Riley had just cleared Ingram’s office patio when Burt bolted past with what looked like the roast clutched in his jaws. The two tiny yappers raced after him. Josie, Jasmine, the chef, and the disgruntled housekeeper appeared, looking slack-jawed. “Is that your dog?” the housekeeper demanded as Burt zigged, then zagged into the neighbor’s yard. “Uh, no,” Riley said wisely. “Pork Rind is smaller and doesn’t break and enter.”
