Page 39 of Don't Cross Mo Ellery

“I’m not suggesting anything,” the man says quickly. “We have a strict no animal policy.”

I feel bad for him, but this really doesn’t work for me.

Right behind the man, there are several rooms, one of which has a large picture of Cran on a tripod by the entrance. And beyond that, in Cran’s designated room, I can see people in suits milling around. It’s so close I can taste it. Ihaveto get in there. And it has to be with the dogs.

Time to try another tactic. I cover my face with one hand and clutch the leashes to my chest with the other, as though I’m just barely holding myself together. “Dear, sweet, deceased Cran begged me—begged me—to promise that if anything happened to him, his beloved babies would have one final moment to say goodbye. And now you’re taking that away from him?”

A few heads are poking out of the funeral room to see what’s going on, and the man looks like he’d rather be in the coffin than deal with me.

Chris suddenly caves under the pressure.

“I’ll wait in the car,” he blurts, panicked. He spins around and in two steps he’s back out the door, leaving me all alone.

I’m about to be furious, but actually, if I play this moment just right, it could be the break I need.

Because I am now a grieving womanabandoned.

I try the tear-wiping/wistful-look-into-the-distance thing again. And this time it works.

Mr. Eternal Rest watches Chris go with a frown and then looks at me with some tenderness.

“Allthreeof them need to say goodbye?” the man whispers.

I nod, sniffling delicately.

The man looks from me to the dogs to the room and back. I open my mouth to wail again, and he pats my shoulder to stop me. “All right, all right,” he says. “Just keep them on a short leash and make it quick.”

I grab his hand with my free one and hold it tightly. “Bless you,” I say. “You are an angel.”

Mr. Eternal Rest straightens up, sucks in his cheeks, and then nods. “But if they misbehave, you’re all leaving.”

I nod in return. Back to business.

We’re in.

We make our way across the muted rose carpet into Cran’s room. Nobody’s sitting down, but there are about eight rows of somber, dark-green chairs set up, all of them facing the open casket, which is at the front, surrounded by flowers. The room swims for a second as I think about Cran lying up there, peaceful, versus the last time I saw him, gruesomely slumped over my sinkhole.

Jean Valjean must sense how unsettling this is, because he steps closer to me, suddenly acting like an actual support dog, and it’s sort of sweet. I reach down to pet him, except then I realize that he’s not leaning intome, he’s sticking his nose into the huge red purse of the tiny older woman standing in front of me, chowing down on something inside. For chrissakes. Fool me once, right?

“Jean!” I snap and tug him back toward me.

Exceptthatpulls on the woman’s big red bag, which is almost as big as she is, and the bag pulls on her, and she stumbles into us, catching us in the act. I freeze with a guilty grin, as she cranes her neck to squint up at me.

But instead of being mad, she takes one look at me and the dogs and bursts into giggles.

Not what I was expecting.

She claps a hand over her mouth, trying to stop herself, and thenwhispers through the laughter. “I amsosorry, I always have the most inappropriate reactions at funerals. Always gets me in trouble. Something about all the emotions flying around?”

“Oh yeah, this place is lousy with emotions,” I say, distracted by pushing Jean’s butt down so that he’s sitting politely like his two brothers.

She leans in conspiratorially. “I think that one found my purse dog.”

“Your...”

She glances around quickly and then pulls a half-eaten brat out of her purse.

Oh my god, I think, both horrified at what Jean has done and also making a note for later. Purse dog.Genius.This woman is my hero.