Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  The sheriff held up his hand. “We’ll get to that.”

  “Oh my god,” Mama said, shrinking back in her chair.

  “Please continue, Birdie,” said the sheriff.

  “It was on the bridge,” Birdie said. “We were fishing, me and Junior, and she—Drea—drove up on her motorcycle.”

  “And that was the first time you met her?” the sheriff said.

  “Yes.”

  “Ever in your whole life? You’re sure about that?”

  Birdie nodded.

  “What’s up?” Grammy said. “You’re saying Birdie knew her from before?”

  “No, ma’am,” said the sheriff. “Just making certain I’ve got things straight in my own mind. But,” he continued, his eyes now on Birdie, “since your grandmother put it that way, namely knowing rather than meeting, is it possible you knew Drea from before?”

  “From before?” Birdie said.

  “From before she drove up on her motorcycle,” said the sheriff.

  “She was from New Orleans,” Grammy said. “How could the child possibly have known her from before?”

  “Supposing Drea had gotten in touch at some point in the past,” the sheriff said. “By sending Birdie a letter, for example.”

  “Did that ever happen, sweetheart?” Mama said.

  “No,” said Birdie.

  “How about the other way around?” the sheriff said.

  “What other way around?” said Mama, sounding annoyed. Not Grammy-level annoyance, but getting there.

  “I’m just wondering if Birdie ever reached out to Drea,” the sheriff said. “Sending her a letter, perhaps.” He looked Birdie right in the eye. No problem! Birdie was great at looking dudes in the eye right back. Only this time she didn’t, her gaze down at the table instead.

  “How ridiculous!” Grammy said.

  Mama nodded. “As if kids wrote letters these days. I doubt Birdie’s ever written a letter in her life.”

  “Guess I’m out of it, as my own son never tires of telling me,” the sheriff said. He smiled at Birdie. “Ever written a letter in your life, Birdie?”

  Birdie gazed down at the table. She slowly shook her head.

  “Of course not,” said Mama. “I don’t get the point of your question at all.”

  “My mistake,” said the sheriff, his eyes on Birdie for a moment or two longer. Then he glanced at me, looked slightly surprised, maybe by how close to him I now seemed to be, my muzzle practically within touching distance of his calf. He shifted his leg away. “Back to this first meeting on the bridge, Birdie, if you don’t mind. Drea drove up on her motorcycle and then … ?”

  “She—”

  The sheriff cut in. “Drea?”

  Now Birdie did look up at him. Up and right in the eye. “Yeah, but I didn’t know her name yet.”

  “Because they didn’t know each other,” Grammy said.

  “Sorry,” said the sheriff. “My mistake, if I haven’t made that clear. Go on, Birdie.”

  “She,” said Birdie, “asked about the catfish. We caught a catfish, me and Junior.” She turned to Grammy. “Fifteen pounds six ounces—Snoozy weighed it.”

  “Then it could have been anything,” Grammy said.

  The sheriff shot her an annoyed look. We had a lot of annoyance going on in our kitchen, no idea why. “Go on,” he said to Birdie.

  “Then,” Birdie began, and stopped. Her eyes shifted and she began again. “Then I guess was when she and Junior started talking about music. Junior’s real interested in music and she—Drea—had a guitar case strapped to her motorcycle. She can write music so she invited us over to write down some of Junior’s tunes.”

  “Over where?” the sheriff said.

  “The campground,” Birdie said.

  “Mr. Santini’s campground?” said Mama.

  “Yeah.”

  “Did Bowser go, too?”

  What a question! Where Birdie goes, I go. Didn’t Mama know that by now?

  “Yeah,” Birdie said.

  “I thought he hated dogs,” Mama said. “And kids, for that matter.”

  “I don’t think he does, Mama.”

  “Election coming up,” said Grammy.

  The sheriff changed how he was sitting in the chair, like he’d gotten uncomfortable. “Neither here nor there. What happened at the campground, Birdie?”

  Birdie shrugged. “We went to her tent. She got out her guitar. She taught us a song—part of a song.”

  “What song?” the sheriff said.

  “I don’t know the name. It was about …” She looked around. “… being in a kitchen, nice and dry, out of the rain. She has …” Birdie’s voice thickened. “… had a beautiful voice.”

  Then came a silence. I had no idea what anyone else was thinking, or if they were thinking at all. As for me, I was remembering the sound of Drea’s voice. I have a real good memory when it comes to voices, can tell who’s talking from far away.

  “When did you discover that Drea was the daughter of the victim in your dad’s last case?” the sheriff said.

  Mama sat up straight. Her whole smell got sharper. It was still nice—Mama had a nice soapy smell, but now much … tangier, might be the way to put it.

  “At the library,” Birdie said. “There was a scrap of an old newspaper inside the guitar. I found the whole article at the library.”

  The sheriff gave her a long look. “This was after you saw her for the last time?”

  Birdie nodded.

  The sheriff rubbed his chin. I heard rasping sounds like he needed a shave.

  “So she never discussed any of that with you?”

  Birdie shook her head.

  “What about the break-in? Did she mention that?”

  “No.”

  Grammy tapped the side of her glass with her fingernail. “Where are you going with this, Sheriff?”

  “I’m just trying to piece things together,” he said.

  “Like what?” Mama said. “Don’t you already know the drowning was accidental?”

  “Miz Gaux here”—Sheriff Cannon nodded toward Grammy—“has clarified my thinking on that. Accidental or on purpose would be more like it. Just not murder. That doesn’t mean I’m happy to leave things with a lot of loose ends.”

  Birdie looked at him closely. Loose ends? Where had I heard that before?

  “But I understand this has been a lot for a kid to go through,” the sheriff went on, “so if you’ll please allow me one last question.” His eyes were on Grammy but Grammy said nothing. It was Mama who gave him the nod.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Now, Birdie, did Drea ever say anything to you about a blog called Kramer’s Kold Kases?”

  Birdie thought. I could tell she was thinking by how her forehead, normally so smooth, wrinkled up. Also, I could feel her thoughts, kind of like dark birds flapping slowly through the room. That part was a bit scary so I forgot it at once.

  “Yeah,” Birdie said. “I think she mentioned it.”

  “In what context?”

  “Context?” said Birdie. “I don’t understand.”

  “Context,” the sheriff said. “Well, uh …”

  “Like what was being discussed at the time,” Mama said, her voice low and gentle.

  “Just about cold cases and what he said about them,” Birdie said.

  “What who said?” asked the sheriff.

  “My daddy.” Birdie turned to him. “You told us yourself—about warming up cold cases.”

  “That I did. And this one’s sure warmed up, unless I’m way off track. This one, or maybe even these two.”

  “What do you mean?” Mama said.

  “Nothing yet,” said the sheriff. “Getting ahead of myself. My apologies.”

  “You’ve apologized enough, to my way of thinking,” Grammy said. “How about some plain talk? Are you telling us that you’re closing in on the killer of my son? You have some suspect after all these years?”

  “No, ma’am. But something’s been going
on. If Drea said anything about Kramer’s Kold Kases, it might be very helpful.”

  “All Ks,” said Birdie.

  “Excuse me?” the sheriff said.

  “That was all she told me about Kramer’s Kold Kases.”

  “Proves she knew about it, at least,” the sheriff said. “Either of you ever heard of Kramer’s Kold Kases?”

  Mama and Grammy shook their heads.

  “It’s a blog devoted to cold cases, as you’d expect from the name,” the sheriff said. “I did some quick looking into it. Seems to be a one-man operation run out of an old folks’ home in Durango, Colorado, by a retired cop. Kind of a hobby for him, is my guess. He researches cold cases all over the U.S. and Canada, writes them up on his blog. I wouldn’t call it a popular blog—my IT guy tells me it gets maybe a hundred hits a week, something like that. That’s by way of background, point being that about a month ago this old blogger posted a write-up about Captain Gaux. From this little talk we’re having it’s now just about one hundred percent sure that Drea Bolden read that post. Most of it was pretty straightforward, nothing new, excepting one small detail that hasn’t come up before.”

  “What detail?” Mama said.

  “Are you familiar with a notebook your husband carried around with him?”

  Mama’s forehead wrinkled up, much the way Birdie’s did, except that Mama had some wrinkles there all the time—faint, but there. “Vaguely,” she said.

  “Did you ever see it after?”

  “After meaning after Robert’s death?”

  “Correct.”

  “I don’t believe so. But why? What’s this about?”

  “Seems the Kold Kases guy has done some digging regarding that notebook.”

  Suddenly, I was all ears. Well, not really, although I’ve got some serious ears on me, compared to you, for example. But had digging entered the conversation? If so, I really hoped that if there was digging to be done everyone understood who was going to be doing it. Namely me, ol’ Bowser.

  “And he found an old sergeant down at the NOPD who remembered that Captain Gaux used to jot down thoughts about what he was working on in a little notebook,” the sheriff was saying. Uh-oh. Had I missed something important? “Nothing fancy, just the ordinary kind of notebook you’d get at the five-and-dime. So the question is this: What became of the notebook?”

  “No idea,” Mama said.

  “First I’ve heard of it,” said Grammy.

  The sheriff nodded. “It seems to have disappeared. According to this sergeant, if anybody had thought about it at the time, they’d probably have concluded it was lost in the river. Due to where the bod—the circumstances of where the death occurred, and all.” The sheriff reached into his pocket, unfolded a sheet of paper. “I printed out the blog post. Seems this old blogger is of the opinion that there are other possibilities. I’ll just read what he says.” The sheriff put on a pair of glasses.

  Whoa! He looked almost like a different person. That was bothersome. I got gripped by a strong desire to do some gnawing on the kitchen table leg. Almost certainly a no-no, so therefore I barely moved in that direction. Hardly at all. You’d never have noticed.

  “ ‘Supposing the notebook didn’t end up at the bottom of the Mighty Mississip,’ he writes. ‘What if—’ ”

  “Mighty Mississip?” Grammy said.

  The sheriff looked up. “I’m afraid that’s his writing style ma’am, sorry.” His gaze returned to the sheet of paper. “ ‘What if Captain Gaux was closing in on the killer of Henry Bolden? What if there’s stone-cold proof in that notebook? What if he knew he himself was in danger and therefore put the notebook somewhere safe in the event that if things ended up exactly how they did end up, he’d have at least left an insurance policy out there? What if, what if, what if? All you readers out there in blogville? Where is the last notebook of Captain Robert Lee Gaux?’ ”

  The sheriff took off his glasses and looked up.

  DOES THIS MEAN MY DAD … MY DAD’S body—was in the Mississippi River?” Birdie said.

  Mama nodded.

  Birdie’s voice rose. Hey! She was angry! That upset me. I went over and sat on her feet, my only idea. “Why am I just finding this out now?”

  “You never asked, Birdie,” Mama said. “I made a decision to hold off on the details—the upsetting details—until the day you did ask. If that was wrong, I’m sorry.”

  Grammy folded her arms across her chest. “Told you it was wrong from the get-go.”

  Mama shot Grammy a sharp look, got one right back. I didn’t like the way things were going, had a notion to gnaw on my tail.

  “But the body of Drea’s dad was in the river, too,” Birdie said.

  “That was noted at the time, Birdie,” the sheriff said, “although there was a period of almost a month between the two … events. Plus there were other differences.”

  “Like?” Birdie said.

  “Your father’s body was found four or five miles up the river from Mr. Bolden’s,” the sheriff said. “And Mr. Bolden had been shot multiple times, whereas your father … your father had succumbed in a different manner.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  The sheriff cleared his throat. “Head trauma.”

  “Trauma? I don’t know that word. What does it mean?”

  The adults looked from one to another, waiting for one to step up. Meanwhile, Birdie’s eyes got moist and blurry.

  “Injury,” Mama said softly. “Bad injury.”

  “Like what kind of injury?” Birdie said.

  There was a silence. Finally Sheriff Cannon said, “Shot in the back of the head. Close range—as though the killer had snuck up on him.”

  Birdie wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. At the same time she seemed to get hot. I could feel the heat rising off her.

  “Getting back to these notebooks,” the sheriff began, “is it—”

  Grammy interrupted. “I don’t know about any notebooks.”

  “You never saw him writing in one?” the sheriff said.

  “No, sir,” said Grammy.

  “And you, ma’am?” the sheriff said, turning to Mama.

  “I’m not sure. Maybe once or twice. But Robert did his best not to bring work home.”

  The sheriff’s eyes shifted, like he was having some new thought. “That sounds wise,” he said. He laid the sheet of paper on the table, smoothed it with his big hand. “Home meaning New Orleans, I take it.”

  “That’s right,” Mama said. “We lived in the Marigny back then, before it got so expensive.”

  “Did he ever say anything about what he was working on?” the sheriff said.

  “Not never,” said Mama. “But it was rare.”

  “What about the Bolden case?”

  Mama shook her head. “The only case he mentioned in those last days before … in those last days, was something about birds.”

  “Birds?” said the sheriff.

  “He said something about visiting a crazy old bird-watcher. Maybe it wasn’t a case at all.”

  “Maybe not,” said the sheriff. “When was the last time he was here?”

  “I’d have to think,” said Mama. “But probably the Fourth of July weekend that year. We always—we used to go out on the bayou and shoot fireworks off the deck of Bayou Girl. Birdie was just starting to talk that last time. She loved the fireworks. She kept yelling mo’ mo’ mo’. Mo’ being one of her very first words.”

  What was this? Mama saying there was a time Birdie didn’t know how to talk? I wasn’t buying it. Birdie was the very best talker I’d ever come across, no one else even close.

  “I remember that night,” Grammy said. “We also snagged the prop on something and Robert had to swim down under the boat and free it. But—but that wasn’t the last time he was here in St. Roch.”

  “No?” said the sheriff.

  “He stopped in the day before he died,” Grammy said.

  “He did?” said Mama. “I never knew that.”

&
nbsp; “Kind of lost in all the … the turmoil of that time,” said Grammy. “Plus I didn’t see him—it was a spur-of-the-moment thing on his part. He was in Lafayette for a meeting or some such and ended up with a free hour or two. But I happened to be out with a customer at the time, so I missed him.”

  “Then how do you know this?” the sheriff said.

  “On account of he left me a note, is how,” Grammy said. “Plus some flowers.” Her eyes got a faraway look. “Purple bellflowers.” She took a deep breath, got rid of the faraway look. “Always been a favorite of mine. You used to find them by the Cleoma road willy-nilly, before they widened it.”

  “He left these things—the note and the flowers—over at the store?” the sheriff said.

  “Who said anything about the store?” Grammy said. “I’m talking about right here, in this very room. Back then I lived in this part of the house, t’other side just for storage.”

  “I see,” the sheriff said. “Was someone here to let him in?”

  “Whatever for?” Grammy said. “Robert had a key.”

  The sheriff nodded. He thought. I could feel his thoughts, much darker and heavier than Birdie’s. “Have there been any other break-ins?” he said.

  “Other break-ins?” said Grammy.

  “Besides the recent one,” the sheriff said. “Over the years, meaning the time between that last visit of Captain Gaux’s and now? And if not an actual break-in, then any suspicious activity around the house?”

  “Nope,” Grammy said. “What are you getting at?”

  “Just gathering facts, is all,” said the sheriff.

  Which was when Birdie spoke, her voice so quiet it was more like just moving her lips. “He’s making a theory of the case.”

  Everyone turned to her. “What was that?” said the sheriff, his voice way too sharp, in my opinion. I liked most humans and it’s not that I disliked the sheriff, more that I’d never been sure of him. Were we headed toward some sort of dustup, me and him? Bring it on! I happened to notice I was no longer sitting on Birdie’s feet.

  The sheriff glanced down at me. The fact was I appeared to be rather close to his calf again, a big, muscular calf that might be fun to sink my—but no! Was that any way to behave? For a second or two, the sheriff’s eyes filled with alarm. He shifted his leg well out of reach. No harm done!