the side of the bath; he kept hold of the towel though, and when he regained his balance, he shook it with the same vigour a fox might shake a rat. The growls were frightening, but when she realised he was playing, Gretta’s fear changed to outrage as she surveyed her once-pristine bathroom.
Gritting her teeth and gathering her resolve, she risked life and limb to grab the dog and heave him back into the bath, towel and all. Using one arm to hold him in place, Gretta aimed the shower head at him and rinsed the furry little body until the water ran clear.
Reaching for a dry towel, she draped it over him and lifted him out before he could leap out. Not that it would make any difference, because she was soaking anyway.
After drying him off as best she could, with much shaking from Bertie, Gretta turned her attention to the state of her bathroom, ignoring the dog, who was sliding around the floor, his face buried in a towel, his back legs propelling himself across the tiles. Leaving him to it (she wasn’t entirely sure why he was doing that, but he seemed to be trying to dry himself) Gretta donned a pair of rubber gloves, grabbed a bottle of spray disinfectant and set to, cleaning up the mess.
When she was satisfied, she (very reluctantly) took the annoying little creature into the bedroom with her while she changed into clean, dry clothes, keeping a wary eye out for Zaza as she did so.
Gretta had just pulled her wet tee shirt over her head, when Bertie went ballistic, zooming around the room at a hundred miles an hour, leaping onto the bed and off again in manic circles. Cushions and pillows were scattered willy-nilly, as he scuffed her gorgeous bedspread into a rumpled heap.
‘Stop!’ she yelled at the top of her voice, appalled at the mess he was making.
Bertie ignored her, making several more laps before collapsing onto his tummy, his pink tongue lolling.
‘Get off my bed now! ’ Gretta shouted, putting as much authority as she could into her voice.
Bertie stared at her but didn’t move, so Gretta growled at him.
The dog blinked in surprise, then slunk off the bed, dropping onto the carpet with a thud and a grunt.
‘Thank you.’ Feeling self-conscious and wishing Bertie wouldn’t stare at her, Gretta hastily changed into dry clothes.
Ready to tackle the kitchen (the thought made her shudder), Gretta ushered the dog downstairs, hoping Zaza had the sense to make herself scarce. The last thing she needed right now was another altercation.
Deciding that she didn’t want Bertie under her feet while she tried to clean the kitchen and not trusting him to behave himself if she left him in the sitting room, Gretta shoved him out into the garden. It was fenced, so he should be safe enough out there.
Thirty-five minutes later, the kitchen was spotless and Gretta could finally relax. She’d feed Zaza, make herself a meal, then after she’d eaten, she’d do a couple of hours’ work before bed. She was exhausted: it had been a trying day and—
She stopped in the middle of reaching for a pouch of cat food, suddenly remembering that there was a dog in her garden. A dog that it would appear she would have to look after overnight. A dog that she’d kind of forgotten about for the past half an hour. A dog that was covered in dirt, she discovered, when she opened the back door and Bertie shot past her, leaving a trail of muddy paw prints across her gleaming kitchen floor.
And when he gave himself a shake and spattered the newly cleaned units, Gretta promptly burst into tears. Not only did she have to clean the blasted kitchen for a second time, but the bloody dog would also need another bloody bath!