Copenhagen Cozenage Read Online Free Page A

dark gray water. Then, snap, the leash caught tight.
    Suddenly, the world whipped by at full speed again.
    Leroy hung from the bridge by his leash and one back leg that was wedged into the iron bars. He swung and struggled and howled in terror.
    Oh, my goodness! I’d just killed August’s dog. I raced to the bridge.
    The camera guy leaned over the edge, his burgundy sweater a mess of gravel and dust. He slid his hands carefully over Leroy’s trapped leg. “It’s OK, boy. Stop fighting, we’ll get ya.” His tone was soothing, but I noticed a gleam of sweat on his forehead.
    I pushed past. I hung over the rail and tried to reach the struggling animal. He would choke if I didn’t get him free. It was a miracle he hadn’t broken his neck. But I couldn’t reach. “Give me your cane!” I shouted over my shoulder.
    The camera guy was there in an instant, cane in hand. It wasn’t quite long enough.
    Leroy was barely whimpering now.
    I didn’t have much time. I grabbed the camera guy by the shoulder. His eyes were brown, a dimple dented one cheek, and his dark hair was stiff even in the breeze. He seemed familiar, but I had no time to wonder why. “Hang onto me, I can’t reach him.”
    I draped myself over the rail and the camera guy grabbed me around the waist. Both of us leaned out over the water toward the crying dog. I snagged the collar once, but the buckle held. If I could just get it to loosen I figured the whole thing would fall off. The loose end was wedged under a small red strap. I hooked the collar with the cane, once, twice. I twisted and shoved at the little strap, slipping farther over the rail. My shoe fell past my face, making a small splash in the quiet water below. The camera guy jolted forward and grabbed my legs. This was mortifying. He’d better not be looking up my dress. But the slip made me jostle Leroy’s back leg.
    With a twist, Leroy swung free of the bridge and the collar slipped over his shaggy head. The heavy Newfoundland yelped and plunged into the moat below. The subsequent splash was impressive, but Leroy swam to shore without incident. Water didn’t seem to cause him any trauma, only bridges.
    The camera guy was surprisingly strong for an older man. He hauled me back over the rail without losing my other shoe.
    I pressed my forehead against the cold metal railing and sobbed. I felt foolish. My limbs pulsed with adrenaline and there was nothing left to fight. Although, flight seemed like a plausible option, especially when the camera guy put his arm around my shoulder and offered me a clean white hanky for my dripping face.
    Once my emotional display had run its course, I mumbled a quiet “thank you” to my rescuer. Fleeing the quiet concern that shadowed his eyes, I trudged off the bridge to find August’s dog. My luggage was all tangled up in the leash, but I had ceased to concern myself with the soft pink leather and attractive brass zippers. I simply dragged the whole lot behind me in the dirt. I found my shoe half buried in a sludgy heap of water grass below the bridge.
    Finding Leroy was a bit more difficult. I located him snuffling through a drooping sea of purple and white crocuses. Although their glory was nearly spent, the crocus lawn was immense and still impressive. Large stone spheres stood sentinel along the edges, lest some enthusiastic tourist inadvertently trample the garden’s magnificence. They were no match for Leroy.
    I grabbed his collar and peeked around. Hopefully, we could avoid the vigilant gaze of the gardeners. I hung my head in mortification and hauled the great, soggy creature away from the flowers and up the cobbled path toward Rosenborg Castle.
    All I got was a raised eyebrow when I marched past the elaborate lamp posts that were scattered throughout the walkway and tried to purchase admittance for myself and Leroy. Newfoundland dogs were descended from the Viking Bear Dogs that arrived in the New World via Leif Erickson’s sea-going vessel.