Of Mutts and Men

by Spencer Quinn

  “I get that,” Bernie said. “But is there any hurry?”

  “The very question I asked Jimmy. How can I argue with the answer? It’s a good offer—better than good—and no offer may ever come again, not with the aquifer squeezed out dry.”

  “Which hasn’t happened yet,” Bernie said.

  “But the scientists say it’s certain to,” said Diego.

  “What scientists?”

  “The ones who wrote the report.”

  “The report was written by Hoskin Phipps,” Bernie said. “Have you ever met him?”

  “No.”

  “Has Jimmy mentioned him?”

  Diego shook his head.

  “Why don’t you trust your phone?” Bernie said.

  Diego hung his head. “I didn’t really mean that. We’re family. But Jimmy doesn’t want me interfering in things, messing up the deal.”

  “Is your phone tapped?” Bernie said.

  Diego looked up, more than surprise on his face, maybe even shock. “Oh, no, never. He’s my son.”

  “Drink some more water,” Bernie said.

  Diego picked up his glass and drank more water.

  “Who’s the buyer?” Bernie said.

  “Some Swiss outfit—didn’t I tell you?”

  “You didn’t say the name.”

  Diego thought. “It’ll come to me,” he said.

  We waited. Hot summer days could be very quiet on Mesquite Road. I heard the faint swish swish of Heydrich’s sprinklers.

  Diego rose, went to the window. “Did I tell you I was going to walk away with enough money to live comfortably for the rest of my days?” he said.

  “Good to hear,” Bernie said.

  Diego turned. “Jimmy ran the numbers. He—” Diego broke off, distracted by something on the fridge door. He went over and peered at the photo of Wendell and the girl with the goat sitting on her feet. “What’s this?” he said.

  “It was on the wall in Wendell’s RV,” Bernie said. “I took it after the police investigation was over.”

  “Why?” Diego said.

  “No reason,” Bernie told him. “I just liked it.”

  “You don’t know Tildy?”

  “She’s the girl?”

  Diego—his back to us, his eyes still on the photo, nodded. “But what’s going on? It looks like they knew each other.”

  “Why would that be a surprise?” Bernie said.

  Diego leaned closer to the photo. “Well, I suppose it makes sense if…”

  “If what?”

  “If this photo was taken in Dollhouse Canyon.”

  “That’s where Wendell had the RV.”

  “I guess that explains it,” Diego said.

  “Not to me,” Bernie said. “Who’s Tildy?”

  Diego turned. “A fine kid. Her family helps out from time to time.”

  “Meaning they work for you?”

  “Seasonally, more or less. Harvest, pruning, plus caring for the animals. Tildy loves animals. She’s very good at teaching the goats to stay away from the grapes.”

  “How does she do that?”

  “She just talks to them in Spanish—now, now, no grapes, none of that you little scamps—and for some reason they get the idea.”

  “Can she speak English?”

  “Perfectly. But she talks Spanish to the goats.”

  “I’d like to see her,” Bernie said.

  Diego shook his head. “They were supposed to be here for most of the summer, but we got a tip last week and they went home.”

  “Home to Mexico?”

  “Sonora,” Diego said. “Her and her mom. The dad stayed down there this year—too sick to travel.”

  “Where in Sonora?” Bernie said.

  “I don’t know, exactly.”

  “Who would?”

  “Juana—she’s the cook.”

  “We need to talk to her,” Bernie said.

  “Sure,” said Diego. “I can set that up.”

  “Now would be good,” Bernie said. “And not at the winery—somewhere else.”

  Diego gave Bernie a long look. Then, under his breath, maybe to himself, he said, “The grapes are still juicy.”

  “Stall,” Bernie said. “Stall for as long as you can.” He took the photo off the fridge.

  * * *

  Outside Diego got in his pickup and we hopped in the Porsche, ready to follow him, unless there was some other plan I’d missed. But before we could get started, a commotion got going over at the Parsons’s house, Mr. Parsons shouting, “No, Iggy, back!” and Iggy doing his yip yip yip. Their front door opened a crack and somehow Mr. Parsons squeezed out backwards, blocking Iggy with his walker. I caught a glimpse of Iggy trying to dart his way through. Once Bernie said, “Imagine if Iggy was Chet’s size.” I realized now what a scary thought that was. Then the door closed and Mr. Parsons came stumping over.

  “Bernie! Been trying to catch a moment with you—you haven’t been around much.”

  “Is there a problem?” Bernie said.

  “On, no, no problem. Edna just wanted me to ask if this is true.” He took a rolled-up newspaper from his back pocket, straightened it out. “Right here above the fold, as they say. Prominent Valley Journalist to Wed.”

  Bernie took the paper. There was a pretty big picture of Suzie and Jacques, holding hands and smiling. Bernie gazed at it. I gazed at Bernie.

  “Says they plan on starting some new venture out here,” Mr. Parsons said.

  Bernie didn’t answer. His eyes stayed on the picture.

  “Is it true?” said Mr. Parsons. “Bernie?”

  Bernie turned to him. “Is what true?” Perhaps he spoke a little sharply. He said, “Is what true?” again, this time more gently, which was how he usually spoke to Mr. and Mrs. Parsons.

  “About the venture?” Mr. Parsons said.

  “It is,” said Bernie.

  Mr. Parsons sighed. “Well, I wish them luck, of course.”

  “Me, too,” said Bernie, handing back the paper.

  * * *

  We got in the car but were hardly out of the driveway when Charlie called.

  “Dad! I made a shoestring catch! In a real game!”

  “Good job!”

  “But it’s not on video.”

  “No problem. Just remember it in your mind.”

  “Okay. Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “What’s chin music?”

  Bernie’s eyes got an inward look. “It’s when a pitcher throws high and tight to back you off the plate. Why?”

  “Timmy—that’s the counselor in case you forgot—”

  “I—”

  “—stood in the batter’s box and we all got a chance to pitch to him. He said I was throwing chin music.”

  Bernie laughed. Had I ever seen him look so happy? They said goodbye. Bernie stopped looking happy, glanced at me. “But what’s the response to chin music, big guy?”

  Wow! The toughest question that had ever come my way. I waited for the answer. It seemed to be taking a long time. Then, quietly, maybe to himself, Bernie said, “You hit the next one out of the park.”

  I’d never have guessed.

  * * *

  “My goodness!” said Juana. “What a big dog!”

  “If you’re uncomfortable,” Bernie said, “I could put him—”

  Juana interrupted before I learned where Bernie was planning to put me. Would it be better to think of it as trying to put me? Possibly, but we never got that far. “Oh, no,” Juana said, “I’m fine with dogs.”

  No news to me. I’d known Juana was a fan of me and my kind from the moment she’d stepped down from the cab of her pickup, an older, bigger one than Diego’s, and not dusty, like his, but sparkling and polished. Human fear has a smell—actually a number of them, depending on things we can’t go into now—that I don’t miss. Juana, a short, wide woman with one of those very smooth skins you see on female humans from time to time, was mostly about kitchen smells, particularly sausages fry
ing in the pan. I liked her from the get-go.

  We sat at a shady picnic table behind the big truck stop off the highway on the South Pedroia side of town, Diego and Juana on one side, me and Bernie on the other. Bernie laid the photo on the table.

  “I understand you know this girl,” he said.

  “Sure,” said Juana. “It’s Tildy. And that’s the poor man who got killed.”

  “You knew him?”

  She glanced at Diego. “Mr. Diego says you’re a private detective?”

  “I am,” Bernie said. “A suspect is in custody but there are some loose ends.”

  “You can trust Bernie,” Diego said.

  “Okay, then,” said Juana. “I did not know the man but I met him once.”

  “When?” Bernie said.

  Juana pointed to the photo. “Then.”

  “You took the picture?”

  “Sí.”

  “How did that come about?”

  Juana folded her hands on the table, very nice-looking hands, in my opinion. “It began with some goats, I think, going over the ridge into Dollhouse Canyon. Tildy went to get them and so she met Doctor Wendy. That’s what she called him. She kept going there, helping with his work, she said. Then one day Dr. Wendy called Pepita—that’s Tildy’s momma—and said what a bright girl Tildy was and when the day came he would make sure she went to college. I thought, well, maybe I should meet this gentleman. Tildy is a smart kid, very responsible, but … twelve years old.”

  “You didn’t trust Wendell?” Bernie said.

  “And I did not not trust him. I just wanted to be sure. And he was a very nice man, no problem, teaching her all about the land.”

  “What did she mean by helping with his work?”

  “That’s what she told Pepita.”

  “What do you know about the roll of papers under her arm?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Diego says she and her mom went back to Sonora because they got a tip,” Bernie said.

  Juana turned to Diego. “Tip?”

  “Isn’t that the usual thing?” Diego said. “A warning about la migra?”

  Juana shook her head. “Pepita was worried the sheriff would learn Tildy had been helping Dr. Wendy.”

  “And would come to question her?” said Bernie.

  “That’s right,” Juana said.

  “Amounts to the same thing,” said Diego.

  “We need to talk to her,” Bernie said.

  “Because of the loose ends?” said Juana.

  “It’s more than that,” Bernie told her. “They’ve got the wrong man.”

  Juana thought about that but stayed silent.

  “And possibly,” Bernie added, “Diego can keep the vineyard.”

  Juana turned to him.

  “Maybe you don’t know,” Diego said, “but there’s a water problem so we’re going to have to—”

  “I know,” Juana said. “We all know.” She took a notepad from her bag, wrote on the top sheet, peeled it off, and gave it to Bernie.

  Twenty-seven

  Bernie spun the dial on the safe. But why? Didn’t we already have the .38 Special? I squeezed in closer for a better look, perhaps even getting my front paws up on the wall, practically at the level of the safe. Had I ever stood so high before? Not that I remembered. Was it possible I was getting taller? What an exciting idea, and I’m not the type that gets excited easily. Or am I? And if I was would that be a problem? Maybe it’s even better to be—

  “Chet?”

  I eased myself back down to the floor, stood silent and still. You wouldn’t have noticed me. Bernie felt around in the safe. “Here we go—my passport, your papers.”

  Passport and papers? That meant Mexico. Have I mentioned Lola? She and I met in an alley behind a cantina, on a night I’d found myself not very sleepy, and wandered away from our hotel in a dusty little town, possibly leaving through the open window. Would we be visiting that dusty little town on this trip? I trotted down the hall and parked myself at the front door, my nose just about touching it. Bernie came up, reached around me, laughing softly as if at some joke, and turned the doorknob.

  His phone buzzed. His hand withdrew from the doorknob.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Bernie. It’s Gudrun.”

  “Um. Hello.”

  “Did I catch you at a bad moment?”

  “Uh, no.”

  “Are you in town?”

  “For the moment.”

  “On your way somewhere? Somewhere interesting?”

  Say goodbye, Bernie. Let’s roll. But he said nothing and we didn’t roll. I remained where I was, nose to the door.

  “The reason I ask,” Gudrun went on, “is that I wondered if you were free for dinner tonight, say around seven at my place?”

  “Thanks,” Bernie said, “but—”

  “I think you’ll want to say yes,” Gudrun said over him. “I’ve got something to show you.”

  “Like what?”

  “It’s a message of sorts—from Florian Machado.”

  “What’s the message?”

  “I prefer to show you in person,” Gudrun said.

  A long pause on our end. I could feel Bernie’s thoughts, dark ones, moving fast. “All right,” he finally said.

  “Last house on Upper Camino Royale,” Gudrun said. “The guard will let you in.”

  I went on standing by the door for some time, even though I knew it was hopeless. Funny how the mind works.

  * * *

  “Haven’t been up this way for a while,” Bernie said.

  I myself had never been here before, way up in the faraway hills that blocked the sun at the end of every Valley day. And we were getting latish, the sun orange and kind of flabby, poking out from behind a slope from time to time and then disappearing behind another one, casting a shadow over us. Way down below the Valley went on and on, mostly in shadow, too, except for the tops of the downtown towers, which looked like they were on fire—but no smoke, so no worries about that—and planes rising up from the airport and turning to gold, or starting out as gold and blackening as they came in to land.

  We were rising, too, up and up on a high curving ridge that led to a tall metal gate. A man’s voice spoke, although there was no one to see.

  “Welcome, Mr. Little. Drive on through.”

  The gate swung open. We drove on through. A bird rose off the gate post, circled up into the golden light higher and higher, and disappeared. Bernie took a deep breath. “Nice air,” he said.

  That was interesting. Did it mean Bernie found some air nice and some not nice? What made this air nice to him? I took a casual sniff, breathed in a river of scents, way too many to even get started on now. But there was lots of piñon pine aroma, a bit like chestnuts roasted at Christmas—before the fire extinguisher comes out—and also the smell of hot asphalt, rising from the Valley floor. So Bernie liked that mix, piñon pine and hot asphalt? I’d have to remember that.

  “What’s with you?” Bernie said.

  I found I was giving him a close look. Nothing was on my mind. Zip, zilch, nada. I yawned a big yawn.

  “Don’t tell me you’re sleepy?”

  Sleepy? When we were on the job? Or even if we weren’t? I got that yawn under control and pronto, not so easy with yawns. The sun sank away for good, taking most of the colors with it.

  We followed a driveway of smooth, polished pavers toward a tall dark house that looked like an arrangement of boxes, some of them seeming to hang over the edge of a cliff. Outside lights flashed on and I saw that those boxes were mostly made of dark glass. Then an inside light went on in one of the higher boxes and I could see right inside. There was Gudrun, looking out at us. The inside light went out and she vanished. We parked and walked to the door.

  Bernie started to knock but Gudrun was already there, opening it, so Bernie knocked only air.

  “Welcome,” she said, smiling at Bernie. Then she noticed me and her smile sort of got stuck. “Ah,” she said. �
��You’ve brought your formidable friend.”

  “Is that a problem?” Bernie said.

  “Not at all,” said Gudrun. The sun might have taken away the colors, but it had missed her eyes, somehow still very green. “I love dogs,” she said.

  Lots of humans love me and my kind. Some don’t. Gudrun was in the second group. I always know right away. As for me and Bernie being friends—true as far as it went, which wasn’t nearly far enough.

  Gudrun led us into the house, lights going off behind us and going on in front. We ended up in a glass box that really was hanging over the cliff. Only Bernie and Gudrun actually went all the way in. I kind of hung back in the part that seemed like it still had land underneath.

  “Quite a place,” Bernie said. “I assume something’s holding it up.”

  “I hope so,” said Gudrun.

  Bernie turned to her and laughed.

  “Care for a drink?” she said.

  “I thought you had something to show me.”

  “Oh, I do,” Gudrun said. “But your hands will be free.”

  Bernie looked a bit … oh, no. Flustered? Was that it? A certain type of woman sometimes got him flustered in a certain kind of way. Was Gudrun that certain type? I hadn’t thought so, but now I realized that she was, plus a lot more. Bernie’s smell changed slightly, which was the proof. And her smell, what you might call a matching smell although very different, changed, too.

  “Bourbon’s your drink, I believe?” Gudrun said, moving toward a glass cabinet that seemed suspended in midair. I did not like this house, not one bit. Bernie followed her over to the cabinet. I entered the room. The floor was made of stone, and strangely cold. The chairs were white, the couch black, and there was a tall metal sculpture of a man who was way too skinny. Worst of all was a small cage hanging from a hook in one corner, and in that cage a hamster, run-run-running on a wheel. Why? Why are you doing that, little hamster?

  Gudrun poured bourbon into two glasses, gave one to Bernie.

  “It is my drink,” he said. “And thanks for the bottle. But how did you know?”

  “A little bird told me,” Gudrun said.

  I made the connection right away—don’t forget I’m a pro. Gudrun was talking about the bird that had flown off the gate post and vanished in the evening sky. Some birds can talk, of course, but this was the first time we’d had one working with a human. And not just any human—this human was no friend of mine. The case, all about … well, who even knew, exactly, had taken a bad turn.