Free Drowning in Christmas (Kate Lawrence Mysteries) by Judith Ivie Page A

right, but with everything else I had on my plate, today was not the day to adopt a new cat.
    “The week after next,” I promised Linda and Jasmine. “We'll do it right after Christmas. I just have to get through the holiday first.”
    Ten minutes later, I dumped Jasmine out of her carrier on the floor of my kitchen. As usual, she ran for the safety of the bedroom. I put a dollop of chicken baby food into her dish in case she got hungry later, then headed back to the car for my second round of errands.
    The next stop was the bank, where the flu had decimated the employee ranks. Only two tellers were open, and the line stretched out the door. I don't wait well when I'm in the best of moods, and today didn't qualify. By the time I finally made it to the head of the line, the teller and I matched each other snarl for snarl.
Ho ho ho.
    In that gloomy state of mind, I idled at the end of the bank's driveway, waiting for an opportunity to make a left onto Old Main Street. None presented itself, but what did I expect on the Saturday before Christmas? The charming shops and eating establishments of the historic district made attractive destinations for locals and tourists alike, not to mention the always popular museums. At this time of year, the exterior lights and decorations alone were sufficient to draw crowds. I was glad for the shopkeepers who were struggling in this economy but not for those of us who had to negotiate the resulting traffic.
    A large Hart Seed truck lumbered by en route to its home base a mile or so down Old Main Street. I darted into the space right behind it. Almost immediately, the truck driver jammed on his brakes, and I practically had to stand on mine. “What the?” I said out loud, and then I saw what.
    The truck's hazard lights began flashing, and the burly, middle-aged driver leaped out of his cab. His eyes were fixed on a pair of geese, still slim with youth. They hesitated on the far side of the road, which they clearly intended to cross. Recklessly, the driver ran to stand between them and the traffic coming out of Old Wethersfield. Time seemed to stop as I held my breath.
    Traffic stopped for crossing waterfowl was a common occurrence during the warm months of the year. Extended marshland ran about a block behind and parallel to the Silas Deane Highway, and residents were accustomed to keeping a sharp eye out for the ducks, geese and swans that unaccountably felt compelled to risk their lives to cross the roads. At this time of year, though, we expected the birds to have moved south for the winter.
    After long seconds of silent consideration, the pair reached a goosey consensus and made their way across the pavement. They crossed from my left to my right and disappeared in front of the truck. The crossing safely accomplished, the driver waved briefly to acknowledge the stopped drivers and clambered back into his cab. We all went about our business.
    I found myself grinning, my former pique dispersed. It had been such a small incident, but it encompassed all of the compassion and decency necessary to restore my good humor. The truck driver had stopped. Nobody had honked or screamed obscenities at him. The geese were safe in the marsh. As far as I was concerned, it was Christmas in a nutshell.
    I trailed after the truck through the heart of Old Wethersfield. Without consciously intending to, I followed when it turned right into the Hart Seed Company driveway and wallowed down to the loading dock. I pulled up next to the cab and put down my window. The driver also put down his window, no doubt expecting a request for directions. “Ma'am?” he prompted.
    “I just wanted you to know that was a very decent thing you did for those geese,” I said.
    He looked puzzled for a moment, then, “Oh! Well, sure. I mean, I couldn't just plow over them.” His seamed, weathered face reddened.
    “My son is probably the only other trucker I know who would stop for an animal crossing the road.”
    “Oh,