All That Glitters (Raine Stockton Dog Mysteries) Read Free Page A

she’s up on her shots,” I told the neighbor, “and board her  until the owner claims her.  But if she isn’t claimed in five days, we put her up for adoption.   I’ll leave you one of my cards, and slip another one under the front door so the owner can call when she comes back. ”
    The neighbor took my card, but shook her head sadly, hugging the pink sweater closer to her.  “She won’t come back.  And even if she does, she won’t call you.  She can barely take care of those children, much less a dog.”
    I suspected she was right, but it wasn’t my job to say so.  The collie hopped  into the back of my SUV, and walked nicely into the wire crate I had prepared for her.  I was just locking her in when I heard the sound of a big truck coming around the bend.  It was a propane tanker, and to my surprise, it pulled into the driveway beside my car.  The driver got out and came around to me.  “Miz Chambliss?”
    “No,” I said, shaking my head.  “I’m just here to—“
    “She’s not here,” the neighbor said, coming over to us.  The engine of the propane truck rumbled in  the background and she raised her voice to be heard.  “It got too cold when they ran out of gas.”
    “Well, this ought to help. ”  He went around the side of the truck and started uncoiling the filler hose.  “We got an order to fill the tank this morning, along with three hundred dollars in cash to cover it.  Somebody left it in the drop box last night, along with this note.”  He reached in the pocket of his flannel shirt and  pulled out a torn half-sheet of white paper.  On it was scrawled, “From your Secret Santa.”
    I lifted an eyebrow, and smiled at the neighbor.  “Well, that’s good news.  I’ll make sure the dog is taken care of  until she gets back, but be sure to tell her to call.”
    “She won’t call,” the woman assured me, puzzling over the paper the driver showed her.  “She might come back, but she won’t call.”
    I wanted to leave on a positive note, but I knew she was probably right.
     
     

     
     
     
    “ W ell, if you want my opinion,”  announced my friend Maude a couple of days later,  “that little collie has already found a good home.”
    I had known Maude for most of my life and she was, in many ways, as much of a mother to me as my own mother had been.  When she spoke, I usually listened—in part because she had a clipped British accent that made every word she spoke sound more important than it was, and in part  because she had proven to be right about most things over the years.  But not about this.
    “I’m not looking for a dog,” I told her firmly.   “Besides, that collie is going to be easy to place.  Look how nicely she cleaned up.  Definitely a purebred.  I f I can get  her pic ture in the paper this week e nd ,   we ’ll have a dozen calls before Christmas .”
    Maude worked with me on the Humane Society, and I had brought her out to the barn to have a look at the collie.  I had fixed up one of the stalls in the barn for the dog, although of course I brought her in at night and let her sleep in a crate in the kitchen .   N ow she was contentedly curled up in a pile of hay, chewing a rubber bone .  
    The collie’s owner had, in fact, actually called me... to surrender her dog.  Though she had been beside herself with amazed joy over the mysterious gift of a full propane tank, there had been tears in her voice, too, as she confessed she w as no longer able to care for her dog.   “I feel bad,” she said , “but I know it’s for the best.  You try to give your children everything but…when my four year old sat on Santa’s lap all he wanted for Christmas was to go home and sleep in his own bed.”  She took a brave breath.  “At least he’s got that.  I can only do the best I can.”
    A story like that made me ashamed of feeling sorry for myself, but I managed it anyway.  “Besides,” I said, turning to leave the barn,