A Dog-Gone Christmas by Leslie O'Kane Page A

horror-stricken. “You’re not Bella!”
    She placed the carrier on the floor and dropped to her knees. She was growing so flustered and emotional by the second that it was difficult to watch. A crowd had encircled us, with the big guy and the assistant shouting instructions to “Move along!” Or “Get out of the way!” And the tan man saying, “What’s wrong, darlin’?”
    Despite her badly shaking hands, she finally managed to open the top of the carrier and cried, “My Bella! Someone’s stolen my Bella!” She started to cry, then swiped away her tears, smudging her makeup.
    She scanned the crowd, which had become eerily quiet as the drama unfolded. “Call nine-one-one! Get me the police! Now!”
    “When did you last have Bella?” my mother asked.
    “At the metal detector. I carried Bella through with me.” She narrowed her eyes at the woman in the white coat. “Then Stacy put her in her carrier.” Her eyes took on a laser-like intensity. “I handed my best-loved, beautiful baby Bella to you, Stacy!”
    “No, you didn’t! You put her in the carrier.” Stacy’s eyes brimmed with tears. She looked petrified. “I merely clasped it shut and handed it to you! Remember?”
    “That’s right. But why didn’t you realize the clasp was different?”
    “You and Tom were yelling. I was flustered. I’m so sorry.”
    I knelt beside Delia and looked down at the dog. The poor thing was trembling with fear. The cute little dog was wearing a red velvet shawl with an emerald on it. “Is this emerald real?” I asked.
    “Stacy! Tom! You go back to security and—” She stopped. “I don’t know who to trust!”
    “Hey, Darlin,’” Tom, the deep-tanner drawled. “You know you can trust me with your life.”
    “Just not with my heart,” she retorted.
    “I’ll go,” the woman said.
    “No, Stacy. You’re staying with me. Tom, go back to security! Now! Run!”
    I shot a glance at my mom, who seemed as mesmerized by Delia Gantry and her brigade as everyone else in the area.
    Delia was breathing hard and seemed on the verge of a panic attack. She glared at me. “Are you in on this? You must be! How else could you have realized that this wasn’t my baby!”
    “No, Miss Gantry. I just work with dogs and always notice them. There’s a poster of you and Bella in the terminal. For last night’s concert at the Pepsi Center.”
    “All right, I believe you. But my dog is missing!” Delia was rocking herself as she sat on the floor. Three police officers, all of them male and on the pudgy side, came zipping toward us on a cart with a beeper and a blue flashing light. The officers’ first order of business was instructing the crowd to disburse, which seemed to only be increasing the circumference of the circle around us.
    “Delia?” my mother said gently, “This is my daughter, Allida Babcock. She’s a canine therapist in Boulder. She’s worked with all sorts of clients, under extreme conditions.” She chuckled. “Allie has the worst luck with dogs and crimes.”
    Delia’s eyes widened.
    Mom winced a little at her gaffe, but then hastened to reassure Delia, “You’re in the best possible hands.”
    I shot my mother a look, certain that a major celebrity wouldn’t want a thing to do with me, then realized that Delia was studying my eyes. “I can tell you’re a true dog person,” she whispered. “I can trust you.” She slid the carrier toward me on the floor, and touched my hand. “This copycat dog is frightened. See what you can do to comfort her. And, please, help me get my Bella back.”
    “I’ll…do my best.”
    Satisfied with the shape of the crowd of onlookers, the officers neared. “My dog and her carrier were stolen and replaced with frauds after I went through security,” Delia immediately told them. Still sitting on the floor, she then gave them a quick bio of her three traveling companions, including Tom Adams—the tanned smiler she’d sent back to security. She then politely