Fingering the bronze chip in her pocket, she nodded as she climbed the stairs. One day at a time.
Chapter Four
The metallic crash yanked Brooks from his bed later that night. Battle ready, one hand grabbed a weapon resembling a worn kitchen broom while the other sought the corner of the closed Venetian blind, his gaze searching the night.
A flash of red-gold skirted the pavement, enough to tell Brooks he’d been undermined by a four-footed varmint with a penchant for homemade mac and cheese.
Again.
He barreled toward the door wishing he’d remembered to turn the heat on after Brett’s soccer game.
No.
Huffing against the cold, he grabbed the first thing his fingers hit, an old Baltimore Oriole’s afghan. He yanked it around his shoulders and headed out the door, to no avail. Like previous times, the minute the door handle clicked left, the dog disappeared, obviously faster and smarter than Brooks.
Which didn’t take much at 3:00 a.m.
Strewed garbage lay ankle deep across his small yard.
He bit back useless words, shook a fist, then danced sideways on the cold step, the chill of his feet knife-blading up, his outside thermometer reading twenty-nine degrees.
Brr…
And since his apartment wasn’t much better, his living room offered little reprieve. Disgruntled, Brooks finagled a light, cranked the thermostat right, tugged on sweats and tried not to be upset that some scruffy dog had once again bested a decorated war veteran.
The drawer full of military medals offered small comfort as Brooks cleaned a frosted yard littered with disgusting debris. Why him? Why now? What was it about this garbage that drew the mutt repeatedly?
Probably your ineptitude to catch him, tweaked an inner voice.
Brooks couldn’t disagree. Like it or not, the dog had bested him multiple times.
Resigned, Brooks did what he should have done days ago. He hauled the garbage tote into the garage and closed the door, then stared into the darkened night, his backyard melding into state forest land, the dog gone from sight but not from mind. “Next time, pal.”
The promise of payback sounded thin. The dog was obviously smarter, quicker and sneakier.
And needed less sleep.
Brooks yawned, scowled, then headed inside. In one night he’d been bested by a cantankerous seven-year-old and a tenacious dog, both of which could use a lesson in manners. He eyed the clock, decided six hours was plenty of sleep, made coffee and headed to the wood shop, wondering why kids and dogs couldn’t just behave themselves.
“Toots, did Hy Everts drop off those frames I ordered?” Brooks asked later that morning.
Tootsie Lawrence nodded as she hooked her deep green fleece in the workroom. “Late yesterday, actually. Do you have the picture Cade left? I’ll frame it for you.”
“Right here.” Brooks handed an envelope to his longtime sales clerk. “The one with the blue matte is for Cade.” The town’s police chief had dropped off a family picture the week before.
“Beautiful.” Tootsie withdrew the frame with care. Hy’s work had become renowned, his wood carvings a natural expression of North Country life. The thick picture frames, a new venture for him, were engraved with north-woods symbols along the perimeter. Trees, bears, cabins, moose, wolves. The effect of the lighter wood recessed against the deeper stain held the pictures in relief. “Oh, Boss, look.”
Brooks peered over her shoulder as Tootsie withdrew Cade’s family picture, her expression beatific. “Isn’t this just lovely?”
“You’re crying.”
“I’m not,” Tootsie protested. She sniffled.
“You are,” Brooks exclaimed, horrified. “Stop that. Now.”
“I can’t.” Tootsie trailed a finger along the frame, her gaze trained on the sweet family before them. “And how cute is that baby, Boss?”
“Cute enough.”
She swung around and offered him a stern expression. “He’s absolutely, positively beautiful. Couldn’t you just eat him up?”
Brooks couldn’t, actually, but he knew better than to argue. Cade called just then, saving Brooks from himself. “Hey, Chief.”
“Brooks, did my frame arrive yet?”
“We’ve got it. Tootsie’s actually framing the picture as we speak.”
“Sweet. Annie asked me about it and I promised I’d check. How does it look?”
Brooks eyed the framed print. Cade’s young family laughed back at him. He swallowed a sigh, worked his jaw and nodded. “Very nice, which is a good thing since these frames don’t come cheap.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Cade told him. “As long as it’s right, the cost is insignificant.”
His words touched Brooks’ heart.
Brooks was frugal. His lifestyle reflected that. He was constantly amazed at how quickly Rita went through money, week after week. Shoes here, doctors there, school supplies, car repairs, food, clothes. Her expenses boggled the mind.
Picturing Cade’s family, Brooks realized he was the anomaly, not them. His singular status and prudence labeled him different.
Usually that didn’t bother him.
Today it did.
A movement outside caught his attention, a flash of red-gold skirting the parking lot. “Cade, have you noticed this stray dog that’s been hanging around?”
“No. How long’s he been around?”
“Off and on for the last week or more,” Brooks told him. He taped the edges and slid the frame into one of his distinctive cord-handled bags. “A retriever.”
“Haven’t seen him.”
“I just caught a glimpse of him alongside the parking lot. He’s been getting into my garbage at night, making quite a mess.”
“Tags?”
“Haven’t gotten close enough to see. He’s furtive.”
“Or smart.”
“Either way, it’s a pain to have to chase him off.”
“I’ll keep an eye out and let Bill Pickering know.” Bill was the animal-control officer for St. Lawrence County.
The idea of the dog being caged niggled, but the thought of not having to wrestle garbage constantly won out. “Thanks.” Brooks hesitated, then asked, “They won’t put him down, will they?”
“That depends on a lot of factors,” Cade explained. “If he’s got an owner, tags, if he’s healthy, adoptable. A lot of strays get put down. There are no guarantees.”
“But he’s not that bad,” protested Brooks.
Cade went silent for a moment. When he spoke his voice held more than a hint of question and a good dose of amusement. “You either want him caught or you don’t. Which is it?”
Brooks ran a frustrated hand through his hair and frowned. “I’m not sure, myself.”
“Well, when you figure it out, call me back. I’m just across the road, so I’m fairly accessible.”
“Thanks, Chief.
He wouldn’t call, Brooks decided. The thought of the dog locked up in a pound bothered him. Not as much