Lynne parked her car in the little lot
behind Cookies Du Moi. It was an odd little corner of Salt Lake City
mixing pawn shops, liquor stores with barred windows and an invasion of
upscale pastel-colored urban grazing and knick-knack shops. Small stores
with cute names offering yogurt, dried flowers in a basket, ducks
wearing bonnets and specialty bagels that cost more than a five-pound
pot roast. New Age music drifted into the street.
Lynne
noticed a shabbily dressed man working his way around parked cars,
peering in windows and under bumpers. She locked her car and entered
Cookies Du Moi.
“There’s a man out in the parking lot acting suspicious. He might be trying to break into a car,” reported Lynne.
The
lady behind the counter was casually dressed, but brand names
emblazoned her persona. “Yes,” she said, “he’s one of the locals. He’s
doing a favor for the owner of Raphael’s Wreaths and Incense Boutique
next door. See, Ralph, I mean Raphael brought his pickup to work this
morning but he forgot that a hen had been nesting in the back. The hen
jumped out after he parked. I think that man is looking for it.”
“He’ll have a little stew tonight, I’ll bet,” chuckled Lynne.
“Oh, no…he’ll give it back.”
“I doubt it. He looked like he could use a good meal.”
“Well,” replied the proprietress of Cookie Du Moi, “I’d give it back if I caught it. Wouldn’t you?”
“Personally,
I don’t think I’d spend much time tryin’ to track an escaped chicken
through this neighborhood,” said Lynne, still joking.
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