Holly Banks Full of Angst (Village of Primm, #1)(76)

She stopped midattack.

Because sure as spit, it was her. All five feet two inches of her. “Mom?” Holly lowered the rooster. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m here to see Ella.”

Intruder, yes. Killer, no. Killers didn’t wear flowered gypsy dresses and puka beads around their necks. A killer’s hair wasn’t long and wavy, tucked beneath a floppy hat, face weathered from a lifetime dissing sunscreen. Killers didn’t attack while holding a ukulele, and killers didn’t laugh like that—at Holly. At Holly’s expense.

“It’s not funny, Mom.” Holly handed Greta the rooster, then gave her a hug. “Why didn’t you call? Forget that. Why didn’t you knock?”

“I did, but no one answered.”

“So you broke in?”

“So I broke in.” Greta shoved a newspaper into Holly’s ribs. “Looks like you made the front page.”

Holly snatched the Primm Gazette from her mom. Huge photo of a piggy-wearing, red-faced, enraged Holly reaching through a car window toward the camera. [CLICK!] Caption read: Petunia Mom caught carpooling in pajama bottoms: a first for the Village of Primm.

“Well, I suppose it could be a lot worse. They didn’t mention me by name.”

Holly held the paper in front of her left breast, moving it up and down, slowly, so the camera could capture the news coverage.

“What on earth are you doing with that front page?” asked Greta.

“I have to stop the Pink Witch from Hopscotch before she puts another hex on me.”

“Cast a counterspell.” Greta followed Holly into the kitchen. “You need a new dog, Holly. I won her over with a stale cracker from my pocket.”

“No way. Ella loves her.” Holly closed the kitchen window and pulled open the french doors. “And I love Struggle.” In ran Struggle, chasing a mangy-looking, furry creature through Holly’s kitchen and down the hallway. “Struggle!” Jeez. “What in the hell-o kitty was that?” Holly pointed, ready to panic. “Was that a squirrel?” In my house? I don’t know how to get a squirrel out of my house.

Holly and Greta followed the commotion and found Struggle in the hallway in a standoff with a cat. Full clumps of fur were missing from the cat’s back and hind legs—it had a crazed look in its eyes. Like something out of Stephen King’s Pet Sematary.

“Charlotte!” Greta cried. “Holly, stop the dog. Charlotte’s ‘with kittens.’”

“With what?” Holly slapped her leg. “Struggle, come ’ere. Whose cat is that?”

“Mine.” Greta crouched low, approaching Struggle from behind. “Didn’t I tell you? I’m a cat doula.”

“No you’re not. Please tell me you’re not.”

The cat hissed, making an evil, rumbling sound as Struggle cocked her head sideways.

Greta closed in on Struggle, whispering to Holly, “I’m certified to assist with kitten birthing in the state of Nevada, the Virgin Islands, and Guam.” She paused to wink at Holly. “Guam! Can you believe it?”

“And who paid for that?” Holly knew the answer. Cat doula certification? “Hmm? Who paid for that?”

“Céline Dion.”

“Not funny. You’re wasting my money.”

But Greta didn’t listen. Greta never listened.

“That money was for tires. I thought you ordered them. Mom!” Holly clapped. “Where are the tires?”

With Holly’s clap, Greta sprang into action, tackling Struggle like a rodeo hand taking down cattle. Eowwww! Cat howled, springing a foot into the air before scampering across the floor to dive beneath Holly’s couch.

“Mom!” Holly stomped. “Stop. Being. Such. A screwup!”

Greta, on the floor now, rolled herself into a seated position, giddy smile on her face. “What’s wrong with your curtains?” she asked, pointing to the king-size, pale-blue flannel bedsheet with fluffy white clouds hanging by thumbtacks in Holly’s living room window. Struggle’s tail wagged wildly as she licked Greta and tried climbing on top of her.

“We can’t afford curtains because you’re building professional credentials to birth cats in Guam. You’re such a screwup,” Holly repeated, only softer this time. Not as harsh. Holly offered her hand, but Greta was busy scratching Struggle’s belly. From her wrist, Greta slid a plastic grocery bag. “Here you go.”

“What’s this?” Holly opened the bag. “Ella’s library books? I asked you to return these.”

“I know.” Greta blinked. “I just did.”

“To the library. In Boulder City.”

Phone rang.

“Now what?” Holly stomped over to the phone. “Hello?”

“Mrs. Banks? It’s Rosie McClure from the school office. I think you’d better come to school. It’s Ella.”





30


Out the door



Holly drove to the school, but it was Greta’s wild gray hair that led the way into the school office. Once there, Greta introduced herself to Rosie. “I’m Greta, Ella’s grammy. What seems to be the problem?” Greta slid vintage pilot goggles from her eyes to her forehead. She looked like Snoopy on the top of his doghouse, dressed as the Red Baron.