pocket. “Hey, boy. What did you see over there at the lighthouse?” Dillon handed me the leash. “Take him. A dog is a good buddy in times of stress. A car crash taught me the value of a dog.”
“When was this?”
“Remember my Porsche?”
Red, loud, and fast. Like a magic carpet, the roadster ferried us to Las Vegas and then to Route 66 to the ocean. A thread of the thrilling memory dangled inside me like a rope teasing me to climb it. “What happened?”
“Crashed it the year after you left me. Going too fast and missed a corner. I ended up in the hospital with a broken leg and wrist and depression over my sorry state. A hospital volunteer brought in a dog for me to commune with.”
“Let me guess. An American water spaniel?”
He grinned. “No, a golden retriever. But then I got interested in dogs and found out Wisconsin had its very own official breed of dog, the American water spaniel. I held off on getting one until I finished my degrees and got situated in Dad’s construction company, but thinking about what a dog had meant to me kept me going and pushing forward. Sound silly?”
My heart was melting, damn him. “No, not silly at all.”
“You’ll take him for a little while today, then? Your grandpa might need him, too.”
He had me with the mention of Gilpa. “Okay.” The fudge-colored dog panted up at me and wagged his tail as if he knew human language. “Come on, Lucky Harbor.”
Dillon gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ll pick him up by lunchtime. Want me to bring a sandwich over for you?”
I almost objected, then thought better of it. I might need an excuse to get out of the fudge shop after news of Lloyd’s death hit the gossip mills. Everybody would be dropping by to ask me to recount finding the body.
“Sure, Dillon. Thanks. See ya later.”
When I got back into the truck, the dog’s big brown eyes seemed to want to tell me something.
Another one of those odd chills prickled my back. This dog had been frantic at the lighthouse. Dillon’s question came to mind. What did the dog see? A suicide? Or something more sinister? I recalled how he’d been snuffling about the grounds at the lighthouse with a determined ferocity. Had Lucky Harbor been only upset about finding a dead person? Or had he detected some other scent in the grass that was distinctive? I started the truck’s engine, letting the roar erase the horrible speculation creeping into my brain.
Chapter 7
T he shop buzzed with fishermen and tourists buying gear and fudge when I walked in around ten thirty with Lucky Harbor.
Professor Alex Faust was there with more copies of
Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage
stacked on the counter while he talked with Cody at the register. It had slipped my mind that he was signing copies today outside at one of the round bistro tables. He fumbled in his briefcase filled with papers, tourist brochures and our
Peninsula Pulse
magazine, and a tablet computer. Upon seeing me, he snapped shut the briefcase and handed me bookmarks with a smile.
“You’ll be outside this morning, Alex,” I said.
“What a glorious day,” he said with great exuberance. He hadn’t heard about Lloyd’s death obviously. He went outside with his armful of books and briefcase. Customers snaked in a line behind him. He had a certain amount of fame, which is why I’d suggested to John he’d be a good fudge judge.
I helped the professor push together both of the two small tables with chairs that I’d added to our outdoor landscape for summer tourists. Gilpa’s rough-hewn wooden benches along the walls were still there, too, perfect for fishermen pulling on waders. I’d also put up planters with red geraniums under both of the big bay windows. We Belgians didn’t eat dirt like Kelsey’s famous restaurant find in Japan, but we knew how to turn dirt into beautiful floribunda art.
I didn’t see my grandpa, so I went back inside and rang up a fisherman’s purchase of bobbers for his son. I went back over to my
“When was this?”
“Remember my Porsche?”
Red, loud, and fast. Like a magic carpet, the roadster ferried us to Las Vegas and then to Route 66 to the ocean. A thread of the thrilling memory dangled inside me like a rope teasing me to climb it. “What happened?”
“Crashed it the year after you left me. Going too fast and missed a corner. I ended up in the hospital with a broken leg and wrist and depression over my sorry state. A hospital volunteer brought in a dog for me to commune with.”
“Let me guess. An American water spaniel?”
He grinned. “No, a golden retriever. But then I got interested in dogs and found out Wisconsin had its very own official breed of dog, the American water spaniel. I held off on getting one until I finished my degrees and got situated in Dad’s construction company, but thinking about what a dog had meant to me kept me going and pushing forward. Sound silly?”
My heart was melting, damn him. “No, not silly at all.”
“You’ll take him for a little while today, then? Your grandpa might need him, too.”
He had me with the mention of Gilpa. “Okay.” The fudge-colored dog panted up at me and wagged his tail as if he knew human language. “Come on, Lucky Harbor.”
Dillon gave me a thumbs-up. “I’ll pick him up by lunchtime. Want me to bring a sandwich over for you?”
I almost objected, then thought better of it. I might need an excuse to get out of the fudge shop after news of Lloyd’s death hit the gossip mills. Everybody would be dropping by to ask me to recount finding the body.
“Sure, Dillon. Thanks. See ya later.”
When I got back into the truck, the dog’s big brown eyes seemed to want to tell me something.
Another one of those odd chills prickled my back. This dog had been frantic at the lighthouse. Dillon’s question came to mind. What did the dog see? A suicide? Or something more sinister? I recalled how he’d been snuffling about the grounds at the lighthouse with a determined ferocity. Had Lucky Harbor been only upset about finding a dead person? Or had he detected some other scent in the grass that was distinctive? I started the truck’s engine, letting the roar erase the horrible speculation creeping into my brain.
Chapter 7
T he shop buzzed with fishermen and tourists buying gear and fudge when I walked in around ten thirty with Lucky Harbor.
Professor Alex Faust was there with more copies of
Wisconsin’s Edible Heritage
stacked on the counter while he talked with Cody at the register. It had slipped my mind that he was signing copies today outside at one of the round bistro tables. He fumbled in his briefcase filled with papers, tourist brochures and our
Peninsula Pulse
magazine, and a tablet computer. Upon seeing me, he snapped shut the briefcase and handed me bookmarks with a smile.
“You’ll be outside this morning, Alex,” I said.
“What a glorious day,” he said with great exuberance. He hadn’t heard about Lloyd’s death obviously. He went outside with his armful of books and briefcase. Customers snaked in a line behind him. He had a certain amount of fame, which is why I’d suggested to John he’d be a good fudge judge.
I helped the professor push together both of the two small tables with chairs that I’d added to our outdoor landscape for summer tourists. Gilpa’s rough-hewn wooden benches along the walls were still there, too, perfect for fishermen pulling on waders. I’d also put up planters with red geraniums under both of the big bay windows. We Belgians didn’t eat dirt like Kelsey’s famous restaurant find in Japan, but we knew how to turn dirt into beautiful floribunda art.
I didn’t see my grandpa, so I went back inside and rang up a fisherman’s purchase of bobbers for his son. I went back over to my
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