My head began to throb. Sheila pulled me close again and murmured soothing sounds. She thrust a mop of tissues into my hand, and I wiped my face indelicately. “There, there,” she patted my hair. “Shush. Shush.” The driver interrupted with, “Miss? Um, Miss Lowenstein, this can’t be your pet.” I didn’t even correct him by saying, “It’s Mrs. Lowenstein.” Instead, I stuttered, “What do you mean, it isn’t my pet? You don’t know my dog.” He stepped closer to us, his face a study in solemnity. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it can’t be her. ’Tisn’t possible. See, this is fake fur.” “What?” I’d only touched the tail—and that had slipped away so quickly. I reached out again, hesitating, then touching the pelt. By golly, he was right. “But who? Why? Wha—?” I stood shaking my head, trying to take it all in. If that wasn’t Gracie, then … I started for the back door. Of course, it couldn’t be Gracie! How could I be so dumb! Horace and Dodie would have put her in the basement.
