Ruff vs. Fluff

by Spencer Quinn

  “Um,” Bro said.

  Everyone turned to him.

  “Something on your mind?” said Big Fred. “Heard you popped Foster Mahovlich a good one, by the way.”

  “Please, Fred,” Mom said.

  “Sorry.”

  “Uh, if we can’t find Matty,” Bro said, and then came to a halt.

  “Go on,” Mom said.

  Bro shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s just an idea.”

  “Lost me a bit there, son,” said Big Fred.

  Bro looked down, maybe like he’d had an unhappy thought. Just to clear up any possible confusion, Big Fred is not Bro’s dad. Dad is Bro’s dad. He hasn’t been seen around these parts in some time. Neither has Lilah Fairbanks, the interior decorator Mom hired to fix things up nice and fancy. Now the decor is back to how it was.

  “Tell us about this idea,” Mom said, her voice gentle.

  “It’s stupid,” Bro said.

  “No it’s not,” said Harmony. “Bro’s thinking that since Matty could never have murdered Mr. LeMaire then someone else did. So all we have to do is find that someone else and then Matty will be off the hook.”

  “Yeah,” Bro said. “Like that.”

  “Whoa!” said Big Fred. “They read each other’s minds?”

  “Not all the time, thank god.” Mom turned to Bro. “A very smart thought,” she said. “If a bit impracticable.”

  “What’s impracticable?” said Bro.

  “Not easy to actually do in real life,” Harmony said.

  “So?” said Bro. “We’ve got to do something. In real life they’re—”

  Harmony chimed in, their voices blending together.“—trying to put Matty in jail!”

  Mom gave them a careful look. “Kids?” she said.

  That night things were very quiet at the Blackberry Hill Inn. After supper, we all gathered in the guest lounge, which was where the TV was. The TV wasn’t on. Harmony and I were sprawled on an old corduroy chair, very comfy, that Big Fred had rescued from a furniture store fire down at the discount mall, Harmony reading a book and me watching her read. Her eyes went back and forth, back and forth in a way I couldn’t not watch. Bro was staring into nowhere, which is what he does instead of reading, and Mom was examining the dusty bottle of Maple Leaf Gold Canadian rye whisky.

  “Think it’s any good?” she said.

  “Hey!” said Bro, suddenly coming out of his trance or whatever it was. “You like whisky, Mom?”

  “Not so far in this life,” Mom said. “Maybe it’s time to start, in a big way.”

  Harmony looked up. “Mom?”

  Mom laughed. “Actually, I was thinking that if it was any good we could give it to somebody for Christmas.”

  “A … murder victim’s bottle?” Harmony said, her voice quiet.

  “There is that,” said Mom, her voice going quiet, too.

  “Look it up,” Bro said, his voice staying the same, kind of cheerful.

  “What?” said Mom.

  “The whisky. Online. To see if it’s good. There’ll be reviews, like for everything else.”

  Mom opened her laptop, started tapping away. “Funny,” she said after some time.

  “No reviews?” Bro said.

  “Not only that,” said Mom, “but they stopped making it in 1933.”

  “Meaning that’s a real old bottle,” Harmony said.

  “Worth a lot of money?” said Bro. “Like to collectors?”

  “Are there whisky collectors?” Harmony said.

  “I don’t know,” said Mom.

  “Maybe we should crack ’er open, give it a taste,” Bro said.

  “It’s your bedtime,” said Mom.

  Snow fell again that night. Snow pitter-pattering on the roof is the best sleeping sound there is. Harmony’s hair was spread across the pillow, so convenient. I curled up on her hair and after that don’t remember a thing until morning, when we awoke to the sound of commotion going on below.

  We went downstairs, rubbing our eyes. Well, Harmony was rubbing her eyes. Mine never need rubbing, just another reason, if you’re keeping track, why it’s nice to be me. And my way of going down stairs is probably much different than yours. I sort of flow down, like a small, beautiful wave. I wish I could see myself doing it. Is there some sort of mirror that could follow me around? Humans invent all sorts of things—most of them useless, in my opinion—so why not that?

  In the front hall we had Mom and a stranger, plus a certain party, standing by his water bowl and gazing at nothing. “Mind in neutral,” as Dad used to say, although he said it about Bro. I didn’t miss Dad.

  We get some ex-hippies in these parts. The men usually rock the gray-ponytail bald-on-top look, sometimes with a beard, sometimes with long furry sideburns. The stranger in the hall was the sideburn type. He also wore a uniform, not the pukey green kind sported by the sheriff and his deputy but a pukey khaki, mud-stained here and there. He was carrying a leash. Meanwhile I’d left out the most important detail: Mom was upset. I could tell from the way her neck had gone all pink, and how rigidly she was standing.

  “Is this a joke?” she said.

  The stranger shook his head. “Just doin’ my job, ma’am.”

  “There’s no more pitiful excuse than that,” said Mom.

  The stranger shrugged, took some paperwork from his chest pocket. “Got the duly executed authority, if you’d care to take a look.”

  Mom reached out and grabbed the paperwork. Her eyes went back and forth, got more and more upset.

  “Mom?” said Harmony. “What’s going on?”

  Mom spoke to Harmony but her eyes—her glaring eyes—were on the stranger. “This is Mr. Immler. He’s the county animal control officer. There’s been a complaint about Arthur.”

  “Huh? From who?”

  “The sheriff. He sent Mr. Immler here to take Arthur into custody.”

  “Not custody,” said Mr. Immler. “That’s not the verbiage we use. Any complaint concerning a dangerous animal requires me to remove said animal for a period of observation.”

  “Arthur?” said Harmony. “A dangerous animal?”

  We all looked over at a certain party, catching him mid-yawn.

  “Won’t take more’n a week or two. Then, if he checks out all right, you get him back safe and sound.”

  “Back from where?” Harmony said.

  “County shelter,” said Mr. Immler.

  “No way!” Harmony said, her face reddening. “He’d have to be with other dogs?”

  “Mostly pit bulls. Couple Rottweilers. And a Weimaraner came in yesterday, probable sheep killer.”

  One of the little quirks about a certain party is that he prefers not to be around members of his own kind, the more the worse. Harmony ran over and scooped him up, catching him by surprise. He was delighted, and started licking her face super energetically.

  “There’s a hard way for doing this and an easy way,” Mr. Immler said.

  “I’m calling my lawyer,” said Mom.

  “Your privilege. But I’m removing the animal now.”

  Mr. Immler advanced on Harmony and … what was he in this situation? The unwary victim? Something like that. Harmony held the unwary victim tight. Mr. Immler held out the clip for fastening the collar to the leash, but just when he was about to snap it into place, Harmony twisted away, ran to the door, threw it open, and put the unwary victim down in the snow.

  “Run, Arthur, run!”

  Instead he rolled over and played dead, a good trick, although his only one. In a flash Mr. Immler was on the scene, swooping down and clipping him to the leash. He led the victim—no longer unwary, but it was way too late for that—toward a van waiting in the circle.

  Harmony raced after them, screaming and crying. Arthur—oh, Arthur!—dug in his feet, so oversized given the rest of him, but it did no good. For one scary moment, it looked like Harmony was about to leap onto Mr. Immler’s back, but Mom caught up and pulled her away. A moment after that, the van was driving awa
y, with Arthur shut up in the back, out of sight.

  They walked back inside, Mom with her arm around Harmony’s shoulders. Tears streamed down Harmony’s face. Mom was crying, too, a rare sight, unseen by me since the last days of Dad. Meanwhile Bro was coming down the stairs, rubbing his eyes in the exact same way Harmony did, although with a smear of drool on his cheek as an added touch.

  “Yo,” he said, “what’s shakin’?”

  An excellent question. For some reason, what was shaking seemed to be me. Just slightly—certainly not noticeable—and I was sure this strangeness would quickly pass. But it was real. There are mysteries in life.

  Not long after that, Deputy Carstairs arrived.

  “Oh, good,” Mom said. “You’re here to clear up this ridiculous situation with Arthur.”

  Carstairs looked down at his feet. “I’m sorry, Yvette. I tried.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Wow! Mom was mad! Carstairs actually flinched.

  “I’ve come for the bottle,” he said. “The old bottle of whisky. It may be evidence in the case and—”

  Mom whirled around, got the bottle from behind the desk, thrust it into Carstairs’s hands so hard he almost lost his balance.

  “Yvette,” he said, looking very upset. “Please.”

  “You can show yourself out,” Mom said.

  I WAS IN A VERY SMALL ROOM WITH A LOW ceiling, cement floor, and concrete blocks for walls, except for the front wall, which was made of metal bars too close together for squeezing through. Well, I could actually fit my head through the bars, just not the rest of me. I’d tried the moment I was left alone. And I tried again after that. And again and again and again. If only the rest of me was smaller! Was it true that I was on the roly-poly side? What did that mean? I’d always thought roly poly was a good thing, on account of how Bro and Harmony always smiled when they said it. I missed Bro and Harmony real bad. I missed Mom. I missed Bertha. I missed my home at the Blackberry Hill Inn. I even missed Queenie.

  All I wanted to do right now, if I couldn’t get out of here, was to lie down and sleep and maybe dream of home. But it wasn’t safe to lie down. Did I mention something about being alone? That wasn’t quite right. I had company in my very small room, company that went by the name of Drogan, which was what Mr. Immler had called him when he’d put me in the room.

  “Here’s a buddy for you, Drogan. Take real good care of him.”

  Drogan was one of my kind but a lot different, maybe twice my size, and with teeth that always showed, even when his mouth was closed. But the scary part was the look in his eyes. Drogan was angry, angry all the time. Right now he was lying in one of the back corners, watching me, but the moment I lay down and closed my eyes, he’d rise and slink across the floor, and then I’d feel his hot breath on my face and open my eyes, and there he’d be, standing over me and growling low. So it was best to stay on my feet and keep my distance. Which was what I was doing when a door opened somewhere nearby, followed by hard footsteps, and then Mr. Immler was standing outside the bars, with Sheriff Hunzinger beside him.

  Hunzinger gazed at me and nodded. “You got ’im.”

  “Yup,” said Immler. “Now what do you want me to do?”

  “About what?”

  Immler pointed at me with his chin.

  “Your job,” said Hunzinger. “Whatever you’re supposed to do.”

  “In a situation like this, I do an evaluation.”

  “So do it.”

  “Already did,” Immler said. “Had all his shots, no other incidents on his record, disposition placid. Profile like that, I return to owner with a warning.”

  “Disposition placid? Darn near took my leg off.”

  Immler opened his mouth, looked like he was about to say something, but did not. I had maybe a bad thought, all about wishing I had in fact taken the sheriff’s leg off. Then I remembered the taste of the sheriff’s blood, which I actually hadn’t liked at all.

  “Just you find some reason for keeping him here,” Hunzinger said.

  “If you say so.”

  “I say so. Can’t assault a sheriff. That’s the beginning of the end, right there.”

  Immler turned to go. “Just one thing I could point out. Legally a dog can’t perform an assault.”

  “Why the heck not?” said the sheriff.

  “Because assault’s a human thing,” Immler said. “Like what Matty Comeau supposedly did to you.”

  The sheriff stared at Immler. “ ‘Supposedly’?”

  “Wrong word. My bad. I’ll try and come up with something.”

  “That’d be wise of you,” Hunzinger said.

  Immler went away. The sheriff stayed where he was, his eyes now on me.

  “How’s life treatin’ you now?” he said.

  I didn’t know the answer to that question, but I did realize that my tail was drooping. I hoisted it back up, as high as it would go. I didn’t want this man to see me with a droopy tail.

  He noticed Drogan, over in the back corner, and grinned. “Hey, you, tough guy—why don’t you sic ’im?”

  Drogan shrank back, surprising me.

  Hunzinger shook his head. “Why do people even like dogs? I just don’t get—”

  He went silent at the sound of more footsteps. Then another man appeared, a large man with a barrel of an upper body and sticklike legs. The sheriff looked at him in surprise.

  “Mr. Mahovlich? What are you doing here?”

  “Tracking you down, is what. Didn’t realize dogcatching was one of your duties.”

  “The safety of all our citizens is my duty.”

  “Knock it off, Hunzinger,” said this new dude, Mr. Mahovlich. I knew Foster Mahovlich, of course, from hockey, and was hoping that might lead to some helpful thought, but it didn’t. “What can you tell me about this murder case?”

  “It’s an active investigation,” the sheriff said.

  “I get that. I’m asking where it stands. What have you found out?”

  “I can’t really go into the details.”

  Mr. Mahovlich leaned forward, poked Hunzinger’s chest with his finger. Then he spoke in a low and sort of buzzing voice, very unpleasant, in my opinion.

  “Do you like being sheriff, Hunzinger?”

  Hunzinger nodded.

  “Want to be sheriff again? When the next election rolls around?”

  Hunzinger nodded.

  “Good,” said Mr. Mahovlich, his voice returning to normal. “We’re on the same page. Now what were you saying about the investigation?”

  “Right now we got a suspect on the run. We expect to apprehend him very soon.”

  “Matty Comeau? Why would Matty Comeau kill this guy?”

  Mr. Mahovlich was making sense. Of course Matty wouldn’t kill whoever it was they were talking about—or anybody, for that matter. He was the gentlest patter in mountain country. Right about then was when I decided that Mr. Mahovlich was a possible friend. I moved as close as possible to him and stuck my head through the bars. Then he’d notice me and say, “Might as well take this pooch with me and drop him off at the Blackberry Hill Inn.” I waited.

  Meanwhile the sheriff was saying, “Looks like artifacts as the motive.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Colonial artifacts. Trading post on the old Sokoki Trail.”

  “That was a real thing?” said Mr. Mahovlich.

  The sheriff shrugged. “Above my pay grade. Point is some people think so—this LeMaire guy had a shovel with him. And Matty’s an archaeologist of some sort, doesn’t take kindly to random folks digging up the forest.”

  Uh-oh. Something about Matty and poor Mr. LeMaire? I took a stab at putting things together, but they wouldn’t come together.

  Mr. Mahovlich had gone still. “A shovel?” he said.

  “One of those piddly fold-up numbers, but still,” said the sheriff. “And he had a gun on him, too, like he was expecting trouble. Never fired it, since the blow came from behind. Matty mu
sta snuck up on him, quiet-like. He’s a primo woodsman, no takin’ that away from him. So that’s it—open and shut, far as I’m concerned. All that’s left is findin’ him and bringin’ him in.”

  “Any sign that the shovel got used?” Mr. Mahovlich said.

  “Like how?” said the sheriff.

  “Holes that got dug up. That would be one clue.”

  “Carstairs didn’t mention any holes.”

  “But what about you? What did you see?”

  “I wasn’t up there myself, in actual fact,” the sheriff said.

  “Ah.”

  “Bum knee.”

  Mr. Mahovlich gazed down at the sheriff. The sheriff looked away. Mr. Mahovlich’s phone beeped. He glanced at the screen, put the phone away. “One more thing. Has a postcard turned up in your investigation?”

  “Postcard? Nope. What kind of postcard?”

  “An old one.”

  “Haven’t found anything like that.” Hunzinger shot Mr. Mahovlich a quick look. “What’s a postcard got to do with anything?”

  “Probably nothing. I’m just spinning my wheels.”

  The sheriff’s forehead got all wrinkly. “I don’t get it. Do you know something I don’t?”

  Mr. Mahovlich laughed. “Ha-ha. That’s a good one.” He patted Hunzinger on the back. “Keep me in the loop, Sheriff.” And he walked away, down the cement corridor and out a door I couldn’t see. A moment or two later the sheriff went off the same way. Then I was back to being alone with Drogan. I heard him stirring behind me, back in his shadowy corner of our very small room.

  THERE SEEMED TO BE A LOT OF problems going on at the Blackberry Hill Inn. Problems disturb my way of life. There are things you can do to block out being disturbed. For example, at the moment, I was sitting on top of the old grandfather clock in the front hall watching myself in the mirror behind the desk. What a nice sight! And so calming! I’d never fully appreciated how beautiful I looked in a sitting position. You learn something every day, as Bertha says. I spent a pleasant time learning everything there was to learn about this exciting development on the subject of me, at first not even hearing the sizzle of something going on in the kitchen. Normally a sound like that is followed almost immediately by the appearance of a certain party, his oversized muzzle sniffing the air. That’s a sight that always makes me think, Oh, not again. Give it a rest.