. . ." Again I had to swallow before I could say it. "I
found Clover. He was dead and decaying. I dug a
grave for him."
Hastily I turned my back to wipe away tears,
then I told them the rest. "I found a wire twisted
around his neck. Somebody deliberately murdered my
dog!"
They just sat on the sofa looking shocked and
scared. Mom blinked back her tears; she too had loved Clover. Her hands trembled when she reached for a handkerchief. Next she locked her nervous hands together and kept them on her lap. Neither she nor Dad asked who had killed Clover. I figured they
thought the same as I did.
Before he went to bed, Dad came into my room
and talked to me for an hour, asking all sorts of
questions about Bart, what he did with his time, where
he went, and about the woman next door, and that
butler too. I felt better now that I'd warned them. Now
they could plan what to do with Bart. And I cried that
night for the last time over Clover, who had been my
first and only pet. I was going on fifteen, almost a
man's age, and tears were only for little boys--not for
someone almost six feet tall.
"You leave me alone!" yelled Bart when I
asked him not to go next door. "You stop telling tales
on me or you'll be sorry."
Each day took us closer to September and
school days. As far as I could see, Bart wasn't
responding to the tender loving care my parents gave
him They were too understanding in my opinion.
"You listen to me, Bart, and stop pretending you're an
old man named Malcolm Neal Foxworth, whoever he
is!" But Bart couldn't let go of his pretend limp, his fake bad heart that made him gasp and pant. "Nobody is waiting for you to die to inherit your fortune. Dear