“Let’s visit the set soon?”
Serena nods. “Yeah, depending on the finances, this could very well be a personal vendetta. Colleagues would definitely make the suspect list,” she says, longingly looking at my murder board.
A murder and a television show set full of werewolfsuspects. I don’t like where this is headed.
***
I duck out early and dutifully drive to the shelter that’s holding our only witness to the murder, Harold’s dog.
The kid at the desk gives me the biggest smile when I walk in.
“I want to adopt a dog,” I get straight to the point.
“Sure, what kind of dog are you looking for?” she asks.
I put on a shy smile. “I’m not sure yet. Can I look around and see if I click with one of them?”
“Yes! I bet I can help you find your future best bud,” she announces, clapping her hands.
We walk past rows of dog cages, chatting until we reach a Rottweiler snoozing without a care in the world. Miranda passes him by, hoping to get me a doggy meet-cute for the ages. I might have to convince her I have a soul connection with this completely unbothered one right here.
“What’s his name?” I ask.
She rounds back to me. “Oh, this one?” She sounds confused. “His tag said Mickey. Poor boy’s owner died a few days ago,” she says loud enough for any dog to wake up. I know because every dog in the kennel looks up to us.
Not Mickey though. He just whines in his sleep, one paw going up, before he goes back to slumber.Okay, I love him!
Miranda turns to me, her gaze assessing, a little too thorough for my comfort. “You look like you have an active lifestyle, a Rottweiler would be the perfect companion for you,” she says.
We both turn and look at the snoozing guard dog.Sure. “I’ll take him,” I declare.
By the time we finish the paperwork, we’ve discussed everything about her life. Her manchild boyfriend, her college classes, and her family back in Minnesota.
“We had a vet check him up yesterday, and everything looks good,” she assures me. “He’s caught up on all his vaccines. But you can call here anytime you need any help,” she blinks up at me.
“Thanks,” I smile as she hands me Mickey’s leash. He doesn’t seem too broken up about his interrupted sleep. I give him a few scratches, and he bounces on his feet. “Who’s the good boy! Yes, you!!”
“In fact, here’s my number, you can call me anytime. For anything,” she says, pushing a piece of paper in my hand, her gaze hopeful.
I sigh. “Miranda, what did we talk about putting ourselves in dangerous situations?” I ask, disappointed.
“But you’re adetective. You’re not dangerous,” she argues.
“I’m also almost a decade older than you,” I explain. “Repeat after me, we’re only flirting with age-appropriate non-assholes.”
She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, old man,” she waves me off.
I laugh. “You take care of yourself and call me if you need me to beat anyone up.” I give her my card before walking back to my car.
Mickey prances beside me, the thoughts of his probably asshole previous owner already a distant memory. He’s pretty quiet in the back seat during the drive, and when I turn to check on him, he’s sleeping again. My heart soars at his cute little smile.
I realize halfway that I’m not driving back to my house at all. Ah well, since I’ve driven all this way, I might as well get the little guy a proper check-up. Who knows how much attention a volunteer would have given him? Poor boy must be so traumatized. Do veterinarians also provide mental health therapy to dogs? Guess we'll find out.
I park at my usual spot. The only difference? This time, I actually get out of the car. I feel bad for waking Mickey up again, but when I open the back door, he’s already looking up at me, tongue lolling out. “Let’s introduce you to your doctor,” I tell him, scratching his ear.
He trots by me happily as we enter the nearly empty clinic. A goth girl scowls at me from the reception. “We’re not taking any walk-ins today,” she informs me.
I smile at her. “But Elliot’s still in?” I ask.
