Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

  “I didn’t know that,” Bernie said.

  “Not much of a bar,” said Malcolm. “It’s actually just a corner of the wine cellar, fixed up with bar paraphernalia.”

  “Wine cellar? Know much about wine?”

  “Wouldn’t call myself an expert.”

  “Ever heard of Mourvèdre?”

  “The varietal? Sure. Want to sample some?”

  * * *

  Not long after that we were several floors down from the kitchen in a big wood-paneled room with leather chairs and couches, a bar at one end that reminded me of the small upstairs bar in the Ritz where we’d once spent a very short evening, and wine bottles lining all the walls and in cases here and there on the floor. Malcolm walked around eyeing the bottles, picked out one, then another, and another, grabbed some glasses from a hanging rack, and brought everything to a high-top table in one corner.

  “Leda says I have a way of going on and on,” Malcolm said.

  Those eyebrows of Bernie’s rose, but before he could say anything Malcolm … kept going on. Some humans like the sound of their own voice. Do I get that? But yes! Sometimes I bark just to hear the sound. Barking can be … how to put this? Its own reward? Close enough.

  “So stop me if you already know all this. Some wines are made from a single grape species—Burgundies, for example. Others, like Bordeaux, are blends.” Malcolm took a corkscrew from the table, started opening bottles. “Mourvèdre was never considered a noble grape, instead got used in blends.” He poured some into a couple of glasses, handed Bernie a glass. “Here’s a Spanish take, fifty percent Mourvèdre, which they call Monastrell over there.”

  Malcolm swirled his wine around in the glass.

  “You really do that, huh?” Bernie said.

  Malcolm nodded. “Frees up the aromas.”

  Not my favorite dude, but Malcolm was on the money on this one. Frisky little smell waves started coming my way, one after the other: flower-scented—particularly the purple kind Suzie likes, called violets perhaps; pepper-scented; plus sagebrush, red meat, and even a hit of sheep poop. Wow!

  Bernie and Malcolm swirled and sipped. Malcolm set a small silver bucket between them.

  “You can spit in this, if you like.”

  “That’s all right,” Bernie said, making the right choice, in my opinion. I wasn’t a big fan of spitting, pretty much a human male thing, in my experience, and indoor spitting was the worst kind.

  They swirled and sipped. “Picking up any violet?” Malcolm said.

  “Well, flowers, maybe,” Bernie said.

  “How about pepper?” Malcolm said.

  Bernie shook his head. I took a moment to check out Malcolm’s nose—long and narrow, in no way as mighty as Bernie’s, and yet … and yet … I didn’t want to go any further, so I stopped, which is my MO in this sort of situation.

  Meanwhile they’d emptied their glasses and Malcolm was pouring from another bottle.

  “This is French, Bandol specifically. Eighty percent Mourvèdre.”

  More swirling. More sipping. No spitting.

  “What do you think?” Malcolm said.

  “Kind of, um, astringent,” Bernie said.

  “More tannic, no question.”

  “But I actually like it better.”

  Malcolm smiled. Had I ever seen him smile before? Not that I remembered. It almost made him look like someone else.

  “Then have some more.” Malcolm refilled their glasses with the French one. Following that they sampled bottles from Australia, California, Washington, and maybe a few others I missed.

  “Now,” Malcolm said, collecting and opening some more bottles, “let’s see what a few brave vintners have done with this big boy all on his own.”

  Lots more swilling. Lots more sipping. Still no spitting. Things were going well, in my opinion. Malcolm went to the bar and returned with a plate of sliced sausages. How was it I’d lived all this time without wine tastings?

  Malcolm drained his glass. “Remind me which ones we haven’t tried.”

  Bernie pointed to a bottle. “That one, I think.”

  “Ah, Turkey Flat.” Malcolm poured. “I’m guessing you’ll like this.”

  They both seemed to like Turkey Flat and had started in on a second glass when out of nowhere Malcolm said, “Charlie’s a great kid.”

  Bernie stopped sipping in mid-sip, looked at Malcolm.

  “Leda doesn’t want any more kids, as you may already know.”

  “I didn’t,” Bernie said.

  “Interesting,” Malcolm said, gazing into his glass. There was a long silence. Then he took a deep breath and started opening another bottle. The cork was half out when he paused and said, “I opened a college savings account, if that’s all right with you.”

  Bernie put down his glass. “For Charlie?”

  Malcolm said, “Didn’t you hear what I just said? About no more kids?”

  “Yeah, but…”

  “In fact, it’s fully funded,” Malcolm said.

  He went back to uncorking the bottle. Bernie gave Malcolm a long look, the expression in his eyes very complicated, not quite like any I’d seen from him before.

  “This is practically from our backyard,” Malcolm said. “One hundred percent Mourvèdre.” He poured and put the bottle down. Bernie glanced at the label, and then again.

  “Gila Wines?”

  “Heard of them?”

  “Yes.”

  “Nice little winery,” Malcolm said. “An associate of mine and I tried to buy it a few years back.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, more accurately I considered it. Water’s the X factor in any agricultural enterprise out here so I hired a hydrologist to check things out. His report was negative—even for an unthirsty grape like Mourvèdre—so we backed off.”

  “Was it Wendell Nero?”

  “The hydrologist? No. His name was Hoskin Phipps. A big-timer in his field—he’s based out here now but he was head of the geology department at Veritan.”

  “Veritan University?”

  “That’s what people are referring to when they say Veritan, Bernie.” Malcolm took a sip. “You must have played them when you were at West Point.”

  “Only in an exhibition game.”

  “Who won?”

  “Only an exhibition game and a long time ago.”

  Malcolm leaned forward. “But it was Veritan. Can’t say I know you, but at least I know you well enough to be willing to bet you remember the score—and every single detail if you won.”

  There was a pause. Then Bernie started laughing. Malcolm joined in. They laughed and laughed. Did a little wine get spilled? Possibly, but that was when I got distracted by the sound of footsteps clattering down the stairs.

  Unnoticed by the wine tasters, Leda entered the room, a bit sweaty, wearing a cycling outfit, complete with helmet and those odd cycling shoes, which were making her lean slightly backward. “What the hell’s going on?” she said.

  Sixteen

  The next morning Bernie drank a whole pot of coffee. Also he shaved with a new blade and took a cold shower. I knew it was a cold shower from the sounds he made, like “Yikes!” and “Yow!” and “Yiy!” His face was still pinkish as we drove away from the house. “No Mourv“èdre today, big guy—that’s one thing for sure.”

  There, just another example of Bernie’s brilliance. The day hadn’t even started and we already had one sure thing in our back pocket. I barked at a little old lady waiting for the bus, couldn’t contain myself.

  “The unknown unknowns aren’t what frustrate you, Chet,” he said as we went by the rail yards, the auto mile, the new auto mile, and into the part of town that was strip malls and nothing but. “By definition,” he continued, “you don’t know they’re there. It’s the known unknowns that keep you awake at night.”

  Whoa! This was going by way too fast. The part about me not feeling frustrated? Bernie had nailed that one. I hardly ever felt frustrated. When was the last time? Ma
ybe that day I’d been home alone while Bernie went to the dentist—where I’d once tried waiting in the waiting room, but the drill sounds had ended up being too much for me—and a squirrel had spent the whole time keeping busy in the front yard, with me trapped inside and barking my head off to no effect. Was the squirrel an unknown unknown? I had no idea. As for something or other keeping me awake at night? Nope! I gave Bernie a close look.

  He glanced at me. “I know what you’re thinking—what does all this philosophizing have to do with the case? Answer: Why did Wendell want to see us? That’s the known unknown, has been from the beginning, and we’ve gotten nowhere on it. See why it’s so irritating?”

  I thought that over from several angles, which took practically no time, and settled on thinking about it from no angle at all, my usual MO. But even after such a big effort, I couldn’t get to even the beginning of irritation. Poor Bernie! I pressed my paw on his leg to make him feel better. We sped up big time, which had to mean he was feeling better already.

  “CHET!”

  Bernie slammed on the brakes. Honking started up all around us. So much road rage! I myself am a lover of the open road.

  “What gets into you?”

  Me? I couldn’t have been more chill if I tried. And how would trying even help with that? I looked at Bernie. He looked at me.

  * * *

  We pulled up in front of Butchie and Mom’s Tuxedo World, a strip mall shop we’ve visited before, although not recently. In the front, Butchie Dykstra’s mom ran a tuxedo rental business and had a stock of extremely interesting shoes called pumps. In the back Butchie ran some businesses of a different kind.

  A bell tinkled as we opened the door. I love being welcomed like that, and made what Bernie calls a mental note to be on my best behavior. I didn’t even think about the pumps, which stood in gleaming rows on a rack over on one side. Maybe I leaned a little that way, but I kept going in a straight line, a total pro, and on the job.

  Butchie’s mom stood on a stool, tying the bow tie of a very tall pimply kid wearing black tuxedo pants and a frilly white shirt.

  “So much classier than a clip on, Wesley. You’ll thank me in the end.”

  “But you won’t be there, Mrs. D.”

  “Of course not,” said Mrs. D. “It’s the junior prom.”

  “Then how am I gonna get it tied?”

  “That’s what I’m teaching you. Just remember dapper.”

  “Huh?”

  “The letters, Wesley. Here we go. Different lengths. A simple knot. Pinch a bow. Pull and pluck. Enter the loop. Refine. And that spells dapper.” Mrs. D. patted Wesley’s chest. “Look in the mirror.”

  They looked in the mirror, which was when Mrs. D. spotted us. “Now you just practice for a bit while I deal with these rough customers.” She hopped down from the stool, her skirt, perhaps on the short side for a woman her age—just based on what I see around town—flapped up. Wesley moved closer to the mirror. Mrs. D. smoothed her skirt and came over to us.

  “Well, well, the two most handsome guys in the whole Valley! When was the last time you wore a tux, Bernie? And please don’t say at your wedding.”

  Mrs. D. was one of those very fast-talking women, and fast-moving, too. Somewhere in the middle of that whole stream of words she slipped me a biscuit, so quick and smooth I almost didn’t know it was happening.

  “Um, actually—”

  “I knew it. Now you come right over here. How can a man stand out in this day and age? By wearing a tux even if there’s no special event, that’s how! And lots of the leading lights in town are starting to do just that. Here—try this one, just for size.”

  “What leading lights?” Bernie said.

  Meanwhile Mrs. D. was somehow getting a tuxedo jacket on him even though he was resisting. “Arnie Gilchrist, for one.”

  “Isn’t he the advertising guy?”

  “And Zeppo Frias.”

  “He owns nightclubs, for god’s sake.”

  “You’re making my case. Now just take a gander at what could be you.”

  We all gazed at Bernie in the mirror, even Wesley, who’d turned to watch. The tuxedo jacket was a huge success in my view, going very nicely with his Hawaiian shirt, the one with the dancing coconuts, some of the coconuts wearing bras and the rest in tank tops.

  “Women,” said Mrs. D., “and I’m talking about the best kind of women, like elegance in a man.”

  “Why?” Bernie said.

  Mrs. D. gave Bernie a narrow-eyed look. “I hope you’re not listening to this, Wesley,” she said.

  “No, ma’am.” Wesley turned away quickly and returned to fumbling with his bow tie.

  “He’s a lost cause. Don’t you be a lost cause, Wesley.”

  “No, ma’am.”

  Mrs. D. helped Bernie out of the tuxedo jacket, hung it on the rail. “I suppose you’re looking for Butchie,” she said. “He’s not in yet.”

  “When do you expect him?”

  “An hour ago.” Mrs. D.’s eyes shifted. All at once she didn’t seem quite as lively. “Is there a problem, Bernie?”

  “Not for Butchie,” Bernie said. “I might be in the market for some electronics.”

  “Yeah? You can wait in back if you like, look around.”

  We went through a curtain and into the back of the store. What a place! I’ll only mention the mechanical bucking bronco—I’d seen a similar one in action with Bernie in the saddle, briefly, but just long enough to win a C note—and a rocket launcher, which I knew from a video game of Charlie’s that Bernie had sort of lost before his next visit.

  Were laptops and cell phones electronics? I thought so. Butchie had a few of each. Bernie picked them up, checked them out, put them down. “Not here, big guy. Does that mean Butchie already unloaded them? Or is it possible…?” He went silent and headed through the curtain to the front of the store. Wesley was gone and Mrs. D. was counting a big wad of money.

  “This is only passing through,” she said. “We just get to touch it, if you know what I mean.”

  “All too well,” said Bernie.

  Touching money? That had never occurred to me. What a shame! I have two basic ways of touching—with my paws and with my tongue, both good, although I get a lot more information from my tongue. How would a wad of money feel on my tongue? A great question, and one I should have been asking long ago. I sidled over toward Mrs. D.

  “How about I text him?” Mrs. D. said, at the same time dropping the wad of cash into a drawer and closing it tight. She pressed a button on her phone. A moment or two later it pinged. Mrs. D. checked the screen.

  “Good god,” she said, “fishing again?”

  “Butchie’s into fishing?” Bernie said.

  “Just recently. A customer brought in one of those inflatable boats. Butchie decided to try it out before we put it on the market. Today will be the fifth tryout, unless I lost count.”

  “Where does he go?”

  “Geronimo Lake.”

  “There are fish in Geronimo Lake?”

  “So he says.”

  * * *

  We hopped in the car, cranked ’er up, and—

  “Chet? What you got there?”

  What in heck did I have, anyway? It appeared to be, my goodness, a pump. Bernie took it from me gently and went back into the store, where a brief conversation took place between him and Mrs. D., money possibly changing hands. I quickly lost interest and didn’t tune back in until we were past the airport and out of town, headed toward Mount Limon, where the sun comes up every morning. It was later in the day now, so the sun had moved on, the way the sun does. I’m also the type that likes to keep moving, so I understood perfectly. I’d gone past Mount Limon before—whenever we worked cases in New Mexico, a very dangerous place when it comes to speeding tickets—but never driven up it. Imagine my excitement when Bernie turned off the freeway and started on the mountain road.

  “Chet?”

  * * *

  The air got cooler on Mount
Limon and everything around us got greener. The smell of water came drifting down the mountain, and then we rounded a corner and I caught a flash of blue. Not long after that, we parked in front of a small wooden dock by the shore of a lake.

  “Actually a reservoir,” Bernie said, “but a lake in my book.”

  Same. A nice round lake, smooth and shining, and smelling lovely, very different from the water that comes out of taps. This water was alive and smelled it, if you know what I mean. There was only one other car around, a jeep hitched to an empty boat trailer. Bernie checked the license plate.

  “B-U-T-C-H-I-E,” he said. “Would we have our names on the plate if we were in the stolen goods business?”

  I didn’t know the answer to that one, didn’t even understand the question.

  “Maybe it’s the right approach,” Bernie said. “Got to advertise yourself, as my mother would say.”

  Uh-oh? Bernie’s mom was back in the picture? I tried to find room for her somewhere in the case and failed. Also the case itself turned very shadowy in my mind, almost darkening completely.

  Bernie shaded his eyes from the sun and gazed out at the lake. There was only one boat on the water, small, wide, grayish, not going anywhere, simply floating in a way that made me want to do the exact same thing, meaning simply float. The air was so clear I could see a fishing rod hanging over the side, the line like a streak of silver vanishing into the blue.

  Bernie cupped his hands to his mouth. “Butchie! Butchie!”

  No answer. No movement on the boat. What had happened was pretty clear. All this peace and quiet had put Butchie—possibly tired from a late night—to sleep, and he was catching some Z’s on the deck, out of our view.

  “Butchie! Butchie! Butchie!”

  Not far from the boat, a little fish jumped out of the water and splashed back in. Then came more silence.

  Bernie’s face darkened. He kicked off his flip-flops, took off his shirt and pants, so he was wearing just his boxers, and said, “Remember how to swim, big guy?”