Ruff vs. Fluff

by Spencer Quinn

  But back to my appetite. I was so hungry I could have eaten a horse. Well, not that. Living in mountain country, I’ve had some experience with horses, none good. Why are they so edgy? The first time I got kicked by one of those hard hooves, I was totally unprepared. And the time after that, and many other possible times, so now I don’t go anywhere near horses, but just bark at them from a safe distance. Out the open car window is best.

  Where were we? Right, my appetite. What was all this palaver in the front hall? Something about a missing wallet? Who was the dude with the red beard? A guest, maybe? That would be nice, but I couldn’t wait for the details. Instead I trotted off toward the kitchen, possibly dragging my leash behind me.

  What was going on? No Bertha? Was this her day off? Maybe she was on one of her coffee breaks. I checked my kibble bowl—empty—and went looking for her. But I’d barely left the kitchen when I heard Mom say, “And take Arthur with you. A walk will do him good.”

  I froze. Another walk? So soon? How much good could I take?

  We went outside, me, Bro, and this red-bearded dude, who Bro called Mr. Smithers. Mr. Smithers smelled garlicky—a smell I used to like but don’t anymore, not after a sort of tasting adventure I had in the kitchen, shortly after spotting a whole garlic within easy range on the slicing board. But Mr. Smithers also smelled of stale armpit sweat, not a bad smell at all in my book, so I decided there and then that he had to be all right.

  “What’s your name again?” he said.

  “Bro,” said Bro.

  “As in ‘brother’?” said Mr. Smithers.

  “I guess so.”

  “So it’s more of a nickname?”

  “Everybody calls me Bro.”

  “Okay, then, Bro. And what’s the name of this mutt?”

  “Arthur.”

  Mutt? I’d heard that so many times! I suppose it had to be true. I am a mutt, although what a mutt actually is isn’t clear to me. But something less than the best. Maybe I wouldn’t be hearing it again. Yes, what a nice thought! I got back to feeling chipper at once.

  “Is he any good at finding things?” said Mr. Smithers.

  “Oh, yeah,” said Bro. “The problem is what he does to them after.”

  Mr. Smithers’s eyes—green, which you don’t see every day—seemed to get a bit greener. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Uh,” Bro said. He glanced around, as though looking for help. “Um. Nothing.”

  “Go on,” Mr. Smithers said. “Sounds like you have something interesting to say.”

  “Not me,” said Bro. “So, it’s like a wallet that’s missing?”

  “Exactly like a wallet,” Mr. Smithers said. “Leather. Black. Coach.”

  “Coach?”

  “The maker, inscribed on one corner.”

  “And you maybe dropped it somewhere out here?” Bro said.

  “It’s a possibility.”

  Bro thought about that. “Leather, huh?”

  “Correct.”

  Bro nodded. Then he unzipped his jacket, took off his belt, and held it in front of my nose. “Got it, Arthur?”

  As if I needed reminding about the smell of leather. But I loved Bro, and the thought of loving Bro made my tail start wagging. Yes, my tail has thoughts of its own, but no time to go into that now.

  “See?” said Bro. “He’s got it. Arthur’s much smarter than people think.”

  “I’ll take your word for it,” Mr. Smithers said.

  We started across the circle, all nicely plowed down to the gravel by Elrod. I picked up his scent at once—a very nice mixture of beans and mustard—and also Mr. Smithers’s scent, not the one coming from him now, but earlier. I sniffed my way along that earlier scent, a sort of smell path. Always fun to follow a smell path. This one was easy, what with the air still, and maybe cold. I stuck my tongue out, felt the air: yes, cold. The rest of me can’t really feel the cold, on account of my coat. Nothing muttish about my coat, amigo! Oops! Mutt again, and just when I thought I’d gotten rid of the idea forever. And I’d brought it up myself. It’s a funny world. Meanwhile leather slipped my mind completely. A good thing: You don’t want a lot of distractions when you’re on a tracking mission. Then I remembered leather was actually what we were looking for and got a bit confused.

  Cold is better than warm for following scents, making them clearer, although explaining how would be impossible so I won’t even try. Mr. Smithers’s scent led away from the parking lot—a bit of a surprise—and along a crushed-stone path, also nicely plowed by Elrod—that led around the house. When we got to the patio—near the bird feeder, where I’d witnessed a scary scene or two I don’t even want to think about—Mr. Smithers’s old scent trail, not old old, but more like yesterday, or perhaps last night, took a sharp turn straight to the windows that looked into the breakfast nook. The scent grew stronger, like Mr. Smithers had spent more time there, outside the windows. I wondered why. Looking in, maybe? That was as far as I could take it, actually a bit farther than my normal distance.

  “Any chance you lost it around here?” Bro said. He kicked at a clump of frozen leaves that lay on the gravel. There was nothing under them.

  “Why do you ask that?” Mr. Smithers said.

  “Because—” Bro pointed his chin in my direction. “When Arthur stops and keeps sniffing the ground like that, it usually means … you know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “That he’s found something.”

  “Not this time,” Mr. Smithers said, his voice sharpening. He flashed Bro a brief half smile, or even less, toned his voice down, and added, “I was never here.”

  What? I couldn’t believe my ears. Although I always believe my ears. The way my believing goes is nose first, ears second, eyes third. Whoa! I forgot tongue. What a mistake! Tongue is for tasting! So it went taste first, then—

  “Arthur, come on. You’re wasting time.”

  Wasting time? But weren’t we looking for something Mr. Smithers had lost, the actual object escaping me at the moment? So why wouldn’t it be here? Mr. Smithers had spent time here, no doubt about it. I’m a big fan of humans in general, but Mr. Smithers was suddenly getting hard to like.

  “Arthur! Move it.”

  “You should use a leash,” said Mr. Smithers.

  Bro gets a certain look at times that reminds me of me, specifically of me when I’m digging in my heels. Bro had that look now. “Arthur doesn’t need a leash,” he said.

  Bro and me: soul brothers, if I understand what that means exactly, and there’s a good chance I don’t. For the longest time, I thought that hot dogs had something to do with … well, you know, and wouldn’t touch them. Now at last I know better, and scarf them up every chance I get, cooked or not.

  “Arthur!”

  I got my act together, trotted after Bro and Mr. Smithers. Trotted after them and nosed my way into the lead. I like to be first. Mr. Smithers’s old scent—was it even important now? Or ever?—led all around the house to the parking lot and right to a big black SUV.

  “Your car?” Bro said.

  “Yes.”

  “Maybe you dropped it here.”

  We looked all around the car, for what I wasn’t sure. Then from out of nowhere it hit me: wallet! Wow! I was having a very good day. Wallet would never leave my mind again.

  Mr. Smithers got down on his hands and knees and checked underneath the car. Usually the sight of a human on hands and knees gets me excited and I can’t wait to mix in, but not this time. The wallet wasn’t there, which I already knew, since no wallet smell—not just leather, by the way, but also wafting off hints of human skin, plastic, and paper—was in the air. We circled back to the house, all eyes on the driveway—except for mine, which preferred taking in this view and that—and then returned to the car.

  “Anywhere else it could be?” Bro said. “Like inside?”

  “Not likely,” said Mr. Smithers. “I keep my wallet in my pocket.” He unlocked the car anyway and started searching inside—u
nder the seats, in the side pockets and the coffee holders, behind the visors. But not the glove box. An interesting smell came from inside the glove box, although it had nothing to do with wallets. Instead it came from a gun. There’s a kind of oil they use on guns, a scent I know well on account of the hunters we get in the fall, a scent you really can’t miss.

  Mr. Smithers backed out of the car.

  “What about the glove box?” Bro said.

  “Wouldn’t be in there.”

  “But Arthur is kind of sniffing at it.”

  “Smart pooch,” said Mr. Smithers. “Is he a fan of peanut butter and jam sandwiches?”

  “Probably.”

  Mr. Smithers laughed and gave me a pat, at the same time kind of pushing me away from the glove box. But sort of making it look like a pat, if you see what I mean. I got a bit puzzled. The next thing I knew we were all standing outside the car and the doors were closed. What had gone on? My only idea was about PB&J, of which there was none anywhere near here. I did remember coming across a leftover PB&J sandwich up on Mount Misty, the day before Harmony and I found the poor Mr. LeMaire. In fact, I could almost taste it. Wouldn’t a PB&J sandwich be perfect right about now? Nothing like that seemed to be in the cards. I had what struck me as an important thought: Why not? Why no PB&J when you needed it?

  “So,” Bro said, “where else?”

  Mr. Smithers glanced back at the house. “Is theft ever a problem around here?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Theft. Someone stealing from the guest rooms.”

  “Never,” said Bro. “Besides, you’re the only guest right now.”

  “That doesn’t rule out …” Mr. Smithers stopped himself and began again. “I’m sure you’re honest people.” He reached into his pocket. “Here’s twenty bucks. Thanks for the help.”

  Bro made no move to take it. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Hey, kid. Twenty bucks is twenty bucks.”

  That sounded right to me. But not to Bro. He wouldn’t take the money.

  Mr. Smithers seemed to relax a little. He leaned against the car. The sun came out from behind a cloud and warmed things up, also turned Mr. Smithers’s beard a brighter red. He looked around. “Beautiful country,” he said. “You must like living here.”

  Bro shrugged.

  “Play any sports?”

  “Hockey.”

  “Fastest game going,” said Mr. Smithers.

  “You play?” Bro said, sounding interested in Mr. Smithers for the first time.

  “Nope. But I’m buddies with a couple of the Rangers.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Khovlev and Ricci. I could probably get them to sign a puck or two, ship them up here for you.”

  “Really?”

  “You’d like that?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Pucks were coming? Great news! Had I been on the verge of disliking Mr. Smithers? I couldn’t think why.

  “Consider it done,” he said. Then he looked again to the mountains and pointed. “What’s that one?”

  “Mount Misty.”

  Mr. Smithers gazed at it for a while. “Worried about your relative?”

  “Matty?” said Bro. “Yeah.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Matty’s the coolest guy. He taught us to skate, me and my sister. Best hockey player ever in this town and he woulda gone pro like your buddies, except for those concussions.”

  His eyes still on Mount Misty, Mr. Smithers said, “Your father didn’t teach you to skate?”

  Bro looked down. “Nope.”

  “Interesting.” Mr. Smithers turned to Bro. “But as for your friend Matty, wasn’t he up there when the body got found?”

  “Just doing his job.”

  “Your sister was the one who actually discovered the guy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What was his name again?”

  “Mr. LeMaire.”

  “Any idea what he did?”

  “Like, uh …”

  “For a living.”

  “Nope,” Bro said. “Well, maybe something about liquor.”

  Mr. Smithers went still. “Yeah? What makes you say that?”

  “It’s kind of complicated.”

  “You’re a smart kid. I bet you can paint me a picture.”

  “Of what?”

  Mr. Smithers waved his hand at Mount Misty. “This whole thing. I might be able to help your friend.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m a troubleshooter by trade.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Someone who solves tough problems,” said Mr. Smithers. “But I can’t do that without having all the facts.”

  “Like what?” said Bro.

  The front door of the inn opened and Mom looked out. She saw us, cupped her hand to her mouth, and called, “Any luck?”

  “Not so far,” Mr. Smithers called back.

  “Bro? I need you to go on back to the woodpile and split some logs. We’re getting low.”

  “Soon,” called Bro.

  “Now.”

  I DON’T GET OUT ENOUGH. I’D EVEN forgotten how much I enjoy it. Out on my own at night is the best, but riding in my backpack with Harmony is a close second. All the sights pass by at just the right speed to entertain me. What a pretty town I had! Although I wasn’t an expert on the layout, probably on account of the not-getting-out-enough issue. For example, I’d never realized that Emma Carstairs’s house actually faced the village green, not more than a few steps from the library. And there was Emma out front, sticking a carrot nose into the head of a snowman in her yard. A very unusual feeling came over me, close to a wish that Arthur were here. He lifts his leg against every snowman he sees, which is quite a large number when winter really gets going in these parts.

  “Hey!” said Harmony. “Cool snowman.”

  “Hi, Harm,” Emma said. “He needs a name.”

  We went closer. I like Emma, partly because of her pigtails, partly because she has a voice that reminds me of cream—don’t ask me to explain—but mostly because she’s a big fan of me.

  She gave me an admiring look. “Queenie looks so funny in that thing.”

  “I know, but she loves it,” said Harmony.

  Funny is one of those words with many meanings. In this case it meant adorable.

  Harmony gazed at the snowman. “How about Señor Blizzardo?”

  Emma laughed. Señor Blizzardo must have been a joke of some sort, and a good one, because Emma laughed and laughed. Then, without warning, she was crying instead.

  “Emma? What’s wrong?”

  “I’m going to miss you.”

  “Miss me? What are you talking about?”

  “If I live with my mom. She’s moving to Boston, can’t stand it here anymore.”

  Harmony hugged Emma, but not too close, what with me jammed in between them. Emma’s tears landed on my head. I hate getting wet but decided to be a good sport, at least for a moment or two.

  “Can’t you stay here with your dad?” Harmony said.

  “I don’t know. He’s even more upset than she is. My dad’s kind of out of his mind these days.”

  “That explains a lot,” Harmony said.

  Emma went still and her tears dried up. “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. Sorry. Didn’t mean anything.”

  Emma stepped back. Her face was all pink and splotchy. “Yes, you did.”

  Harmony shrugged. “It’s just about Matty Comeau, my cousin. The sheriff’s messing up the case and your dad’s too wea—and your dad’s not stopping him. Now I under—”

  “Because he’s weak? Is that what you were going to say?”

  Harmony nodded.

  Emma burst into tears, ran into her house—a small, pretty yellow house with green shutters—and slammed the door. We hurried after her and knocked.

  “Emma? Emma?”

  But she didn’t answer or come to the door. We turned away. The clouds had darkened and the whole town looked black
and white, except for Señor Blizzardo’s carrot nose.

  “These are what I call catnip nipnips,” Mrs. Hale said. “My own recipe. Let’s see if Queenie likes them.”

  We were in the library, sitting at Mrs. Hale’s desk—Mrs. Hale in the big chair, Harmony in the little chair, and me actually on the desk. Mrs. Hale took out a baggie and from it produced a small tubular treat, about the size of a Cheeto, but far more interesting. She laid it on the desk. All eyes were then on me.

  Catnip. I smelled it right away, of course, and the impulsive side of me was suddenly the only side. Normally, as I’m sure you know by now, I’m the dignified type, delicate in my responses, the very farthest thing from greedy. And the truth is, I prefer to eat in private. I suppose I could have taken my catnip nipnip—what a fine name!—under the desk, but by the time that thought came to me, it was all gone.

  “Wow, that was quick,” Harmony said.

  And there was some back and forth between her and Mrs. Hale about the catnip nipnip and me and speediness, but I was unable to pay attention. There was only one thing in my mind: more! Well, two things, really, the other one being: now!

  More!

  Now!

  More!

  Now!

  “Maybe she wants another one,” Harmony said.

  “Hard to tell with her sitting so still like that,” said Mrs. Hale.

  “But her eyes are on fire.”

  “I noticed that.” Mrs. Hale opened her baggie and slid another catnip nipnip across the desk in my direction. I extended a paw toward it, the movement slow and graceful, almost a kind of dance between me and the nipnip. And then, in a flash, there was only one dancer left onstage.

  “Wow!” said Harmony.

  “Safe to say she likes them,” said Mrs. Hale as she—what was this? Put the baggie away in a drawer?

  More!

  Now!

  More!

  Now!

  “What’s the name of your cat, Mrs. Hale?” Harmony said; or something of the sort. My eyes may or may not have been on fire, but my mind most certainly was.

  “I don’t have a cat at the moment,” Mrs. Hale said. “If anyone can be said to have a cat. The reality is that they have us.”