In my dream, Mr. Javier was flying, and then a voice was calling, “Lunch is ready, Boss!”
Only it wasn’t a dream.
As I opened one eye, I looked up to see Mr. Javier, his back bumping up against the high ceiling. There was something wrapped around his waist that wasn’t his usual chef’s apron. Also, somehow he’d got his chef’s toque back.
I heard a loud, “Ahem!” and looked over to see the dog. Around him on the floor were scattered tools and fabric.
“You’re still here,” I observed.
“Yes.”
“And you made Mr. Javier a jetpack while I was sleeping, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Lunch is ready, Boss,” said Mr. Javier. “Only I can’t figure out how to get down from here.”
“The turtle is finding it to be a little bit of a learning curve,” the dog said. “But don’t worry, he’s very bright. I’m sure he’ll get the hang of it … eventually.”
One could hope. Particularly since one was hungry.
A short time, and a brief panic spell on the part of the turtle, later, Mr. Javier was down from the ceiling and luncheon was served. We ate, of course, in the dining room. It has a formal table with high-backed chairs and a tall ceiling. I like a tall ceiling. The fine china had been set out (although if I’d been asked, I could have told Mr. Javier that it was probably wasted on the dog). The oregano-spiced sauce smelled heavenly.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Javier,” I said. “I can serve. You’ve done quite enough for one day.”
Naturally, I had to tell the dog to take his elbows off the table.
Once I’d piled pasta and sauce on our respective plates, he dove right in, sauce flying everywhere as he shoveled pasta into his mouth. Honestly, some creatures. He was almost as bad as a human.
After a moment, he must have sensed my eyes upon him and looked up.
“What is it?” he said. “Do I have sauce all over my face?”
“I thought,” I said dryly, “that you were eager to tell me about whatever is ‘a foot’.” I paused. “You know, your case?”
“Well,” Bones said, “technically, a crime hasn’t been committed yet. But one will be.”
“How do you know that?”
“Wasn’t it you who said there always is some crime or another being committed by humans? And then, I believe, you yawned.”
That did sound like me. “And just what sort of crime are you expecting?”
“If I had to guess?”
I nodded.
“A murder.”
Not exactly what I was expecting. If I had to guess, I’d have gone with some petty crime, like shoplifting something tasty for dinner or sneaking out of a restaurant without paying the bill first. But murder? That seemed a little farfetched.
“Murder?” I said, voicing my doubt out loud.
“Oh, yes,” he said as though it were nothing. “It’s what I’m most frequently consulted about.”
Before I could ask him what he meant, the doorbell rang.
“Isn’t the turtle going to get that?” he asked.
“The turtle’s name is Mr. Javier,” I said, annoyed. I may have referred to Mr. Javier as the turtle often, but I rather resented the dog doing so. As the bell continued to ring, I looked through to the living room where I saw the turtle passed out on the large Turkish area rug, the jetpack still on his back. “And no, I don’t think so. I believe Mr. Javier has exhausted himself.”
I picked up my fork again. “Anyway,” I said, “I wasn’t expecting anybody.”
“It’s probably for me,” the dog said, rising.
“For you? Why would my doorbell ringing be for you?”
“Because I left this as my forwarding address when I moved, didn’t I?” he said mildly, moving to the staircase.
“What?” I shouted, racing after him down the stairs. “You don’t even live here!”
“Well,” he said, his voice still mild, “I did tell you I was a detective, didn’t I?”
Of course he had. But I hadn’t believed him.
“I’m a consulting detective,” he said. “People come to me for my opinion when they’ve lost all hope. They’ve been coming to me ever since I solved my first case involving rampant chew-toy theft when I was just a puppy, followed soon after by a criminal case I solved involving humans; that time, the butler did not do it. Do you not read the newspapers?”
He paused, waiting for my response. What? Did he expect me to be impressed? Surely, he was making all this nonsense up, and so I merely stared back at him.
“Naturally, people need some address to come to for my consultation,” he continued when I failed to respond in the admiring way he no doubt would have liked me to. “I mean, it wouldn’t look very professional to just meet with clients on any street corner, would it?” He paused. “And the thing they come to consult with me most about?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “Murder.”
It occurred to me for the first time: the dog was delusional.
Before I could say as much, he flung open my front door.
On the stoop was a human.
It was your basic garden-variety model: a pair of legs attached to a body, a head slapped on top.
“Are you Sherlock Bones?” the human asked the dog.
“I am,” Bones said proudly.
“Telegram for you.” The human handed Bones a piece of paper. “There’s been a murder.”
Well, blow me down
.
But I wasn’t blown down for long.
As Bones closed the door and headed back up the stairs, I shouted after him, “That was probably all a setup!”
“How so?” Bones said once we were back in the living room.
Before I could respond, the dog lay down on the hardwood part of my living room floor and began rolling back and forth energetically.
“What are you doing?” I demanded.
“Sorry,” he said, still rolling, as though he neither could nor wished to control himself. In fact, he didn’t sound sorry at all. “But I need to do this a few times a day. You have your naps; for me, it’s all about a quick roll on the floor. Plus, it just feels good.”
“That man,” I said, trying not to be distracted by all the annoying rolling. “You must have, I don’t know, paid him off to come here and give you that piece of paper.”
The dog, at last, stopped rolling and rose to his feet. “Any why would I do that?”
“Because, for some reason, you want me to believe you’re a detective.” I paused. “Which you’re not.”
“Oh, but I am.”
“Then prove it,” I said.
“And how shall I do that?”
“I don’t know. You’re the detective. Do something … detective-y.”
“Very well. That man who was just here?”
I nodded.
“He had a lot of eggs for breakfast this morning, but he’s still hungry. He also lives at home with his mother.”
“How do you know all that?”
“The profusion of yellow specks on his shirt. The fact that his stomach was growling. Oh, and the tie.”
“The tie?”
“Yes. No grown man would pick out such a hideous tie for himself. Had to be the mother.”
Huh.
“I didn’t notice any of those things,” I said, disbelievingly.
“How could you not have?” the dog said. “They were pretty obvious.”
“OK,” I granted, “so maybe you’re a little more observant than I gave you credit for—”
“The china we ate our lunch on,” he continued. “It was your best china, even though you never said so. You took too much care with it for it to be something you use every day. The oregano was stale. You really should use fresh if you can get it. Absent that, you should buy smaller bottles. You know, spices do lose something if left on the shelf too long.”
I was about to point ou
t that Mr. Javier always buys in bulk to save on trips he has to make to the market, but Bones cut me off with, “And that turtle.” At this point, I was too stunned by him to point out that the turtle had a name. “He’s one hundred and forty-seven years old.”
“How on earth did you know that?”
“Turtles have growth rings,” he said, as if everyone should know this. “They’re like trees in that, you know. Just count the growth rings on a turtle or a tree and you have the age.” He paused. “Plus, I asked him while you were napping.”
“HAH!” I may have been HAH!-ing at him, but in truth, I was astounded. I never would have guessed Mr. Javier was so old. Also, I’m embarrassed to admit, it had never occurred to me to ask him.
“And when you’re annoyed with me,” he said, pointing a paw at my face as he squinted one eye, “you squint your right eye just a little bit. It’s always the right eye, never the left.”
“I do not—” I started to object but then stopped myself as I felt my right eye starting to squint. “Still,” I said, “that’s not very much.”
“It’s enough. It’s more than most creatures or humans can claim. I can identify thousands of items by smell. I can remember every face I’ve ever seen, however briefly. I have an encyclopedic knowledge of all sorts of subjects.” He glanced at the telegram again. “And now I know that a fresh murder has been committed.”
Then he crumpled up the telegram and tossed it aside.
“I also know,” Bones said, “that I’m not going to bother trying to solve it.”
What?
“You can’t be serious!” I practically shouted, outraged.
If a murder really had been committed, I couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to do anything about it. I also couldn’t believe that I was arguing with him about this. I’d never wanted to get involved with him and all his craziness in the first place.
“Oh, but I am, my dear Catson.”
My dear … Who did this dog think he was?
“And why is that, Bones?” I demanded, determined not to let my right eye squint.
“Because I am tired of not getting credit.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Here’s how this kind of case always goes: a crime, usually murder, occurs. The professional, public detectives—the so-called ‘experts’—are called in. They fail to solve the case. Then I am called in. I solve the case, but they take all the credit. End of story.”
As he spoke, his eyes shifted sadly from me to the floor to studying his toenails.
I found myself, for the first time, starting to feel sorry for him. Then:
“Wait,” I said, this time letting my right eye go ahead and twitch. “You’re not going to investigate, you’re going to let a murderer run free—because your feelings are hurt? Because you feel you don’t get enough credit?”
“Well,” he said, now looking slightly embarrassed, “yes, that is exactly what I plan to do. Or rather, not do.”
“You can’t be serious! If you think you can help, it is your duty to do so!”
“I suppose … ” His eyes met mine. “Do you want to come with?”
“Come with where?”
He eagerly un-crumpled the crumpled piece of paper.
“There,” he said, pointing to an address.
I thought of my lunch, which was still sitting on the table. I thought longingly of the cushion in front of the bay window, my nap long overdue. And then I thought of the adventure of potentially aiding to solve a murder. I must confess: I was curious. It also occurred to me that perhaps since returning home from the Cat Wars, my life had been a little dull.
“Fine,” I said, mildly exasperated with myself.
“Great,” he said, all smiles once more. “I’ll go get my hat.”
“Must you wear that?” I said, staring at the ridiculous hat on the equally ridiculous Great Dane striding beside me on the pavement. He had been striding so quickly on his long legs since we left Baker Street that I had to scamper to keep up.
“Yes,” he said mildly, “I must. When I’m on a case, it helps me think. Chewing on bones also helps me think; however, I noticed you had none available. We shall have to ask Mr. Javier to add some to our shopping list.”
“Our shopping … but you don’t live there!”
There was no point, though, in arguing with him further at the moment because …
“This is the place!” Bones announced, as though he’d just made some great discovery.
I glanced at the building in question. It was a large multi-story house that looked like it hadn’t been lived in, in quite some time. I could tell by the rundown look of everything and the overgrown little patch of grass out front. There were also a few broken windows on the top story. Human beings are nowhere near as tidy as cats, but even they won’t let a broken window sit unrepaired.
The front door was a few inches open.
Immediately, the dog began sniffing around the ground outside the door and muttering to himself.
“Two different sets of footprints … they must have come here in a cab … the cab left them off here … ”
By cab, of course he meant one of those vehicles pulled by horses. I never use them. In my experience, horses are not very good conversationalists.
“Right,” he announced.
“Right what?” I said.
“Shall we go inside?” Bones asked, his paw inches from the open door.
“Shouldn’t we wait?” I said.
“For what?”
“I don’t know.” Usually, an open door is such an inviting thing. But sometimes, an open door can appear menacing. This was definitely one of the latter. “Perhaps it’s dangerous?”
“I hardly think so.” Bones snorted. “Whomever was killed is already dead. How much can he hurt us now?”
No sooner had we stepped through the front door than there came the sound of loud voices from the back of the house. I wouldn’t say they were necessarily shouting, but they were most definitely human, which almost always means loud.
I was about to suggest we just leave, but after placing a paw to his muzzle to indicate he wished us to remain silent, Bones proceeded to tiptoe toward the source of the voices. Well, as capably as a Great Dane can tiptoe. Once again, it was all I could do to follow. Of course, it was easier for me to tread silently, even with my permanent limp. Cats are, after all, better suited to quiet walking than dogs.
The voices, increasing in volume as we tiptoed, led us to a room at the back of the house. It was a very dusty room—frankly, the whole place was dusty—and inside of it were two humans, their backs to us. Their heads were tilted slightly downward as though studying some object on the threadbare carpet before them. They were talking so loudly that they hadn’t even heard our approach. Neither did they look up as Bones began to whisper to me.
“The one on the right,” Bones informed me, “is Inspector Strange. He’s with the police. If I’m a more private detective, then he’s a very public one. And not a very good one, I might add, which is why he always calls for my help. But as I mentioned before, when I give it and solve the case, he then always goes and takes all the credit.”
“And why would he do that?”
“Human nature?” Bones shrugged. “Also, I suspect he has a prejudice against dogs. He accepts that animals can talk and live amongst his kind independently, but he doesn’t like to think that a dog can actually outsmart a human.”
A prejudice against dogs? I thought sarcastically. Why would anyone ever feel that? I’d never had anything in common with humans before but I suppose there’s always a first for everything. Unless there never is.
“Who’s the other one?” I asked. “The man on the left?”
“Another detective, but he’s no one very important.” He paused. “Ahem!” Bones uttered loudly, causing the two men to turn where they stood.
“Ah, Bones!” Inspector Strange said, his face a p
eculiar mixture of pleased and not pleased. I say peculiar, yet I could fully relate to it. Already, in our short acquaintance, Bones had the same peculiar effect on me.
Rather than return the greeting, Bones commenced to slapping at the area behind his ears with his great big paws.
“Sorry,” he said, for once looking slightly embarrassed. “Fleas.”
Fleas? And he’d been in my house?
“I’m glad you decided to join us,” Inspector Strange continued. “And who have you brought with you?”
“This is my partner,” Bones informed him, “Dr. Catson.”
Partner? I never agreed to be his partner!
But before I could object to this classification, Inspector Strange held out a hand awkwardly as though trying to figure out what part of my body he could politely shake.
I saved him the trouble as I reached up one elegant paw and shook his hand firmly. My father always said a firm handshake shows good character.
“Pleased to meet you,” Inspector Strange said, “my good chap.”
“I’m not a chap,” I said. “I’m a lady.”
“Sorry!” Inspector Strange said, blushing. “But you can understand my error, can’t you? I mean, it’s always so much easier to tell with dogs.”
What an idiot! I thought, and Bones is right—he’s not much of a detective!
Of course, Bones hadn’t been able to ascertain my gender on initial meeting either, but that’s about what you’d expect from a dog.
Since no one else was going to introduce us, I offered my paw to the other detective. “Hello. Dr. Jane Catson here.”
But since no one gave him a name, and he didn’t provide one himself, I began to think of him just as Bones had described him: as Inspector No One Very Important.
Once my paw had been limply shaken and then released by Inspector No One Very Important, the two public detectives returned to contemplating the object on the carpet before them, turning their backs on us once more. Only this time, there was separation between the two public detectives’ bodies so that we could get a glimpse at what they were looking at.
“Well, what do you think, Bones?” Inspector Strange asked.
Sherlock Bones 1: Doggone Page 2