She jumped up from her chair, no longer the aging woman who met me at the door, but now seeming spry. "I'll grab them."

Mrs. Coogs, Phyllis, had three framed pictures on her wall, but they were all of a light brown and white Jack Russell Terrier. At least I thought that was his breed. I'd never been a big dog person.

Total lie.

I used to love dogs, but after begging my parents for thirteen years to get me one, I decided dogs weren't for me. Better than constant disappointment.

Mrs. Coogs returned with a banker's box between her hands, smiling at the contents as she walked into the room. I worried she'd trip and fall, so I met her halfway and carried the box into the living room, setting it in front of the couch.

"I can't decide on his best angle. He's always taken such wonderful pictures."

She handed me three four-by-six sized photos and then a larger eighty-by-ten. I stared at the photos, shuffling through them in my hands, looked at Phyllis, glanced at the photos, shuffled them once again while I pinched my lips together in frustration as realization dawned.

"Mrs. Coogs," I started, only to be handed another set of photos.

She held fifty more photos in her hands, all in various sizes and styles. "I said call me Phyllis."

"Phyllis, these are photos of a dog," I said, holding up the photo of the small animal wearing a black beret with a clean paintbrush on the floor next to his paw. He didn't even have opposable thumbs. How did anyone expect him to paint?

She smiled sweetly at the photo. "Yes, isn't he adorable? He always posed so perfectly."

I took a deep breath. "You want me to find a dog?"

Phyllis snatched back the beret photo. "He isn't just a dog. He's a son. Better than my genetic son, who ran away and married just to spite me."

"Right, so what happened to Brent?"

With saddened eyes, she removed her gaze from the photo. "He ran away."

Uh-huh. Seemed like the men in her life had a habit of going astray.

"Has he ever done this before? Run away, I mean?" I flopped through the photos, looking for something useable. No one would take a dog in a sailboat costume seriously.

She sniffled again and touched the photos with the same hand she'd just held her snotty rag. Great, dogs and germs. "Never. I put him outside this morning for his potty break and when I called him for breakfast, he didn't return. I know he's gone after that hussy next door."

"Another dog?"

She sniffled and wiped away her eyes with the same Kleenex. "No, the neighbor's cat. Mistress Paws. Brent is an interspecies lover, but Mrs. Daffney won't hear of it. The old coot says dogs can't love cats, but it's the new age, Mrs. Vines. Love is love."

I tilted my head to one side and then the other. She looked crazy from both perspectives. "Right. I totally agree, but does the cat reciprocate?"

Phyllis huffed. "Mistress Paws doesn't know what she wants. I told you, she's a hussy. She struts around right in front of Brent, but then pretends like she doesn't appreciate his attention. It pushed Brent to take desperate measures."

Oh boy. "My deposit is a hundred and fifty to start the case." Best to get the money part out of the way now.

She nodded once and passed over another a photo of Brent. The photographer perched him on a pillow and used a side angle with Brent looking at the camera. At least he was naked. Or well... dog naked.

"I'll pay anything to find Brent. He can't be out in the cold like this. He needs three meals a day and his afternoon massage."

Damn. If I didn't find Brent, I wonder if Mrs. Coogs would let me move in.

I slipped the photo between the top page of my mini notebook and folded the check she wrote before shoving it in my back pocket. "I'll get right on it. Can I keep this photo?"

"Yes, of course. Find Brent. He's run away with Mistress Paws and I won't stand for it."

I moved closer to the front door. "I completely agree. Kids these days have no respect anymore."

"It's a shame. He's such a good boy. Don't let who he loves make you think of him differently."

"Of course not. Never." I opened the front door, bracing against the chill, and avoided the snow pile on the corner of the porch. "I'll be in contact."

Mrs. Coogs closed the door but watched me from the small window opening as I trudged down the porch steps and turned left at the sidewalk rather than returning to my vehicle. I'd make a quick walk around the block, find Brent, and get enough for rent.

It wasn't the missing person's case I'd expected, but I would not turn down money. Half way around the block with red cheeks and chattering teeth, I regretted my decision. Why did I live somewhere so freaking cold? Why couldn't my parents have moved to Florida while I was young?

I'd almost made it back to Mrs. Coogs' home when another familiar building came into view one block over. Rather than make another left and go back to my car like a sensible person, I turned right and kept going into the cold until I stood in front of the brown home from Monday.

The home Mr. Jones visited every Monday evening. The gray sky made it dark enough that the homeowner had a kitchen light on and one in the living room. Either they had no concern for the waste of Earth's natural resources and left every light on while at work or they were home.

From the car in the driveway, I guessed the latter.

Rather than stop at the front door, I walked to the side, the same one I'd seen his Monday night guest enter. I stomped my feet and knocked, hoping to create enough warmth. Even with my fake fur-lined boots my toes were barely staying warm. When you lived in the frozen tundra of Maine, footwear was important.

The door swung open, forcing me to take a step back to make room. A horrid scream filtered out from the home, and an older gentleman with his hair flying in every direction like he'd constantly run his fingers through it, messing up the strands, cringed. I froze, getting into attack stance.

"It's the television," he said, running his fingers through his hair again, disjointing it in a new direction.

I forced a smile and tried to see around him, but he filled the doorway with his body. "Sure. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Jimmy Jones if you have a minute."

He stared at me and then looked past me at something on the street before nodding. "About his wife, I assume."

"You know about his wife?" I asked.

He opened the door wider, motioning for me to come inside. "The whole town knows. The police questioned me last night."

Damn it. Beaten by Anderson again.

I fully intended to stand outside and ask my questions. No way would I walk into a home with screams coming from inside. But then a tremendous gust of wind blew against my back, almost knocking me into the door, and I took two steps inside, letting the side door close behind me.

If I died, at least I'd be warm.

"I'm Vonnie Vines, Private Investigator," I said, staying as close to the door as possible, but putting my hand out to shake his. Easier to make a getaway.

My mother always taught me to never enter a potential murderer's home without a handshake. She might not have said it in this exact context, but the sentiment worked.

He moved to the side and I got my first view of the place.

Damn.

I considered some houses cluttered, but there was only one way to describe this one. Dirty.

Dishes littered the sink and counters. A smell of dirty gym socks came from somewhere past the kitchen. At least I hoped they were gym socks and not decaying body parts.

He shook my hand. "Arthur Glance."

"Can you tell me what you told the po-" A scream cut off my question, and I flinched, going tense and trying to decide when to run.

"Shit," Arthur said and turned away.