Death on a Deadline

One

    “Hey! Dog! Stop digging up the yard!” I waved my arms wildly.
    M ama had predicted more than once that curiosity would be my downfall. The instant I let that dog’s incessant barking propel me out of bed, my fate was as sealed as the proverbial curious cat’s. Especially once I peeked through the living room blinds and ran out on the porch, long Mickey Mouse gown flapping in the September breeze.
    The startled golden retriever scooped up a brownish object in his mouth and galumphed down the sidewalk toward downtown. I squinted into the rainy mist. Was that my missing Dooney & Bourke wallet clutched in his teeth? I was off the porch and halfway down my driveway before I even realized my bare feet were splashing cold water against my legs.
    The dog turned back for a split second as if to confirm I was behind him, then picked up the pace to a quick trot. We’d almost reached the city park—mercifully without seeing another human—and I was gaining on the dog when he looked back again. My brain finally kicked into gear. I was playing right into his hands. . .um, paws. I halted in my tracks.
    He skidded to a stop. I dropped to my knees in a shallow puddle of water, but I managed to hold out a friendly looking hand. See? No threat here, buddy, I thought with clenched teeth. “Here, doggy, doggy.” Okay, so I have a cat, but how much different can it be? Apparently not much, because the golden retriever did that head-tilt thing, then sidled back to me, still clutching the brown object in his teeth.
    “Give it to me, buddy.”
    To my shock, he dropped the slobbery wallet into my outstretched hand. Ugh. It wasn’t a Dooney & Bourke. It wasn’t even a Dooney & Bourke knockoff. This billfold was plain brown wet leather. I held it between my finger and thumb and flicked it open. A familiar face stared up at me from the Arkansas driver’s license inside the flap. Hank Templeton, hard-hitting editor of the Lake View Monitor . Hank the Crank, people not as nice as me called him behind his back. Even I had to admit he could easily be a founding member of The Grumpy Old Men Society, if there were such a thing.
    His wife, Marge, was probably wringing her hands and trying to convince him she hadn’t misplaced his wallet. I felt sorry for her. But not enough to show up at her door dressed like this. I’d do my good deed and take it by their house on my way to work.
    I wrapped my arms around myself and bent my head against the wind. As I trudged through the rain, the retriever matched me step for step. “Shoo. Go home.”
    The collarless dog ignored my words. So I returned the favor and ignored his presence as I hurried home. My house came into view—slightly rundown, barely above low rent, but the light in the window beckoned like a flag at the finish line. And a hot shower would be my trophy.
    Almost to the driveway. The hum of a motor behind me interrupted my mental victory dance. I quickened my pace. Maybe if I didn’t look at the driver, he wouldn’t notice me.
    After all, why would he notice inconspicuous me? Barefoot in my nightgown? Oh, and how could I forget? The dog. Stuck to my side like a stray sock to a pair of rayon running shorts fresh from the dryer. The car slowed. Please, please, please be a total stranger needing directions to the diner.
    The horn blew directly behind my right ear, and I turned instinctively. Great. Brendan Stiles. My date for tomorrow night.
    He rolled down his window. “Hey, Jenna, out for a stroll?” Dark hair and eyes, nice smile, even those cute little wire-rim glasses that made him look geeky but handsome. The local pharmacist and I had dated three times in the last month or so. The last two Sundays, he’d even shown up at church. Seemed ideal on the surface. Especially once I’d gotten used to covering his stingy tips for the waitress and overlooking the fact that he monopolized the conversation most of the time. But so far—big shock—no chemistry, at least on my part. And after seeing me today with no makeup and my hair frizzed out, probably no chemistry on his part either. A fact for which I couldn’t work up a great deal of distress.
    I held up my soggy prize. “Had to see a dog about a wallet.”
    At his quizzical look, I spilled the whole story.
    He laughed. In a nice way. “Want me to drop it off at Hank’s office?”
    “That’s okay. I’ll take it by the house.” This was the most helpful I’d ever seen him. Maybe there was still hope.
    “You