Chapter 10

“Bert Mitchell Thomas, you’re as thin as a rail. I’m sure you’re not eating well,” Bert’s sister, Hope, said as she placed a freshly baked apple pie on the sheriff’s desk.

“You need to take care of yourself, Bertie,” his other sister, Faith, added in a softer voice. “I always say you work too hard.”

Bert’s twin sisters, Hope and Faith, had raised him, and he knew their pies held as much love as any hug. Everyone in town called them ‘the Twins,’ as if they were a single entity, which, in a way, they were.

When Bert’s mother got pregnant, she was over forty. His parents had already raised the Twins, who were in college, and they weren’t expecting a new baby.

Sadly, Bert’s mother died giving birth to him. His father couldn’t live without the love of his life and passed away seven months later. So, the Twins raised Bert.

They had both been married, but they’d outlived their husbands and moved back into their parents’ house together.

“Now’s not really the best time, girls.”

Bert sat there while Faith fussed over him as if he were ten years old.

“If we wait for the best time, we’d be waiting until you retire, baby brother,” Faith said.

Her words were harsh but true.

“Fair enough. To what do I owe the pleasure of your presence?”

“We haven’t seen him since yesterday,” Faith told Bert. “Hope is worried. You need to find him.”

“Find who?” Bert looked up at his sister.

“Roger, The Third, of course. He’s missing again,” Hope replied as if the answer were obvious.

Bert shook his head, laughing in disbelief.

“Hope, you need to stop naming your dogs after your late husband and dressing the poor creatures in human clothes. I have more important things to do than looking for your stray dog. If Roger is like your late husband, you should check the bar.”

Roger was Hope’s Chihuahua, who spent most of his time running around the Twins’ front yard on a leash attached to a clothesline, an activity they referred to as “exercising.”

“I’m afraid my poor little Roger might be injured. He might have passed over.” Hope whispered the last two words as if God Himself might be listening, and she was afraid to give Him any ideas.

“What happened?” Bert asked.

“I’ll tell you what happened,” Hope began. “Faith tried to kill poor Roger, and he ran away.”

“I did not try to kill him,” Faith scolded her sister. “Don’t tell tales, Hope Mary. It was an accident!”

“Faith, with the Lord as my witness, if Roger the Third is dead—”

“What happened?” Bert asked again, resting his chin on his hand.

“Faith tried to beat poor Roger to death with a broom.”

Bert raised an eyebrow.

“That’s not true, Hope. I told you, I wasn’t wearing my spectacles, and he looked just like a big rat running through the kitchen. I thought Roger was tied outside,” Faith said, taking her glasses out of her coat pocket.

Bert did his best not to laugh and said, “Well, if that dog is a reincarnation of the original Roger, he should be used to someone beating him with a broom.”