Read Online The Money Bird (An Animals in Focus Mystery) by Sheila Webster Boneham - Free Book Online
Authors: Sheila Webster Boneham
Tags: Fiction, Mystery, Mystery Fiction, Animals, cozy, Dogs, Novel, soft-boiled, mystery novel, dog show
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the rider’s head swung and bobbed, and the bike swayed from one training wheel to the other with every pump of a pedal. The rider wore pink leggings and for a moment I feared it was Tiffany, but quickly recovered my senses. A man and woman followed on matched mountain bikes.
We dodged west between Lake Avenue and the small body of water that gives Lakeside Park its name. We waited at the curb for a pack of helmeted velo-jocks in lycra body suits to whoosh past us, spines arched, legs spinning, and then crossed the street and headed southwest on Delta past two smaller ponds. All three bodies of water were home to what looked like hundreds of Canada geese and mallards. A single swan hunkered on the shaded grass south of the middle pond. A trio of crows burst from a beech on the far edge of the pond and suddenly I was back at Twisted Lake. At least I wanted to be. I knew I probably wouldn’t get there for a few days, but decided to swing by my brother Bill’s place later to borrow his kayak just in case. I’d call Detective Jo in the morning and if the cops hadn’t checked the island by then, I’d go take a look myself.
Jay stopped to update one of his sites, hiking his leg so high he nearly fell over, and then we turned right and jogged along the sidewalk between Edgewater Avenue and the Maumee River for half a mile to where the street fishhooks north. My gluteus maximus worked through the soreness, leaving me free to savor the rich scent of late summer gardens along the way. That, and the hazy light of the morning, lifted my mood ever higher. We crossed over where Columbia Avenue bridges the Maumee, formed where the St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s rivers merge maybe a hundred and thirty yards north of the bridge. From there we picked up Clay, ducked under the Norfolk-Southern overpass, crossed to the north side of Main because the sidewalk is better, and headed east past the art museum. Forty minutes after we set out, we reached Freimann Park, where a handsome young couple veered toward us, hand in hand. They wore matching navy tees and neatly trimmed beards. Jason and Jason. Honest. I know them from photo shoots for the kennel club. We made the usual small talk while their Great Dane, Oscar Wilde, got reacquainted with Jay.
I decided to splurge on breakfast at Park Place, and hoped that Jasper Jesperson was working. He was assistant manager, and another regular client for annual photos of his four stunning Himalayan cats. He had no qualms about letting Jay into the sidewalk seating area or about stretching the truth a tad in my dog’s defense. A few weeks earlier a customer had objected, and Jasper had told him that Jay was a service dog. When the skeptical complainer asked why an obviously healthy person would need a service dog, Jasper had stage whispered with a straight face that if I, “poor dear,” started to slip into one of my “states,” Jay would knock me down and sit on me until it passed. He added that “stress seems to set her off.” When he heard his name, Jay had confirmed the fantasy with a woof, then curled up with his chin on my instep.
Jasper wasn’t there, it turned out, but Alison, the hostess, knew the story and seated us near the railing, where Jay could lie at my feet but be technically outside the restaurant perimeter. As I eased my sore behind into a chair, Alison cooed at Jay and told him how silly the rule was considering the daily offenses of sparrows and pigeons. She had a point, I agreed, indicating a sizeable splat on the far side of the tablecloth.
“Ewww!” She wrinkled her nose and scurried off to find the bus person.
I looked around for abandoned reading material, but the only thing in sight was a philatelic magazine, of all things, so I settled back and gazed across Main Street. The raised beds in Freimann Park were a floral riot of flaming cannas, sunny marigolds, red— orange tithonia, shocking-pink zinnias, frothy-white alyssum and petunias, true-blue salvia, and
We dodged west between Lake Avenue and the small body of water that gives Lakeside Park its name. We waited at the curb for a pack of helmeted velo-jocks in lycra body suits to whoosh past us, spines arched, legs spinning, and then crossed the street and headed southwest on Delta past two smaller ponds. All three bodies of water were home to what looked like hundreds of Canada geese and mallards. A single swan hunkered on the shaded grass south of the middle pond. A trio of crows burst from a beech on the far edge of the pond and suddenly I was back at Twisted Lake. At least I wanted to be. I knew I probably wouldn’t get there for a few days, but decided to swing by my brother Bill’s place later to borrow his kayak just in case. I’d call Detective Jo in the morning and if the cops hadn’t checked the island by then, I’d go take a look myself.
Jay stopped to update one of his sites, hiking his leg so high he nearly fell over, and then we turned right and jogged along the sidewalk between Edgewater Avenue and the Maumee River for half a mile to where the street fishhooks north. My gluteus maximus worked through the soreness, leaving me free to savor the rich scent of late summer gardens along the way. That, and the hazy light of the morning, lifted my mood ever higher. We crossed over where Columbia Avenue bridges the Maumee, formed where the St. Mary’s and St. Joseph’s rivers merge maybe a hundred and thirty yards north of the bridge. From there we picked up Clay, ducked under the Norfolk-Southern overpass, crossed to the north side of Main because the sidewalk is better, and headed east past the art museum. Forty minutes after we set out, we reached Freimann Park, where a handsome young couple veered toward us, hand in hand. They wore matching navy tees and neatly trimmed beards. Jason and Jason. Honest. I know them from photo shoots for the kennel club. We made the usual small talk while their Great Dane, Oscar Wilde, got reacquainted with Jay.
I decided to splurge on breakfast at Park Place, and hoped that Jasper Jesperson was working. He was assistant manager, and another regular client for annual photos of his four stunning Himalayan cats. He had no qualms about letting Jay into the sidewalk seating area or about stretching the truth a tad in my dog’s defense. A few weeks earlier a customer had objected, and Jasper had told him that Jay was a service dog. When the skeptical complainer asked why an obviously healthy person would need a service dog, Jasper had stage whispered with a straight face that if I, “poor dear,” started to slip into one of my “states,” Jay would knock me down and sit on me until it passed. He added that “stress seems to set her off.” When he heard his name, Jay had confirmed the fantasy with a woof, then curled up with his chin on my instep.
Jasper wasn’t there, it turned out, but Alison, the hostess, knew the story and seated us near the railing, where Jay could lie at my feet but be technically outside the restaurant perimeter. As I eased my sore behind into a chair, Alison cooed at Jay and told him how silly the rule was considering the daily offenses of sparrows and pigeons. She had a point, I agreed, indicating a sizeable splat on the far side of the tablecloth.
“Ewww!” She wrinkled her nose and scurried off to find the bus person.
I looked around for abandoned reading material, but the only thing in sight was a philatelic magazine, of all things, so I settled back and gazed across Main Street. The raised beds in Freimann Park were a floral riot of flaming cannas, sunny marigolds, red— orange tithonia, shocking-pink zinnias, frothy-white alyssum and petunias, true-blue salvia, and
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