All Shots

down a couple of narrow streets with small, closely spaced wood-frame houses until I found Mellie’s address. On the way, I kept an eye out for the loose Siberian but saw no sign of any off-leash dogs at all. Mellie’s house was a tiny two-story place, a cottage, I suppose, painted pale green. It had a miniature front porch set so close to the street that the wooden steps ran almost to the sidewalk. On either side of the steps was a patch of well-tended lawn. I hate trying to parallel park the van, and there were no big spaces nearby, anyway, so I pulled into the empty driveway by the house.
    When I got out, a short, slightly plump woman in a pink tracksuit came running down the sidewalk toward me. Her gait caught my dog watcher’s eye: she rocked back and forth, and her step was heavy. Her age was hard to guess. Thirty? Thirty-five? She had a round face, small brown eyes, and short brown hair. She looked vaguely familiar. Maybe I’d seen her in a local store or on the street. The drive fromy my house had taken under ten minutes, so it was likely that we shopped and walked in the same places. From Francie’s description, I’d wondered whether Mellie might have Down syndrome, but her face showed none of the characteristic features.
    When she reached me, she came to an abrupt halt, clutched the crucifix that hung around her neck, and said in a slightly hoarse, loud voice, “Did you find Strike?”
    “No,” I said, “but I’m going to try. I’m Holly. You must be Mellie.”
    After releasing the crucifix, she held out her hand with great formality. “Pleased to meet you.”
    When we shook hands, she seemed a bit unsure of when to let go, as if she felt a strong need to cling to something: her crucifix, my hand, anything. Letting go of her damp palm, I said, “No matter how careful you are, dogs get loose once in a while. With luck, the dog will come back on her own. Strike. That’s her name?”
    Mellie nodded and burst into tears. “I should’ve never left her alone in the yard! I only went into the house for like two seconds, and when I came out, she was gone. She went out under the fence. God is going to punish me!”
    “No matter how careful you are, any dog can get loose. I’m sure that God won’t punish you for being human. And I’m sure that God understands that Siberian huskies are escape artists. He’ll take that into account.”
    Mellie’s face was suddenly composed and serious. “Will He?”
    “Yes. I’m certain of it. Now let’s go over a few things. You were taking care of Strike. Is that right? That’s her name?” Mellie nodded.
    “And she slipped out under your fence.” I tried to keep the statement matter-of-fact. “The way dogs do,” I added. “Now, when was that?”
    Mellie rolled her eyes up as if the answer would be written in the heavens.
    “Before breakfast? Before lunch? After lunch?”
    Mellie nodded emphatically.
    “After lunch?”
    “Tuna fish,” she said.
    “So, after you had tuna for lunch?”
    “Yeah. After.” Her face clouded up. “You aren’t going to tell the police, are you? Francie said you won’t tell the police.”
    “No, there’s no need to call the police. Strike hasn’t been gone all that long. Besides, I have a good friend who’s a policeman. If we do need—”
    Mellie’s face twisted in agony, and her hands became hard white fists. I’d intended to reassure her by telling her about my next-door neighbor, Kevin Dennehy, who is a detective rather than a finder of lost pets, but I decided against it. “But we won’t need to,” I said. “She may come back any minute. And we’re going to look for her. I have lots of dog treats with me.”
    Mellie reached into a pocket and displayed a little pile of sliced hot dogs on her open palm. She had small hands with exceptionally short fingers.
    “Perfect,” I said. “And how does Strike feel about other dogs? Does she like other dogs? Not like them?”
    With a sly grin, Mellie said, “She likes boys.” To my relief, she went on say, “But she had an operation.”
    “Excellent. I have one of my dogs with me. A boy. Rowdy. If Strike is still around here, she might be curious about him. Or he might help us find her.”
    When I emerged from the van with Rowdy on a six-foot leather leash, Mellie said solemnly, “Strike looks like that.” After a pause, she added, “But different. Hi, Rowdy! Can I pat him?”
    I gave permission, of course. Somewhat to my surprise, instead of thumping