Page 92 of Murder on the Page

Tegan clenched my arm and anchored me to my spot. “Don’t. Move.” She cooed, “Here, doggy. Treats. C’mon. Treats.” She pulled the recently purchased bag from her pocket, plucked a peanut butter bone from it, and held it out.

The dog snarled and ran faster, ready to pounce.

Tegan waggled the treat. “I have more, sweet doggy. Sweet, sweet doggy. Treat.” She wiggled it furiously.

The dog came to a halt, visibly perplexed that we weren’t hightailing it to our car like we had on Friday. Sniffing suspiciously, he slinked toward Tegan. Deciding that whatever she was offering wasn’t poison, he snarfed it down. Tegan had a second treat at the ready. While the dog chewed, she hooked the leash onto the loop of his leather collar.

“Who’s a good boy?” she said. “You are. Yes, you are.”

“Omigosh! Your volunteer work at the veterinarian’s office during junior high really paid off,” I said, astonished.

Growing up, she’d wanted a dog, but her mother said if she needed one so badly, she had to donate her time at the vet for one full year. After twelve months of cleaning up poop andvomit, Tegan had been pretty much cured from ever wanting a pet full-time, but she’d loved hanging out with them and teaching them tricks. I, on the other hand, had helped out at a birds-of-prey sanctuary feeding owls and raptors because at the time, I was reading fantasy fiction and had become enamored with creatures with wings.

Tegan scratched the dog’s ears. “Let’s go for a walk.” She began to guide him to Graham’s.

“What are you doing?” I said, panic surging in my gut.

“Bringing him to his owner. Graham will reward us for rescuing his prized mutt. But before we ring the doorbell, let’s take a peek through a window and catch him and his guests unaware.”

“No.”

Of course, she didn’t listen to me. She continued on, moseying toward the rear of the house. We neared the screened-in porch, and the dog let out a high-pitched yelp.

“Traitor,” Tegan mumbled.

In a flash, Graham rushed out the door. The person in the hoodie trailed him, but stopped short of exiting. “What the heck are you doing here?” Graham demanded.

“Your dog got loose,” Tegan said. “I’m being a Good Sam—”

“He’s free to roam.” He snatched the leash from Tegan.

“Oh, gee,” she said, vamping. “We thought as vicious as he is—”

“He’s not vicious,” Graham spat. “He’s ardent.”

Ardent? Honestly?I scowled. The dog was a brute, except when bribed with a treat.

“I repeat, what are you doing here?” Graham asked, his voice gruff.

“Graham, relax,” the person in the hoodie said.

I’d heard the soft female voice before. It was Quinby’s folk song–singing wife, Candace. She stared at Tegan and me with big, round eyes. Scared eyes, actually. Had we caught Grahamin the act of dealing drugs? Was Candace a user or a distributor for Graham? Or was I, like Tegan, blowing things out of proportion? Perhaps Graham invited her to his house to discuss an employment opportunity, like singing at GamePlay.

Get real, Allie. Singing at a game store? And what about the other guests? Are they all gamers?

“Mrs. Canfield,” I said, “what are you doing here?”

“You know m-me?”

“I’d have thought you’d be performing somewhere today. Sundays are big coffeehouse days.”

“Yes, well, I’m taking the day off.” She tugged at the strings of her hoodie.

The linebacker-sized visitor cut around her and barged outside. “What the heck is going on? Are we finishing this deal or not, Graham?”

“Told you,” Tegan whispered. “It’s drugs.”

“I’ve got pocket aces, man,” the guy said, “so you’re not getting away with folding the hand on account of your dog running amok.”

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