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home phone to tell you they’ve found your dog?”
    “Maybe they don’t have a cell phone,” I suggested, and Crystal, who was twenty-something, rolled her eyes at the very thought.
    “Anyway, I left a couple of messages, your number and ours. The microchip company and the dog’s vet are doing the same thing, so maybe it won’t be too long before we hear something.”
    “Thanks,” I said, glancing over the paperwork. The dog’s name was Cameo, and she belonged to April Madison of 238 Willow Drive, Highlands, Virginia. “What about this?” I pointed to a line on the second page. “Greg Sellers, the emergency contact?”
    “Disconnected.”
    I muttered, “Great. Why don’t people keep their information updated?”
    Crystal shrugged. “Hold on, I’ll get her.”
    The way a dog can affect your mood is nothing short of miraculous. I still had that same hollow soreness in the pit of my stomach that I’d taken with me from the sheriff’s office, but the moment Crystal came out with that fluffy white golden retriever pulling on the end of the leash, her fur combed out and shining with conditioner, her deep brown eyes bright and alert, I all but forgot my own troubles. I dropped to one knee, opening my arms as I exclaimed softly, “Look at you!”
    Crystal dropped the leash a few feet away and Cameo came right to me. I gave her a big hug and ran my fingers through slightly damp, sweet smelling fur. She wagged her tail and bumped my chin with her forehead, clearly accustomed to being fawned over.
    “I think she’s glad to be cleaned up,” said Doc, coming out behind Crystal. “She checks out fine. I couldn’t find a mark on her. I don’t know what she got into. A deer carcass maybe? But I doubt she ate any of it. She looks too healthy to’ve been eating carrion, and I don’t think she could’ve been on the loose more than a day or two. I guess Crystal told you we got hold of her vet and have a lead on the owner, so maybe this one will be a happy ending.”
    “Thanks, Doc.” I caught up the leash and stood. “I could use a happy ending or two right now.”
    He winked at me. “I’ll put it on your tab.”
    Doc Witherspoon’s office is on the edge of town, in a building next to his house, which makes it practical for late night emergencies. It’s on a rural road with mostly farms nearby, and the closest house was an easy quarter-mile away. So naturally I noticed, as I made the turn out of his dirt driveway, that there was a blue sedan parked on the shoulder of the road about a hundred feet to the north. At first I thought the car was abandoned, but when I passed it I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw a man straighten up behind the wheel, as though he had been checking the glove box or reaching for something on the passenger side floor. Or trying to hide.
    Because I swear, just for a moment there, the guy looked enough like that crazy tourist from town that I actually tapped my brakes to get a better look. It was too late though. He pulled off the shoulder and made a U-turn to go the opposite way, cell phone pressed to his ear. And while I didn’t get a look at his face, I could tell he was straight-shouldered, not stooped, wearing a red polo shirt, not a plaid cotton one, and if he was balding, a baseball cap covered it. He was just a guy who had pulled over to the side of the road to make a phone call.
    Maybe Marshall Becker was right. Maybe I was paranoid.
     
    ~*~
     
    On my way home I passed the fairgrounds, where the big Ferris wheel was already being erected and the colorful tops of canvas tents were being stretched between metal poles. There were several tractor trailers and a half dozen pickup trucks parked in the dusty lot, and I could hear the staccato sound of hammers as I passed. As a kid I used to love to watch them put together the Ferris wheel, and somehow always found a way to sneak past the fence meant to keep civilians out and watch in big-eyed wonder until Uncle Ro sent a deputy