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managed to wriggle out of her collar.” She waved the treat under the dog’s nose. “Here Poppy,” she coaxed. “Come to Mama.”
    The puppy’s ears pricked up, and she lunged toward Cara, but the man pulled her back.
    “See?” Cara said triumphantly. “That’s Poppy.”
    “No,” he said, wedging the now wriggling puppy firmly between his calves. “That’s a cheap trick. And this is Shaz. She’d kill her grandma for a dog treat.”
    “If that’s your dog, where’s its collar?
    “In my truck, back at my house. I was just taking her to the groomer, whom she hates, and the truck window was open, and she jumped out the window and took off. Come on, Shaz.” He started walking away, and the puppy trotted obediently at his heels.
    “Poppy,” Cara called, near tears. “Come here, girl. Time to go home.”
    “Nice try,” the man said, glancing back over his shoulder. “But I don’t have time for this. Good luck finding your dog.”
    The puppy gave one backward look, but the man was jogging again, and the dog followed right on his heels.
    Cara jumped back behind the wheel of the van. “Hey,” she hollered out the open window. She beeped the horn. “Come back here.”
    The man jogged on down the lane, and she crept along right behind him, honking her horn every few minutes, and hollering out the window. “Stop! Come here, Poppy.” She knew she looked like a lunatic, and she just didn’t care.
    Poppy, the little traitor, seemed quite content to follow along behind her new friend, never straying or yanking at the makeshift leash as she sometimes did when Cara took her for her morning walk.
    Finally, they reached a block on Macon Street. The houses here were simpler than the grand brick and stucco townhomes farther west in the historic district. Mostly single-story wood-frame homes, they were known as freedman’s cottages because they’d originally been built after the Civil War by newly emancipated slaves.
    The runner paused in front of one of the least distinguished cottages on the block. Paint was peeling from the dingy white clapboards, a shutter at the window was missing several slats, and the faded aqua door seemed to be held together with duct tape. There was a wooden window box beneath the double window, but the plants were dried up and shriveled beyond recognition. The man propped his foot on the top step of the stoop and retrieved a key from a pocket in the tongue of his running shoe.
    That’s when he looked over and spotted Cara, parked at the curb, the van’s motor idling.
    “Beat it,” he called.
    She held her cell phone up for him to see. “Give me back my dog or I’ll call the cops.”
    “Get away from my house or I’ll call the cops myself,” he retorted. He picked Poppy up in his arms and climbed the rest of the steps to the doorway. He unlocked the door. Cara jumped from the truck and ran for the minuscule porch, but he was too quick. He stepped inside and slammed the door in her face. A moment later, she heard a deadbolt lock slide into place.
    “Dognapper!” Cara pounded on the door with her fist. “Give me back my dog!”
    “Crazy stalker woman, go away,” came the muffled reply.
    She banged on the door, and looked around to ring the doorbell, but it was defunct, dangling by a single frayed wire from the dry-rotted doorframe.
    Cara gave the door an ineffective kick, resulting only in a badly stubbed big toe.
    “I’m calling the cops,” she screamed, her lips plastered against the doorframe.
    “I already called ’em,” came back his voice.
    She paced back and forth in front of the cottage, waiting for the police. Bert called, and she instructed him to load as many of the flowers as he could into his own car, and start ferrying them over to the church. Torie and Lillian Fanning called, too, but she let those calls go to voicemail.
    While she paced, Cara studied the house, hoping the runner would somehow relent and release Poppy. The cottage was a puzzle. It sported a