Chapter 2

Brady heard a voice say, “Well, look at you! Aren’t you just darling!”

His eyes followed the sound of a middle-aged woman’s chirp as she continued to dote on what he quickly saw was the little thief. She was sitting with her back to him on one of the benches, a cup in one hand, her other hand stroking the fur of the little tramp.

Quickly, Brady trotted over, a stitch in his side, despite his frequent exercise routine. “Thank goodness,” he murmured as he noted the scarf was no longer trapped in the dog’s teeth. It was lying next to him on the bench. Even from a few feet away, Brady could see it was soiled with mud, perhaps some oil from the road, but it wasn’t torn. That was something.

“Oh, is this your dog?” The woman slipped her hand beneath the red collar around the dog’s neck, and for the first time Brady noticed the collar was the exact same shade as the scarf it had stolen.

“No, no it’s not,” Brady said, thankful she had her hand around the collar so the dog couldn’t dart away again. Reaching down, he picked up the scarf off of the bench. “But this is mine.”

The woman, who appeared to be in her fifties or perhaps early sixties, with curly blonde hair with streaks of white and a sweet smile, looked disappointed. “That’s too bad. Who do you belong to, little fella?” she asked, tugging on the collar as she checked to see if there was an address or phone number on the tag.

The dog sat still, not pulling or trying to get away. For the first time, Brady gave the dog a good look. He was small, no more than fifteen pounds, mostly white with some black tufts of fur. Shaggy, and muddy around the paws, he looked as if he had been on the streets for a little while, but not forever. He wasn’t skinny or matted. Perhaps he had just gotten away from his owner.

“Oh, dear,” the woman said. “No address or phone number. Just his name--Pooch. Even his rabies tag is so rubbed off. I can’t make out the name of the vet, just that he’s up to date on his shots. That’s a good thing. At least your scarf doesn’t have to worry about contracting rabies.” She laughed then, a cheerful rumble, her red lips parting to reveal teeth so straight and perfect, he thought they might be dentures. Or veneers. She was dressed so nicely, he imagined she must be someone important in this little town, though he hadn’t lived there long enough to meet many people.

“That is too bad,” Brady said, thinking someone had to be missing this little fur ball. “Is there some place we can take him? A shelter or something?”

“We?” she said. “Oh, not me, dear. I have to get to the salon. It’s my weekly appointment, and I never miss.” She scooped the fur ball into her arms. The little dog’s head turned, his wide, dark eyes focused on Brady’s face. “You can take him to the shelter. It’s a no kill, so we don’t have to worry about that. A little cutie like this will be snatched up as soon as he’s off his fourteen day release.”

“Me? Take the dog? To the shelter?” Brady had next to no experience with dogs. He hadn’t even known whether it was a boy or a girl until this woman had declared it was a boy, and he’d just assumed she was right. The dog was thrust in his direction, and he found himself taking him—Pooch--even though it was the last thing in the world he wanted to do.

“Yes, sure. Are you busy? Do you have an appointment, Mr.…?” She stopped, waiting for him to say his name. She didn’t sound rude, just as if she thought her schedule a bit more important than his, perhaps.

“Brady,” he stammered. “Brady Rogers.” She nodded, her smile reappearing. “No, I don’t have an appointment.” He did have things to do, like study that parking lot, just one of his assignments as the new city manager. The mayor had given him a long list on Friday when he’d left his office, and though he knew Mr. Jenkins didn’t necessarily expect him to work on weekends, Brady had been in a hurry to get started. This was his first city manager job, after many years of serving on the planning committee for a neighborhood in Milwaukee, and he didn’t want to mess it up. If things went well in this small town, he might find himself back in a bigger city, making huge decisions that would help bring revenue back to urban areas, in just a few years. That is, if Holiday Hills didn’t start to grow on him….

“Good, Brady,” she said, patting Pooch on the head. The dog didn’t even squirm in his arms, only panted a little, his head twisting from Brady’s face to the woman’s and then back again. “The shelter is on Duncan Avenue, at the west end. You can’t miss it. Ask for Noelle, and tell her that Doris sent you.”

“Doris?” he repeated.

“Yes. Doris Snow. Pleased to meet you.” She didn’t offer her hand, only patted the shoulder of his black coat. Then, Doris returned her attention to Pooch, patting his head. “You’re a sweet boy, yes you are!” she doted. Pooch barked, a high pitched, almost yap that grated slightly on Brady’s ears, or maybe it was the fact that he disagreed with her assessment that had him irritated. “See you later, Brady Rogers.” She gave him another friendly smile and then headed in the opposite direction of where Brady had left his truck, toward another stretch of shops and stores. In the distance, Brady saw a sign that read, “Hair Port,” and imagined that was the salon Doris was expected at.

Once she was out of earshot, he turned his attention to the dog. “All right then, Pooch,” he said, looking the dog in the eyes. “Who do you belong to?”

The dog continued to pant, squirming slightly as he placed a paw on Brady’s coat, leaving a little mud.

“Seriously?” he said, shaking his head. “Troublemaker.”

A long, pink tongue darted out of Pooch’s mouth, catching him on the chin. Brady pulled away, but he couldn’t help but chuckle. “That stuff might work with the ladies, but not with me, little man. I’m afraid I can’t keep you. Let’s go see if we can find Noelle.”

Pooch whimpered, as if he didn’t like the idea of Brady taking him to the shelter, but even if he’d wanted to keep the dog--which he didn’t--he didn’t have a place of his own. And he didn’t know the first thing about how to take care of a dog, especially not one that clearly liked to run away from its owner. With another glance at Doris’s disappearing form, Brady increased his grip on the little Houdini and headed back toward his truck.