Copenhagen Cozenage Read Online Free Page B

Copenhagen used to be a small Viking village. But did this bit of fascinating history mean that the descendants of Leif’s fuzzy passenger were welcome to view the crown jewels? No, not so much.
    A soldier dressed in green and wearing a black beret stood guard near a maze of scaffolding that encased part of the walls. Apparently, they were being refurbished.
    I did not push for Leroy’s admittance and instead sent messages into the castle for August via three different well-tipped individuals.
    Never argue with a man holding a gun. Was he guarding the crown jewels?
    Perhaps August’s theory about the jewel thief was less farfetched than it had appeared.
    I plopped down on a short brick wall to wait.
    Two statues of fat cherubic children topped the gate near its center. The castle rose above me in all the beauty of the renaissance age. Its base and towers were of brick and warm brown stone, roofed in something green. Green slate perhaps? Row after row of leaded windows gazed out across the gardens, many of them had little pointy roofs of their own. Curves and curls in the stone decorated the central spire, along with a robed statue standing within an arch four stories above the ground. The towers had tiered roofs, rising like wedding cakes on green pillars, getting smaller and smaller until they ended in delicate needles thrust up against the clouds. It was all majestic and lovely, but not the kind of sight I had dreamed of gazing upon, in the company of a massive and sopping dog.
    August did not come.
    None of my messengers could find him.
    His phone went straight to voice mail.
    Leroy started to whine. He sniffed around my feet, whimpering and turning in circles. I tugged him back, but he became more and more desperate. I had untangled the leash from my luggage and clipped it to his collar once more, but it provided me with little control over my hairy charge. After yanking him back four or five times, Leroy put his head down and simply dragged me back toward the gardens. He sniffed to and fro, here and there, down the paths. Leroy paused when he found a secluded patch of rose bushes. The dog turned around and hunched over a particularly delicate white bloom.
    “No, bad dog. No poop!”
    But it was too late. A massive pile of dog doo sat heaped upon the unfortunate rose bush.
    Every tourist within a mile radius glowered at me as though they were just one breath away from gathering their pitchforks and torches. I rushed about looking for a baggy, or a bucket, or a flat shovel-like stick. In the end, I scooped up the poop with an old newspaper, under the stern glare of the head gardener, and dumped the whole thing in the trash. He then escorted me to the road.
    “You may flag a taxi from here, Ma’am. Please do not return.”
    Not only did the gardener ban me from viewing a most noteworthy sight in Copenhagen, he had the gall to stand ten feet behind us and make sure that we actually left as directed. I almost wished we were back at the bridge, so I could dive into the moat and hide.
    This was the end. I didn’t care about August and his grandfather and their dumb jewel thief. And I most certainly did not care about his ill-mannered dog.
    Leroy was going to the pound.
     
     
     
     

4
    The Pound
     
    Once more, I hailed a taxi and was forced to pay for Leroy’s half of the seat. It cost double this time, although the journey to the pound was shorter than our trek to the castle. I can only imagine that the increased fare was because of Leroy’s inescapable wetness. Wet dog odors wafted through the taxi, and the vinyl squeaked as Leroy stretched and squirmed against the seat. I scooted against the door and sent August a text in all caps. TAKING YOUR DOG TO POUND!!!
    My cabbie was new to the business, and his English turned out to be…creative. Not only did he have trouble landing on the exact word he intended, his accent was difficult to decipher. He lingered on the vowels, drawing them out with more emphasis than I