guard by the basket, sniffing at the edges. Zero scratched the carpet.
Zelda’s yarn and needles were a tangled mess on the floor but seemed intact. Breathless, K.O. stared at the basket, not knowing what to do next. “It had a brown tail,” she commented.
Wynn nodded. “I noticed that, too.”
“I’ve never seen a mouse with a brown tail before.”
“It’s an African brown-tailed mouse,” he said, sounding knowledgeable. “I saw a documentary on them.”
“African mice are here in the States?” She wondered if Animal Control knew about this.
He nodded again. “So I gather.”
“What do we do now?” Because Wynn seemed to know more about this sort of thing, she looked to him for the answer.
“Kill it,” he said without a qualm.
Zero and Zorro obviously agreed, because they both growled and clawed at the carpet, asking for the opportunity to do it themselves.
“No way!” K.O. objected. She couldn’t allow him to kill it. The terriers, either. Although mice terrified her, K.O. couldn’t bear to hurt any of God’s creatures. “All I want you to do is get that brown-tailed mouse out of here.” As soon as Zelda returned, K.O. planned to suggest she call a pest control company to inspect the entire house. Although, if there were other mice around, she didn’t want to know it....
“All right,” Wynn muttered. “I’ll take it outside and release it.”
He got a newspaper and knelt down next to the dogs. Carefully, inch by inch, he slid the paper beneath the upended basket. When he’d finished that, he stood and carried the whole thing to the front door. Zero and Zorro followed, leaping up on their hind legs and barking wildly.
K.O. hurried to open first the door and then the screen. The cold air felt good against her heated face.
Wynn stepped onto the porch while K.O. held back the dogs by closing the screen door. They both objected strenuously and braced their front paws against the door, watching Wynn’s every movement.
K.O. turned her back as Wynn released the African brown-tailed mouse into the great unknown. She wished the critter a pleasant life outside.
“Is it gone?” she asked when Wynn came back into the house, careful to keep Zero and Zorro from escaping and racing after the varmint.
“It’s gone, and I didn’t even need to touch it,” he assured her. He closed the door.
K.O. smiled up at him. “My hero,” she whispered.
Wynn playfully flexed his muscles. “Anything else I can do for you, my fair damsel?”
Looping her arms around his neck, K.O. backed him up against the front door and rewarded him with a warm, moist kiss. Wynn wrapped his arms about her waist and half lifted her from the carpet.
“You are my hero,” she whispered between kisses. “You saved me from that killer mouse.”
“The African brown-tailed killer rat.”
“It was a rat?”
“A small one,” he murmured, and kissed her again before she could ask more questions.
“A baby rat?” That meant there must be parents around and possibly siblings, perhaps any number of other little rats. “What makes you think it was a rat?” she demanded, fast losing interest in kissing.
“He was fat. But perhaps he was just a fat mouse.”
“Ah...”
“You’re still grateful?”
“Very grateful, but—”
He kissed her again, then abruptly broke off the kiss. His eyes seemed to focus on something across the room.
K.O. tensed, afraid he’d seen another mouse. Or rat. Or rodent of some description.
It took genuine courage to glance over her shoulder, but she did it anyway. Fortunately she didn’t see anything—other than an overturned Christmas tree, scattered furniture and general chaos brought about by the Great Brown-Tailed Mouse Hunt.
“The fishbowl has blue water,” he said.
“Blue water?” K.O. dropped her arms and stared at the counter between the kitchen and the living room, where the fishbowl sat. Sure enough, the water was a deep blue.
Wynn walked across the room.
Before K.O. could ask what he was doing, Wynn pushed up his sweater sleeve and thrust his hand into the water. “Just as I thought,” he muttered, retrieving a gold pen.
After she’d found the twins with Wynn’s electric shaver, she realized, they’d opened his overnight case.
“This is a gold fountain pen,” he told her, holding up the dripping pen. “As it happens, this is a valuable gold fountain pen.”
“With blue ink,” K.O. added. She didn’t think it could be too valuable, since it was leaking.
She picked up the bowl with both hands and carried it into the kitchen, setting it in the sink. Scooping out the two goldfish, she put them in a temporary home—a coffee cup full of