A Likely Story

by Jenn McKinlay

  “Maybe she’ll still show. It’s been raining for four days now. The roads are a mess, and I hear a couple of bridges have been washed out because of the floods. When I came in this morning, the wind was so strong it was blowing the rain sideways. The weatherman said it won’t let up for another day or two,” Beth said. “It could be she got held up in traffic.”

  “I suppose,” Lindsey said. Still, she couldn’t shake off her disappointment. She knew she was probably being inflexible, but if Paula Turner really wanted the job, she needed to get to her interview on time, bad weather or not.

  They entered the main part of the library, and the automatic doors swooshed open. Lindsey glanced over, hoping to see a woman looking prepared for a job interview, but instead it was her downstairs neighbor Charlie Peyton, a young musician who occasionally pet-sit her furry black puppy, Heathcliff.

  “Lindsey, thank goodness!” he cried. Charlie was soaked. Despite the raincoat he wore, his pants and shoes were sodden, and his long black hair was hanging in thick strands that dripped water onto the rubber doormat.

  “Charlie, are you okay?” Lindsey asked.

  “I’m fine, except . . .” His voice trailed off as if he had to go and gather his next words before spitting them out. “I lost Heathcliff!”

  He lifted his hands, and Lindsey saw the familiar collar and leash clutched in his fingers, and she felt her heart free-fall from her chest to her feet.

  “What do you mean lost, exactly?” she asked. Her voice came out shrill, and she tried to cough it back to its normal register.

  “I took him out to do his business,” Charlie said, “and we were headed back to the house when all of a sudden, he started putting up a fuss. The next thing I knew, he’d popped his head out of his collar and was running down the street as if he was being chased by a knife-wielding clown. Oh, wait, I think that’s my issue. Well, you get the point. He ran off. I thought he was coming to you. No?”

  “No,” Beth said. She shook her head. “I’ve been working the front desk all morning. I would have seen him.”

  Lindsey scanned the library, but there was no furry black puppy wriggling his way through the stacks. She hurried to the circulation desk where the library’s old-school librarian was checking in materials.

  “Ms. Cole, excuse me, have you seen my dog?” Lindsey asked.

  Ms. Cole lowered her reading glasses on her nose and studied Lindsey. “No dogs are allowed in the library.”

  “I know that.” Lindsey blew out a breath of exasperation. “But it seems that Heathcliff got away from his dog walker, and he thought he might have come in here.”

  “When Mr. Tupper was the director—” Ms. Cole began, but Lindsey cut her off.

  “Yeah, yeah, dogs weren’t allowed, I get it. If you see my dog, please call me,” Lindsey said. She turned to Charlie and asked, “Where else have you looked?”

  “No place, I came right here,” he said.

  “All right, I’m going to get my jacket and go out and search,” she said. “Maybe he just got distracted by a ripe garbage can somewhere.”

  “I’m coming, too,” Beth said.

  She followed Lindsey into the workroom, where they kept their coats and umbrellas. They zipped up their fleece-lined jackets with the extra-large pockets, grabbed umbrellas and hurried back into the lobby.

  When they arrived they found the rest of their crafternoon group, Nancy Peyton, Violet La Rue, Charlene La Rue and Mary Murphy, all wearing coats and carrying umbrellas, looking ready for action.

  “Charlie told us what happened,” Nancy said. “I sent him into the crafternoon room to dry off, warm up and get something to eat.”

  “Good,” Lindsey said. “Sorry, I should have sent him there myself, but I’m a little . . .”

  “It’s all right,” Violet said. “We know how much Heathcliff means to you.”

  Lindsey felt her throat get tight, and she nodded, since no words were small enough to squeeze past the lump blocking her throat.

  “I am sure he’s fine,” Mary said. “He’s one smart pooch. Probably, he’s hiding out waiting for the worst of this downpour to pass.”

  “Absolutely,” Charlene said. “Now does everyone have their phone? We can text one another as soon as one of us finds him.”

  They all checked their pockets and nodded. They were all so sure that Heathcliff was out there just waiting for them that Lindsey felt her spirits lift.

  “How do you want to tackle the town?” Nancy asked. “What are Heathcliff’s favorite spots?”

  “The pier for boat rides with Sully, the bakery where they give him treats and the playground because he likes to play with the kids,” Lindsey said. She paused to compose herself as she was flooded with images of him frolicking with the children who adored him, riding on the bow of Sully’s boat and wagging his tail off at Kristen the baker, who always saved him a doggie bagel.

  “Okay, that’s a good start,” Violet said. “Nancy and I will take the pier; Mary and Charlene, you hit the bakery; Lindsey and Beth, you start at the playground.”

  They moved as one toward the doors.

  “Lindsey, where are you going? What about the interviews?” Herb Gunderson came out of the glassed-in room they’d been using.

  “They’re going to have to wait, Herb. My dog is missing,” she said.

  “But what if our last candidate shows up?” he asked. “I checked, and we’re technically supposed to wait for at least thirty minutes.”

  “Tell her to have a seat, and I’ll try to be back in thirty minutes with my dog,” she said. With that, Lindsey led the way out of the building into the cold, wet afternoon.

  Within minutes, Lindsey’s shoes and pants were soaked. She didn’t care. The end of her nose was frozen, and her cheeks felt hardened from the cold. Still, the only thing she could think about was Heathcliff. Lindsey glanced at Beth. She looked equally as miserable and determined.

  They hurried through Briar Creek’s small side streets, pausing to call, “Heathcliff, come here, boy!”

  But no wiggly black dog answered their call. Lindsey couldn’t even be sure he could hear them over the wind, which seemed to grab their words as soon as they left their lips and smash them to the ground as if they were no more significant than the raindrops it used to pelt them repeatedly.

  When they reached the park that Heathcliff loved, it was full of puddles but no laughing children and no gossiping caregivers sitting on the surrounding benches. The swings swayed back and forth with each gust, giving the abandoned park a ghostly feeling. Lindsey shivered.

  Beth grabbed Lindsey’s arm and pulled her under the large climbing apparatus. Lindsey stepped in a puddle and cringed at the cold that filled her shoe, not that she could get any wetter. The big plastic fort over their heads gave them some shelter from the wind, which was a welcome respite.

  “I don’t see him,” Beth said. She wiped the rain from her face.

  “I don’t either,” Lindsey agreed. “If he were here, he would have come to us, unless . . .”

  “Unless what?”

  “He’s injured.” Lindsey could barely choke the sentence out.

  “He’s not!” Beth insisted. “He’s a smart dog. Something must have caused him to run off like that. Maybe he saw a hot female dog and just couldn’t help himself.”

  Lindsey had to give her friend points for trying. “He doesn’t really have a full boy-dog operating system at his disposal, so I’m not sure that would cause him to dash off like that.”

  Beth looked unhappy to have her theory squashed. Their phones hummed at the same time, and they gave each other a startled glance.

  “Maybe someone found him,” Beth said as they both grappled to pull their phones from their pockets with their cold, clumsy fingers.

  Two texts were waiting, one from Violet and one from Charlene. No one had seen Heathcliff, and the other two pairs of searchers were going to separate and see if they could cover more ground.

  “I think that�
�s a good idea,” Beth said. “I’ll text them and let them know that the park is a no-go.”

  Lindsey felt the crush of disappointment weigh on her. She shook her head. She was not giving up, not even close. While Beth tapped out a text, Lindsey felt her phone buzz. She checked the screen and saw she had incoming texts from Mike Sullivan, whom everyone called Sully, and Robbie Vine. Both men had heard that Heathcliff was missing, and they were out looking for him, too. She texted them back a status report and a thank-you and felt a surge of hope. Surely, with all of his favorite people looking for him, her sweet boy would be found.

  “I hate to leave our shelter,” Beth said, “but I think we’ll have more luck if we split up like the others. I’ll take Grove Road into the neighborhood and knock on doors. Which way do you want to go?”

  Lindsey glanced at the area. When she and Heathcliff came to the park, they took a walking path along the marshlands back to their house. There was a big gray cat who hung out in the area, and Heathcliff liked to bark at her; although he never stood a chance of catching her, he sure enjoyed giving chase. The cat seemed to enjoy it, too, which Lindsey found odd. The dirt path was a favorite of Heathcliff’s. Maybe he had gone that way.

  “I’m going to search along the path that cuts through the marsh,” she said. “We use it all the time, so it’s familiar to him.”

  “All right, stay in touch,” Beth said. She went to leave their spot but then turned back to Lindsey and gave her a quick hug. “Don’t worry. We’ll find him.”

  “Thanks,” Lindsey said. She felt tears sting her eyes, but she blinked them away. She refused to get upset until all hope was lost.

  As Beth took off in one direction, Lindsey set out in the opposite. She searched two short neighborhood streets and the back of the churchyard as she went.

  The wind rendered her umbrella useless, but she kept it in hand just the same. She crossed the street to the main park in town. She blinked the rain out of her eyes and squinted at the gazebo at the far end. She didn’t see her boy taking cover there or under any of the benches that sat at the edge of the green, offering a view of the bay and the Thumb Islands beyond.

  She felt a panicked sob well up in her chest. Heathcliff had come to her a little over a year ago during an epic nor’easter. Some horrible person had shoved him, a young puppy, into the library book drop. He could have frozen to death but, no, instead he had wagged his way into Lindsey’s life with a zest and enthusiasm for living that was unrivaled.

  His furry black face was the first one she saw in the morning, usually when she was trying to get him up and out of her bed. She still wasn’t quite sure how he managed to carve out that territory as his own, but that was his charm. He won over hearts with his bushy eyebrows, perky ears and fuzzy tail. Lindsey didn’t know anyone, barring Ms. Cole, who could resist his handsome face and happy-go-lucky personality.

  She crossed the park, feeling as if she was fighting the wind for every step. A big gust knocked her back two steps, but she redoubled her efforts, lowered her head and forged on, refusing to turn back.

  “Lindsey! Lindsey!”

  She paused. Was it wishful thinking that made her think someone was calling her? She turned in the direction of the sound. A blurry figure stood at the edge of the park, covered from head to knee in a bright yellow slicker. Lindsey narrowed her eyes. She didn’t recognize the person and was about to turn back when they started waving.

  Maybe it was someone who had seen Heathcliff. She hurried across the sodden ground. Her shoes sank into the soft soil, making the trek even more difficult. When she got close, she saw that it was Jeanette Palmer, owner of the Beachfront Bed and Breakfast.

  Jeanette was eighty-plus years old, but it didn’t show. She wore her snow-white hair in a topknot, which was covered in a clear plastic bonnet, and she had a well-muscled, petite figure that seemed to be in perpetual motion. She also had a fondness for the steamier novels that the library carried. Lindsey hoped she wasn’t being flagged down for a status update on the latest Jennifer Ashley novel.

  “Lindsey!” Jeanette grabbed her hands in hers. “I saw him. I saw Heathcliff!”

  “You did?” Lindsey was so excited she actually jumped for joy. It was a bad plan, as she landed in a puddle, soaking her shoes even more. “Where?”

  Jeanette’s face crumpled with concern. “He was in the road, and a man on a motorcycle was chasing him.”

  “What?” Lindsey cried.

  “Heathcliff barked at the motorcycle, and the motorcycle rider tried to hit him, then Heathcliff ran and barked, and the motorcyclist tried to hit him again. It was horrible. I tried to get to him, but I was too far away and couldn’t move any faster in this damn wind.” Jeanette sounded distraught, and Lindsey squeezed her hands in hers to let her know it was all right.

  “Then what happened?” Lindsey asked.

  “Oh, honey, I am so sorry,” Jeanette said.

  Lindsey felt the world go still, and her breath stalled, her blood stopped pumping and she felt her chest collapse in on itself. She couldn’t bear to hear that her baby had been hit by the motorcycle. She just couldn’t.

  “Is he . . . Is he . . . ?” She couldn’t say the words.

  “I don’t know,” Jeanette said. “I saw him lie down on the road right in front of the bike. I didn’t think he’d been hit, but now I think he must have been. Then the motorcycle driver picked him up and put him on his lap and took off.”

  “What?” Lindsey asked. She sucked in a huge gulp of air, and her heart started to pound hard, as if to make up for missed beats. She was dizzy but fought to stay in the moment. “Where did they go?”

  “I’m not sure, but it looked like they were headed toward the old marsh road,” Jeanette said.

  Lindsey didn’t pause to think about it. She squeezed Jeanette’s hands and kissed her cheek. “Thank you!”

  “Lindsey, you can’t go after them,” Jeanette cried. “You could be abducted by some sadistic biker gang and be tortured or worse!”

  Worse than torture? Lindsey didn’t think she imagined the thrilled note in Jeanette’s voice. The woman really needed to wean off of the racy reading material.

  “I’ll be careful, I promise,” she said.

  Then she took off running. The path that she and Heathcliff liked to walk ran parallel with the old marsh road, which skirted the wetlands on this side of the bay. If she was very fast, and very lucky, she might be able to catch them.

  She darted into a copse of trees. The smell of damp earth and wet leaves filled her nose, which at any other time she would have stopped to take in and savor, but not now. The bare-limbed canopy of branches overhead didn’t diminish the rain, but the thick trunks of the grove did cut the wind. She hurried, running blindly along the well-worn path, trying to keep from tripping on the uneven ground and exposed roots in her effort to catch up to her dog and whoever had taken him.

  The path led down into a small ravine. Lindsey slipped down the muddy trail and would have landed in the large puddle at the bottom if she hadn’t hooked her arm around a nearby white oak. The bark was cold and wet, but the young tree felt strong. Lindsey pulled herself upright and moved to the side of the path where the ground was higher and less wet. She picked her way along the damp leaves, trying to avoid another fall.

  Scrambling up the opposite bank proved just as tricky, and she had to shove thin branches out of her face while she pulled herself up the rocky incline. Her breath was steaming out of her lips into the cold afternoon air, which caused her lungs to burn. She paused for just a moment to catch her breath before continuing on.

  The sound of the rain hammering the ground was her only companion. She didn’t hear the rustle of critters or the chirp of birds. It seemed as if everyone had the good sense to take shelter from the storm, everyone except Heathcliff. She thought about what Jeanette had told her. She couldn’t imagine why Heathcliff had taunted the person on the motorcycle. That wasn’t like him at all.

  There was no argui
ng that his barking at the motorcyclist and then running away had definitely been a ploy to get the driver’s attention, but why? Why would he have run away from Charlie? Heathcliff loved Charlie, so much so that when Charlie’s band practiced in the apartment below Lindsey’s, Heathcliff liked to howl along, almost as if he considered himself their lead singer.

  What could have triggered Heathcliff to run away like that? She couldn’t imagine. And what had the motorcyclist wanted with her dog? Maybe they thought he was lost and they were going to take him to an animal shelter.

  She wondered if she should text Beth to go ahead and call the shelters if she got back to the library first. She started to reach for her phone when she heard a yip. She froze, straining her ears against the weather’s forceful presence to see if she heard it again. There was nothing. Had she imagined it?

  She moved quietly forward, almost as if she was afraid her movement might chase the sound away. There! She heard it again. It was hard to tell which direction it had come from, but she realized that she was near one of the old fishing sheds that dotted the shoreline. Could the person who took Heathcliff have taken him there? But why? Not for anything good, she was sure.

  Lindsey jogged up the path, feeling newly invigorated by the sound of her boy’s bark. She knew it was him, she just knew it. The path wound around a large section of forest and then leveled out. A dirt road crossed the path and led back into the marsh where the fishing sheds began. Lindsey turned onto the dirt road, hoping that it wasn’t just the power of wishful thinking that convinced her she’d heard that familiar bark.

  The road was wider and smoother than the path had been. She glanced over the dried grass and tall stalks of phragmites and could see the roof of her house on the opposite side of the marsh. Lindsey lived on the third floor of the captain’s house, which was one in a line of old houses that had been built when Briar Creek had found its footing as a resort town in the late eighteen hundreds.

  Most of the large houses were now three-family homes with the various floors being rented out to tenants. It was a particularly lovely area, as the yards were big, the driveways were paved with crushed shells and picket fences divided the properties in a politely charming manner.