didn’t have a notice with me. If you would have some paper, perhaps . . .” She called after her mother. “Bring out a pen and paper, Mama.” In only a moment, I was jotting in capital letters on an 8-by-10
white notecard:
NOTICE OF A NIM AL R ESCUE
I wrote
I doubted the Dickersons would rush to call the police. I used the tape provided by my new friends to attach the message to the front door of Jack’s former residence. As I passed by the picket fence, I paused. “We had a call out here on Thursday. A car ran the stop sign”—I pointed toward the corner—“and almost hit a bicyclist. By
Ca ro ly n H a rt
the time we got here, there was no trace of the car and the rider was too upset to give us a good description. I don’t suppose either of you”—I looked inquiring—“happened to be outside around five o’clock Thursday evening? It was cold and windy.” The older woman clapped her hands. “I’ll bet it was Irene Chatham. She’s a hazard behind the wheel. I get off work at four-thirty and I get home about a quarter to five. She almost hit me coming out of her drive.” She pointed at Irene’s house. ”I’ll bet she ran right through that stop sign.”
I got the particulars, the make and year and color of her car, then tucked the bag of food under one arm, took Jack’s rope, and off we went. I hoped it didn’t occur to the bungalow’s residents to wonder why Officer Loy was afoot. I didn’t look back.
We’d gone only a few steps when I heard that familiar rumble.
“Precepts—”
I finished for Wiggins, “Three and Four.” Jack gave an eager snuffle, came up on his back legs, his front paws in the air.
“Good fellow.” Wiggins spoke with delight.
Jack’s chin went up and I knew Wiggins was stroking his throat.
Jack dropped down.
A genial harrumph. “Although becoming visible is best avoided, you handled this chap’s rescue very nicely. The official notice was well done. There will be no cause for the observers to suspect that anything unusual has occurred. However”—a heavy sigh—“the episode last night at the police station was highly irregular. Awkward.
A blot upon the bright shield of the department.” I was puzzled. “The police department? I thought the policeman did as well as could be expected.”
”Not a blot on the police department.” Now Wiggins was roused. “A blot on the fine reputation of the Department of Good Intentions.”
G h o s t at Wo r k
“Wiggins.” I handed him the leash. “If I’ve failed, I’ll resign at once.“ The leash was back in my hand immediately. Just as I expected, Wiggins would never desert Jack and I was taking him to a new and good home. I had a sudden picture of Wiggins as a little boy, minus the walrus mustache, a hound eagerly licking his face as he laughed in delight.
“Don’t be hasty, Bailey Ruth.” Wiggins’s voice was a bit farther away. “In the face of adversity, you protected Kathleen last night.
Moreover, Kathleen is growing in courage. Keep up the good work.”
Jack’s head turned, and I knew he was watching Wiggins depart.
I tugged on the leash. “Jack, old buddy, let’s go faster.” He answered with a little woof.
When we reached the church, Jack and I moved from tree to tree because there were a half-dozen cars parked behind the rectory and more cars and pickups in the church parking lot. Teenage boys were hefting bales of hay and monster pumpkins. Girls giggled and held the door to the parish hall. I was glad Kathleen was occupied with setting up for the Spook Bash.
As soon as Jack and I were safely on the porch, I disappeared. In the kitchen, I found some plastic bowls, filled one with water, the other with a small portion of kibble, brought them to the porch. Jack noisily drank, then devoured the food. He looked up expectantly.
I smoothed the top of his head. “I know you’re still hungry. But we’d better start off slow.”
Jack stared for a moment more, then wagged his tail, as if to say,
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I was sure of the latter. If it weren’t for Jack, I wouldn’t know one important fact: Irene Chatham had lied when she claimed to be home from 5 to 7 p.m. Thursday evening. In fact, she’d screeched from her driveway in a tearing hurry at about a quarter to five. I was almost sure I knew where she was going, but I needed proof. I suspected that Murdoch had called Irene from his office, intending to force a showdown with her and the rector, and Murdoch’s secretary was aware of that call. She was the kind of secretary who always knew what the boss was doing.
I found the telephone directory. In only a moment I had the address for Daryl Murdoch’s secretary. I checked
