Tuten wasn’t back from work yet when I got home. Mrs. Tuten was cooking dinner. I walked into the kitchen and gave her a hug — my arm over her shoulder. She smiled. The only other time we’d hugged was the day I found out Book and Aunt Sue had confessed and I wouldn’t have to go to court. “Well, Iris,” she said. And that was all. But she was still smiling after I pulled my arm away. “Anything I can do to help?” I asked. She waggled a spoon toward the laundry room. “We’re a little past due cleaning the litter box and putting down some fresh litter. And Hob and Jill need their walk.” Mrs. Tuten followed me into the laundry room. I scooped up some ferret pellets so she could do her inspection. She sniffed them, sifted through them with a toothpick, stabbed the toothpick through a pellet as if it were a cocktail wiener, examined it through her glasses, and then nodded her approval. Hob kept trying to chase cats during the walk, but Jill didn’t want any part of that business, so they pulled hard in opposite directions.
