Scents and Sensibility (3 page)

Meanwhile, Mr. Parsons just stood leaning on his walker, still trembling a bit.

“Go,” said Newburg, but for the first time a little gently. “Make a call or two.”

Mr. Parsons made his way back into the house. That left me, Bernie, and Newburg standing by the cactus, meaning there were more than two of us. Two was best, in my opinion, and also as far as I go when it comes to numbers.

Bernie and Newburg exchanged a glance. I thought of Silent Sammy Cipher, a perp of our acquaintance who spoke to us once and once only. “Whoever talks first is a loser, pal.” You can find Sammy over at Central State Correctional, breaking rocks in the hot sun, and if you can't get there soon, no problem.

Bernie, the farthest from a loser you'll ever see, spoke first. For a moment, I had this picture in my head of Special Investigator Newburg in an orange jumpsuit, no telling why.

“I know you're just doing your job,” Bernie said.

“Spare me,” said Newburg.

One of Bernie's techniques—mine, too! No wonder the Little Detective Agency is so successful, other than the finances part, in case I haven't mentioned the financial part already!—is plowing right along. That's what he did now, continuing as though Newburg hadn't said a word. “And it's an important job. I respect it. I admire it.”

“Stop already.”

“But he's an old man in poor health and his wife's dying in the hospital.”

“Everybody has a story.”

“That's no reason to tune out.”

Newburg's eyes shifted slightly, like she was paying attention to something inside.

“How about going easy on him?” Bernie went on. “We'll do whatever we can to help you.”

“Is that the royal we?”

“It's me and Chet here, commoners both.”

We were commoners? I was just finding that out now? But whatever commoners happened to be, for sure it was something good, if the group included Bernie. So: just one more reason to be in a fine mood, which I was already.

“Chet's your dog?” Newburg was saying.

Bernie nodded. Newburg turned my way. Her head tilted to one side, a sign she was trying to get a different angle on things; we do that, too, where I come from. She seemed about to say something, but at that moment, someone popped up into view in the shotgun seat window of her truck, parked by the side of the road. Did I mention her pickup truck already, all dusty, painted the color of her uniform except for a green and gold shield in on the side? If not, I should have. Don't be mad. The whole truck thing isn't really important anyway. The important part was this someone who'd popped up into view. First, he was a member of the nation within. Second, he was just a puppy. After second came a lot more, including the fact that his ears didn't match, one being white and the other black. Also I'd come upon this little dude before, out in the canyon behind Mesquite Road. We'd even had a playful dustup, if memory serves, which it hardly ever does in my experience.

He saw me and barked. I should have liked the sound of that bark, on account of how similar to mine it sounded—nowhere near as powerful, of course, hardly seems necessary to throw that in—but for some reason it annoyed me. I barked back at him, sending a clear message. Meanwhile, both Bernie and Newburg were looking from me to the puppy and back again.

“I'd heard something about a puppy matching that description being loose in the neighborhood,” Bernie said.

“Shooter is never ‘loose,' ” said Newburg. “But that shoe most certainly fits someone else in our happy little scene.”

Shoes were the subject? Bernie wore flip-flops, Special Investigator Newburg boots, and Shooter—if I'd caught the little dude's name—and I had no need for shoes of any kind. That was as far as I could take it. Meanwhile, all eyes were on me, for some reason. I thought of rolling over and playing dead, a trick I hadn't performed since my own puppy days.

M
y neighbor,” Special Investigator Newburg said, “had a bitch—since deceased—”

“Sorry to hear that.”

“—who got knocked up a while back by a perpetrator unknown.”

All eyes still on me? That made no sense. Wasn't a perpetrator something like a perp? That ruled me out—I was the number one enemy of perps here in the Valley, had grabbed so many by the pant leg that I'd lost count! Actually losing count after two, but that wasn't the point. The point was: Why me? In moments of uncertainty like this, a go-to move that usually works—as you may or may not know—is marking something. The only good marking post around was the big saguaro, which I'd already marked, but now I marked it again. Humans often say you can't have too much of a good thing—and I'm sure they're right—but from the looks on their faces as they watched me with one back leg raised, I got the feeling that Bernie and Special Investigator Newburg had forgotten all about that saying, at least temporarily.

“Shooter being the result?” Bernie said.

“Correct.”

“How big was the litter?”

“Just Shooter. My neighbor was having problems at the time. I took him.”

Bernie glanced my way. “Any point in a DNA test?”

“To confirm the obvious?” said Newburg. “I'm not paying.”

Bernie nodded like that made sense, whatever it was. I finished what I was doing and sat by myself in the Parsonses' front yard. I would have preferred sitting by Bernie, but . . . but sort of wanted him to call me over. Which he did not. I sat up tall and alert, a total pro. It was all I could think of to do.

“I didn't think this could happen,” Bernie said.

“That's what they all say,” said Newburg. “You owe me child support.”

“You're joking, right?” Bernie said. Newburg didn't reply, and her face showed nothing, at least to me. “Where do you live?” Bernie said.

“On Wildheart Way,” said Newburg.

“That's the other side of the canyon?”

“Correct.”

“And your neighbor?”

“Down the block from me.”

Bernie nodded again. “Got a moment?” he said. “I want to show you something.”

Special Investigator Newburg checked the Parsonses' door, still closed, then turned toward Shooter. The passenger-side window was cracked open enough for him to stick his muzzle way out, which he was doing. It was the right move, and I'd have done the same. “Okay,” Newburg said.

We walked over to our place and around to the back gate. Bernie unlocked it and we went inside. “Welcome,” he said. “I'm Bernie Little, by the way.”

“Ellie,” said Special Investigator Newburg. “I like your fountain,” she added as they shook hands.

“It's a swan.”

Ellie Newburg quickly let go of Bernie's hand. “I can see that.”

“A bit abstract,” Bernie said. “This particular rendering, which was why I mentioned it.”

“It's not abstract to me,” said Ellie. “And it captures the essence of swans very well, in my opinion.”

“The essence being?”

“That beauty can be nasty inside.”

Then came a silence in which they both quickly looked at each other and quickly looked away. No idea what that was all about. What were we even doing? I had no idea. But it was always nice to be on the patio. No complaints, amigo.

“I grew up on a lake near Pinetop,” Ellie said. “We had swans out front all the time, so I got to know them.” She pointed her chin at the fountain. “This is what you wanted me to see?”

Bernie shook his head. “Check out the gate.”

“What about it?”

“The height.”

He hurried into the house. I stayed where I was. A no-brainer. We had a stranger on the property and security's my job; also, no-brainers are my favorite kind of brainer. I kept my eye on Ellie. She took a look at the gate, then turned to me.

“An interesting guy,” she said. “The most interesting guy I've come across in some time, matter of fact, but is he nuts?”

I had no idea who she was talking about, was unable to help.

She took out her phone. “How about a quick search?” She tapped at the screen, then gazed at it for a few moments. “Well, well,” she said, which was around the time Bernie came back out, and she put the phone away. Or maybe not. All my attention was on Bernie, on account of what he had in his hand, namely a Slim Jim. The day, already off to a rockin' start, was about to get even better! I couldn't believe my luck, except that I could. I've had a very lucky life, especially after joining up with my partner Bernie.

“What's going on?” said Ellie.

“Just trying to explain what happened here,” Bernie said. “Sit tight, Chet. Ms. Newburg and I are going out for a bit.”

“Huh?” said Ellie.

Bernie led her through the gate and then closed it. I sat tight, which I took to mean was all about trotting right over to the gate and pawing at the wood.

“Chet—cool it.”

I paused, one paw in the air. They started talking, talking with me not there. That was bothersome.

“Did you check out the gate?” Bernie said.

“What about it?”

“No way under, right?”

“Not that I can see,” said Ellie.

“And would you call it high?”

“Gotta be six and half feet.”

“Seven,” said Bernie. “I used to let Chet sleep out by himself on nice evenings. Hard to imagine that gate being leapable.”

“No way.”

“Exactly my point—a . . . a black swan event, if you see what I mean”

“I do not,” said Ellie.

“You will,” Bernie said. Then he called to me: “Hey, Chet. Got a Slim Jim here, big guy. Come and get it.”

Well, of course I knew he had a Slim Jim: I'd seen it and I could smell it. Normally Slim Jims can't be resisted. But right now resisting seemed the way to go, although I had no idea why.

“Come on, Chet—jump!”

The Slim Jim smell grew stronger, as though Bernie was waving it in the air. My mouth started getting wet. Did I even drool a bit? I'm not denying it. But I stayed where I was, actually sat down in this special way I have of making myself very hard to move. And I would have stayed like that as long as it took, but a commotion started up on the other side of the gate.

First came the sound of running, not human running but real running, no offense.

“Oh my God,” said Ellie. “Shooter! How did you get out?”

Bernie laughed. “Two peas in a—”

“Shooter!” said Ellie. “Sit! Sit down this minute. Do you hear me? I said sit.” And a lot more like that, accompanied by the sounds of a chase, specifically the special kind of chase where a human tries to corral a member of the nation within, one of the very best games going.

“Sweet moves for a little guy,” Bernie said. “A budding Crazy Legs Hirsch. But not very obed—”

“Are you going to commentate or are you going to help?”

Or something less than friendly like that. I might have missed it on account of Crazy Legs Hirsch. First I'd heard of him, but clearly a perp. News flash for Crazy Legs: get measured for an orange jumpsuit. But not right now. Right now I was caught up in more fun sounds—they'd reached the wild scrambling stage—and the next thing I heard was Bernie saying, “Hey, Shooter—how about a Slim Jim?”

“He's not allowed any damned—”

All it once it got very quiet and still outside the gate, like the chase was over. How could it have been over so fast? I knew chases: this one was just getting started. Something was very wrong.

“Good boy, Shooter,” Bernie said. “Come on over and get your Slim Jim. Attaboy. Now sit. Excellent. Funny little guy. Here you—”

Some things in life can't be tolerated. At the top of the list would be an upstart puppy getting hold of a Slim Jim meant for me. I'm sure you'd feel the same way, feel it so strongly that there'd be no holding you back from jumping that gate. Which you couldn't do. Sorry for pointing that out. But there happened to be a gate-jumping dude extraordinaire on the premises: namely Chet the Jet!

Bird's-eye view: The next moment I finally got to understand what it meant, on account of that's what I now enjoyed! What a life birds had! So why were their eyes mean and angry? No time to puzzle over that. Instead I just delighted in my view from above, a view of Bernie, Special Investigator Newburg, and Shooter, all standing in a sort of circle, completely unaware of me way above them. One correction: Shooter was sitting, not standing, in fact sitting just as Bernie had suggested, sitting up nice and proper in anticipation of the Slim Jim which Bernie was about to hand over right that instant. What's an instant? Something pretty quick is all I know, meaning less than an instant had to be even quicker! Wow! Was I on fire or what? All this going on in my mind and at the same time I was dive bombing down like . . . like a dive bomber, whatever that might be. I snatched that Slim Jim out of Bernie's hand just as Shooter's cute little jaws were closing on it, one of the very best things I'd ever done! This Slim Jim was mine!

I cut one way, then the other, raising a dust cloud, the Slim Jim hanging out one side of my mouth but completely secure, baby, better believe it. Did Ellie throw up her hands in fear and scream, “Oh! Oh!”? Did Bernie yell, “Chet! Stop! For God's sake!”? Did Shooter come zooming after me, zigging and zagging with every one of my zigs and zags, plucky little dude, actually jumping up to make a play for that Slim Jim, and . . . and whoa! Snatching it right out of my mouth. None of that, amigo! I snatched it back, bowling him over in the process, and then without another thought, always a sign I'm at my best, I took off into the canyon at top speed, or even faster. And what do you know? The little fella took off right after me! We charged up a long rise, scrambled, and rolled down the far side, flew over a dry wash, and headed for points far distant, leaving the whole world in our dust.