Page 33 of Kirkyards & Kindness
“This is private property, sir,” she says. Her gaze goes to me. “And miss.”
She straightens, bowl of beans hugged tight, as if we might grab them.
“I am sorry to bother you, ma’am,” I say. “We were told a Mrs. Martha Morrison tends this garden.”
The woman’s anxiety falls away in a smile. “She does, but she is not here. It is my home.” She waves at the ground floor apartment on a tiny building. “I rent the garden, and Martha tends it for me.”
“And the dog?”
She follows my gaze to where a brown terrier suns himself near the garden.
“He belongs to Martha’s daughter. She found him last night and asked me to keep an eye on him today. I worried he’d dig up the garden, but he’s just a sleepy little old man.” Her expression shifts, going wary. “If you’re from the city, wanting to see his license, she only just found him.”
“And asked you to keep him here until she tells her mother?”
I smile as I say it, but the woman still looks wary. “Aye.”
“We are not here about the license,” I say. “He has one, though it seems he lost his collar.”
Her face stays tight. “You’re claiming him?”
“Not until we speak to the little one,” I say. “We want to reward her for finding him, and for taking such good care of him.”
“You’ll not take him until after you’ve spoken to Dorrit?”
“We will not. You have our word. I suppose you expect her to come around soon.”
“Soon, yes. She’ll need to be home for dinner after her mother is done with work.”
As we talk, the gate starts to open. I pause, glancing over. Dorrit takes one step inside, sees us . . . and turns to run, the gate banging shut behind her.
Chapter Fourteen
So this isn’t quite how we imagined resolving this. Our plan had been to locate Bobby first—which we did, following up on a reluctant tip from Annie. Then we figured we’d wait for Dorrit and talk to her about it. We did not expect her to bolt, and now that she has, we do not quite know how to handle it.
Chasing her is out of the question. We’ve already spooked her, and she must think she’s in trouble. Hot pursuit would make it worse.
She’s not in trouble. Clearly, she figured out who took Bobby, and she liberated him. Except, liberating him meant taking him for herself. That would be fine if Bobby wanted to stay. But once again, he’s on a rope, which means, sadly, that I suspect Bobby isn’t a willing participant in this rehoming.
How did we figure out it was Dorrit? Whoever took Bobby from Roy had realized he had the dog, which the children suspected. Any of the three could have done it. The boy had an infected splinter, which could have easily come from a wooden and filthy chicken coop. But the infection meant he didn’t get that splinter last night. Dorrit wasn’t obviously injured . . . but I had noted the new rip in her dress, where she could have torn it on that nail. The prints were too big to be the younger girl’s, though they could have been the boy’s. But what really tipped us off? Dorrit’s description of Roy. I’d expected her to have the best one. She was bright and observant and concerned about Bobby. Yet hers differed from the other two’s accounts, and hers had turned out to be the farthest from the truth.
Dorrit knew Gray and I were detectives. The youngest of the trio had already told us about the “cowboy,” so that cat was out of the bag. The best Dorrit could do was give us a misleading description.
We speak to the old woman for a moment. Thankfully, she didn’t see Dorrit pop in. We only say that we will be back, and if Dorrit arrives, please tell her that she is in no trouble and she will be rewarded for her help finding a lost dog.
Then we set out onto the street. As the gate closes, Gray says, “How would you do this in your time, if a child saw the police and ran?”
“I’d take the dog and give my card to the woman back there, telling her to assure Dorrit she’s in no trouble. Honestly, though? A street-savvy kid is never going to contact me for that reward.”
“She would think it a trick.”
I nod as we walk. “I’d probably drop the matter there. The dog is returned, and I’m certainly not going to press charges. I wouldn’t even speak to the parents when I don’t know them and don’t know how much trouble the kid could get in for what was ultimately a misguided act of compassion.” I look back toward the courtyard gate. “Maybe that’s the answer here, too, but I don’t think it is. We aren’t taking a stolen dog to its owner. We’re freeing what is, essentially, a stray dog.”
“Do we allow her to keep him?”
I chew my lower lip. “I’d love that. I want the ending where Bobby adores Dorrit and has a doting little girl to keep him for his final years. But I don’t get the impression that’s what Bobby wants.” I look at him. “Do you?”
He shakes his head, and my shoulders slump.
