Woof

by Spencer Quinn

  “Sorry, ma’am,” Snoozy said. “Did I fall asleep? Musta, but it wasn’t on purpose. You wanna call that sleeping on the job, maybe dock my pay? Totally within your rights, I got no objection. Fact is I’ll dock it myself in case you don’t. But not a lot, on account of it couldn’ta been more—”

  The sheriff held up his hand, making the stop sign. “Say what I think you’re about to say one more time and you’ll wake up in an orange jumpsuit.”

  “The part about no more’n—” Snoozy suddenly clamped his mouth shut, so I never found out where he was going with this.

  “Let’s take it from the top,” the sheriff said, reaching into his pocket for a notebook and pen. “You showed up for your shift at noon, at which point Mrs. Gaux and Birdie went into town. Was this prize tuna—”

  “Marlin,” said Grammy, her voice rising sharply.

  “—marlin,” the sheriff went on, “hanging in its usual place when you came in?”

  “Hmm,” Snoozy said. “Can’t say I—what’s the word? Consciously? Can’t say I consciously noticed. Maybe the fish was there and maybe it—”

  “Nonsense!” Grammy said. “Of course Black Jack was there. He’s been there since 1945.”

  The sheriff turned to her. “Well, ma’am, sometimes you get so used to something it fades into the background, and you sort of take it for granted instead of actually seeing it.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Grammy said.

  The sheriff’s face was all about features that were hard to miss: square chin, big nose, bushy eyebrows. All those features seemed to get even more prominent as he looked down at Grammy. That was when Birdie spoke up.

  “Black Jack was on the wall this morning.”

  Everyone turned to Birdie, except for me. All of them took up way more space than she did! I slid myself a little closer to her, pressing lightly against her leg.

  “You know that for sure?” the sheriff said.

  Birdie nodded. I felt her fingertips on the back of my neck, just resting there. Fine with me, even better than fine.

  The sheriff’s voice was a lot like his face, big and rough. Now it got a little gentler. “Was there something in particular that made you take a look at the tun—at the fish this morning?”

  “I don’t know,” Birdie said. “But I did take a look at Black Jack and I noticed he was dusty.”

  No surprise to me. This place smelled pretty dusty, which I’d noticed from the get-go. You could even see dust drifting in the sunbeams that came through the window, a very nice sight. Nice sights can be distracting. When I tuned back in, the sheriff was still looking at Birdie, although now with a smile on his face. A real small one—no teeth showing—and quickly gone, but a smile just the same.

  “How’d you do in school this year?” he said.

  “Okay, I guess.”

  “Weren’t you in the same class as my son, Rory?”

  “Yeah.”

  “He told me you were smart.”

  “Rory said that?”

  “Maybe the first thing he’s been right about all year.” The sheriff glanced at me. “Didn’t know you had a dog.”

  “His name’s Bowser. He’s brand-new. I got him for my birthday.”

  The sheriff gave me a closer look. “Going to eat you out of house and home.”

  “My point exactly,” Grammy said, which was around when Snoozy got off the stool.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” the sheriff said.

  “Thought I’d grab a quick bite, now that you won’t be needing me anymore,” Snoozy said. “Way past my lunchtime, although I’m not complaining.”

  The sheriff put his hand on Snoozy’s chest, pushed him back onto the stool—not a hard push, which might have knocked a skinny dude like Snoozy right on his butt. Knock him on his butt, Sheriff! Knock him on his butt! Not that I had anything against Snoozy—that grabbing-a-quick-bite idea sounded brilliant to me—but I’m the kind of dude who likes action.

  “We’re just getting started here, Snoozy,” the sheriff said. “We’ve established that the tu—that the fish in question disappeared during a one-hour period, give or take, when you were running the store. Did it just swim on outta here?”

  “I have dreams where that kind of thing happens,” Snoozy said.

  “I have dreams where I lock up guys like you and throw away the key,” the sheriff said.

  “No way it just swam outta here,” Snoozy said quickly. “That’s what I meant to say.”

  “On the same page at last,” the sheriff said. “Let’s start with the customers. How many customers came in the store?”

  “That I know of?” Snoozy said. “Because like maybe I shouldn’t say this again, but there was a brief period when—”

  The sheriff pointed his finger at Snoozy, kind of like the barrel of a gun.

  “One,” said Snoozy, real quick.

  “You had just one customer?” the sheriff said.

  Snoozy glanced at Grammy. “Not my fault,” he said. “It’s the economy.”

  “Forget the economy,” the sheriff said. “Describe this customer.”

  “Describe?” said Snoozy. “That’s a tough one.”

  “Huh?” said the sheriff.

  “I haven’t really described a person before. Like, where do you start?”

  With the smell, of course. Wasn’t that obvious?

  But the sheriff surprised me. “How about whether the person was male or female?” he said.

  “Whew,” Snoozy said. “That’s an easy one. Ol’ Uncle Lem’s male, no doubt about that whatsoever.”

  The sheriff blinked. Adrienne—who I was in no hurry to see again—blinks from time to time. Then comes a mood change, usually bad. I could feel the same kind of mood change going on inside the sheriff.

  “You’re telling me the customer was your uncle Lem, the parish goof-off? Why didn’t you just say so at the start?”

  “Search me,” Snoozy said. “But I wouldn’t call him the parish goof-off. More like a parish goof-off.”

  Grammy turned to Snoozy. “What in heaven’s name was he doing here?”

  “Selling crawfish, ma’am. I bought two sacks at the usual price, just like you told me.”

  “Lem LaChance had crawfish to sell?” Grammy said.

  “Two thirty-five-pound sacks, one ninety-five a pound.”

  “You pay one ninety-five a pound for crawfish?” the sheriff said to Grammy.

  “That there’s confidential business information,” Grammy answered.

  “But you charge over six bucks.”

  “Your point?”

  Grammy and the sheriff exchanged a long, unfriendly look. Whatever was going on seemed pretty confusing to me. Then, just when I was at my most lost, Birdie said the first thing that made sense.

  “Snoozy, does your uncle Lem smoke cigars?”

  “Huh?”

  “Because it sure smells cigary in here.”

  Grammy, the sheriff, and Snoozy all tipped their noses up toward the ceiling and did some sniffing.

  “Don’t smell anything,” Grammy said.

  “Same,” said the sheriff.

  “Me neither,” said Snoozy. “And Uncle Lem gave up smoking years ago, doc’s orders.”

  “Nobody smells cigar smoke?” Birdie said.

  “You must be imagining it, child,” said Grammy.

  Whoa right there! The air in this place smelled of many things—fish, worms, floor wax, human earwax, my own earwax, all just for starters—but cigar smoke was right at the top. I did a quick nose check. The sheriff’s was the biggest by far—not including my own, of course—and Snoozy’s was surprisingly on the large side, given how small the rest of his features were, those ears no bigger than shirt buttons. Then came Grammy’s, actually a very nicely shaped nose to my way of thinking, pretty much midsize. Last there was Birdie’s, the smallest and the only one you’d call beautiful. But why would the smallest nose be the only one that worked?

  “Can’t let red herrings
distract us,” the sheriff said.

  What? The sheriff couldn’t smell the obvious cigar smoke, but out of all the fishy smells going on he could somehow single out herring? I backed away from him, not so sure he could be trusted. Meanwhile, he was gazing at Snoozy in a way that made Snoozy wriggle a bit on the stool.

  “Snoozy?”

  “Yes, boss?”

  “I’m not your boss.”

  “But you’re the law.”

  “That doesn’t make me your boss. It just gives me the power to slap the cuffs on you.”

  “But you’re not going to do that, are you?” Snoozy said, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “I mean, isn’t it obvious now? Someone came in here during … during my very, very brief nap, and heisted Black Jack.”

  “Unless,” said the sheriff.

  “Unless what?” said Snoozy.

  “Put it this way,” the sheriff said. “Suppose I pay a visit to your uncle Lem and tell him I hear he’s come into possession of a certain dead fish.”

  “You think Uncle Lem stole it?” said Snoozy.

  “With some help.”

  “Help?” Snoozy spread his hands, one of those human gestures that means they don’t have a clue. “From who?”

  “Six letters,” said the sheriff. “Starts with S and ends with Y.”

  “Starts with S and ends with Y?” Snoozy’s lips moved but he made no sound, like maybe he was trying out possibilities.

  “Has a Z in it.”

  “Z in it,” Snoozy said. “Starts with S, ends with—”

  “Spare me this pain!” Grammy said. “He means you.”

  “Me?” said Snoozy. “Why would I steal that stupid fish? It’s worth zip.”

  “Shows what you know,” Grammy said. “Tourist from up north offered me three hundred bucks for it just last year.”

  “Yeah?” said Snoozy. “Didn’t know that.” He glanced up at the wall—where Black Jack had hung, if I was following this story. So complicated! All of a sudden, I didn’t want to follow it for one single moment more! Does that kind of mood ever come over you? What I wanted to follow was that cigary smell, so I did. It led to the door.

  “Bowser?” said Birdie, right behind me. “What’s up? Need to … to do your business?”

  That was it exactly, if my business meant tracking cigar smells. I sniffed at the narrow crack under the door.

  “Okay,” Birdie said. “Hang on. I’ll get the rope.”

  Hang on for what? A rope? She was losing me, but no problem, because with a little push from my snout, that ol’ door opened right up and out I went. Are you any good at following smells? If so, you don’t need me to explain how. Pretty simple, really. Smells are like paths except you can’t see them. But who would want to, smelling being so much sharper than seeing? You just keep on following the smell path you’re on, in this case, the cigar smoke path. It led me past the sheriff’s cruiser with the big blue light on top and down to the road.

  “Bowser!” Birdie ran up behind me. “What are you thinking?”

  I turned to her. What was I thinking? For a moment it wouldn’t come to me.

  “Sit,” Birdie said.

  That wasn’t it; no way I’d been thinking about sitting. I’d been thinking about … about cigar smoke! I started to turn back toward the road.

  “Bowser! Sit!”

  But I didn’t want to sit. And I’m not the kind of dude who just simply sits when any Tom, Dick, or Harry tells me to.

  “Be nice. Sit.”

  But this wasn’t any Tom, Dick, or Harry. It was Birdie. I sat.

  She knelt in front of me. “What a good boy!” She kissed my nose. No one had ever done that before, not in my whole life. I gave her face the very best lick I could. Birdie laughed and slipped the rope loop around my neck. I didn’t mind in the slightest. Well, maybe I did a bit, especially if I thought about it. So I didn’t! Nothing easier.

  We crossed the road. “This isn’t a busy road, Bowser,” she said, “but we still look both ways.” Or something like that. I wasn’t really paying attention, on account of the fact that I now found myself smack in the middle of the cigar smoke path. It led me to the dock that ran alongside the bayou and right to a rusted cleat for tying up boats. There was no boat tied up there at the moment, but what did I find lying on the rough wood of the dock, right by that cleat? If you guessed a cigar butt, ashy at one end and chewed at the other, you’d be right. It was a pretty big cigar butt, still bore a gold band. This was the end of the smell path. I stood over the cigar butt and barked.

  “What have you got there, Bow—” Birdie gazed at the cigar butt, her eyes opening wide. “Wow! You believed me!”

  Believed her about what? I wasn’t sure but I liked hearing her say it. Maybe she’d say it again.

  “You believed me!”

  Just off the charts.

  The bayou made sucking sounds under the dock.

  WE RAN BACK TO GAUX FAMILY FISH and Bait—“Bowser! We forgot to look both ways!”—and got there just as the sheriff came out, headed for his cruiser.

  “Sheriff!” Birdie said, hurrying toward him, me right beside her—in fact, a little bit ahead, the rope having somehow slipped from her hand, or possibly been yanked from it, but don’t look at me. “See what Bowser found.”

  The sheriff paused, the car door half open. Birdie held up the cigar stub. “Nice job,” the sheriff said. “We’ll put him on litter patrol.” He got in the car.

  “Litter patrol?” Birdie said.

  “Just joking,” said the sheriff, sliding down the window and starting the car. “There’s no money in the budget for that new stoplight, never mind litter patrol.”

  “But … but this isn’t about litter,” Birdie said. “Don’t you see? Bowser followed the smell.”

  “What smell?”

  “The cigar smell. From inside the shop.”

  “Oh, that,” said the sheriff. A voice crackled on his radio, said something I missed completely. The sheriff checked his watch.

  “And it led down to the dock,” Birdie said, talking faster. “Meaning the thief had a boat waiting. He loaded Black Jack inside and took off.”

  The sheriff smiled. “You after my job?”

  “I don’t understand,” Birdie said. That made two of us. Kids weren’t sheriffs: That was a plain fact.

  The sheriff nodded at me with his big chin. “Rory’s got a dog at home. You should take Bowser over to meet her.”

  “But what about your patrol boat?” Birdie said.

  “Patrol boat?”

  “The Zodiac with the two-fifty Merc. The thief might still be out there on the water. You can catch him if you hurry.”

  “Know your boats, huh?” said the sheriff. “Guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Everything I can to get your grandma’s fish back. I promise,” said the sheriff. “Within reason. She’s filed a report—petty theft, value under five hundred dollars, although there’s no putting a dollar amount on objects of sentimental value, as she’s just been pointing out to me. So it’ll be in the system by end of day, and after that we’ll keep our eyes peeled.”

  “Eyes peeled?” Birdie said, like she hated the idea. I was with her on that: It sounded horrible. “What about the Zodiac?”

  “The Zodiac’s in the shop and will be for the foreseeable future,” the sheriff said. “And we can’t go running after every smell that may or may not be in the air. That’s not how it works.” The window started sliding up, but at that point Grammy stepped outside and the window slid back down. “Miz Gaux?” the sheriff called.

  “What?” said Grammy. Did the sheriff expect her to come to him? She showed no sign of moving that way. The sheriff sighed, got out of the car, and went to her.

  “One more thing,” he said. “Was anything else taken?”

  “No.”

  He peered down at her. “Nothing is missing?”

  She peered up at him. “Black Jack is m
issing.”

  “I meant besides that,” the sheriff said. “Nothing else?”

  “Like what?” Grammy said.

  There was a long pause. “You tell me,” said the sheriff at last.

  Grammy’s voice rose. “Isn’t Black Jack enough?”

  “Probably so,” said the sheriff. He got back in the cruiser, turned onto the road, and drove off.

  A breeze blew a wisp of gray hair across Grammy’s face, the hot kind of summer breeze we get in these parts, not refreshing at all. She brushed the wisp of hair away and all of a sudden looked older.

  “What’s that in your hand?” she said.

  “A cigar butt, Grammy.” Birdie’s face got a little pinker and she started talking fast again. “Bowser followed the smell clear over to the dock. The thief must have tossed it away and boarded a boat and—”

  “Oh, stop,” Grammy said. “This isn’t some game. I’ll never see Black Jack again.”

  “Sure you will, Grammy. It’ll be in the system by the end of the day and—”

  “System? Know what I think of their systems?”

  “What, Grammy?”

  “Can’t say in front of a youngster. Go on to the house. And get that stupid animal a proper leash on the way.”

  “Stupid animal?” Birdie said.

  I was with her on that. There were no stupid animals in sight.

  “Go on,” Grammy said. She went back inside and slammed the door.

  Birdie’s eyes got damp. Oh, no. Was she going to cry? I didn’t want to see that. Her eyes filled up, and just when I thought tears would come spilling out, she gave her head a hard little shake, like she was angry at something, and her eyes dried up.

  “Come on, Bowser,” she said, her voice low and sort of thick, as if something was in her throat.

  First I had a shake of my own, since the idea was fresh in my mind. There’s nothing as invigorating as a real good shake, the kind that starts at your nose, goes all the way to your tail, and then comes roaring back. I guarantee your ears will flop around like crazy, if you have the right kind of ears, which I’m happy to say I do.