The Dog That Saved Stewart Coolidge (9 page)

L
ISA'S SHIFT
ran through six o'clock, which she did not mind because it got her closer to forty hours and a more substantial paycheck—although even at forty hours the evaluation of
substantial
was debatable.

It was a different crowd of people in the afternoon than in the morning. Folks in the morning, the majority of them, were stopping in on their way to work. A few patrons, older folks, mainly, who had retired and had no real appointments, came in, sat, and talked for a while. They were her regulars and she knew many by name.

But in the afternoon it was a different crowd. They were older, but not old, and most of them were not skipping out of a job for a few minutes—they simply had no job to skip out of. They would buy a small coffee and sit and talk and stare out the window for hours on end.

I guess it would be better than watching afternoon TV.

Lately, many of their conversations centered on the “bandit dog.”

They talk louder than the old people. Maybe because they spend too much time at bars shouting over the music.

One semiregular, Kevin or Kellan or Carl…

He has that backwoods accent that no one understands.

…was speaking about catching the dog.

“I wuz talkin' to crazy Jerry Mallick las' night…”

Hey, that's my landlord.

“…and he said he was headin' out dog hunting t'day. If he could scramble up 'nuff money fur gas.”

Lisa usually did not enter into the conversations of customers, but the place was nearly empty and she could not stop herself.

“Dog hunting? What do you mean, dog hunting?”

Kevin or Kellan or Carl looked up, surprised that anyone was listening to him.

“Whale…huntin' dogs, ye know. That dog robber one. With the reward. Jerry said he got his shotgun all ready and that wuz that.”

Lisa, in a perfect world, would have jumped over the counter and tried to throttle Kevin or Kellan or Carl, but the counter was high and she was not a tall girl and manhandling and beating on customers might be an offense that would warrant termination.

Maybe.

Lisa had to say something. “Listen, if you see ‘crazy' Jerry, you have to tell him that there is no reward if the dog is dead. None. There actually may be a fine if it is harmed in any way.”

Lisa sounded firmer, and a little angrier, than she had ever sounded before in the Wired Rooster, perhaps ever in her life.

“No reward?”

“None. The dog has to be alive. For Pete's sake, we're not dealing with a rabid grizzly bear. It's just a hungry dog.”

Kevin or Kellan or Carl scratched his head.

“No reward for being dead? Whale, I'll b'sure to tell Jerry, if I sees him, ye know.”

With that, Kevin or Kellan or Carl got up, made a show of tossing his empty coffee cup into the recycling bin.

“Safe the world, you betcha.”

Lisa all but slumped over the counter, as if defeated.

The only other patron in the store was Nathan George, who often came in the afternoon after attending to matters at the county courthouse in town. He may have been a competent attorney, but whatever sport coat he wore, the garment was generally one size too small.

“Mr. George…” Lisa began.

“Nathan, if you would,” he replied, offering her a sidelong smile that creeped her out just a little.

“Nathan, what would happen if someone in town actually owned that dog? Would they be liable—or whatever it's called legally?”

Nathan sidled closer to the counter.

“If I give you free legal advice, do I get another latte? Quid pro quo, as it were.”

Lisa was the only staff person in the store at the time.

“Sure. A new
piccolo latte
. For advice.”

She went about making him his coffee.

“With two shots of espresso, if you would.”

“Sure.”

“Back to your legal query. If the owner were local, and knew what the dog was up to, he might be fined. Could be fined. That is if you could prove that they knew what the dog was doing and did not do anything to curtail the illegal activity. Not an open-and-shut case, by any stretch of the imagination.”

He added three artificial sweeteners to his coffee and stirred it with great deliberateness, licking off the stirrer before tossing it away.

“And they might face a fine for harboring a nuisance pet. Or a destructive animal. Not using a leash. Not keeping the animal's vaccinations up to date. A plethora of possible ordinance offenses.”

“Is that a lot of fines? Or money involved?”

“Miss Goodly, as long as you don't quote me by name in your next newspaper article—simply call me an ‘unnamed legal source'—none of these violations reaches felony status. Unless the dog chews off the leg of the store manager—and that wouldn't bother me. That pompous Mr. Arden. It's a grocery store, for Pete's sake, not Tiffany's.”

“So not a lot of money at risk?”

“If the DA wanted to throw the book at the dog's owner, maybe a thousand dollars in fines total. But that's a stretch. It is an election year, so I don't put anything past that incompetent law clerk of a DA that the wise citizens of this county have voted into office—for a third time.”

“Thanks,” Lisa said. “And the next latte will be on me as well.”

“As long as you deny I said anything untoward about anyone, Miss Goodly, I will be your go-to, unnamed source for all things legal. Our little secret, okay? I still need to practice law in this backwater village.”

“You have a deal…Nathan. Thanks.”

And Mr. George gave her that lopsided, pickerel smile again and Lisa felt a cold shudder run up her back in response.

As he left, Lisa's pleasant, customer-pleasing smile disappeared.

I'm sure Stewart doesn't have that kind of money. A thousand dollars.

She wiped the counter.

But then, neither do I.

L
ISA WAS
UP
early that morning. She had traded Wednesday off with Janie and now had to work Saturday. But she did not want to meet a real celebrity while smelling of coffee and scones and steamed two percent milk. She did not own a large enough wardrobe to agonize over her outfit selection, but she did spend extra time ironing her blouse and making sure that her shoes, while not highly polished, were not dusty and coffee-stained, either.

She heard Stewart sneak out early, very early, speaking in hushed tones. It was still dark outside and she knew he was sneaking Hubert outside for a few minutes, before dawn broke and everyone could see what he was doing.

On their return, she heard the soft clicking of Hubert's nails on the steps, a slow, methodical climbing, so as not to raise suspicion on anyone's part. Stewart descended the steps again, not much later, and she was very tempted to stop him before he left.

She was becoming fond of him. Sort of. Almost.

I guess I have a history of falling for guys I date too early and too fast. This doesn't seem like that, though.

She adjusted the heat setting on the iron.

And I was pretty sure that there weren't any guys my age in this town who were normal.

She looked out her bedroom window and watched him walk toward town.

But Stewart is normal. Nice and kind and normal. Gentle. Maybe a little lost—but who isn't?

She hurried back to her ironing. She would not get dressed for several more hours but wanted everything ready when the time came.

And I'm not falling for him. Not this time. I'm not wearing my heart on my sleeve, like my mother says I do. Or did.

She had printed out a copy of her résumé, just in case, which she slipped into a leather-like folder that held a pen and a yellow legal pad.

It makes me look professional.

She looked at her reflection in the bathroom mirror.

That is if a fourteen-year-old masquerading as an adult can look professional.

The market was busier than normal. On Wednesday, everyone in the Wellsboro zip code received the Tops Market circular, and there was a full-page ad in the
Gazette
. That always brought out the bargain-hunters early in the day.

No sense in waiting to make the trip if they run out of Cool Whip halfway through the sale.

But Stewart thought today might be busier than the normal Wednesday. And he thought that there were more people carrying cell phones, out in the open, than he had ever noticed before.

That's odd.

He busied himself with stocking each register with a full complement of paper and plastic bags, emptying the trash cans at each station—or at least checking to see if they
really
needed emptying, all under the watchful eye of Mr. Arden. For the last few days he had positioned himself in the far corner of the front of the store for much of the day, perhaps so he could keep an eye on the front doors, and see if the police actually did what they said they would do and cruised past the store “more often than never,” as Lieutenant Vardish had put it during yesterday's store meeting.

A few minutes after nine o'clock, when Stewart had run back to the soup aisle, aisle three, for a price check, he heard a small crest of sound, like a wave on a lake splashing against the shore driven by a slight breeze.

But he did hear, clearly, and above the modest din, Mr. Arden's high-pitched squeal, almost a squeal, porcine-like, nearly, “It's that dog! It's that dog! Stewart! Stewart!”

Stewart dropped the can of Top Valu cream of mushroom soup and sprinted over to aisle five, fumbling for his cell phone in his pocket as he ran. He had no intention of catching Hubert, other than on film.

And it's not film. It's digital—or electronic—but not film.

He arrived just as Hubert arrived at the bin of rawhide bones. Hubert looked up, puzzled, and turned his head to the side, as if hearing a high-pitched squeal of some sort.

Maybe Hubert is reacting to Mr. Arden's screeching.

It appeared to Stewart that Hubert recognized who he was.

For sure he knew who I was.

The dog stopped, for just a moment and smiled, wagging his tail.

Stewart said, “Hey, Hubert,” but said it very softly.

Hubert nodded, sort of, smiled more, then took one of the rawhide chews.

Stewart grabbed his phone and managed to get most of the robbery videoed without much shaking or loss of focus.

Then Hubert stared at Stewart, with the bone protruding out of both sides of his mouth, turned, and jogged back toward the entrance, speeding up and sliding around the corner like a cartoon dog digging for traction on the tile floor and drawing a bead on the automatic doors, accomplishing this sliding, complex getaway maneuver with verve and precision, as if he had spent hours practicing the moves.

Stewart couldn't see what Hubert was doing, but he could hear.

“Stop that dog! Stop that dog!”

That was Mr. Arden, of course. Then he clambered into view, arms and legs akimbo, almost jogging toward the entrance, also like a cartoon character, going as fast as a sedentary, overweight grocery store manager could manage in a time of crisis.

“Bar the doors! Get away from the mats!”

That was Mr. Arden again.

“Didn't I tell you to get away from the doors! Doesn't anyone in this town listen?”

By this time Stewart had slid into register number five.

“I dropped the can. Sorry. It was eighty-seven cents,” he shouted at the cashier—Josie or Josephine or Jay-Jay. (The name tag on her smock depended on her mood and hair color du jour.) Then he almost sprinted out the double exit doors.

Automatic doors are really slow when you're trying to run through them.

He made it outside and saw Hubert turn down Main Street, obviously heading back to Stewart's place. He ran as fast as he could and as he made the turn shouted out, “Hubert! Wait! Hubert!”

And Hubert slowed, then turned around, grinning wildly, the rawhide still in his mouth.

Stewart jogged up to him, stopping five feet away. He didn't want to scare him. And Stewart still wasn't sure just how a dog reacts to certain situations—like being chased with food in its mouth.

Stewart crouched down to Hubert's perspective.

“Hubert. How did you get out? You're not supposed to steal things. You know that, right? That's sort of in the Bible.”

What in the world made me say that? The Bible? What does a dog know about God and His rules?

Hubert almost hung his head, a little, as if he were just a bit ashamed, but he did not drop the bone.

“Do you want to give it back?”

Hubert, not far removed from being hungry every day and all day for weeks and weeks and weeks, shook his head, indicating no.

“Hubert,” Stewart said, trying to mimic the scolding voice he often heard his mother use, rising in inflection and drawing out the word.

Hubert shook his head again, then smiled, turned, and ran off down Main Street, taking a left on Maple, just like he had done before.

From behind Stewart came the screeching voice of an irate grocery store manager: “You almost had him! Why didn't you tackle him! Stewart! What's wrong with you people?”

Stewart stood and presented his thought-of-on-the-fly-hoping-it-sounded-authentic-and-heartfelt response.

“Maybe it had some sort of disease and if I caught the disease then the store might be liable and I didn't want to get you in trouble, Mr. Arden. I thought about grabbing it just like you said, but then the dog growled and showed his teeth.”

Stewart wondered if he told the lie with enough honesty.

And a moment later, he knew.

Mr. Arden believed him.

After Mr. Arden left, sputtering and mumbling angrily to himself, Stewart took out his phone and forwarded his video to Lisa with the short message, “Use this on your interview. It's from this A.M. Somehow Hubert got out. Stewart.”

Then he made his way back to the store, wondering if he had helped Lisa and if she would remember him and Hubert when she moved to Pittsburgh and became a famous TV reporter.

The store was still abuzz when Stewart returned, and everyone, or nearly everyone, wanted a second-by-second, frame-by-frame recap of today's daring daylight robbery—with which he was glad to comply.

It's better than just bagging groceries.

At twelve forty-five, Lisa positioned herself outside the Wired Rooster. That was where Heather Orlando said she and the KDKA News van would meet her. At one o'clock.

Is Orlando a real name? Or did she make it up? Heather Orlando. That doesn't sound real, does it?

Three minutes to one and Lisa saw the van coming, with a big radar dish or whatever it was on the roof and a long metal pole thing with wires coiled around, folded down for driving.

“That must be them,” she said and offered a small, smiling wave as they slowed and pulled to the curb. “As if there are lots of those vans in Wellsboro.”

“Lisa? Lisa Goodly?”

“That's me. Lisa.”

Heather Orlando stepped out of the van looking like she would feel comfortable walking on some red carpet—maybe not at the Oscars, but she was really pretty and really professional, wearing her trademark pink suit. It might have been a Chanel suit, but Lisa did not automatically recognize high couture, which meant any fashion that wasn't sold in the Fashion Bug in Lewisburg.

“Heather Orlando, KDKA Action News Team 2. So nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

Likewise.

Lisa wanted to smack herself on the forehead.

Likewise? That is so stupid sounding. Likewise?

“Listen, Lisa, it has been a long, long drive up here.”

Then she leaned closer to her, almost too close, and whispered something.

Lisa nodded.

“Sure. It's in the back. On the left.”

And with that, Heather scampered away and hurried inside the Wired Rooster.

The driver slid open the van's door, revealing all sorts of electronic gizmos and blinking lights inside. He grabbed a large camera from the floor of the van and began to fiddle with the dials as another man exited carrying a big, furry boom microphone.

They nodded in Lisa's direction.

Then the cameraman stage-whispered.

“This is like the twentieth pit stop we've made since leaving Pittsburgh. I figure we got twenty miles to the bathroom break.”

The cameraman laughed, or, more accurately, guffawed.

“You know who's worse?”

“Yeah. Jennifer Gill. She gets ten miles per.”

Heather returned, her very high and very thin nearly stiletto heels clacking loudly.

“So, Wellsboro has a dog bandit?”

Lisa nodded. “It appears that way. It's given the town something to talk about, since not much else happens here.”

“Ohh, that's good. Can you repeat that when we start rolling?”

Lisa managed not to shrug her answer.

“Sure.”

The two of them chatted for ten minutes about the particulars of the incidents.

She's actually pretty sharp. She asks good questions.

“And I have some video of the robbery this morning.”

“You do?”

Heather became very excited.

“Real video? That is great. Viewers love real videos. Can you show it to me?”

Lisa pulled out her phone.

“Clarence, come here and watch. Tell me if we can use this. Please tell me that we can use it.”

The cameraman, obviously Clarence, came over and peered over his glasses, which were halfway down his nose, at the small screen, watching the fifteen-second clip.

Clarence grunted. “It'll show okay. Decent resolution. E-mail it to me. I'll give you my card.”

“Fantastic,” Heather said with triumph. “This will run all day. And might even get picked up nationally. Wow. A video of the crime in progress. Fantastic.”