The Bookshop on Autumn Lane (24 page)

Kit tried to pull me off, but I dodged his grasp. I stepped forward until I was nose-to-nose with the pudgy man. “There
are
more important things. Like making sure the driveway of a hospital is accessible. And then my dog!”

“Who do you think you are, young lady?”

The door behind us blew open and several papers flew off the dispatcher's desk. No one was there.

Kit finally managed to wrap an arm around my middle. “If Moby is in a shelter we can wait.”

I struggled out of his arms. “I would be happy to wait if there were a real emergency, but not so this carnivorous man can get to his fumb deast.”

“My fumb what?” The man turned back to the dispatcher and bellowed, “Pick up the phone again and call, Parker!”

“No Parker, don't do it!” I shouted.

“Trudy, stop,” said Kit.

“Trudy?” The man's jowls shook when he spoke.

Kit stepped between us and put his hands up like a preacher trying to calm the masses. “She's upset because her dog has been out in the storm. We understand you have places to be. So—”

The man's lips curled smugly and his chest began to shake as if he thought the situation was funny. “Trudy Brown. I should have known by your red hair. I've heard all about you.”

Kit gave up all attempts to reason with the man. He turned to me and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Let's go sit in the corner and wait until they are—”

“Trudy, the dummy who has that bookstore!”

Kit stilled. His face lost all color except for his beautiful blue eyes, which grew very dark behind his rain-splattered glasses. Slowly, he turned around until he faced the man. “What did you say?”

“Now I know why she's so crazy. She's Trudy Brown. The stupid retar—”

Now I was trying to put myself between Kit and this man. “It's not important, Kit. Let's just wait like you said.”

But Kit poked the man in the chest with his index finger. “Don't you ever call her that again!”

“He touched me. Did you see that, Parker? He touched me!”

The dispatcher was out of his chair. He inserted himself between both men. “Let's all calm down, everyone.”

“Calm down? This man with the funny accent attacked me.”

“That was nothing but my finger. I'll be happy to show you what an attack feels like.”

“What are you? A drunk Irishman?”

That made Kit madder. He shrugged the deputy's arm off. “I demand you apologize to the lady.”

“You're as loony as her. Two retards.”

I grabbed the back of Kit's coat and the dispatcher reached for his radio. “Uh, is there a patrol car nearby?” he said into the speaker.

The three men shifted around each other, not exactly touching, but threatening as they slid across the small lake of water in the middle of the floor. That was when I saw the broomstick in the corner of the room.

“A
broom, Trudy? Really?”

“I was trying to keep you apart. It wasn't my fault that man slid and ended up on the floor like a clump of Jell-O.”

“His hair came off.”

“Only because his stupid-looking rain hat went flying.”

“No man likes to see his hair lying in a puddle.”

“Then he shouldn't have pushed you.”

We sat on a bench in a cell of the Harrison County Jail. It was conveniently located behind the dispatcher's office, so the officer who answered the dispatcher's call didn't have very far to lead us.

I got up and paced back and forth until Kit told me to sit down. “You're making me dizzy!”

I dropped down on the bench with my back to the wall and clutched the bench impatiently. I didn't care if we stayed in the jail all night or all week, for that matter. I just wanted to know if my dog was all right.

Next to me, Kit leaned against the wall, crossing his arms like an unhappy child. “I can take care of myself. I didn't need you to defend me.”

“That man was mean and rude.”

“He was. But if we had just let him get on with his business, we wouldn't be here.”

I lifted my chin and said, “His business of leaving the clinic blocked so he could go eat a dead bird?”

“Get over the dead-bird business. I eat dead birds. And so does Moby, for that matter.”

I was silent after that. Ungrateful man.

The jail cell was cold and the concrete walls were pink, of all colors. Like Pepto-Bismol. Some psychologist must have recommended the color. Maybe criminals felt better when they were surrounded by pink. I, for one, only felt a strange chalkiness inside my mouth. It made me thirsty.

Every once in a while I heard voices on the other side of the cell door. The window on the door was made of bars. If they had let me keep my pocketknife I might have been able to use the serrated blade on the metal. Unfortunately, I didn't see a jailbreak in my future.

There was something uniquely uncomfortable about sitting in damp clothing. Bending my knees made me feel like I had been packaged in shrink wrap.

I grew tired of Kit's huffing sighs. “You can play action hero next time. Stop pouting.”

“I don't pout.”

“Yes, you—”

“Sorry it took me so long to get here.” A familiar face appeared on the other side of the door: J. D. Hardy. He unlocked the cell and entered.

“J. D.!” I leaped from the bench.

Kit rose more slowly. “I apologize for bothering you again on such a busy night, J. D.,” he said. “Nobody else in town answered their phone.”

“I'm not surprised. Instead of canceling the football game in Grayling, the refs kept calling for a delay. Half the town sat in the Grayling High School gymnasium for hours waiting for the weather to clear. It's always been a dead zone, so they probably never got the call.”

“Trudy here didn't mean to clobber that man with a broom. It was a bit of a misunderstanding.”

J. D. let out a slow breath and grinned at me. “I know all too well how that happens.” I had heard rumors about last summer. But I didn't want to ask. J. D. nodded toward the dispatcher's office. “I got the whole story from Parker. I know you aren't entirely to blame. But you chose the wrong man to tangle with.”

“Who was he?” I asked.

“John Hamner. He's a judge. Everyone around here calls him ‘Judge Jackhammer.' He uses the gavel like he's cutting up concrete on I-75.” J. D. kept his voice low.

Kit rubbed the back of his neck and raised an eyebrow at me. “Well, it looks like the broom got the better end of the jackhammer today.”

I curled my hand into a fist and ignored his sarcasm. “Can you tell us anything about Moby?”

J. D. smiled and I warmed under his kind, dark eyes. “He's fine. Elizabeth went straight to the animal shelter after your call. It's definitely Moby. She says to tell you that he wagged his tail when he saw her. And he had a fine dinner of real dog food that he seemed to like. Ate the whole thing.”

The relief was so strong and unexpected that I covered my face with my hands to control the explosion. Hot tears mixed with hyperventilating sobs.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you
. The words repeated themselves over and over in my mind. Never mind that I hadn't prayed in years. All evening my imagination had gone wild with thoughts of what could have happened to Moby. We had been together just a few short weeks, but I couldn't imagine him gone. It wasn't just about the bond we had developed, but it was about the unwavering loyalty and innocent trust he put in me. I would never forgive myself if he had been hurt.

Kit pulled me into the crook of his shoulder. I struggled to get my composure back while he rubbed the back of my neck.

J. D. cleared his throat. “Since neither of you has a prior criminal record, you are being released without bond until your arraignment. Kit, you might want to contact the British consulate to let them know what is going on.”

“Bloody hell. Will Judge Jackhammer preside over the arraignment?”

I stepped back from Kit, relieved and ready for a fight. “I'll bring a larger broom if I have to.”

J. D. laughed. “I am sure he would love to be the one to decide your future. But that is not legal in this country. Any judge with a connection to the alleged crime must recuse himself. You'll get someone who is impartial.”

“So we can go and get Moby now?” I couldn't wait another minute.

“The dispatcher is typing a report. It might take another hour or so. Then you will have to fill out some paperwork and show proof of ownership at the animal shelter. After that you should be fine.”

“Proof of what?” I asked.

“Ownership. You know, his license or his last rabies shot from the vet. That kind of thing.”

I stared at J. D. and my stomach dropped to my soggy boots.

Kit shook J. D.'s hand. “I can't thank you enough. You've been a real hero, J.D.”

“No. Not really . . .”

“Yes, you have. A real hero! Isn't he, Trudy?”

I nodded vaguely. J. D. ran his hand over his mouth to cover a grin at Kit's words. “Don't think twice about it. That is what I'm here for.”

J. D. saw my face and paused. “Are you all right, Trudy?”

“Yeah . . .” I said in a weak voice.

When he left, Kit plopped down on the bench and took a deep breath. “It will be a relief to get out of here, get Moby, and spend the rest of the night in a warm bed.”

I slunk to the bench and sat down gingerly, afraid to meet his gaze.

“What's wrong?” Kit asked.

“Umm . . . there might be a bit of a problem.”

“What kind of problem?” he asked slowly.

“I don't have any paperwork for Moby.”

Several seconds passed as he tried to process what I had just said.

“Can you repeat that?” His voice was suddenly sharp.

“I—I don't have anything to show that Moby is mine.”

“A license? Registration?”

I shook my head.

“Papers from his previous owner? Dog tags?”

I closed my eyes.

“Did you even take him to a vet to see if he needed shots?”

I dropped my chin to my chest.

Kit took a slow breath. “You didn't even get his vaccinations checked?”

“Nooo . . .” It came out in barely a whisper.

“That was du—” He stopped himself.

But I finished the word for him. “Dumb. I know.”

He put his head back and stared at the ceiling. “Damn! What a bloody, bloody mess!”

“Yes.” My hair hung limply over my eyes and hot rivers of shame streamed down my face. “I'm a hypo—hippo—you know! With my vegan lifestyle and all my talk of anti-hunting . . . not harming animals. Not even an unfertilized egg. I'm a hippa—what the hell is that word?”

“Hypocrite?”

“A stupid one.”

He was up and stomping around the cell. “Stop it. Stop doing that!”

“What?”

He stopped in front of me. “Putting yourself down. You don't even know you're doing it sometimes. You had a tough life, Trudy. Your mother died. Your father dumped you on Aunt Gertrude. She was unsympathetic. Then you ran away. You got the short end of the stick.”

“I'm not feeling sorry for myself.”

“Shut up and let me talk!”

I leaned back. “Go right ahea—”

“It's time to grow up and stop pretending you're some sort of free spirit who doesn't want to hurt anything. Moby depended on you. And you didn't protect that poor, sweet dog like you should have. All because of some misguided sense of freedom.”

“I didn't mean to hurt him. I just didn't think I could take care of him as well as some people.”

He stopped in front of me. “Some people? You are missing my point. You know something, Trudy? Even that fat man who was on his way to a pheasant dinner—that man you knocked over the head with a broomstick—even he probably has a pet. If he can do it, why can't you?”

I drew my feet up to the bench and wrapped my hands around my knees. There wasn't a single good excuse I could make for my stupidity.

Kit sat down at the end of the bench, as far from me as he could get. I heard him breathing in large, angry bursts. I buried my head in my knees and we sat like that for a long time.

* * *

A half-hour later we emerged from the jail cell to a stack of papers that we were obligated to fill out before we were released. My stack took longer to complete because I couldn't read with everyone looking at me. Kit finally picked up the forms, read them to me, and showed me where to sign. When we were finished, I asked the dispatcher if he knew any way to spring Moby out of the animal shelter without identification.

“You're just lucky that they changed the laws. It used to be up to the county whether they destroyed an unlicensed dog or not.”

“
What
?” My heart went cold at the thought that Moby might have been killed in some gas chamber just because of me.

“Yep. It was perfectly legal until the laws were changed.”

“Is there any way I can get him back tonight?”

“Nope. You'll have to find someone who can vouch for you and then there will be fines to pay. You'll have to get a license and probably they won't let you have that until you prove he's up on his shots.”

“All that?” I asked in a weak voice.

Kit was done with his paperwork. He sent me a withering gaze and said sarcastically, “Funny how most people go through all that rigmarole of licenses and vet visits.”

The dispatcher was a little dense. “Well, most people will do anything for their pets. I heard there was a lady in Truhart who left all the money in her bank account to the animal shelter in her pet's name.”

“You don't say.”

“A lot of people thought she was crazy, but we might have closed the animal shelter if she hadn't done that. Your dog would probably be lost in the system down in Saginaw if it weren't for her.”

I shoved my last form toward him and watched his face change. “Brown? Gertrude Brown. Does that ring a bell?”

It took a few seconds, but finally his face changed. “Now that I think of it, that was her name . . .”

“What a coincidence.”

His nostrils flared and the corner of his mouth tilted. “Now, that's fate, isn't it? Same name of the lady who left the money. And now your dog is at that same shelter. Kind of ironic.”

“Jesus,” Kit said under his breath and he walked away.

When we left the office we were met with a blast of cold air and white. I looked up at a gently falling snow. It fell in a muffled hush that would have been soothing after all the pounding rain if my nerves weren't so frayed. We approached the SUV and paused. The windshield was covered in a thin sheet of ice and snow. Kit held up his keys and unlocked the doors of the truck without a word. I wondered if he would ever smile at me again.

“Do you have an ice scraper?” I asked.

“No. I didn't expect I'd have to deal with a snowstorm in the middle of October,” he bit back, as if that were my fault.

“It's hardly a snowstorm. Just flurries.” I slid into the passenger seat. “Turn on the defrost and the windshield should be clear soon. This isn't uncommon for this time of year.”

After several minutes of waiting that seemed like hours with a surly British man sitting next to me, the windshield melted for the wipers to clear the slushy ice. The heat kicked in and I offered Kit his coat. He refused and sat like a block of stone-cold ice.

We backed out of the parking lot and the SUV skidded as we turned onto the two-lane highway.

“Do you want me to drive? I'm used to driving on slippery roads,” I offered.

“We have snow in England. I can manage.”

“Like once a year. Let me drive, Kit. Really.”

“This is a truck. I think it can handle the roads just fine. Better than your little bug.”

“But there are things you need to be careful of with a rear-wheel drive.”

He ignored me and kept going.

“You are really unpleasant when you're mad.” I adjusted the defroster and the speed of the windshield wipers.

We turned down another road that led to Truhart.

“Don't step on the brake when you turn,” I said.

Everything would have been fine if Kit hadn't taken his eyes off the road to tell me to mind my own business.