by Becky Clark
Don stared at me, then gently put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We can’t, Barb. We’ll handle this ourselves. You, me, and Charlee.” He looked at me. “You in?”
“Completely! It’s my fault Peter’s gone!” I couldn’t hold it together any longer and the three of us huddled together there on the sidewalk, tears falling freely.
I was glad Don didn’t want to call the police. Besides, what kind of priority would they give a dognapping? Low, I’m sure. Detective Ming barely cared about the Braid assaulting me. And if they didn’t care about a human kidnapping when I was in Portland, they sure weren’t going to care about a dognapping in Denver. Plus, I already knew who did it.
I pulled away from our group hug and put my mind into cop-mode. What would they do, assuming they cared? If it was a kid snatched off the street they’d canvas the neighborhood for witnesses.
Barb and Don continued to cry and console each other.
“Don’t you worry,” I told them. “We’ll find him. I promise. I’m going to go follow the direction they went.”
I ran off between the buildings. I stopped everyone I saw, asking if they’d seen a short, skinny man with a long gray ponytail carrying a pug.
Nobody had seen anything. I was about to give up when I saw a man walking an Irish setter on the opposite side of the parking lot. I hurried over to him and described the Braid.
“Yeah, I saw him. The dog had a toy he was squeaking. That’s what made me look up. They got in a black El Camino. Went that way.” He pointed.
“Are you sure?” I felt a surge of hope.
“Absolutely. This one here investigates every blade of grass twice a day, don’t you, King?” At the sound of his name, King raised his eyes while keeping his nose buried in the grass. “I have plenty of time to watch the world go by. Plus, you don’t see many classic El Caminos these days. Especially with matte paint.”
“Did you get a license plate number?”
“Nah, I was looking at the car. My buddy in high school had one. A bunch of us would sit in the bed while he and his girlfriend canoodled inside. This one time—”
“I’d love to chat, but I have to find that guy.” Unlike him, I did not have plenty of time to watch the world go by.
When I got back, Barb and Don had disappeared from the sidewalk, so I hurried inside my apartment and called my brother. I’d keep it vague. If Lance said the cops couldn’t help, I didn’t want any whiff that I’d called them to get back to the Braid. But if they could help....
When Lance answered I asked, “What do you know about dognapping?”
“Who got dognapped? A show dog? One of those dogs you met in Portland?” I didn’t actually answer, just made some noncommittal noises, so he continued. “Dogs are stolen for the reward money, especially show dogs. Huge rewards for those. Racing greyhounds, too. Dalmatians are stolen for their fur. Famous case some years back.”
Lance laughed at his little joke. I did not. “Not funny.”
“Whatev. Some dogs are stolen for medical research. And for dogfighting.”
I gasped. If the Braid even thought about .... Tears sprang to my eyes and I angrily wiped them away. “What if they’re microchipped?”
“That’s important, but only if you find the dog to reunite it with its owner. It’s not a GPS tracker.”
“Will cops ever get involved?”
“In a stolen dog? Rarely. It’s considered a property crime, and as much as someone loves their family pet, it’s not worth much.” I started to protest but he interrupted. “I know, I know. But sentimental value is different. And, Charlee, more than two million pets are stolen every year. That’s a seventy percent increase in the last few years. People could keep their pets safe if they’d quit letting them go off-leash or tying them to bike racks or lamp posts outside coffee shops and beer gardens. These are almost always crimes of opportunity.” He paused a beat. “Gives new meaning to the term hot dog, eh?”
Again, he laughed, but I knew he wouldn’t if he realized we were talking about Peter O’Drool. I desperately wanted to tell Lance the whole truth, but he already said the police couldn’t do anything. And what if the Braid found out somehow? I could never forgive myself if my actions caused him to hurt Peter.
I returned to what Lance was saying. “I had a case once where someone stole a service dog. Heartbreaking. We never found it.”
“What if someone saw the car the dognapper was driving?”
I heard the shrug in Lance’s voice. “If it’s a slow day they might broadcast the description and tell patrol to be on the lookout for it. But we don’t have many slow days these days. Why do you want to know? Researching a book?”
I couldn’t bear any more information about dognapping. And I couldn’t shake the image of the Braid miming slitting Peter’s throat if I didn’t find Lapaglia before the cops did. “Never mind. No more dogs.”
“You hear from your disappearing author yet?” he asked.
“No, but I’ve been talking to all his Denver girlfriends. Or at least all the ones I know about. I don’t even know how many there are.”
“You already know this, but it’s not a crime for a married man to disappear or to have girlfriends. And you don’t really know that anything happened to this guy. If the ticket guy told you somebody used his train ticket, there’s no reason to think it wasn’t him. The only crime I see is your embezzlement of funds.”
“Not funny, dude. What about Lapaglia stiffing me on all this stuff? I could barely buy stamps this morning.” Ugh. On top of everything else, I needed to call my credit card company. Maybe I could get them to raise my limit.
“I probably already know the answer to this, but did you and this Lapaglia guy have a contract of any kind?”
“Are you trying to make me cry?”
“Well, even if you did, it would only be civil anyway. No cops involved.” Quieter, he added, “Wish I could help more, Space Case. Do you need money? If you do, just say the word.”
“Thanks, but I’m okay. I think. But when I lose everything, I reserve the right to camp in your living room.”
“Give me some warning so I can change the locks.”
“Will do. Oh, and I don’t need to tell you not to tell Mom about any of this, right?”
“About any of what?”
“Exactly. See you, Lance. Thanks.”
For all the obvious reasons, I was in serious need of a grilled cheese sandwich. I slathered butter on two pieces of bread and sliced enough cheddar and jack cheese for three sandwiches. Then I proceeded to pile it all on top of the piece of bread I dropped in the pan. I turned the burner to medium low, the perfect temperature for optimum melting without the chance of burning. I carefully balanced the other piece of bread butter-side-up and pressed the sandwich with a spatula. I placed a lid on top to assist with the optimum melting, then leaned against the counter while it warmed.
I was glad I hadn’t blurted to Lance that it was Peter who’d been nabbed because then I would have had to tell him about the Braid. Lance couldn’t do anything and he’d only worry about me. That’s what brothers did. Plus, I didn’t want him to get tangled up in the mob, if that’s even what this was. Maybe it’s not even related to the mob. Maybe it’s just a squabble between the Braid and Lapaglia about something stupid that I inadvertently stepped in the middle of. I kind of have a history of doing that. Regardless, whatever it was, as soon as I find Lapaglia, it would all be over and I’d get Peter O’Drool back. I hoped.
I checked the melt factor on my sandwich. Coming along nicely. I replaced the lid for a bit longer. Timing was important. Too long and the bread wouldn’t crisp and if that happened, I may as well toss it in the trash. Like that would ever happen. I grabbed a handful of chips from the bag while I waited. As I munched them, I mulled over everything Lance said about dognapping. I thought about Lavar and Tuttle’s stray, Nova. She looked kind of like a greyhound, with her long legs and sleek snout. I hope nobody thinks they stole her. They did ev
erything imaginable to find her owners, starting with looking for that microchip. I knew Peter was chipped, but like Lance said, a microchip isn’t a GPS tracker. Wouldn’t that be great, though? To be able to dial up a Dog Find app and track Pete wherever he was? Why the nerds built Twitter instead of that was beyond me.
My sandwich was grilled to perfection, golden and crisp on the outside, melty and soft on the inside. I cut it diagonally because I’m fancy like that, and cheese flowed out like lava. I ate it too fast to truly enjoy it. But I was used to that, seemed to be my modus operandi, especially when I was stressed. A defining characteristic, if I was sketching out a character in a book. That’s a laugh ... me, an interesting character in a book. Ha!
As I finished up my chips, I made a quick brainstorming list of the things Lavar and Tuttle did to find Nova’s owners. I’d do the same to try and find Peter just in case the Braid released him somewhere. Craigslist, social media, our neighborhood online group, flyers.
I wiped my greasy fingers on the kitchen towel and scanned through the photos on my phone for a good representative one of Peter. I downloaded it then designed a quick “Dog Lost” flyer on my computer. While I waited for my printer, I changed into a pair of shorts and a clean t-shirt. I added an oversized pair of sunglasses and tucked my hair into a baseball cap. I really wanted to lay low in my apartment, because I was scared of another run-in with the Braid, but I had to do something to find Peter. Besides, the Braid already knew where I live. I felt my forehead wrinkle. How in the world did he find out where I live, anyway?
What was going on? The Universe seemed to enjoy messing with me lately. First, my agent’s murder, then that crazy kidnapping at the conference in Portland, and now this? What had I done to cause my easy, boring life to go so haywire? I thought about all the chaos I created for the heroes in my books and felt momentary guilt. But they really were heroes. They leaped to answer their call to action. They wanted to save the world and solve the mystery. I, on the other hand, was a textbook “reluctant hero.” To me, “call to action” was what happened when AmyJo wanted to go to a movie or when Ozzi wanted to go out to dinner. They call, and I spring into action.
But this was too much. Too much action. Too much calling.
I fiddled with my sunglasses. Didn’t seem like I had much choice, though. Pete’s life might be in danger, all because of me. I couldn’t rely on dumb luck or risk mistakes.
Why couldn’t I outline my life like I outlined my books?
I did formulate a plan, though. I’d go everywhere I’d ever seen the Braid, putting up flyers along the way. I started with our apartment complex, but I saw that Don and Barb beat me to it. Every surface that could hold a flyer had a big picture of Peter O’Drool smiling back.
I walked across the street to Espresso Yourself and told Lavar and Tuttle that Peter was missing. I picked their brain about everything they did when they were trying to reunite Nova with her owners, hoping I was forgetting something obvious. No such luck.
Nova greeted me while I’d been talking. She stood nearby and when I hadn’t taken the time to pet her, she nudged my thigh with her snout. I genuflected, resting one knee on the floor, nuzzling and rubbing her while the men and I talked. When I straightened, she wagged her tail softly then nudged me again before walking away. It seemed to be her way of thanking me, maybe the doggie version of See ya later or Have a nice day.
When they’d told me everything they could think of, Lavar pressed a streusel-topped blueberry muffin into my hand. “It’s all I can do, Boo.”
“What about one of those prayer bombs?”
He raised his arms in praise. “Let the grace of our Lord rain down upon you!”
“Wait. Was that it? I thought there was more.”
“Recession must have hit the church.” Tuttle winked at me behind Lavar’s back.
“Don’t you get all up in my face about the chur—” He saw the grin on Tuttle’s face and pulled back his wagging finger. “You’re going straight to hell, Tut. You mark my words.”
“You’ll miss me.”
“You’ll miss both of us,” I said.
“Get on wit your bad selves.” Lavar hugged me. “And in answer to your question, no, that wasn’t your prayer bomb. I’ll submit the request to the congreeeegation first thing in the morning. Maybe we can get it scheduled for tomorrow.”
“That would be great. Would they do one for Peter, too?”
“If it’s good enough for St Francis of Assisi, it’s good enough for me. I’ll get it done most ricky tick.”
I took that to be Marine for right away. I wasn’t entirely sure I believed that a congregation full of churchgoers could help deliver Peter O’Drool back safely to us simply by the force of their prayers, but I also wasn’t entirely sure they couldn’t. And maybe it was enough that Lavar believed.
“Thanks, both of you.” I walked over to where Nova had curled up on the floor and rubbed her velvety ear. “And goodbye to you, sweet girl.” I lingered over her, hoping I’d be able to rub Peter’s ear soon.
I returned to the apartment complex, grabbed the stack of flyers and a roll of packing tape, and got in my car. I geared up to go to all the places I’d seen the Braid. It was the only thing I could think to do. I kept an eye out for his black matte El Camino while I drove.
The Cherry Creek shopping district was crowded with people taking advantage of the gorgeous summer day, winding down to meet friends for drinks or dinner, or to browse the high-end shops. Finally, though, I found street parking and headed for the library. Even though this was far from our apartment complex, the Braid had been here and might be back with Peter. I put up flyers wherever I could find space.
When I got to the library, they told me Lakshmi had gone for the day. Pulling my baseball cap lower, I took a spin around the stacks. I didn’t really think the Braid would be in a comfy nook reading the latest bestseller, but since I didn’t understand anything that was going on, I certainly couldn’t rule it out.
I walked over to the print shop, placing flyers as I went. When I got there, I saw it was closed for the day.
No further plan came to mind, so I made my way back home. I trudged up the stairs to Don and Barb’s apartment and knocked lightly. Barb immediately threw the door open like she’d been waiting for someone. She looked so hopeful it broke my heart.
I had no words, only managing a stiff shake of my head. She pulled me into a hug and we stood there, wrapped together.
“I’m so, so sorry,” I said, my head buried in her shoulder. “I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
“Of course you didn’t, dear. It’s not your fault.”
“It’s completely my fault.”
“Now you stop talking like that this minute. I won’t hear another word.” Barb pulled a tissue from her sleeve to wipe her eyes and dab at her nose. We let go of each other and I sat down on their couch.
Barb walked over to the recliner where Don sat and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. He reached up and covered her hand with his. When he raised his hand, I saw one of Lapaglia’s books on his lap.
We sat in silence for a while. Before I left, I heated up some soup for their dinner. I forced them to sit at the table and eat it, along with some crackers and jam I’d set out. I didn’t make it two steps before Barb handed me a plastic wrapped loaf of zucchini bread.
“For you and your beau,” she said.
I nodded. This was the only time in the history of our friendship that I didn’t want to devour her sweet treat immediately. My heart just wasn’t in it.
Downstairs I called Ozzi and he came over.
“How’d the rest of your day go, babe?” He pulled me in tight.
I immediately started crying. I couldn’t help it.
He pulled back to look me in the face. “What? What happened?”
“Peter ... Peter was ...” I was crying so hard I struggled to get the words out. “Dognapped!”
“What? When?”
“This ... af
ternoon... a few hours ago.” I buried my face in his chest and he let me stand there until I was done. When I pulled away, there was a wet patch on his shirt. I wiped it ineffectively with my hand. “Sorry.” It almost made me start bawling again, but he just smiled at me.
“I’ve had worse things spilled on me.” He led me to the couch. “Sit here. I’m getting you something to eat and then I want to hear everything.”
I didn’t tell him about the grilled cheese earlier because I knew he was probably hungry. And just like me feeding Don and Barb, he wanted to nurture me. It’s what people do in times of crisis.
He came out a few minutes later with some sliced gouda on a plate, along with some crackers, a few dill pickle spears, a handful of baby carrots, and the tin of chocolate covered almonds.
I was surprised when my stomach rumbled. “You always know just what I need.” I crunched a carrot while I placed cheese on a cracker.
Ozzi returned to the kitchen where I heard the distinctive pfft of bottles of craft brew being opened. He handed me a chocolate stout.
I took a swig. “Mmm.” Some nibbles, some quaffs, and my man made everything a little easier to bear.
He sat down next to me and I recounted my day. I toyed with the idea of not telling him about the Braid accosting me at the library, but decided I needed to. I was right on the button that he immediately became upset and worried. I tried to make light of it, for his sake, but maybe my own as well.
“I gave as good as I got. Don’t worry about me.”
“But—”
“He doesn’t want to hurt me. If he did, I’d be hurt right now.”
“But—”
“He needs me to help him find Lapaglia.”
“And then what will he do?”
“I don’t know, Oz. But I can take care of myself.”
“I think you should talk to Lance about everything.”
“I already talked to him about dognapping. There’s not a thing the police can do.”
Ozzi stared at me, not fooled for a minute. “I said, you should talk to him about everything. That includes the Braid.”
