Anonymous donors were thick around here these days. Too bad one that supported children’s bookstores didn’t fall into my lap.
“All our dogs are housebroken and trained to a leash,” the attendant went on. “Every single one would make a wonderful pet.”
I tried not to look cynical. She was trying to sell something; of course all the dogs were wonderful. Every one would probably fetch my slippers, bring in a slobbery paper, and text me at the store about Timmy falling down a well.
The puppy Jenna and Oliver originally fell in love with had been a neighbor’s expensive purebred destined for special diets and expensive shampoos and show rings. When I’d broken the news that a dog like that wouldn’t be happy at our house, they’d stormed and raged but had eventually come around to the idea of bringing home a dog from the animal shelter.
“We’ll be saving it, right?” Jenna had said.
The shelter was no-kill, but in lots of ways she was correct.
“I want a puppy.” Oliver had been adamant. “I want a puppy, I want a puppy, I want—”
“Enough.” My voice was calm but firm, and my son’s chant had died away. “We’ll go to the animal shelter and see what’s available.”
“But I want a puppy!” Oliver’s lower lip had started to tremble.
“We’ll see what’s available,” I’d said. “Cheer up, kiddos. On Saturday we’ll go to the shelter. They’re bound to have a dog we’ll all love.”
And now it was Saturday. There wasn’t a single dog my kids could agree on, and I was not—repeat
not
—going to take two dogs home. Jenna stalked over to stand in front of the dog of her choice: an Airedale. Oliver grabbed a boxer’s cage door and held on tight. “I’d feel really, really safe if we had him.”
“It’s not a puppy,” Jenna said.
“I don’t care.” Oliver took on the mulish look Jenna had sported of late. “He loves me.”
The tag on the door said BONNIE. I smiled at him. “You mean
she
loves you.”
Oliver jumped away. “He’s a girl?” His look of horror almost made me laugh out loud.
“What’s wrong with a girl?” Jenna asked, her eyes narrowing.
“Any more bickering,” I said, “and we’re going straight home. All these dogs would love to come with us. They all want kids to play with and a food bowl with their name on it. We just have to look for the one who fits into our family.”
“This one,” Jenna said.
I squatted down and looked the Airedale in the face. Even standing still, he looked as if he were bouncing. “Hey, there,” I said softly. Instantly he erupted into leaps so high he bashed his head against the top of the cage and started a frenzied barking that set off the other dogs.
We held our hands over our ears and waited for the din to die down. Either the attendant was hard of hearing or she was used to it.
“I’m not so sure,” I told Jenna, “that he’s the best choice.”
In spite of her square stance in front of the cage, she’d taken on a doubtful look. “He is pretty noisy.”
I walked down the aisle. There were so many dogs in so many shapes, sizes, and colors. Big dogs, little dogs, medium-sized dogs. Old dogs, young dogs. Short-haired, long-haired. Black, brown, yellow, white. So many dogs without a home, so many dogs without anyone to love them. If the shelter hadn’t been no-kill, I might have started crying then and there.
The last cage at the end of the row looked empty. “I thought you were full up,” I said. “Did someone adopt a dog today?”
“That’s Spot,” the attendant said. “He’s a little shy.”
I hunkered down and peered in. Way in the back corner, a medium-sized lump of fur was curled into a ball. “Spot?” My whisper had no effect. “Hey, guy. Are you in there?” His eyes opened to small slits. We stared at each other for a moment, long enough for him to communicate his entire life history—born to an unwed mother; grown up in a foster home that didn’t have time for him; tossed into this shelter without a wave good-bye.
“You poor thing.” The tip of his brown tail beat a quiet tattoo against the blanket. I looked up at the attendant. “Spot?” From muzzle to tail, everything about him was brown.
“Someone’s idea of a joke, I guess.” She shrugged. “We have some golden retriever mixes that are good with kids. I could get one out.”
“No, thanks.” My knees creaked as I stood. “We’re taking Spot.”
Within seconds of our return home, the phone rang. It was Jenna’s friend Bailey. “Oh, sure,” Jenna told her, “we got a dog. You wouldn’t believe the lame thing my mom picked out. He’s scared of everything.”
I put down the expensive bag filled with dog treats, dog toys, dog leash, and collar, and I headed back to the garage. Oliver and Spot were sitting together in the backseat, waiting for doggy arrangements to be made in the laundry room. When I came back to the kitchen with two bags of expensive dog food, Jenna was saying, “Yeah, some guard dog he’s going to be. If a burglar comes, I bet he hides in the closet faster than Oliver does.”
Her laughter was loud and raucous and mean. The sound was so unlike my happy Jenna’s laughs that I couldn’t believe it came out of the same person. Where had my daughter gone? Even more important, how was I going to get her back?
“Five minutes,” I said, holding up one hand, fingers spread wide.
She turned her back to me.
For a moment I stood there. Jenna was only ten, far away from the dreaded teenage years. If she was snubbing me now, how would she treat me at fifteen? Images flashed. Jenna with blue spiked hair and rings in her nose. Jenna skipping school . . .
“No,” I said. “This is not going to happen.”
Jenna gave me a startled look. “Uh, Bailey? I guess I gotta go. Yeah. See ya later.” She hung up the phone. Wariness dominated the mix of emotions on her face. “Um . . .” She stopped, not knowing where to go next.
I didn’t know, either, but since I was the adult in the house, I had to take a stab at it. Pretending this was about the dog would be the easiest way to go, and it was a tempting route, but my mom instincts were telling me to take the road less traveled.
“Why don’t you play with your old friends anymore?” I asked.
“You mean Alexis?”
“Alexis and Sydney. The three of you were such good friends last year.”
Her shoes were, apparently, worthy of sudden and intense examination. “Bailey says Sydney is dumb. That she doesn’t know anything about clothes and is stupid about music. She says the only thing Sydney knows how to do is play the piano, and who cares about that?”
“Okay.” I resisted the impulse to do some Bailey bashing. “Is that what you think, too?”
“I dunno.”
“How about Alexis?”
She shrugged, but it was a halfhearted movement. The seed, however, had been planted. She needed to find her own way, but please God, I wanted it to be a fine and upright way.
“Anyway,” I said, “if a burglar breaks in, a closet is the safest place to be.”
She frowned, not making the leap back to her phone conversation. Then her face cleared of confusion and went straight on to another expression altogether—shame. “I didn’t mean that about Oliver,” she said in a low voice. “He’s pretty brave for a little kid. When I was seven, there’s no way I would’ve gone up in the big tree at Mrs. Neff’s.”
I felt a rush of relief that, for today at least, my Jenna was back. “And you’re pretty brave for a big kid.”
“Can we come in?” Oliver called. “I think Spot really wants to see his new house.”
“What do you say, favorite daughter?” I kissed the top of her head, then rubbed the kiss into her hair, just as I’d done for years. “Want to help me with the food and water bowls?”
She squeezed me tight. “Sure. But, Mom? Can we call him something else? Spot is sooo dumb.”
I laughed. “The name doesn’t seem to fit, does it?” “Mom!” Oliver yelled. “I think Spot just leaked!” On the other hand, there could have been a very good reason for calling him Spot.
Sara looked at me critically. “Your pinafore is crooked.”
For the fortieth time since I’d arrived at the store, I straightened the straps on the apron of my Mother Goose costume. If I’d been better endowed in the chest area, it might have stayed in place. “Next year,” I said, “I’m getting a new costume.”
Sara herself looked fetching in a Red Riding Hood costume. Lois was the Cat in the Hat, Paoze made a wonderful Robin Hood, and Marcia was the Princess and the Pea.
“Every year you say you’re going to get a new costume.” Lois plugged in the fog machine. “And every year you wear that Mother Goose outfit that has never fit you properly.”
“It was my sister’s.” And it had been free, always my favorite price.
The fog machine hummed, burped out a few clouds of fog, then started spitting out a stream of water.
“Huh.” Lois frowned at the machine. “That doesn’t seem right.” She gave it a good, swift kick, and the fog came out in a steady flow. “Like my dad always told me,” she said, “if it doesn’t work, get a bigger hammer.”
“But you did not use a hammer,” Paoze said. “You used your foot.”
“Paw,” Lois corrected, pointing at her costume’s furry feet. “That’s why it worked. Shoes wouldn’t have done the job at all. If you’re going to kick a machine, you need to use a paw.”
Paoze plucked the string of the bow slung over his shoulder. “I do not believe you. This is a joke.”
I laughed and patted him on the shoulder. “You’re catching on, kid.”
Lois sniffed. “Okay, so that wasn’t my best effort. Next time he won’t see it coming.”
Sara and Paoze slid a long table over the fog machine. Lois and I unfolded a large black and orange plaid tablecloth, and Marcia started ferrying snacks from the kitchenette. In no time at all the table was covered with goodies and punch. Fog trickled out from the edges of the tablecloth, creating a satisfyingly eerie effect.
“Let ’em come,” Lois said. “We’re ready!”
I unlocked the front door and braced myself for the rush. At one, the store had closed for a bare hour. While I was telling the babysitter about the new dog and rushing around putting on my costume, my faithful staff had done the work of setting up games and prizes. I didn’t like shutting the store even for an hour, but logistically it worked out better this way. Lois was convinced it added more attraction to the event, and she might have been right.
Half an hour later, Sara was organizing a Pin the Tail on the Black Cat game, Paoze was helping kids create their own construction paper masks, Lois was drying the face of a child who’d just bobbed for an apple, and Marcia was reading Erica Silverman’s
Big Pumpkin
to an enthralled collection of children and parents.
I was running myself frazzled trying to help customers find books, running the register, and answer questions for anyone who asked.
“Hey.”
There was a tug on the lower corner of my apron. I looked down. A kindergarten-sized child was looking up at me. “Hi, there,” I said. “What’s your name?”
“Avery Olsen.”
“Hi, Avery.” My brain went
click!
Avery was Kirk and Isabel Olsen’s daughter—Kirk of the school bus incident. “Are your mommy and daddy here?”
“My mommy is over there.” She pointed to Marcia’s reading circle. “My daddy’s gone. But he’s almost home.”
“I see.” Or not. “What can I do for you, Avery?”
“Potty.”
Clearly, Avery was a girl of few words. “I’ll take you there, okay?”
She nodded solemnly. I put my hand on the back of her head and guided her toward the back of the store. On the way past Isabel and her son, Neal, I tapped Isabel’s shoulder and nodded at Avery, whispering, “Bathroom. Do you want to . . . ?”
“Go ahead,” she said. “She’ll be fine.”
That hadn’t been what I meant. I’d meant for her to take responsibility for her daughter; I’d meant to imply that I wasn’t a babysitter and that I had a store to run. “Oh,” I said. “Okay.”
I shut the bathroom door behind Avery. “Do you need any help?”
“No.” She stood tall. “I’m a big girl now. I’m
five
.”
“That is a big-girl age, isn’t it?”
“Yup.” She began bathroom preparations and climbed aboard. “My daddy says when I’m big enough, I can go and shoot things with him.”
“Really?”
“At first it won’t be real things. Just paper.” She sounded disgusted with the idea. “But when I get biggerer, I can shoot real things.”
“Oh. How nice.”
She nodded emphatically. “Neal doesn’t like guns, but I do. I want to go with Daddy next time he goes away. He’s far away now.”
“He is?”
“Yup.” She hopped down and finished the job. “But he’ll be back soon. I bet he got lots of real things. He shoots good.” She pushed the toilet’s lever with both hands. “I want to be just like him when I grow up.”
Job done and hands washed, we went back to the party. Marcia had finished the story and was glowing at the enthusiastic applause. I handed Avery over to Isabel. “Your daughter says Kirk’s out of town. Is he on a hunting trip?”
Isabel nodded. “A two-week guided hunt in the Canadian Rockies. It’s his thirtieth-birthday present. Everyone chipped in: his parents, his brothers, a bunch of his friends, everybody. You should have seen his face when we told him.”
I tried to figure out the dates in my head. “So he’s been gone two weeks.” That would put him in Rynwood the day Agnes was murdered.
“Almost three. He decided to get there early and spend some time getting used to the altitude.” She dug into her purse. “The guide e-mailed me some pictures, and I made lots of copies. Want to see?”
I called Marina that night and gave her the news. “Kirk Olsen was in Canada on a hunting trip the night Agnes was killed.” I turned on my computer and scanner.
“Maybe he sneaked home early,” Marina said, “killed Agnes, then sneaked back.”
“Nope.” I put Isabel’s photo on the scanner and clicked the appropriate buttons. “His wife gave me a date-stamped picture. I’m e-mailing it to you right now.”