Tailed by Brian M. Wiprud Page A

the FBI dossier on me included that epicurean Garth factoid or not.
    The screen door to the shop was surrounded by scattered antique agricultural hardware, like two-man saws, threshers, sod busters, and barrels. Across from the entrance was another set of buildings that looked like wooden coach houses. Between was the empty dirt parking lot.
    The screen door wouldn’t budge. That’s when I noticed a sign hanging on the other side that said CLOSED—COME AGAIN !
    I stepped back to look for another entrance and nearly tripped over a dog standing next to me. It was a yellow dog with a white chest, about knee high. Tail wagging slowly, the dog seemed to be averting its glance almost apologetically.
    â€œYou wouldn’t be Vargas, would you?” I reached down to pet the mutt’s head.
    There was a flash of white teeth. Had my reflexes been slower, my hand would have been Alpo. The dog smiled, resuming its unassuming composure. Great. Was this what I had to look forward to when Angie and I returned from the breeder?
    â€œThat’s Wilco.” A swarthy man in a baker’s cap, cheek dusted with flour, was hanging out of a side window. “I am Vargas. You must be Garth.”
    â€œHow did you know my name?” I hadn’t mentioned it when I phoned.
    â€œNicholas called. Wait there.” He disappeared, adding: “And don’t pet the dog.”
    I watched as Wilco sauntered away, looking for someone else to eat.
    The screen door opened, but it wasn’t Vargas who appeared. Instead, it was an attractive, middle-aged woman in a yellow print dress that looked like it had been made by hand from a pattern. Her black hair was stacked high, country style, and she smoothed her dress on her hips as she stepped off the porch and approached me.
    â€œAre you Shelly?” We shook hands.
    â€œHeavens, no. Shelly is a dog.” She looked me up and down, from my running shoes up the chinos, white oxford shirt and sport coat, finally stopping at my unruly blond hair.
    â€œI thought his name was Wilco.” Self-consciously, I tried to tame my hair.
    â€œNot that dog, another one.”
    I kept smiling. “A pastry shop named after a dog?”
    â€œC’mon in, I’ll show you.”
    I followed her print dress through the screen door to an entryway, where tucked in the corner sat a dusty horse wagon. Resting on a blanket on the cracked leather upholstery was a collie looking intently out the window as if she sensed the barn was on fire. The dog sat very still. Too still. A placard around her neck read: SHELLY.
    â€œThat’s Shelly. People come from miles around to see her, and get their streusel.” The dog remained steadfast. Deadfast, to be exact. She was stuffed.
Now, this is my kind of dog
.
    â€œStupid question: what is streusel?”
    â€œPie, with, like, a crumb topping. Michigan favorite. Shelly died in 1938. Was a local hero several times over. She saved some kids from drowning when they fell through the ice on Green Pond, alerted the police once when Dillinger was hiding out in a person’s barn, and could predict rain. She wasn’t real busy during the Dust Bowl days. My name is Amber. I own this place.”
    Amber was still sizing me up, and I wasn’t sure why. Perhaps she was wondering what I’d done to need hiding out. Maybe she was trying to tell if I was violent. Then again, she had a twinkle in her eye that made me wonder if she didn’t take a liking to me as a man.
    â€œNice place it is, too. Is Vargas your…?” Husband? Boyfriend?
    â€œGosh, he’s just my partner here at the streusel shop. Whodathunk that a wetback baker would be so good at making blueberry streusel? C’mon in.”
    We stepped from the porch into a dimly lit dining room.
    â€œWe have a full menu. Lunch and dinner. About half our business now is mail order streusel. That ad in the
New Yorker
really paid off.”
    â€œLet me ask you