Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  “Drea wasn’t there,” Birdie said. “She must have gone out.”

  “Out? Out like offa the campground?”

  “Yeah,” Birdie said.

  Mr. Santini shook his head. “I been right here the whole day. Breakin’ my back in the hot sun. I’da seen her if she’d of gone out.”

  “Maybe she went by the back way,” Birdie said.

  “Ain’t no back way. Swamp closes in on both sides, more muck than water. Anybody goes in or out, they do it right here.”

  “Oh,” Birdie said.

  “Oh,” said Junior.

  We all stood around. Finally, Mr. Santini said, “So she’s gotta be on the property, is what I’m sayin’.”

  “Okay,” Birdie said. “We’ll look around.”

  “Best part of six acres,” said Mr. Santini. “Be faster in a golf cart.”

  Which was how I ended up riding in a golf cart for the very first time! What a great human invention! Mr. Santini, who didn’t like kids and dogs, was turning out to be not too bad. He drove, Junior up front beside him, Birdie and me in back. I sat nice and tall, the breeze rippling through my coat in the most refreshing way.

  “We’ll start down Heavenly Road,” Mr. Santini said, “then take the short cut to Glory.”

  Birdie laughed.

  “What’s funny?” Junior said.

  “Search me,” said Mr. Santini.

  We rode up and down the lanes of the campground. Sometimes we spotted campers and stopped for a little chat. We got lots of shoulder shrugs and blank looks. After a while we were back at the gate, ride over. Too soon, in my opinion. Couldn’t we go around again? But no.

  Mr. Santini switched off the engine, rubbed his chin. “Hmm,” he said. “Musta gotten out somehow.” A big bird squawked and shot up in the sky from a nearby tree. “She’ll turn up,” said Mr. Santini.

  NEXT MORNING, BIRDIE WAS VERY SLEEPY. Just before daylight, I heard Mama get up. Then came shower sounds, and not long after that, footsteps right up to our door.

  “Birdie?” Mama called in a low voice.

  I glanced over at Birdie. Although I started most nights on my small, round doggy bed on the floor, I usually ended up on her bed—well, our bed, really, mine and Birdie’s. For some reason she seemed to be squished up against the wall on this particular morning. Her eyes were closed, her breathing soft. Mama moved back down the hall. Not long after that, I heard Mama and Grammy talking out on the breezeway. A few moments later, two car doors opened and closed. The car drove off: Mama’s car, with Grammy in the shotgun seat, if I was reading things right. Don’t count on it. I wriggled in closer to Birdie.

  “Bowser,” she said in a kind of groan. “A little space.”

  A little space? What did that mean, again? We needed to get closer together? Was it even possible, what with how close we were already? But I’m not the type who gives up easily, especially when it comes to doing what Birdie wants. Therefore, I gave it my very best shot, digging my paws into the covers, getting my best grip, and squeezing in like I meant it. Which I did! So I squeezed and squeezed and—

  “Bowser!”

  Then came what you might call a crash, although not a loud one, and Birdie was no longer in the bed. Instead, she seemed to have fallen off, down into the very narrow space between the bed and the wall. Was this a brand-new game? Who was more fun than Birdie? Was my next move to crawl down with her in the very narrow space?

  “BOWSER!”

  Perhaps not.

  Soon after that, we were in the kitchen, chowing down—Birdie on cereal with banana slices and me on good old kibble, my go-to meal, although I can’t think of any food I don’t like. I cleaned my bowl in no time flat, but what was this? Birdie just picking at her food? Was something bothering her?

  She looked my way. “Do you think she came back?”

  I had no thoughts on that, didn’t even have a clue who Birdie was talking about.

  “Maybe I should call the campground.”

  Something about the campground? I thought of the scummy, buggy pond and decided I wasn’t really in the mood for a campground visit today. How about swinging by the store and hanging out with Grammy and Snoozy instead?

  Meanwhile, Birdie was punching the buttons on the kitchen phone. She listened and hung up.

  “Answering machine,” she said. She drummed her fingers on the counter. I loved the sound of that! Humans were just about at their very best when they were drumming their fingers, in my opinion. More, more, more! But there was no more. Birdie turned to me and said, “Let’s head over there.” And moments later, we were out the door, heading to wherever “over there” might be.

  It was light outside now, the air at its freshest. I felt my very best. Along the way I marked a tree or two—plus a rosebush and a fire hydrant, and possibly the wheel of a bicycle chained to a telephone pole—and felt even better. We were approaching the library—a white wooden building with pale blue trim and a pale blue roof—when a solidly built man with shoulder-length hair and a stack of books in his arms hurried past us. He was a few steps ahead when he stopped and glanced back.

  “Birdie?” he said.

  “Hi, Mr. Savoy.”

  Mr. Savoy ran the library, if I remembered right, also played the accordion.

  “And,” he went on, “the famous Bowser.”

  A great guy, Mr. Savoy. I almost left that out.

  “Looks like he’s grown some,” said Mr. Savoy. “Must be eating you out of house and home.”

  Not that again! What did it even mean?

  “Well,” Birdie said, “um.”

  Exactly my own thoughts!

  Mr. Savoy laughed. Then his eyes shifted and he said, “I hear your mom’s back.”

  “Yeah.”

  “That must be nice.”

  Birdie nodded.

  “I expect she’s exhausted after those assignments.”

  “She’s okay,” Birdie said.

  “Good to hear,” said Mr. Savoy. “Uh, please give her my best.” He turned to the brick walk that led to the library door. “Time to open up. Any book you’d like to borrow while you’re here?”

  “No, thanks,” Birdie said. “We’re on our way to—” She paused. “Mr. Savoy?”

  “Yes?”

  “Do you—I mean does the library—collect old newspapers?”

  “Collect? As in paper form? Mostly we’re digital these days, but we’ve got stacks of old papers up in the loft.”

  “Oh.”

  “Any particular old newspapers you’re interested in?”

  “The New Orleans Times-Picayune.”

  “No problem. We’ve got every edition going back for at least a century, maybe longer. Any special date you’re looking for?”

  “September fourth,” Birdie said.

  “What year?”

  “Two thousand and something.”

  Mr. Savoy gazed down at Birdie. He had a strong sort of face, but it seemed gentle, a combination I wasn’t used to on the men in these parts. “That narrows it down some,” he said.

  “The rest was torn off,” Birdie said. “It was mostly all torn off.”

  “Ah,” said Mr. Savoy. “Let’s see what we can do.”

  The library smelled like no other place I knew, so papery. And nothing smells more papery than old newspapers. Mr. Savoy had gotten Birdie settled at a scuffed-up table in the library loft, laid a stack of old newspapers in front of her. “Here’s the entire twenty-first century, so far,” he’d said, and gone away. Although not far. From where I lay—in a pool of golden sunlight at Birdie’s feet—I could sort of feel him standing at the bottom of the stairs that led to the loft.

  Up above me, Birdie turned the pages. A very enjoyable sound, crisp and fluttery at the same time. I gazed at her feet. She wore blue flip-flops with silver stars on the straps. Her feet were very still, and seemed to be concentrating on something, like they had minds of their own. Which they probably did: My tail was the same way. Because of how preoccupied
Birdie’s feet seemed to be I held off on licking them, which had been my first thought.

  From time to time she muttered things, like “page three, page three.” And “nope, nope, nope.” After that would come the sound of a newspaper getting lifted off the stack and plunked in a new pile, and then more of the crispy flutters. So nice of Birdie to entertain me like this! I gave the nearest foot a lick after all. It … it shifted away, like it had something else going on. That was bothersome. I tried to think of what to do next, and hadn’t come up with anything, before Birdie went tense and sat up very straight, her toes curling. Her toenails, by the way, were painted blue, which maybe I should have mentioned before.

  “Oh, Bowser. This is so … so … oh, no!” She leaned forward, the side of her face coming into my field of view. I could see only one of those eyes of hers, normally summer-sky blue but now much more like the color of clouds. That eye went back and forth real fast, and when Birdie spoke again her voice was low, tense, even afraid.

  “ ‘Local Man Murdered. New Orleans police are investigating the murder of Henry R. Bolden, a real estate developer in the city. His bullet-riddled body was discovered last night floating near the west bank of Bayou St. John, close to the foot of Friedrichs Avenue. Detective Captain Robert Gaux is in charge of the case. Reached by telephone, he said that the police are pursuing several leads and had no further comment.’ ”

  Birdie put her hands on the table and slowly pushed herself up, like her legs had lost their strength. She looked down at me, her eyes open wide, although I got the strange feeling she wasn’t really seeing me. Poor Birdie! Her face was so pale. Why? I had no idea. I rose and pressed up against her, all I could think of to do. Her hand moved, found the back of my neck, rested on it.

  “Henry R. Bolden,” Birdie said, starting to talk faster and faster. “Bolden, Bowser! Didn’t Drea say her last name was Bolden? So he had to be her dad. What about my own dad? Did she know he was dead, too? She must have! Then why did she pretend she was hearing it for the first time when I told her? What’s she up to?”

  I pressed against her a little harder, pitching in as best I could.

  “And that’s not all! There’s so much more I can barely think. That September was when my dad got killed. So was this the case he was working on at the end? The case that never got solved? What is going on?” She gave her head a quick shake, ridding her eyes of that distant stare. “Come on, Bowser. We need to talk to Drea.”

  We ran down the stairs from the loft. Mr. Savoy was standing at a coffee machine not far away, his back to us. He turned slowly, the coffee cup held kind of casually but his eyes very watchful.

  “Birdie? Find what you were looking for?”

  “Uh, thanks, Mr. Savoy. Yeah, I think so.”

  We headed for the front door.

  “Anything I can help you with?”

  “No, thanks, Mr. Savoy.” Birdie opened the door.

  “You know where to find me,” Mr. Savoy called after us.

  I glanced back, caught sight of him starting up the stairs to the loft. Had Birdie folded up the newspaper she’d been reading, or left it open on the table? I couldn’t remember. And why was I even having a thought like that?

  “Negative,” said Mr. Santini, back at the campground gate. No weed whacking today. Instead, he was on his knees, slapping white paint on the rocks that lined the roadside. “She never came back last night. I swung by first thing this morning in the cart. She’s not there. Most likely staying with someone in town.” He pointed the paintbrush at us. “Campsite charges accrue daily, irregardless of occupancy.”

  “Can we go down there anyway?” Birdie said.

  Mr. Santini shrugged. “Don’t see why not. Or why, for that matter.”

  “So we can or we can’t?”

  “Can,” said Mr. Santini. At that moment he noticed that paint was dripping off the brush and onto his pants. The sight made him say something I’m sure he didn’t mean.

  Birdie and I walked down Paradise Way to the green tent by the pond.

  “Drea?” Birdie called. But only once. Then she drew back the tent flap and checked inside. No Drea, and everything looked exactly as it had the day before. “Mr. Santini must be right—she’s staying with someone in town.” We went over to the motorcycle. Birdie poked at the tailpipe with her foot. “But how come she didn’t take her ride? I guess there could be reasons. Except why have to depend on someone else? When you’ve got your own motorcycle? See what I mean, Bowser?”

  I did not. Meanwhile, we were wandering down to the edge of the pond. Scummy, murky, buggy: Nothing had changed. Somehow even the lily pads looked ugly. Tiny insects scurried here and there across the still surface of the water, like they were up to something. I did not like this pond. I gazed across to the trees on the other side. Was that where I’d first spotted Vin Pardo, lurking around with his binoculars? Or had I seen him before that, driving slowly past 19 Gentilly Lane in his sporty two-seater, cat on the back shelf? And was the cat named Bonnie? How hard it was to keep all this straight in your mind! I knew from experience that I wasn’t going to be able to do it for much longer. Birdie! A little help, here!

  She was gazing out at the pond. “I love the water, Bowser,” she said. “And I love the swamp. But something about this pond …”

  I waited for her to go on, but instead she just went back to gazing. All of a sudden an enormous bubble rose up from the depths of the pond, not far from us, and burst on the surface. The pop it made sounded very loud to my ears.

  Birdie’s eyes narrowed. “Could be something with the water table,” she said. “Or … or something rotting down there.” She stepped forward, actually putting one foot in the water. A soft breeze was blowing toward us across the pond, and at that moment it brought me the smells that had been in that bubble. The next thing I knew, I was standing in the pond myself, up to my chest and barking my head off.

  “Bowser! What is it?”

  I barked and barked and didn’t stop.

  We ran up to the gate. Mr. Santini was taking a break, leaning against the gatehouse and drinking a soda.

  “Mr. Santini! Mr. Santini! Do you have a mask and snorkel?”

  “Huh? What for would I be wanting any of that? I don’t know how to swim.”

  “You don’t?”

  “And I’m proud of it!”

  “But—but we have to see down into the pond!”

  “What for?”

  “Because … because I think she … she …”

  Mr. Santini gave Birdie a long look. Then he pushed away from the gatehouse and set his soda aside. “I got a glass-bottom bucket,” he said. “And there’s a rowboat down at the end of Heavenly Road.”

  Not long after that we were in the rowboat. I love boats, myself, usually ride up front in what they call the bow. But Birdie was in the bow this time, in charge of the glass-bottom bucket. Mr. Santini was on the bench, facing forward and in charge of the rowing. I stood between them, in charge of everything else.

  “A little more that way, Mr. Santini,” Birdie said, and we changed direction a bit. She lifted her hand, made a pushing motion against the air. Mr. Santini raised the oar blades out of the water and we slowed down. Birdie knelt, leaned over the side, lowered the bucket into the water, and peered down through the glass bottom. From where I was, now sort of right beside her, I caught a quick glimpse myself. Hey! You could see through the water pretty clearly through that bucket. I even spotted a fat brown fish swimming by, before Birdie kind of squeezed me out. Not on purpose, of course.

  We glided along real slow, nothing to hear but the water rippling against the hull. Birdie, her back to Mr. Santini, pointed out toward the open water. Mr. Santini took one of the oars out of its lock and used it as a paddle, changing our direction. Birdie gave him the pushing motion again, and we slowed back down, barely drifting along. She leaned out farther and farther, so her head was almost in the bucket and most of her was outside the boat. A bad idea, in my opinion. I was consider
ing getting a grip on her T-shirt and pulling her back in a bit when her whole body went stiff.

  “STOP!”

  SHERIFF CANNON AND OFFICER PERKINS drove up in a big pickup towing a trailer with a police launch on the back. They put yellow tape all around Drea’s campsite and then got busy with the launch. The trailer bogged down at the side of the pond almost right away. Mr. Santini made a suggestion or two. The sheriff snapped at him. Mr. Santini snapped right back. Campers from Heavenly Road, Paradise Way, and Glory Street gathered around behind the yellow tape. The sheriff yelled at them to go on home. They backed up a step or two. The sheriff told Mr. Santini to get all those people the heck out of there. Mr. Santini told the people to get the heck out of there. They backed up another step or two. As for me and Birdie, we watched from the little dock at the end of Glory Street, where Mr. Santini had tied up the rowboat. No one paid any attention to us, off by ourselves.

  After what seemed like a long time, the launch was motoring slowly across the pond, the sheriff at the wheel, Perkins on a seat in the middle, Mr. Santini in the bow, pointing this way and that. Birdie just watched, not saying a word. Like her, I watched what was happening on the pond, but I also kept an eye on Birdie, which was my job, after all. She seemed to be trembling a bit, even though it wasn’t the slightest bit cold. In fact, it was the hottest time of day. The khaki uniform shirts of the sheriff and Perkins were soaked through. Mr. Santini—in a singlet not quite roomy enough to cover his potbelly—looked a little cooler. He raised his hand in the stop sign.

  “Right alongside that there lily pad,” he said.

  The sheriff pulled back the throttle—I’ve been out on the water with Birdie and Grammy many times, knew all the lingo—and swung the boat around in a tight circle. Perkins bent down and fumbled with something on the deck that I couldn’t see. Then he rose up with a device that was new to me. New to me, yes, but there was no mistaking the big hooks at the end of it. Birdie covered her mouth.

  I leaned in against her. She put her hand on my back, held on tight. I got the idea that maybe I should steer her away from this pond and herd her back home. I gave her a bit of a push, just to kind of test the idea. Funny enough, I couldn’t budge her, and I’m a lot stronger than Birdie. I’m actually stronger than a lot of grown-up humans, too! It’s fun being me, although not there on the shore of the pond, where no one was having any fun at all.