Weeding Out Trouble

  What now?

  I pulled into Bobby's driveway since mine was completely blocked. County vehicles were parked at my curb, and I saw a reporter for the local paper snapping random pictures.

  Riley groaned.

  Or maybe it was me.

  I wasn't sure.

  Riley shook off my help crossing the street. He clutched his bedpan for dear life.

  I cozied up to Flash, who stood on the outskirts of the crowd along with Miss Maisie. "What's going on?"

  "Donatelli went and caught himself one of those turkeys," Flash said, not even looking at me.

  Miss Maisie leaned across him. "The county is here to take it away, and that horrid little rooster too."

  Riley swayed, and I grabbed hold of him. "You okay?" I asked him.

  "Can you help me inside?"

  "What's wrong with the boy?" Flash asked.

  Stepping toward the house, I said, "He's sick."

  Miss Maisie let out a shriek. "He's got it! I know he has. He's got the bird flu! Probably from trying to catch that contaminated rooster!"

  The crowd quieted and everyone turned our way. The newspaper guy snapped three pictures.

  This time I was positive it was Riley who moaned.

  "Chérie!" My mother rushed over. "What's wrong with Riley?"

  "Riley?" Kevin piped in, joining us.

  "Kill me now," Riley mumbled.

  "He's sick," I said. "The school called."

  "Why didn't they call here?" Kevin asked.

  "They did. No one answered." I made a show of looking around at the crowd. "Seems you all were busy doing other things."

  "Is it really the bird flu?" the reporter asked.

  "Idiot," Riley mumbled.

  I agreed.

  As it was, Miss Maisie was already hobbling across the street as fast as her legs could carry her. No doubt there would be garlic over her door by sundown, just in case.

  "Come on," I said, throwing elbows as I'd seen Pippi do. Only my elbows didn't seem to work as well.

  Thank goodness Brickhouse stepped in and cleared a path for us to the door. "Ach, I'll make you some nice chicken soup."

  "No!" Riley said. "No chicken. No turkey."

  "Ach. Split pea."

  "You should have taken the chicken," I whispered, push ing him inside. "I'll be a minute."

  "What's wrong with him?" Brickhouse asked me as soon as I closed the door behind Riley.

  "Flu, maybe."

  "Ach! I have yet to get my flu shot."

  "I haven't had mine either," my mother said, coming up behind me.

  Kevin finally made it to the porch. "Is he all right?"

  "Some sort of flu," I said. "It's probably best you not go near him right now. If you catch what he has, it will probably send you back to the hospital."

  Wait. Would that be such a bad thing?

  Hmmm.

  Okay, I wasn't that heartless. It would be bad.

  Worry knitted Kevin's brow. "Should I call his pediatrician?"

  "Why don't we wait until tomorrow? See how he does tonight. Maybe it's a twenty-four-hour bug. What's the deal here?" I asked, motioning to the crowd.

  Kevin sat on the porch railing. "The county is just loading the birds on the truck now. The SPCA promised to come later to catch the other turkey."

  As I watched Mr. Cabrera speaking with the reporter and posing for pictures, Lewy and Joe pulled up across the street.

  They both got out of their car holding Starbucks cups. No wonder they weren't right behind me on the way home. It had been snack time.

  The crowd cleared when the county trucks pulled away. My mother went inside to make Riley some tea, and Brickhouse waddled off to make soup.

  "Isn't that the dress you wore to my mother's funeral seven years ago?" Kevin asked.

  "So?"

  "Just saying."

  Hmmph.

  "And, you know, I haven't forgotten that you need to explain why you were searching Riley's room."

  "I told you, I was cleaning."

  "Nina . . . "

  Lewy and Joe climbed the steps to the porch and greeted Kevin with nods. "Looks like we missed the circus," Lewy said.

  I placed my hand on the doorknob. "You can read about it in the paper."

  "Before you go . . . " Lewy started.

  "Yeah?"

  "The Georgia State Patrol has come up with no leads on Kit. The guys we sent down have hit dead ends too."

  I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

  "Here," Joe said, handing me a piece of paper.

  "What's this?"

  "The number for the impound lot." Joe smirked. "It's going to cost you a pretty penny to get your truck back."

  "Not as much as the taxpayers will have spent for the wild goose chase you masterminded." Lewy sipped his coffee, eyebrows raised.

  He was baiting, but I wasn't biting. "I'm too tired to play these games with you two."

  I walked inside. As I closed the door I heard Joe say to Kevin, "It was worth a try."

  Yeah, well. He could keep on trying.

  Upstairs, I found Riley snuggled into his bed, already asleep.

  Xena was snoozing too. Thank goodness.

  "Chérie, here's his tea," my mother said from the doorway.

  "You can come in."

  "No thank you."

  I smiled. My mother and germs had never gotten along.

  I took the tray. A small bottle of ibuprofen sat alongside a steaming mug and a bottle of water.

  Shaking gently, I woke Riley long enough for him to swallow two pills. I pulled his desk chair over next to the bed and sat, sipping on his tea.

  Lost in thought, it took me a good minute to realize my mother was calling me from downstairs.

  I went to the door. "Yes?"

  "You've another patient, chérie! He needs help up the stairs!"

  The scent of Lysol filled the hallway. My mother was already at work degerminating.

  At the bottom of the steps, Perry drooped piteously.

  "I don't feel well, Nina."

  "You don't look good, Perry."

  "Can I stay here?"

  My mother chimed in. "Kevin is helping Flash bring a cot over from his house for Perry to use."

  "Let's get you upstairs," I said to Perry, since my mother had clearly made the decision already.

  It took a good fifteen minutes for me to get the cot set up in Riley's room, to hunt down a sleeping bag, and to get Perry settled. I'd given him the same therapy as Riley. Two ibuprofen, a pillow, and a bedpan as a woobie.

  "Thank you, Nina," Perry whispered.

  I pulled one of Riley's shades down and then crossed to the other window. "What are friends for?"

  "Another pillow?" he asked.

  I laughed as I reached for the shade pull. "Uh-oh."

  "What?" he squawked.

  "You're about to feel a lot worse."

  "Why?"

  "Mario just pulled up."

  Sixteen

  Mario stormed into the house, ranting and raving about a phone call he'd gotten from a tow truck driver.

  By the time he made it upstairs, his mocha skin had turned a mottled raspberry. I worried for his health as I stood in front of Perry, bound and determined to protect him as best I could.

  But one look at Perry, and Mario seemed to forget why he was angry.

  He crouched down beside the cot and started rambling something softly in Spanish that I couldn't understand but made me wish Bobby spoke the language.

  The cooing went on for a good ten minutes before Mario decided he wanted to take Perry home.

  "Are you sure?" I asked. "I don't mind watching over him. Riley's already sick . . . "

  Mario helped Perry sit up. "He should be home in his own bed."

  "Oooh, my feather bed," Perry cooed.

  Riley rolled over in his sleep, mumbling, "Gobble, gobble."

  Mario eyed him, then me. "Hallucinating?"

  "Long story," I told him. "
Perry can fill you in." I gave them both hugs and told them to call if they needed anything.

  "Do you happen to know where my car is?" Mario asked.

  Perry moaned, holding his stomach.

  Mario again cooed something in Spanish, this time with a touch of an evil tone that made me wonder if it was some sort of hex.

  When they'd left, I remade the cot and changed the pillowcase just in case another victim showed up. My cell phone rang, and I answered before it finished the first ring. It was Tam.

  She was whispering. "Kent Ingless graduated with a degree in chemistry. He worked at a biomedical firm for twenty years before dropping off the radar. Does that tell you anything?"

  "Yeah, it does." I told her my theory about Kent being the creator of Corazón.

  "A mad scientist," she said.

  "Something like that."

  "Should I tell Ian?"

  "Let me," I said. "I don't want him mad at you."

  We said our good-byes just as Bobby strode into Riley's room. He wore dark jeans, a long-sleeve thermal tee that matched his blue eyes, and a big smile.

  "I won three hundred dollars," he said, kissing me.

  "Don't get used to it."

  "Spoilsport," he teased. "How's Ry?"

  "Not good. He's dreaming about turkeys." I plopped down in the chair, set my feet on the bed.

  Bobby perched on the edge of the desk. "A sixteen-yearold dreaming about turkeys? He must be really sick."

  "I'm hoping it's a twenty-four-hour bug, for his sake." I looked up at him. "How'd this afternoon go, besides the big windfall?"

  "I didn't get much out of the crowd at Mrs. Greeble's. I did gather there's been a game going on for about three months now."

  "Does Mrs. Greeble play? Or deal?"

  "No, she just sits in a rocker in the corner and watches some, but mostly nods off. And honestly, she doesn't look so well. I wonder if she has whatever Riley has."

  It wouldn't have surprised me, seeing as how much time they spent together.

  I crossed my feet at the ankles. Big fluffy socks covered my toes, keeping them warm. "I'm surprised Mrs. Greeble allowed you to play. She must know you'd tell me about it."

  "She didn't seem to notice I was there."

  That didn't sound like her at all. Usually she was as sharp as they came, often giving Mr. Cabrera what-for because of his snooping.

  Great. Now I was worried about her as well.

  That was me. Nina Colette Ceceri Worrywart Quinn.

  Sometimes, just sometimes, my empathy for others bothered me. Now was one of those times.

  Bobby's cell phone rang, and he frowned at the readout. "Robert MacKenna," he said, answering.

  Once again I had a flash of déjà vu. I'd known him by that name when he was Riley's vice principal. It wasn't until we'd gotten closer that I started calling him Bobby.

  Bobby fit much better, I thought, looking at him. It was looser, and better represented his easygoing personality. As he leaned over, listening to whoever was on the line, his body moved with an athletic grace. Toned muscles strained his long-sleeve tee, and the cut of his jeans hinted at the long, strong legs beneath.

  He didn't belong behind a desk. His happiness and eagerness to do something new shone in his eyes. And I had to admit that I was glad he was venturing into a new career. I liked seeing him this way.

  "I'll be right over," he said, hanging up.

  "Not more poker?" I asked.

  He laughed. "Mrs. Daasch. Her kitchen sink won't drain."

  Riley shifted again. "Gobble, gobble."

  Bobby grinned. "Must really be some dream."

  "I was the one chased by those turkeys." I smiled. "I should be the one having nightmares."

  Laughing, he leaned down next to my chair and softly kissed my lips. Looking into my eyes, he said, "You're staying with Riley tonight?"

  I loved when he looked at me like that. All warm and understanding. My heart swelled. I nodded.

  He kissed me again. "Try to stay out of trouble."

  "Me? Trouble? Ha!"

  He managed to laugh and look skeptical at the same time. "I'll see you tomorrow." He stopped in the doorway, looked back at me.

  "All right," I said.

  After a long moment, he left.

  I sat there nibbling my lip. I should have said it.

  I love you.

  "Why don't you just tell him you love him and get it over with? I didn't think he was ever going to leave. Poor guy," Riley said, his voice scratchy.

  I stuck a straw in the bottle of water and held it to his lips. "Why poor guy?"

  Riley shifted in bed, pulling the covers up to his chin. His lips were still bright red and chapped. The fever hadn't broken.

  "It's obvious that he loves you and is afraid to say it because he doesn't know if you'll say it back."

  "When did you become Dr. Phil?"

  "Get a clue, Nina."

  Just how did Riley know that I hadn't told Bobby I loved him? That we didn't say it all the time to each other? I needed to stop underestimating how mature teenagers were. Immediately, I added it to my personal commandment list.

  Bobby and I had danced around the words for over a month now. And Riley was right. I could tell Bobby was scared to lay it on the line. And for some reason, I was scared to put it out there. It was stupid. Really stupid. And immature. I mean, why not just say it? I felt it. I think he felt it. Yet . . .

  "You two make me feel sicker. How about you keep your lovey-dovey stuff out of my room?"

  Downstairs, I heard commotion. A second later I heard Brickhouse's loud voice carrying on about the wonders of split pea soup.

  Ahh, sweet revenge for his smart mouth! "Sounds like your dinner has arrived, Ry."

  "Don't make me eat it," he muttered piteously.

  "You should have thought about that before the loveydovey comment."

  "Dammit," he said.

  "Language!"

  He pulled the covers over his head as Mr. Cabrera poked his head in the door like a turtle out from its shell. "Soup's on!" He passed in a covered Tupperware dish with a spoon balanced on top. "There's more downstairs if you're hungry," he said to me.

  "I'll pass," I said, taking the dish and lifting the lid off.

  He frowned. "Don't go hurtin' Ursula's feelings."

  "I wouldn't dream of it."

  Riley snorted.

  "You doin' okay, kid?" Mr. Cabrera asked.

  Riley's voice was muffled, coming through the comforter. "Just fine."

  "That's a boy. Can't keep the good ones down long. We'll be downstairs if you change your mind, Miz Quinn."

  "Thanks," I said, knowing perfectly well there was no way on earth I was eating split pea soup.

  I set the bowl on Riley's nightstand. "Looks delish," I said.

  He groaned.

  I smiled.

  My cell phone rang, the Match Game theme song filling the air.

  Ana.

  Oh no. Ana!

  "Hello?" I answered cautiously.

  "You forgot about me!" she cried.

  "No, no, I didn't," I lied, grimacing.

  "Then where might you be?" she asked.

  "Well, you see, Riley's sick—"

  "You forgot about me!"

  Crap. I couldn't leave Riley. No one else would step foot into his room except for Bobby, and he was off fixing Mrs. Daasch's drain.

  I looked at the lump that was Riley under the covers. He would probably be just fine by himself. He was, after all, sixteen, not six. But I didn't feel right leaving him.

  "Someone will be there in half an hour." That was pushing it. The airport was easily forty-five minutes away.

  "Someone?"

  "I told you, Riley's sick."

  "I'm not a baby," floated out from under the covers.