Twisted (Burbank and Parker 1)

“And thanks for being my good-luck charms,” she added, scrambling to her feet.

All three hounds were oblivious to the compliment. They were off on a single-minded mission—to find out who the visitor was.

They were delighted with who they found.

Sloane was not.

“Burt.” Her brows rose in surprise when she saw her next-door neighbor’s son standing on her doorstep, a covered casserole dish in his hands.

It was hard to miss the obvious disappointment in Sloane’s tone, and Burt gave her an inquisitive look. “Bad time? I realize it’s late, but you’re usually a night owl. I’m sorry. I should have called first.”

“Don’t be silly.” Sloane felt terrible. Burt had been a lifesaver these past weeks, taking care of the hounds, checking on the house for her. And here she was being rude to him for a reason that had nothing to do with him.

“Please, come in,” she said, opening the door and trying to keep the hounds from leaping all over him in greeting. “I’m the one who should apologize. I was waiting for an important package that’s being messengered over. It relates to a case I’m consulting on—an urgent one. I thought you were the messenger.” She smiled. “But a friendly face is welcome, too. And not just by me.” Sloane gestured toward the hounds, who were battling one another for center stage with Burt. “You have quite a fan base in this house.”

“That’s good to know.” Burt squatted down to greet each dachshund individually. Simultaneously, he reached out and handed Sloane the casserole dish he was holding. “My mother made this. A tuna casserole. She was afraid you weren’t eating.”

“No worries there. I polished off a quart of beef with scallions a little while ago. But Elsa is a sweetheart.” Sloane took the casserole dish. “This will be tomorrow night’s dinner.” She beckoned Burt inside and shut the door behind him. “I’ll pop this in the fridge. Can I get you something—soda, beer, wine?”

“Are you having something?”

“Root beer.” She gave him a rueful look. “But don’t go by me. I’m on painkillers, so alcohol is off-limits.”

“Actually, root beer would be great, thanks. I want to stay alert. I might have some more driving to do tonight.”

Sloane heard a strained note in Burt’s voice, and she studied him as he rose from tussling with the hounds. Something was bothering him. It was written all over his face. She was on the verge of asking, then checked herself. First, it was none of her business. And last, she didn’t want to mislead Burt into thinking there was anything more than friendship between them. She hadn’t forgotten the vibes he’d exuded when she’d had dinner at Elsa’s.

“I’ll be back in a sec,” she said instead. “Make yourself comfortable.”

She went into the kitchen, slid the casserole into the fridge, and grabbed two bottles of root beer. When she returned, Burt was perched at the edge of a barrel chair in the cozy den just opposite the front door. He was stroking Curly’s head absently, but his mind was a million miles away.

“Here you go.” Sloane offered him the bottle, then sat down on her favorite old sofa, settling onto the thick cushion and facing her guest. “You and Elsa have been amazing,” she began. “I don’t know what the hounds and I would do without you.”

“That’s what neighbors are for. I’m glad we could help.” Burt raised his head. “How’s your hand doing? It’s still bandaged. Is the wound raw?”

“A little. Although it’s much better than it was yesterday. I think my occupational therapist will remove the bandages tomorrow. She’s just playing it safe. I did a pretty good number on the area surrounding the scar tissue. Between that, and the nerves and tendons I aggravated—my therapist was pretty pissed. And my surgeon’s going to kill me when I meet with him in two weeks. He’s like an artiste; he doesn’t like his work tampered with.”

“I can relate to that. Art of any kind, including that of a surgeon, is a gift. It should be recognized and respected. I’m probably more fervent about that because I own a bookstore. Talent like that awes me.” Burt took a swallow of soda, then rolled the bottle pensively between his palms. “Beauty itself awes me. It’s rare. Innocence is rarer still. And decency, respect…” He gave a bewildered shake of his head. “Those are practically nonexistent. So when I see them devalued, it maddens me.”

Sloane was getting that uncomfortable feeling again. “Life has its ups and downs,” she said simply. “But there’s still plenty of goodness and beauty in the world. Sometimes they’re just hard to see.”

Burt’s head came up, and he grimaced at the expression on Sloane’s face. “I’m really sorry. I dropped by to cheer you up, and instead I’m a walking poster for depression.” He cleared his throat. “Today was a rough day. I had to meet with my ex-wife. We had some remaining personal items to divvy up. It was difficult, to say the least. Then I dropped by my mother’s, and found her slumped over the kitchen table, white as a sheet.”

Sloane started. “Is Elsa all right?”

“For now.” Burt took another swig of root beer. “Besides her usual cooking and cleaning, she’d spent the rest of the day gardening, trimming bushes, and pruning hedges. She pushed herself way too hard. She was weak, exhausted, depleted, and dehydrated. I called the doctor. He was kind enough to come over, rather than putting my mother through a trip to the emergency room.”

“And?”

“Her blood pressure had dropped way down. She needed potassium, a vitamin-B shot, and a dose of IV fluids.”

“Where is she now?”

“Sleeping. I hired a nurse’s aid to stay with her overnight. But that solution’s just temporary. It’s not feasible for the long term.”

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“If the problem is financial, I’d be more than happy to help out,” Sloane offered instantly. “I’ve known your mother since I was a kid. She’s not only a neighbor, she’s a friend.”