Gilda, his neighbor and also his girlfriend, often told him he was a curmudgeon, and she probably had a point. But then after sixty-eight years of being a grouch, what were the chances that he would ever change? Once a grouch, always a grouch, and he riposted by telling her that she seemed to like him anyway, to which she admitted this was true.
“I have tamed the grouch of Harrington Street,” she said laughingly. “And I should probably deserve some kind of prize.”
Funny girl.
He passed by Blake’s Field and Fifi, as was her habit, yanked and strained at the leash to take a peek inside their local jungle. Years of neglect had turned the field into a haven of weeds and trees and shrubs, and if he had complained to the town council once, he had complained a million times. Ownership of the field was in some kind of legal limbo at the moment, and as long as the lawyers representing the previous owners and the town council didn’t get their act together and turn it into something that was a boon to the neighborhood instead of an eyesore, there was nothing anyone could do about it.
At least it wasn’t a big building pit, for once upon a time there had been plans to develop the land, which would have been imminently worse if it had gone through.
“All right, all right,” he said as Fifi barked up a storm. “I’ll bite.” Probably she wanted to take a look at that old shack, which seemed to hold a special appeal to the little Yorkie. Once upon a time she had even found a dead body there. It had been quite the scandal. A murder, in a pleasant neighborhood like theirs? Absolutely unheard of.
He hurried after Fifi, hoping he didn’t step into something nasty. Since he wasn’t the only dog owner who used Blake’s Field to allow their beloved mutts some off-leash time, the grass had been trampled on and flattened and a natural sort of pathway had formed that led from the street to the shack. He could have followed it with his eyes closed since he had walked this same route many times with Fifi.
She barked happily when they finally reached the old shack, and the moment he unleashed her, she started prancing around and happily jumping up against his legs.
He smiled and affectionately patted her on the head.
“Go on, girl,” he said encouragingly. “You go on.”
This was her time, and she knew it.
He took a seat on the bench that had been placed in front of the shack and watched as his little doggie disappeared into the high weeds that surrounded the shack. From time to time he saw her jumping up, her head briefly clearing the weeds and shrubs, then she was gone again, possibly chasing a rabbit or some other creature of the undergrowth.
The shack itself was home to a colony of mice, and he suspected there were also plenty of rats and other vermin housed there. From time to time a chicken would pop its head up. They used to belong to Ted Trapper but had escaped captivity and were now roaming wild and free, just like all the other creatures that occupied this plot of land.
He didn’t mind, as long as they didn’t cross the boundary with his backyard and enter his private property. Even the vermin of this world should know its place.
He glanced around, and when he didn’t see anyone, took a small silver case out of his jacket pocket, extracted a cigarette, and lit one up. As he took a long drag, he closed his eyes with relish and directed a plume of smoke at the sky. Gilda had told him that smoking was a filthy habit, and to accommodate her, he had cut down to two ciggies a day: one during each time he took Fifi for her walks. Another benefit of having a dog.
As he fixed his eyes on a point in the distance where he knew his house was located, he thought he saw something bright red hanging from a nearby tree. He frowned as he got up. As far as he could tell, he had never seen anything hanging from that tree before. Maybe another dog walker had accidentally left it behind? Or maybe kids had been playing there, even though most of the parents living on this block strictly forbade their offspring from venturing out there, since there were rumors that drug addicts used the shack to engage in their favorite pastime. In other words: not exactly a playground.
He walked up to the tree and saw that the red item was a sweater. He took it down and studied it. No name tag. It looked new and probably belonged to someone who was missing it now. He wondered if he should take it along to give to his neighbor Chase Kingsley. The cop could take it into the station with him and drop it off at the lost-and-found. As he folded up the sweater, something fell out of a hidden pocket. It was a piece of jewelry, and as he picked it up from the ground, he saw that it was a little golden cross. Very nice, he thought as he turned it over in his hand. And probably expensive. There were markings on the cross, but since he hadn’t taken his reading glasses along with him, he couldn’t quite make them out. He closed his fist around the little trinket and was more determined now to hand it over to Chase. He’d know what to do with it.
He returned to the bench to finish his smoke when he thought he saw movement in the shrubbery nearby. “Fifi?” he said. But it wasn’t Fifi who emerged. It was a large person wearing a hoodie, which partially obscured his or her face. Before he could ask what they were doing there, the stranger took out a gun and pulled the trigger. Kurt felt a stinging pain in his chest, and as he went down, he thought that of all the things that could happen to a person walking his dog, the oddest had to be to get shot and killed.
Poor Fifi. Now what would become of her?
Chapter Three
I had been idly glancing out of the upstairs bedroom window when I thought I heard a loud bang. The kind of bang that only a gun can make. As it seemed to be coming from Blake’s Field, I wondered if perhaps someone had taken advantage of the early hour to go and do some hunting. As everyone knows, there are plenty of rabbits that have made the field their home, and some people seem to enjoy rabbit meat as much as others like chicken or beef.
Next to me, my friend Dooley also looked up. “What was that?” he asked.
“Sounded like a gunshot,” I said. “Coming from Blake’s Field.”
He shook his head. “I’m telling you, Max, ever since Gran started walking around in the middle of the night, I haven’t slept a wink.”
I could have told him this was a blatant lie, for I had seen him—and heard him—sleep a perfectly sound wink at the foot of Odelia’s bed. Dooley likes to divide his time between my home and that belonging to Odelia’s mom and dad. In other words, his loyalties are divided between his own human and Odelia, who is probably the more responsible of our pet parents. Though Odelia’s mom, Marge, isn’t too shabby either.
“I just hope that Gran hasn’t been shot,” said Dooley, as he gave me a look of alarm.
“If you like, we can go and take a look,” I suggested. “Though it’s probably kids playing with a toy gun.”
I have to say that it had sounded like a real gun, though, and not a toy alternative, since they don’t make that much noise. And since we didn’t want to wake up our humans, we decided to take a look for ourselves before we alerted Odelia and Chase.
Next to the bed, a second smaller bed had been placed, where Grace slept. At one point, she would get her own bedroom, but for now, she still enjoyed sleeping in her parents’ bedroom. The sound of the gunshot must also have awakened her, for she yawned and stretched. “What was that noise?” she asked.
“We’re not sure,” I said. “But we think it was a gunshot.”
“It was coming from Blake’s Field,” said Dooley.
“We’re going to take a look,” I added.
“I’ll come with you,” she said, and threw off her blanket.
“No, you’re not,” I said. “You will stay right here.”
“But I want to come!” she insisted.
“It might be dangerous, Grace,” I said.
“As long as I’m with you guys, there’s no danger,” she argued. “You will be my bodyguards, won’t you?”
And since she is one of those people who likes to do as she says and do it now, she climbed down from her bed and padded in the direction of the door.
“At least wear some shoes,” I said.
“And a coat!” Dooley added.
