Retriever Ransom

Chapter Thirteen

Nan, Cujo, and I arrived at the mayor's house for the second time in two days. I had an uneasy feeling about snooping around, sorely hoping Nan didn't plan on breaking and entering today as well.

We'd been lucky enough to explain our unexpected presence yesterday, but if Mark caught us today, he would surely figure out that we were investigating him just as much as the disappearance of his dog.

“Is that the mark?” Cujo asked, panting heavily beside me. He’d stuffed his giant slobbery face between the two front seats and over the armrest. Funny that he didn't get winded at all during the run, but this new excitement of the investigation had his tongue lolling freely from his enormous maw.

I scanned the horizon just in time to see the mayor pulling away in his luxury sedan.

“I’ll tail him,” Nan said, nudging me in the ribs. “Get out. You can look around here, and I’ll follow him wherever he’s going.”

As tired as I was, I also knew better than to argue. At least I’d be able to move at my own pace now.

But no.

A moment later, I found myself standing in the fresh snowfall with Cujo at my side. “Why didn't you stay with Nan?” I asked him, not so secretly wishing he had.

“And miss all the action? No thank you. I hate that metal dogsled, anyway. I’m supposed to be pulling, not sitting.” He chuffed and pawed at the snow impatiently.

“Well, c’mon then.” I tromped up the unshoveled drive. I’d have thought the mayor would ensure his home was one of the first on the local snowplow's route. Then again, it was probably hard for the city to keep up, given the record-breaking snowfall Glendale had seen during the past week.

“What are we looking for?” Cujo asked. “I don't like standing here wasting time. Not when we have a job to do.”

I'd only stopped for a few seconds, but apparently that was long enough for the hyperactive work hound. “I'm not sure,” I answered, bracing myself for the insults I had no doubt would be coming.

Luckily, whatever he’d been about to say died on Cujo's lips as a frigid blast of wind crashed into us face-on.

“Ah, that feels good,” he said with a happy sigh, then his entire body stiffened as he took a long, exaggerated whiff of the air.

“I smell something,” he informed me.

“Smell something, like what?”

“Pee.”

Oh, great. “Yeah, um, we were here yesterday for a tour, and the mayor pointed out that Marco always peed on that side of the yard.”

“No, that’s not right.” Cujo barked and turned his head in the opposite direction. “It's coming from over there!”

He pointed toward the woods, one paw raised mid-step.

“Are you sure? Nothing's back there,” I explained.

“So trusting, you humans. I’d wager a healthy bit of skepticism is just as important to a private investigator as a snow hook is to a musher. At least it should be.”

“Oh…kay,” I said slowly, neither wanting nor knowing how to argue this point with him.

Cujo whined against his leash. “We need to go to the pee. It will tell us everything we need to know.”

Wonderful. Still, at least it was something.

We plodded along much slower than Cujo would have liked until we were deep into the woods. Even though the sun was still high, the tall, aged trees cast shadows over us.

“I’m not so sure about this,” I told him, taking out my phone and noting that my reception was down to one bar. “Nobody knows we’re back here. What if…?”

Cujo interrupted me with a low growl. “No time for what-ifs. We have a case to solve. Have you forgotten already?”

I had two choices.

I could disappoint the very large, very angry-looking dog beside me, or I could take the small risk of heading deeper into the woods.

This time, I chose to go into the unknown, following the tireless muttsky through the trees.

By the time we emerged on the other side, I realized that Cujo’s keen sense of smell had, in fact, led us somewhere new. A small log cabin sat nestled among the trees on the outer edge of the woods. It probably wouldn’t have been visible, if not for the stark white snow that surrounded it. Smoke rose up from the chimney, and a faded trail of footprints led straight to the front door.

It looked like the perfect place to escape the cold and rest for a moment. Oh, how nice that sounded.

“The trail stops here,” Cujo informed me, bounding up to the cabin, then lifting a leg and relieving himself with great satisfaction. “There. No more strange dog's pee.”

“Is it Marco’s? Do you think?” I asked, unfamiliar with the intricacies of dog pee.

“I've never met him, so I can't say for sure.” Cujo blinked slowly in the sunlight. “But let me see…”

He stuck his snout in the snow. “This dog is male, about five or six years old, slightly overweight and enjoys snap peas as a snack. Not my favorite but…”

“Interesting,” I said, thinking back over the mayor's tour of his home and our discussion of Marco’s day-to-day routine. “Oh, wait. I remember something. The mayor did say that he used snap peas as snacks for Marco to help get his weight down since the meat ones were making him too fat.”

“Well, then it seems we’ve found our dog,” Cujo answered with a gaping smile. “I told you it was easy when you focused on the task to be done.”

He was right. I wouldn't have found this place without him, but still we had to face whatever was inside.

I pushed my body flat against the wall and slowly snuck toward the window. A quick peek inside confirmed that the cabin wasn't sitting empty. A portly golden retriever sat gnawing on a rawhide bone in front of a blazing fire.

“That's got to be him!” I cried, then covered my mouth with my hands, realizing I may have spoken too loudly to avoid detection. The dog’s ears perked up, but he didn't move his eyes from the bone. When no one came out to investigate, I realized that Marco must be sitting alone.

“What should we do?” I asked Cujo.

“Go in and rescue him, obviously,” Cujo said with a chuff. “It’s the final part of our mission. You can't back off now.”

I tried the door, but it was locked. “Any other ideas?” I asked.

“Fall back!” The muttsky jumped to the side, urging me to follow.

Sure enough, in the distance I spotted an approaching figure wearing a Russian fur shapka and thick mittens.

I leapt behind the cabin with Cujo and watched in horror as Mayor Mark Dennison himself finished the trek to the cabin and let himself inside. Could it be?

I carefully, painfully duck-walked to the window and peeked over the ledge. The mayor had settled himself beside his dog and was discussing the case—the one he’d hired us to solve.

I could barely make out his words.

“Well,” the mayor said with a chuckle, “the first few interviews went great. My public approval rating must be soaring now. Not only does everybody remember that I have a great dog.”

He paused to scratch Marco between the ears. “But they also feel genuinely sorry for me. It’s one thing to disagree with my politics, but to take such a nice dog... Who would do such a wicked thing?”

Marco cocked his head to the side and Mark laughed again.

“Yes, it would take someone truly awful.” He continued to laugh as the answer to our predicament finally became crystal clear.

No one had ever threatened Marco. The mayor had taken the dog himself and hidden him back here just long enough to get the public sympathy working in his favor.

So what was I supposed to do now?

Barge in and tell him he'd been found out?

He was the client after all, and the one responsible for paying us when the job was done.

Did a little ill-gotten publicity really hurt anyone?

The dog was clearly fine and happy.

So…

Was it better to walk away or to force a confrontation? Before I could decide, Mark let himself back out through the door and clomped away.

I held my breath, praying hard that he wouldn’t turn around and see me.