by Susan Wiggs
The smell reminded her of Jack, who liked to snack on the foul stuff while watching television.
She emptied the can and the box of crackers on the beach, then sat back to watch the show. Seemingly within seconds, the seagulls came, wheeling in and screeching as they fought over the feast. It took them only moments to devour the fish and snap up all the crackers, gobbling them right then and there or carrying off morsels to far places. Sarah felt a strange and curious thrill as she observed the feeding frenzy. It was over within minutes, and there was not a single crumb left that she could see.
After she’d retrieved the empty can and cracker box, she felt a familiar pair of eyes on her. “You again,” she said.
It was the stray dog she’d spotted her first day in Glenmuir and many times since. The dog kept coming around, too wary to let her near but always keeping her in sight. She thought of the dog as the lion to her Androcles, and started leaving a bowl of water and kitchen scraps on the stoop behind the bungalow. She never saw the dog there, but the water and scraps always disappeared when she wasn’t looking. The mongrel was a lost soul drifting around, as though hunting for a place to alight.
She and the homeless stray had been doing this dance of trust like shy teenagers at a school social. They would brush close and then retreat, never quite able to relax around each other but bound by some mutual affinity.
Sarah had complained to her father, her grandmother and great-aunt, even to Birdie about the stray. She was terrified that it was going to get hit by a car. Glenmuir didn’t have an animal control division, but there was a rescue farm out on Branch 62. The trouble was, this particular mutt was too clever to be rescued. It had a way of disappearing when anyone came looking for it. The one time a volunteer had managed to transport the dog out to the farm, it had escaped and run five miles back to town.
“Don’t tell me,” she said, now used to being shadowed. “You’re hungry, too. You should have said something.”
Exasperated, she managed to pry the last cracker from its waxed paper tube. She held it out to the dog. Predictably, the mutt regarded it with longing but refused to take it from her hand. The dog crept forward, its nostrils quivering, its eyes intent as though determined to hypnotize the cracker from her hand to its mouth.
Sarah took a step closer. The dog feinted back.
“Don’t you think I’ve already suffered enough rejection?” she said impatiently.
The dog whined and licked its chops, but held itself poised to flee.
Sarah looked at the velvety brown eyes. It had actual eyelashes. She didn’t even know dogs could have eyelashes. “Come on, pooch,” she cajoled. “You know you want this. And I would never hurt you.”
The dog strained its neck and sniffed at the cracker, all but shaking with desire. Closer...come on, thought Sarah. Come on, come on, come on. She leaned down, desperate to make a friend of the mutt.
The dog skittered back, tail between its legs.
“Fine,” Sarah said. “Suit yourself. Starve, if you’d rather.” She tossed the cracker to the ground and marched back to the cottage. On the back porch, she turned to see that the dog had finished the cracker and now sat at attention, tail gently wagging as though blown by a breeze.
The mutt was annoyingly cute, its face half black and half white, eyes sharp with what Sarah could only describe as a penetrating intelligence.
She refilled the big mixing bowl with water, set it on the stoop and went back inside, determined not to care whether the dog stuck around or took off. Besides, she was desperate to wash the odor of kippered herring off her hands.
Fourteen
“This is starting to make us look like idiots,” Will admitted, circling the gardening shed behind the elementary school. Another fire had occupied their shift, and in its aftermath, they were probing around in the wreckage.
“Could be we are idiots,” Gloria explained. “Somebody is setting fires right under our noses and we can’t stop him.”
Frustrated, he poked at an old can of paint thinner. Once again, it was a lucky break that no one was harmed by the fire. There was just property damage. Will didn’t want to count on luck alone to keep people safe. He wanted to nail this asshole.
“So how certain are we that it’s the same guy?”
“We’re not, but my gut tells me it is. Still, there’s no consistency,” he said. “The days and times are all over the map. The intervals between attacks are random, and the accelerant varies every time. How the hell is the arson investigator going to profile this character?”
“Not our problem.”
“But it’s happening here. In a place this small, a guy can’t sneeze without the whole town hearing it. How is somebody getting away with this shit?” He knew of arsonists who operated for five, six, even ten years without being nailed.
“We’re overlooking something.”
“No kidding.” Will studied the file for what seemed like the thousandth time. Arson investigation techniques were sophisticated, but the department was spread thin. So long as there was only minor damage, this case wouldn’t be at the top of the priority list. He stared at dates, times and details until his eyes watered. He kept thinking there had to be something significant about the cases as a group. But there was nothing. Nothing but...
“Every one of these fires was set on our watch,” he said.
“There’s a one in three chance that any fire will take place on our watch.”
“But three in a row?” asked Will.
“So what do you make of it? Is somebody out to get one of us? Both of us?”
“It’s something to think about,” he said to Gloria. “So. Who have you pissed off lately?”
He was kidding, but Gloria’s cheeks reddened and she ducked her head and muttered something.
“What was that?”
“My ex,” she said without looking at him. “Our house finally sold, and he was terrible all through the settlement. He contested every last nickel and dime.”
Will had only met Dean a few times. His impression had been that the guy didn’t appreciate his wife or recognize how desperately unhappy she was. “Do you think he’d go around setting fires?”
“He’s a lazy-ass son of a bitch. Committing arson is too much work.”
“Maybe he’s not out to hurt you,” Will suggested. “Maybe Ruby?”
Gloria shook her head. “She doesn’t have an ex. Just that bratty daughter.”
“Glynnis? Never seemed bratty to me,” Will said.
“Yeah, well, you were never dating her mother.” Gloria picked up a metal implement, warped beyond recognition. “The fires were set on my watch, it’s true,” she said. “But they also occurred on yours.”
“Yes.” Will had already racked his brains over that one.
“Your ex is no picnic, either.”
He didn’t deny it. He had never done a blessed thing to the woman except give her and her child a stable home and a settled life. In the end, even that had not been enough to make Marisol stay clean and sober. Being safe was no substitute for being happy.
“She’d have a long commute to set these fires,” he said. “And she never learned my work schedule when we were together so I don’t see how she’d know it now. Besides, isn’t one of the main motives for arson a bid for attention? I guarantee, she never wanted that from me.”
A skip loader rumbled into view, the service contracted to clean up the debris. “Let’s get everything packaged and sent to the lab, Captain. I want to get off duty on time and wash the smoke out of my hair. I’ve got a support group meeting tonight.”
“What kind of support group?” This was Marin; there was something for everybody here. “I mean, if you don’t mind saying.”
She laughed. “Like I have any secrets from you. I go to a divorce support group on
ce a week. Want to come?”
He frowned. “Right.”
She shrugged. “I still have issues. Don’t we all?”
“I’d rather spend the time with Aurora.”
She eyed him as if she was about to say something else. Instead, she walked toward the showers, peeling off gear as she went.
* * *
In the rose-entwined cottage by the sea, Sarah Moon slowly unraveled. She recognized that she was losing her mind. Like a victim of progressive dementia, she could intellectualize about the process. She even made it the focus of her comic strip, when she remembered to draw it and send in each week’s worth of digital files.
She wasn’t a raving lunatic, which became a source of great relief and misplaced pride. She was a quiet, unobtrusive nut cake. Subtle, even. She’d taken to eating Fluffernutters in the middle of the night and listening to her great-aunt’s Edith Piaf collection, singing along in nasally French—and she didn’t even speak French. She had watered the plants in the window boxes to death, drowning them in her overattention.
Sometimes her lunacy was not so subtle, she acknowledged with a sigh, standing outside the Magic Bean. The coffee shop and newsstand was a ten-minute walk from her house, and she went there daily to pick up newspapers, magazines and paperback novels.
This morning she had gotten up early, determined to have a normal day. She had taken a shower, put on makeup and an actual outfit—black jeans with half boots, a beige sweater—and walked to town for a latte and scone and to buy a paper. At the cash register she noticed the clerk studying her with an odd look on his face.
“Everything all right?” he asked.
“Just grand.” Sarah paid him and went outside. At that moment, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the shop window and gasped. She was still wearing a towel, twisted like a turban, atop her head.
“Brilliant, Sarah,” she muttered. “Oh, you are brilliant.”
She tried to maintain her dignity as she unwound the towel. What an idiot. What a complete moron.
She shook out the towel, already sketching a comic strip in her head. Shirl would have a field day with this. Was this a new stage of her meltdown? A mental breakdown? Early onset dementia?
Sarah walked to Sunrise Park, a little oasis with tree-shaded benches and a view of the bay. There was not a soul in sight, which suited her just fine. Taking a sip from her travel mug, she shut her eyes. Gran and Aunt May insisted she’d be happy at the bungalow, that it would be the perfect way to get back on her feet.
Unfortunately, she was still stumbling around with a stupid towel on her head.
A chill slipped over her. Even though she stood with her eyes closed, she had a premonition.
Someone was watching her.
She snapped open her eyes to find herself looking into a soulful, brown-eyed gaze.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
A worried frown deepened the crease between those soft, pleading eyes. Sarah let out a sigh and sat down on a bench. “You just won’t take no for an answer, will you?”
With a Lassie-like whine, the mutt sat at attention in front of her. Even though Sarah pretended to be exasperated by the stray, she secretly found it charming, its attention flattering, which caused her a bit of worry about the state of her social life.
She took out the scone, broke off a corner and held it out. This had become their daily ritual, and each morning, the dog grew a little bolder and came a little closer. Today the mutt got up and took a step forward to sniff the morsel and wag its tail. Then it feinted back, giving another soft, urgent whine. A flock of seagulls, more aggressive than the dog, ventured close to wait for crumbs.
“Oh, come on,” Sarah murmured. “When are you going to quit with the Dances With Wolves routine?”
The dog licked its chops and stared at the food intently. A clear string of drool spun from its mouth.
“You know,” Sarah said, opening her hand fully, “we really must stop meeting like this. People are going to start to talk.”
Its gaze never wavering, the mongrel lowered to a crouch, front paws extended.
This was a new posture, Sarah realized. She had studied up on dogs and learned that this was a more relaxed stance, indicating trust.
“I’ve been patient long enough,” Sarah said, “and I don’t know why I waste my time. I have bigger problems than you, anyway. My marriage is over. My career’s on the skids. I just bought coffee with a towel on my head. I’m having some kind of mental breakdown. Dealing with you isn’t going to help a thing.”
The dog was a good listener. Sarah would allow that.
Still holding the offering in her hand, she found herself, as usual, thinking of Jack. “My husband was a lousy listener from Day One,” she told the dog. “Now I look back and wonder if he ever heard a word I said. And maybe I wasn’t hearing him, either. Maybe I was so obsessed with getting pregnant that I stopped hearing him. I figured if we couldn’t be a happy couple anymore, we could be a happy family. Stupid, huh? I’m supposed to be a smart person. You’d think I’d be able to see that we were losing each other.”
She felt a terrible heat washing through her. For a moment, she thought she was choking, unable to draw air into her lungs. Then, finally, she recognized the sensation of sobs building in her throat, of tears spilling down her face.
For the first time since leaving Chicago, she cried. Really cried. Grief came from the deepest part of her heart, from a well of pain that made each breath she took a torturous journey. The tears scalded her face in a sudden, salty flood. She had no control over this, and couldn’t hold back the pain. It was a force of nature, brutal and insistent, carrying her off in a bitter tide. She didn’t know how long she sat alone and wept. She couldn’t stop. She would never stop because she would never, ever get over the agony of her broken marriage.
The dog chose that moment to sniff her hand, then give her a nudge. Sarah didn’t believe in everyday miracles anymore, though. She knew the dog was simply going for the bit of ginger scone clutched in her fist. Still, it was the first time she and the mongrel had connected. Slowly, watching the patiently lapping pink tongue, she opened her fingers and let the dog eat the crumbs stuck to her palm.
“I had a perfectly good meltdown going.” She offered the broken scone. “You might as well have the rest of it. I don’t want to eat out of this hand, that’s for sure.”
She broke off pieces bit by bit, and the dog finally ventured close enough for Sarah to discern that it was a female. She accepted the food with unexpected grace and delicacy. She didn’t snap them up and gobble them, but ate daintily and steadily until the last morsel was gone. Afterward, she didn’t sidle away but sat close enough for Sarah to touch her fur with a tentative, open hand. The dog didn’t seem to mind. The tip of her tail quivered.
Sarah used the damp towel to wipe her tears. Her coffee had turned cold, so she took both the cup and the wadded-up napkin and bag to the trash can and threw them away. Normally, the dog would skitter away at this point, but today she followed Sarah.
As she walked back home, Sarah could hear the click of the dog’s nails on the pavement close behind her. The morning fog was thinning and breaking apart to reveal patches of blue. She tilted her face up to the sky to catch the first of the sun’s warmth.
Fifteen
“I can’t keep her.” A week later, sitting on her father’s deck, Sarah stroked the dog’s silky head. “My life’s in chaos right now and I can’t have a dog. Come on, Dad—”
“Sorry,” Sarah’s father said, easing back in a chair on his deck. “Can’t help you out.”
Her stomach sinking with dismay, she tightened her grip on the retractable leash. She was with her family on the deck overlooking the oyster beds and processing sheds. Her father and Kyle were talking about tearing down the oldest shed,
a long, low building with a rusting propane tank surrounded by rickety lattice. With a sigh, Sarah tried again. “She’s a really nice dog. I’ve already given her a bath, and we have an appointment with the vet tomorrow—”
“I can’t, honey,” he said. “I can’t take a dog.”
“How can you resist this dog?” Sarah couldn’t help feeling a surge of pride as she regarded the velvet-eyed mongrel. She was a female under the long, brindled fur, and was really quite beautiful now that her coat was clean and shiny. “A week ago she wouldn’t let anyone near her. Now she wants to be everyone’s best friend.”
She turned to Kyle and LaNelle. Her sister-in-law didn’t even pretend to consider adopting the dog. “We just installed two thousand square feet of ivory wool carpet,” she said.
Sarah felt no surprise. They weren’t about to let a dog interfere with their love of shopping for fine things. Thanks to Kyle’s expert management and an economic surge in the area, they were prosperous beyond anyone’s expectations. Business had waned when jarred oysters went out of fashion and whole ones in the shell came into demand, but Kyle was undaunted. He simply had a knack for feeding the market what it wanted.
“Gran and Aunt May,” she said, gently stroking the dog’s head, “you’re my only hope.”
The elderly sisters exchanged a glance. “We’re not your only hope, and we’re not taking that animal.”
“But—”
“You are keeping it,” Gran said simply.
“At Aunt May’s cottage? No way. She’ll ruin the yard.”
“Anything she tramples or digs up can be replanted,” Aunt May said.
“What about inside?”
“That place has survived tourists for years. A dog won’t do anything that can’t be fixed.”
“But—”
“What’s the real reason you don’t want this dog?” Nathaniel asked.
“She obviously adores you,” LaNelle pointed out.
“I can’t have a dog right now. I can’t have anything that requires care and feeding. My life is a mess. The timing is all wrong.” Sarah felt them all watching her. Their weighty silence pressed down on her.