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waiting, you treat that cat like she was your next of kin."
    The nose went up and down while Harwick assessed his options. With one last glance at Dottie's hammer, he slipped through the gate. Safely on the other side, he gathered courage, like a little kid with one foot on the sidewalk, the other in his family's front yard. He raised his voice, taunting. "You'd better make damn sure your cats stay out of my yard, Riddle. Next time, I won't bother to tell you. I'll just get rid of them."
    "Go to hell!" Dottie yelled after him, and threw the hammer. It missed his head by inches and shattered the garage window. Harwick turned tail and ran.

    "Sonofabitch," I muuered, almost as angry at Dottie as I was at Harvvick. People who sling hammers at other people, regardless of the provocation, are liable to find themselves in jail.
    Dottie dropped down onto the picnic bench. "I have to get Ariella back!" she said desperately. "Maybe I could—"
    "Dottie," I warned. "Don't even think it." I wasn't sure I could trust her to stay away from Harwick. But it was getting late and I had to get to the store before closing.
    "Look," I said. "On the way back to town I'll stop and ask the sheriff to talk to Harwick." Sheriff Blackwell—Blackie—had gone to school at Sam Houston State with McQuaid, and the two were fishing buddies. Also, I'd given Blackie a hand in solving a difficult matter a few months before, and he still owed me one. I could probably persuade him to take a personal interest in the matter.
    Dottie jumped up. "Then get going!" she gritted. "Send Blackw ell out here as quick as you can—before I kill that filthy bastard!"
    Things never quite turn out the way you'd like. When I got to the Adams County sheriff's office, I learned that Blackie had taken his son's Boy Scout troop to Lost Maples State Park on a weekend campout. According to the deputy, a dour, heavyset man in a wrinkled uniform, the sheriff wouldn't be in the office until the next morning. The deputy wasn't overly enthusiastic about sending somebody out to Falls Creek to mediate a dispute over a trapped cat, even a diabetic cat. When I got to the shop, I had to phone Dottie and tell her to hang on until first thing in the morning, when I was positive the sheriff would order Ariella's release.
    There was a long silence on the other end of the line. "I see," Dottie said. Her voice was flat. "Thanks anyway, China."
    Her tone bothered me. "Dottie, I hope you're not considering anything..."

    Sudan Wittig Albert
    "Rash?" She barked an ascerbic laugh. "You mean, Hke kilHng the son of a bitch? Dont worry, China. Whatever I do, I can't afford to get arrested. Not when I'm the sole support of a hundred and fifty-seven cats."
    But as I hung up the phone I had the disquieting sense that Dottie had something up her sleeve. And it wasn't catnip.

    The next morning, I learned what Dottie had in mind. I had hiked to Blackie's office at the crack of dawn and found him behind his desk. I explained the circumstances of Ariella's imprisonment and mentioned, parenthetically, Dottie's suspicion that Harwick was sending her poison pen letters. He agreed, a little grumpily, to drive to Falls Creek and check things out. Then I went for an hour's bike ride, which is my version of jogging. Back home, winded but virtuous, I fed Khat, brewed a pot of spearmint tea, and sat down at the kitchen table to brood on the intractable problem Fd avoided the day before—how to expand something that's already as big as it can get.
    Fortunately, the space problem does not extend into my living quarters, which are more than ample and quite lovely. The kitchen is roomy, with limestone walls, a wide-planked wood floor, and a high pine ceiling supported by cypress beams. There are three other rooms behind the shop, also quite large: a living room, a bedroom with bath, and a workroom where I do herb crafting—a very messy operation that litters the floor with dried plant materials and bits of twiggy. There's