“Don’t even think about it, Arthur,” Mom said. “Sit.”
I sat, and forgot whatever I might or might not have been thinking about. Not long after that, Bro lofted a long pass to Harmony, who zoomed around a green player and shot the puck right between the goalie’s legs. The kids call that the five hole for reasons unknown to me and always get a kick out of scoring that way. I get a kick out of it myself, and—
“Arthur?”
I was back on my feet? And perhaps straining at the leash a little. I put a lid on anything like that. Meanwhile there was some nice cheering in the stands, although not from Mom. She cheered when other kids did well, but not for Harmony and Bro. For them she just clapped softly, and her face got a little pink. Which was what was happening when Mr. Mahovlich came down the row and said, “Mind if I join you?”
This was a first, and Mom looked surprised, but she said, “Of course not,” and squeezed over.
Mr. Mahovlich sat down, the metal bench bending from his weight. He wore a long suede coat with a suede belt tied around the middle. Suede is a material I know and like, and belts are always interesting. Mom’s hand tightened around my leash.
“Those kids of yours can fly,” Mr. Mahovlich said.
“Thanks,” Mom said. “And speaking of thanks, I’m very grateful for whatever you did to get Arthur sent home to us.”
“Didn’t take much doing,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “And I’ve been tempted to nip the sheriff’s ankles more than once myself.”
Wow! I hadn’t been expecting that. I checked out Mr. Mahovlich’s teeth, not bad for a human, but pretty much a non-threat in the biting department. Still, I began to see him in a new way.
We watched the game for a bit. The ref blew the whistle and sent Foster—easy to recognize since he was the biggest player on the ice—to the penalty box. For the briefest moment I caught a flash of anger in Mr. Mahovlich’s eyes—which were glued to the ref—but only because, unlike Mom, I happened to be watching him.
His face smoothed out and he laughed. “They should name the penalty box after him,” he said, and held out a bag of popcorn for Mom.
“Thank you, no,” Mom said. She gave Mr. Mahovlich a direct look. “I really am grateful, Mr. Mahovlich—”
“Bud, please.”
“—but I have to ask why.”
“Why what, Yvette? Hope you don’t mind me calling you that.”
“It’s fine,” Mom said. “But why did you do us such a huge favor?”
“Does there always have to be a reason?”
“I think so.”
“How about doing the right thing—is that good enough?”
“Of course,” said Mom. “If it’s true.”
Mr. Mahovlich laughed again, this laugh more real to my ears than the last one. Hard to explain why. Human sounds are complicated: Let’s leave it at that.
“Well,” said Mr. Mahovlich, “it’s at least partly true.”
“What’s the other part?”
Mr. Mahovlich spread his hands. He wore leather gloves, high-quality leather, very soft—simply the best. Was there some way I could just have one of them? “All right, I confess,” he said. “I’m still hoping I can tempt you into selling me that old postcard.”
“My goodness,” Mom said. “What’s so important about it?”
“Thought I explained,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “It’s an old family memento.”
Mom glanced down at me. She patted the top of my head. I love that! More! More! And there was some more, although it’s never enough.
“I’d just give it to you now if I had it,” she said.
Mr. Mahovlich went still. “You don’t have the postcard?”
Mom shook her head. “Turned out to be among the belongings left behind by Mr. LeMaire, the poor man who got killed. The sheriff thinks Matty Comeau did it.”
“I heard.”
“But that’s a crazy idea.”
“He shouldn’t have run,” Mr. Mahovlich said.
“I know, but—”
He interrupted her. “What happened to the belongings?”
“A woman—supposedly sent by Mr. LeMaire, but that was false—came to pick them up. I made a copy of her ID, of course, but it was false, too.”
“So she got the postcard?”
Mom nodded.
“Did you happen to see what was written on the back?” Mr. Mahovlich said.
“Isn’t the picture on the front the important part?” Mom said. “If it’s just a family memento?”
“Sure,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “I was just hoping there’d be some … details from the old days, you might say, give it some flavor.”
“Well, there was a date, I think sometime in 1932,” Mom said. “I don’t recall who it was sent to or who signed it. I do remember the message—I guess since there wasn’t much to remember.”
“Oh?”
“It was just the letter C. Is there any period flavor in that?”
Mr. Mahovlich got a very bright look in his eyes. “Nope,” he said, and turned to the game, just as Foster was stepping out of the penalty box. Harmony, her long hair flying straight back, saw him right away and zipped him the puck. Foster skated in on goal all alone and blasted the puck into the net. Mr. Mahovlich raised his fist. “Yeah!” he shouted, and then, noticing Mom watching him, lowered his hand and said Yeah again, much more quietly.
“Good game, kids,” said Mom as we walked home, the kids with their sticks and hockey bags, me in the lead.
“Thanks, Mom,” Harmony said.
“I played bad,” said Bro.
“What are you talking about?” Mom said.
“You had two assists,” said Harmony. “Including on the winner.”
“I let number nine walk right around me on the goal before that.”
“Bro?” said Mom. “Have we been through this before?”
“That thing about sometimes the opponent makes a good play so you just tip your cap and move on?”
“Exactly,” said Mom.
That seemed to satisfy Bro, although I didn’t see why. There were no caps in hockey, unless helmets were caps. I was puzzling over that when Harmony said, “I saw you sitting with Mr. Mahovlich.”
“He’s still interested in that postcard,” said Mom.
“How come?” said Harmony.
“Family memento.”
We walked on in silence. After a while Bro said, “One thing about the murder.”
“What’s that?” said Mom.
“I’m talking about the murder of Mr. LeMaire.”
“It’s the only one we’ve got,” said Harmony.
“Thankfully,” said Mom. “Go on, Bro.”
“Well, it wasn’t, like, random. You know. Two guys meeting in the woods and getting into a fight. Because whoever did it must have had a plan … um, in place. To send that woman to pick up the stuff. All that.”
Mom and Harmony stopped, gazed at Bro. I stopped because they stopped, I hoped not for long. Hockey makes me hungry.
“Hey,” said Mom.
“Bro?” said Harmony. “You’re saying the woman did it?”
“It’s a thought,” said Bro.
“Bro!” Mom said.
“What?” said Bro.
“Nothing,” said Mom.
“You must have meant some—” Bro began, but we got interrupted by sirens. Moments later a bunch of police cruisers shot past. Deputy Carstairs was driving the lead car. In the back of the last car, screened off from the front seat, sat Matty Comeau, his face all bloody.
I WAS ALL ALONE AT THE BLACKBERRY Hill Inn. I don’t mind being alone. In fact, I often prefer it. Not that I don’t care for Harmony, Bro, and Mom. But sometimes it’s nice to simply curl up in a patch of sunshine and think interesting thoughts. About birds, for example. And I was doing just that on the rug in the small parlor where we had the honor-system bar and that noisy table game—foosball, I believe it’s called—when I heard the tread of a moving human up above and remembered t
hat I was not quite alone. We had a guest, namely Vincent Smithers, the red-bearded man. I changed my position, curling up in a slightly different way, and guided my mind back to the exciting world of birds. But my mind did not want to stay there, instead wanted to worry about the man upstairs. That was annoying. When I’m annoyed I like to do something about it. Hunting mice in the basement was one option. Chewing something to bits—specifically something that belonged to Vincent Smithers—was another. I chose that one and went upstairs.
I made my silent way past all the empty guest rooms to the Violet Room at the end. Mr. LeMaire’s old room, but now Vincent Smithers had it. That was interesting. I could hear him moving around inside. The door was closed, not even open a crack, which is all I need. Fully closed doors are a problem. Some dogs can manage door handles. I’ve seen it on TV. I’d been sitting on Bro’s lap at the time. He’d begun training Arthur to open doors that very moment and had continued the training for many days. In the end, Arthur had scored many treats, some of which—deer antlers, for example—had gotten him going like you wouldn’t believe, but he hadn’t learned even the very first thing about opening doors.
I listened to Smithers moving around in the Violet Room. He grunted a few times and once said a bad word. I picked up his smell, somewhat garlicky—not uncommon with humans—mixed with stale armpit sweat, also not uncommon. I can smell and hear in ways you can’t—it’s another kind of seeing—but sometimes you just have to see with your eyes. I turned and trotted into the next guest room—the Daffodil Room, all yellow and my favorite, although that wasn’t my reason for entering. My reason was that the Daffodil Room and the Violet Room share a bathroom. The door from the Daffodil Room to the bathroom was open a crack, no problem for me, as you already know if you’ve been paying attention. The door from the bathroom to the Violet Room was open slightly more than that, just wide enough for me to stand there and peek through.
Vincent Smithers wore a T-shirt and boxers, not a look that shows some human males—like him, for one—in the best light. But it did reveal the small gun he wore in a holster around his ankle. He had the Violet Room turned upside down: mattress on the floor, sheets scattered, drawers out of the dresser, bureau pulled away from the wall. He’d even taken the back off the TV. I prefer things nice and tidy. I was liking Vincent Smithers less and less all the time.
His phone rang. He picked it up. “Nothing,” he said. “Nada. Zip.” Someone spoke on the other end. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could tell it was a woman, and even knew who: Ms. Mary Jones, although that hadn’t turned out to be her real name. Whatever she said didn’t please him.
“Why are you such a quitter?” he said. “It’s got to be somewhere.” He kicked over a wastebasket. Nothing came out. Guest wastebaskets are emptied every morning at the Blackberry Hill Inn. We have standards.
The woman spoke again. Whatever she said caught his attention.
“They got him? That’s a lucky break, takes the pressure off.”
Mary Jones’s voice rose, and now I could make out what she was saying. “Not if he can prove his innocence. Then it does the opposite. Stop all this. Come home.”
“Are you crazy?” said Smithers. “We’re so close. I can taste it.”
“You’re the crazy one,” Mary Jones said, and she clicked off.
Smithers stood there, his chest heaving like he’d been doing something hard, instead of just talking on the phone. Then his eyes got an inward look. “Can I trust her?” he said softly. “Or will I have to …” His voice trailed off. He got down on the floor, peered under the bed. Of course he couldn’t trust her: She didn’t use her real name! As for what Vincent Smithers was tasting, I had no idea. I myself was tasting a nice leather wallet, which I carried away, back through the Daffodil Room, down the stairs, and into my spot on the rug in the small parlor. I chewed on it contentedly for a while, and then took it to a hard-to-get-to spot in one corner, behind the wine rack, and left it for later. I’m the type who makes plans for the future. At this moment you’re probably thinking that Arthur is the opposite type, and you’d be right.
I was at my command post on the grandfather clock when Mom, the kids, the hockey bags and hockey sticks, and Arthur came through the door, everything and everyone somehow tangled in the leash. Normally that kind of scene leads to laughter and fun in these parts, but now it did not. Mom said, “For god’s sake, Arthur.” His tail stopped wagging. He rolled over and played dead, but no one was amused or even watching.
Mom’s phone rang. She listened, said, “Of course I’ll do what I can,” and hung up. “That was Matty’s mom. She’s trying to raise money to hire a fancy lawyer from Boston.”
“We’re going to help, right?” said Harmony.
Mom took a deep breath. “The truth is we’re down to our emergency fund.”
“How much is in it?” Harmony said.
Before Mom could answer, Vincent Smithers came down the stairs, dressed for the outdoors. He stopped and glanced around. “Is something the matter?” All at once his eyes got big and liquidy, like he was the caring type.
“Thanks for asking,” Mom said. “It’s nothing for you to worry about. We just want you to enjoy your stay.”
“I am so far,” Smithers said. “But at the same time I’d hate to be a burden if you’re going through some troubles.”
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” Mom said. “It’s not about us, not directly. A relative has been arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.”
“Not a serious crime, I hope?” said Smithers.
“Murder,” Harmony said.
Smithers put his hand to his chest. “Goodness gracious! Murder in a beautiful place like this?”
“So the sheriff says,” Mom said. “But anyone who knows Matty—he’s the one who got arrested—knows he’s not capable of murder. Some of us are trying to raise the fee for a top lawyer.”
“Good idea,” Smithers said. “Happy to make a contribution.”
“Oh, we couldn’t accept that,” Mom said.
“Just a small one,” he said, patting his pockets. “It would be my … that’s funny. Must have left my wallet in the room. Back in a jiffy.” He went upstairs.
“What a nice man!” Mom said.
Mom is very smart and almost always right about everything, but not this. Vincent Smithers was not a nice man. Now I had a big problem: How to let her know? I don’t like big problems. I don’t like small problems. What I like is peace and quiet and the freedom to pursue my one or two little hobbies. Is that too much to ask? Why is it that my simplest demands can never—
The desk phone rang. It was one of those phones with an irritating ring. And I was already in an irritable mood. And for good reason. None of this was my fault. Imagine what a world we’d have if everyone in it was just like me. What a happy thought! I felt a little better at once.
Meanwhile, Harmony had picked up the phone. “Blackberry Hill Inn. How can I help you?” Which is how she answers the desk phone, different from Bro, who just says “Hey!” or sometimes “Yo.”
Harmony listened, said, “Uh, sure. Thanks.” And hung up.
“Who was that?” Mom said.
“Mrs. Hale at the library. She might have some more information on the whole map thing. But only if I bring Queenie along.”
Then all eyes were on me, up on the grandfather clock. Why couldn’t I be left alone? Was that a lot to ask?
“Come on down, Queenie,” Harmony said. “Let’s go see Mrs. Hale. She likes you.”
And I supposed I liked her, too. But I wasn’t feeling up to an expedition. I needed some personal time. Therefore I just sat motionless, making not the slightest movement, not even blinking my golden eyes.
“Is she blanking out?” Bro said.
“I don’t know,” said Mom. “She’s hard to read sometimes.”
“Maybe,” said Harmony. “But she never blanks out.” She looked up at me again. “Mrs. Hale’s been baking. She has some homemade catnip tre
ats.”
Catnip was suddenly in the picture? Why couldn’t this have been presented in a more organized manner? I wondered about that as I glided down from the command post and tiptoed—no idea why I did that, just giving in to a sudden inspiration—over to Harmony and arched my back a few times.
“See?” said Harmony.
“Nope,” Bro said.
Vincent Smithers came back down. The nice-guy look was still on his face, but his eyes weren’t joining in.
“My wallet seems to be missing,” he said.
“Oh, dear,” said Mom.
“Has anyone seen it? A black leather wallet, like so.” He made a shape with his hands. I actually remembered the wallet as being smaller than that, but I could have been wrong.
Meanwhile everyone—everyone but me—was shaking their heads. I kept my own head perfectly still, gazing across the room at my still self in the mirror. It was like … like there were two of me. Was there any way to make it three?
“Do you remember when you last had it?” Mom said. “You could try retracing your steps.”
Smithers shot Mom an unpleasant look that turned more pleasant in a flash, but I caught it. “Helpful ideas,” he said, a muscle bulging in his jaw.
“Bro’s good at finding things,” Mom said.
“I am?” said Bro.
“And he knows every inch of this place. He’ll be happy to help you.”
Bro opened his mouth, closed it. He didn’t look happy. I love Bro and felt some sympathy, but I was already tuning out the wallet issue. What did it have to do with me, in what humans call the grand scheme of things? In the grand scheme of things, something much more important waited in my future—my very very very near future, I hoped—namely homemade catnip treats. I’d been living in this town for some time, in fact all my life. Why had it taken this long to meet Mrs. Hale?
NOTHING SHARPENS THE APPETITE like hockey, which is how come it’s my favorite game. There’s the puck, too, of course—so much fun for your teeth, or at least mine. Chewing on a baseball is also lots of fun, don’t get me wrong. All the surprising stuff inside when you get the cover off! We’re very involved in sports, me and the kids.
Ruff vs. Fluff Page 12