Free Gone With the Woof by Laurien Berenson Page B

it.
    The officer leaned down and looked in my window. His mirrored sunglasses covered half his face and removed any vestige of an expression.
    â€œWhat happened?” I asked.
    â€œThere was an accident here earlier. I’m going to have to ask you to move along.”
    â€œWas someone hurt?”
    â€œMa’am, is that your driveway?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œThen I need you to keep moving and not block the road.” The officer straightened and stepped away from the car.
    Right. As intended, that told me exactly . . . nothing.
    My past experiences with the police have been a varied lot, ranging from cooperative to contentious. Occasionally, they take me seriously. Most times—like now—I think they just wish I would go away.
    So I did.
    Driving well within the speed limit and making judicious use of my blinker, in case anybody with a badge happened to be watching, I eased down the road and turned into March’s driveway. Maybe he and Charlotte would know what was going on.
    I parked in my usual spot, gathered up my purse and laptop, and was on my way across the driveway when an Irish Setter came bounding around the side of the house. Ears flapping, feathers floating, she gamboled gracefully through the knee-deep snow. Then, abruptly, she stopped, and her head came up. She caught sight of me and changed direction.
    The red setter woofed softly. It sounded more like a greeting than a watchdog’s warning bark. She trotted toward me, hopping easily over the small drifts of plowed snow that bordered the pavement.
    There are those who say that Irish Setters are the most beautiful breed of dog, and looking at the one before me, I certainly couldn’t argue. With her mahogany red coat, long-limbed elegance, and dark, soulful eyes, she was the picture of canine glamour. She approached with her tail up in the air and waving slowly back and forth. The fringe of hair beneath it rippled with the languid movement.
    â€œAren’t you pretty?” I crooned. “You must be Robin, right? Is that who you are?”
    The setter’s tail began to wag faster. Whether it was because I had guessed correctly or because she was simply an agreeable dog, it was hard to tell. I held out my hand and was politely sniffed. Now we were friends.
    As she stepped in closer and investigated the length of my pants—no doubt gathering information about the Poodles at home—I ran my hands over her long, sleek body. Her hair was soft and fine, and she was shivering slightly in the cold.
    â€œCome on, girl,” I said. “Let’s get you inside.”
    Robin followed me up the front steps to the house and waited at my side as I rang the doorbell. Once, then again. Then I tried knocking. Still there was no response.
    Odd, I thought. Maybe this was Charlotte’s day off.
    I pulled out my cell phone and dialed March’s number. He didn’t pick up. I snapped the phone shut and looked at my watch. It was still Monday, now shortly after 11:00 a.m. March should have been expecting me.
    I looked down at Robin. “Now what?” I asked.
    That was reflex. I’ve been known to hold entire conversations with my Poodles. Not only that, but they’re better at communicating their wishes than many people I know.
    Not unexpectedly, the setter didn’t answer. She was shivering harder now, though. I could see the small tremors rippling the length of her body. And yet she continued to wait patiently beside me, certain that I would figure something out.
    If I’d been the only one standing outside the house, I probably would have given up and gone home. I was already conflicted about the project. If March couldn’t even be bothered to keep our appointment, I would have figured that I had my answer.
    But there was no way I could leave Robin outside by herself in the cold. And I couldn’t very well take her home with me, either. As if sensing my internal debate, the setter gazed up at