Foul Play - By Janet Evanovich Page 0,3

patted Spot on the head. “One of your patients?”

“My roommate.”

The dog was black, a sleek, shiny ebony without a single white or brown hair on his entire body. “I know I’m going to regret asking, but why is this animal named ‘Spot’?”

“I always wanted a dog named ‘Spot.’ ”

“Of course.”

Jake turned the key in the ignition and seemed unperturbed by the loud grinding sounds emanating from the engine. “Do you have any roommates?”

“I live with a cat.”

“That’s it?” Jake asked, barely able to keep from grinning.

“Pardon?”

“Just a cat?” No mother, father, sister, brother, girl friend, boyfriend, maiden aunt? He’d never felt so lucky.

“Just a cat.” No husband. No fiancé. No boyfriend. She wasn’t sure why. Most likely it was her lifestyle. Her alarm rang at four a.m. Quick shower, fix hair, English muffin, apply beginnings of makeup, get to studio for early-morning taping. Afternoon rehearsal and promotional appearances. Supper. Early to bed—alone. And then there was—that. That physical, um, situation.

Amy sighed. She never sighed—especially not about her life. She liked her life. At least she had liked it until today, when she lost her job, ripped her skirt, made a shambles of the supermarket, and last but not least, entrusted herself to the care of Jacob Elliott, veterinarian extraordinaire, total stranger.

Panic rippled through her. She didn’t know this man, and not only was he driving her home … he was invited for dinner. She couldn’t believe she was doing this. Cautious Amy, the woman who avoided singles bars like the plague, had just gotten picked up in the supermarket. She took a deep breath and told herself to stay calm. It wasn’t really a pickup. More like a rescue. And he had excellent recommendations from the checkout ladies.

Still, there was something unsettling about him. His appearance shouted laid-back slob, even though his eyes crackled with energy. He was just the sort of man she’d diligently ignored: devilishly attractive and impossible to categorize. He was the sort of man who’d certainly complicate a woman’s life. And her life was complicated enough, she thought. “Definitely!”

Jake looked at her from the corner of his eye. “You’re not going to break anything, are you?”

She crossed her arms over her chest and said, “Hmmm.” It was the sort of snorting sound you might expect a bull to make before charging.

“I probably shouldn’t ask such a delicate question, but who are you talking to, and why the devil are you so mad?”

“Myself, and because I’ve been replaced by a chicken. A seven-pound Rhode Island Red that can cluck ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ and count with its stupid chicken toes.”

“I don’t think chickens have toes.”

“Ha!” Amy said. “A lot you know.”

It had been several years since Penn State veterinary school, but Jake was almost certain chickens didn’t have toes. Probably not the best time to press the issue, he decided.

The engine finally caught and three loud volleys exploded from the tailpipe. Amy had never been in a car that backfired. She had always equated such mechanical indignities with human intestinal problems. She slunk into her seat, praying not to be recognized. Life could only get better. This had to be the bottom, didn’t it?

Jake exhaled a long sigh of contentment. Everything was working perfectly. Life couldn’t get any better. “Where to, my lady?”

“King’s Park West. Wheatstone Drive.”

The car chugged out of the parking lot and headed west. “About this chicken …”

“I’d like to feed it to my cat.”

“Not many people are replaced by a chicken.”

“Yeah. Lucky me.”

“Just exactly what sort of job did you have?”

“Lulu the Clown. I hosted a daytime television show for preschoolers on one of the local stations. I sang a little and danced a little and told stories.”

“I’ve seen that show. My nephew loves it.” Lulu the Clown. Jake got an instant image of the lively young female clown with a bush of curly red hair and long slender legs clad in red-and-white striped stockings. He remembered her as being sensational, with an obvious affection for her Munchkin audience.

Spot slung his massive head over the back of the front seat and rested his jaw on Amy’s shoulder. Amy unconsciously scratched the dog between the ears. “After college I tried teaching first grade, but my principal thought my methods were … unorthodox.”

“Let me guess. Lulu?”

Amy grinned. “Sometimes. Sometimes I’d be Katy Kitten or a medieval princess, or Annie Oakley. I just wanted to make things more interesting. More entertaining. Time can pass very slowly for a seven-year-old who’s away from his mom six hours a