She said it like she’d discovered arsenic in the dog’s food. Like she was Columbo and had worked out the attempted murder in her head. Max put his hands on his hips. “Just so I have this straight . . . your main complaint is that the mac and cheese came out of a box? Or that it’s unnaturally orange?”
“My complaint is that mac and cheese is not good for a dog. It’s horrible for a dog. The manual says dogs metabolize food completely differently than we do, and besides, processed food isn’t good for anyone.”
Okay, that was it. Max didn’t know what manual she was talking about, but he’d taken very good care of her dog. “Yes, Carly, it is mac and cheese. You know why? Because your dog wouldn’t eat. But he has now, thanks to the mac and cheese, and you are welcome. Now if you don’t mind, I’d like to know where is my dog?”
“At a photo shoot,” she said, folding her arms.
Whatever Max was going to say flew out of his head—the words photo shoot walked up to a counter in his brain and banged on the bell for attention. “Wait, what? What does that even mean?”
“It means someone is taking photos. Can we just back up here to the moment before you got upset?” she asked, making a whirring motion with her finger.
“I’m upset?”
“Do I have this right? You come home to an imposter basset hound,” she said, holding up one finger, “and instead of taking him to the vet to have his chip read, you invite him to eat that in the living room,” she said, pointing at the bowl, then holding up another finger. “While he couch surfs, and watches Dog TV,” she said, holding up two more fingers. “Yes?”
“Couch surfing and Dog TV are the same thing,” Max shot back. “But, yes, you have it exactly right. What have you been feeding my dog, if I may ask?”
“Organic kangaroo and lentils like the manual says!” she nearly shouted, as if that was some written rule of what you were supposed to feed a strange dog that showed up in your house. It also sounded outrageously trendy and expensive. She’d spoiled his dog. And then, in a moment of sheer irony, she said, “Oh my God, let’s everyone calm down here.” As if she were the sane one in this room begging for cooler heads. She held out her arms in a way that he thought signaled to calm down, but he wasn’t sure with those sleeves. “I just need to absorb what has happened.”
“What has happened is that I’ve made sure your dog was comfortable. And frankly I think I’ve helped him come out of his shell, because that is one depressed dog,” he said, pointing accusingly at Baxter, who gave them a couple of thumps of his tail in acknowledgment before carrying on with the cleaning of his face.
“Why didn’t you get his chip read? I’ve been worried sick about him.”
Well, she had him there. “Because I didn’t think of it, okay?” Max said, tossing his arms out in the universal mea culpa. “And before you complain about that and Baxter’s improved personality, where is my dog?”
“I told you.” She was looking at his kitchen now, her nose wrinkled with disapproval. Okay, all right, he wasn’t a great housekeeper, and he shifted so that he blocked her view of it. She looked up at him. “Photo shoot.”
“So when you say photo shoot, what exactly does that mean?”
“You don’t have to say it like she’s been forced into hard labor. She’s at a photo shoot where a photographer takes many pictures. I’d be there, too, but Brant’s friend,” she said, putting air quotes around the word, “finally called me back. Like, where is the sense of urgency with these people? You just toss a strange dog into someone’s house and think you don’t have to answer your phone?” She leaned around him and looked at his kitchen another moment, then pressed her palms to her cheeks. “I guess you can’t blame Brant for not answering, given he’s in jail. I don’t know, I honestly don’t know anything because I’m kind of in shock.”
Max still couldn’t figure out the photo shoot thing. And she was making it sound as if Brant had murdered someone. “What did he do?”
“What?” She dropped her hands. She stared at him. Then her brows dipped. “I mean, I’m in shock because my perfectly behaved dog