Elrood nodded. “And offered me a third if I found the money.”
“So you cozied up to Plumpy inside?”
Elrood shrugged.
“And he actually told you the stash was here?”
“Naw,” said Elrood. “But when I suggested like maybe it was, he did that stupid heh heh, heh heh laugh of his.”
“How about we take a little look-see?” Bernie said.
“Suit yourself,” Elrood said. “But I’ve been over the whole place.”
* * *
We wandered around Plumpy’s crib, me and Bernie—having first duct-taped Elrood to a kitchen chair, shouldn’t leave that out. Duct-taped the way we duct-tape dudes at the Little Detective Agency, meaning so they stay duct-taped.
“What are we looking for, big guy?”
I waited to hear.
“Cash, and lots of it. Cash smells.” Wow! Bernie at his best. He took some money from his wallet, held it toward me. I sniffed up the smell of money—not to learn anything, since I knew the smell very well already, but just to please Bernie. We went down the hall and into the living room. Money? I picked up the scent right away and trotted over to the fireplace. It was one of those kiva fireplaces. We had one on the patio, for when cool winter nights came along, which was hardly ever.
Bernie followed me. “Santa comes down the chimney, doesn’t he, Chet?”
Uh-oh. Hadn’t known that! And security was my job! I made what Bernie calls a mental note.
Bernie got himself sort of inside the kiva and reached up inside. He grunted, twisted around a bit, and pulled down a big plastic garbage bag. We took it into the kitchen and spilled it out on the table. Piles and piles of money! We were rich at last!
“What the hell?” Elrood said, sort of wriggling in his chair, voice in the elf zone to the max.
We counted the money, Bernie doing the actual counting. “One million, forty-six thousand, seven hundred and eight.” He turned to Elrood. “Mind waiting here?”
* * *
A lovely day for a drive, like just about every day in the Valley. We drove down to Ocotillo Springs, Bernie behind the wheel, me in the shotgun seat, the plastic garbage bag full of cash on the little bench behind us. Ocotillo Springs was like lots of little desert towns, with one main street, a few bars, a few art galleries, and the rest empty storefronts. At the end of the main street stood a low building with a fenced-in dirt yard, and lots of members of the nation within just lying around in that yard, their eyes dull in a way I didn’t like to see. A woman was hanging some balloons over a big chalkboard by the door.
“ ‘Animal Rescue Fundraiser Today,’ ” Bernie read. “ ‘Please help.’ ”
We drove on by, took the next turn, followed a dry wash and came to a closed gate.
“Two Bar Ranch,” Bernie said.
He got out, opened the gate, and drove up a dirt road up to a small ranch house with a tile roof and a shaded porch out front. We parked beside an old sedan, the kind Bernie calls an old lady ride, meaning a far-from-new sedan in perfect—whoa! Had I seen this car not long ago? You bet. And that old bluish-haired lady now coming out on the porch? With granny-type glasses perched on her nose? Hadn’t she been at the wheel? I was making connections left and right, wherever they were. And maybe I’d have made even more, but at that moment the old lady raised a shotgun and pointed it at Bernie.
Bernie, still behind the wheel, raised his hands. “Becky Simms?” he said.
“Who wants to know?”
“I’m Bernie Little. And this is Chet. We’ve got something for you.”
“Like what?”
“Something that’s actually yours in the first place. But first we need to know if you’re Becky Simms.”
The woman called over her shoulder. “Beck!”
A second woman came out of the front door and onto the porch. She also wore a big white cowboy hat with floral decorations and granny-type glasses perched on her nose. This second woman—Beck, if I was following this right—looked like the first only more so, if that makes sense.
“Shirl?” Beck said. “What’s going on?”
Shirl made a little gesture at us with the shotgun. “This here jasper says he’s got something for you.”
“Like what?” said Beck.
“First,” Bernie said, “how about we lose the shotgun? This is going to be a good day for you. Don’t want to spoil it.”
The women glanced at each other. Some sort of unspoken communication passed between them. We have that same thing going down in the nation within. Shirl lowered the shotgun.
We got out of the car. Bernie grabbed the garbage bag.
“What you got in there?” Beck said.
“Your assets,” said Bernie. “Which we’ll trade for Plumpy Bonaparte. A safe and sound Plumpy Bonaparte.”
The women glanced at each other again.
“Let’s see these so-called assets,” Beck said.
We went up on the porch. Bernie opened the bag, held it so Beck and Shirl could see. They peered inside. Their old faces pinkened a bit. Then the women looked at Bernie and their eyes went hard, both sets at the exact same time.
“What did you do to Roland?” Beck said.
“Not a thing,” Bernie said. “Other than help out with his search. Chet here’s probably the best searcher in the Valley.”
The women looked my way. They nodded, like what Bernie had just said made sense. There was none of that alarm you sometimes get when people lay eyes on me for the first time. Beck and Shirl liked me and my kind.
“Elrood’s in perfect health,” Bernie was saying, “and you’ll have him back as soon as we’re done here.”
“Don’t call him that,” said Shirl.
“And we don’t want him,” said Beck.
We went inside, and up some stairs to a closed door. Shirl took a key from her pocket, unlocked the door and pushed it open.
And there was Plumpy! He lay on a nice little bed in a nice little room with wood-paneled walls: old wood with knotholes, very homey. Plumpy wore red Santa pants and a red Santa shirt. He was leafing through a magazine, but he sat up as we came in.
“Hi, Bernie.” His gaze went to the garbage bag right away.
Meanwhile, Bernie had moved to the open window, was looking out. “Why the hell didn’t you just jump out, Plumpy? It’s maybe ten feet, and way less than that if you hung from the sill.”
“Do I look like an acrobat, Bernie? What’s in the bag?”
“You know,” said Bernie.
Plumpy looked sad. I walked over and pressed against his leg, just being friendly. He gave me a pat.
“Don’t suppose I’m in for a cut,” he said.
“Can do,” Bernie said.
“What the hell?” said Beck.
“No way,” said Shirl.
Bernie turned to them. “There’s damage at his place, thanks to Elrood.”
“Don’t call him that,” Shirl said.
“And isn’t it a rental?” said Beck. “You think a scumbag like him”—she jerked her thumb at Plumpy—“is gonna pay for repairs in a rental?”
“Are you, Plumpy?”
“Probably not,” said Plumpy.
Bernie reached into the bag, counted out some money, handed it to Plumpy. “Ten grand, in case you change your mind.”
“Much obliged,” Plumpy said. He rose, stuffed the money in his Santa pants, and headed for the door. Beck and Shirl parted to let him pass, parted real slow.
“Got any plans?” Bernie said as he went out.
I heard Plumpy clomping down the stairs. “You know my plans,” he called back to us. “Santa 365.”
* * *
Bernie dumped all the money on the bed, studied Suzie’s printout. “According to this, you two are owed four hundred thirteen thousand seven hundred one dolla
rs.”
“Less ten grand for the putter,” Beck said.
“As for the putter—”
“You think it should be more?” said Shirl.
“More?”
“We love the putter,” Beck said.
“Love anything connected to Jayne Mansfield,” said Shirl.
“Yeah?” said Bernie.
“We looked a lot like her, back in the day,” Beck said.
“People always said,” said Shirl.
“Minus that rack,” Beck said.
“And not even so minus,” said Shirl.
“Um,” Bernie said.
* * *
In the end, they agreed on some number, all very complicated what with the amount in the bag not quite adding up to the amount that was missing. And did I hear right? We were taking a ten-percent finder’s fee? Ten had to be a lot more than two, as far as I go when it comes to numbers. And who was the finder? Chet the Jet! Were we still rich? I thought so.
We drove back through Ocotillo Springs, slowing down as we passed the Animal Rescue fundraiser. The woman we’d seen before was all alone, standing under the balloons. Members of the nation within lay in the shade, their tails still.
After that we drove around the Valley, handing out wads of cash to everyone on the list. We got hugged and patted and kissed, and I chowed down on snacks out the yingyang. And when it was all over, we still had our ten percent! Bernie counted up the money. “Over ninety grand here, big guy.” He separated it into two stacks, one big, one little. Then we drove back to Ocotillo Springs, went to the fundraiser and handed the woman the big stack. Were we still rich? I thought so.
Some time later, we realized we’d forgotten all about Elrood. We hurried back to Plumpy’s wrecked crib, but found that Elrood was already gone. The duct tape was neatly in place, not torn or twisted, like it was still confining an invisible perp. You see everything in this business.
* * *
We used the little stack to throw another Christmas party. Would you believe it? This Christmas party was even better than the first one! We had live music, for one thing. Rick’s uncle Hector came. Uncle Hector was a handsome older dude with a string tie. He was great at a very strange sort of dance called the cha-cha. It turned out that the cha-cha was Bernie’s mom’s favorite dance. Cha-cha went on all night long. Were we still rich? I thought so.
SCENTS AND SENSIBILITY
“We hopped in the Porsche, me in the shotgun seat, Bernie behind the wheel, always our arrangement, with the exception of one time I’d rather forget when we got it reversed. Usually I’m brilliant at forgetting, so why couldn’t I forget that particular episode? Let’s drop the whole subject. What to remember is that riding shotgun in the Porsche just happens to be my favorite thing in the whole world. Our ride’s been a Porsche ever since the start of the Little Detective Agency, which had to be when I joined up, unless I was missing something.”
Loyal, brave, and fearless, Chet (the canine companion to private investigator Bernie Little) doesn’t miss much, even if he can’t always remember what it is that he knows. In the eighth book in this bestselling, beloved mystery series, Bernie and Chet return home from a long road trip to find themselves in an unusually prickly situation. First, Bernie’s wall safe—normally hidden behind the waterfall picture in the office—is gone, and with it Bernie’s grandfather’s watch, their most valuable possession. And next door, old Mr. Parsons is under investigation for being in possession of a saguaro cactus illegally transplanted from the desert. Bernie and Chet go deep into the wild to investigate. Is it possible that such a lovely old couple have a secret in their past?
Chet and Bernie discover bad things going on in the desert, far worse than cactus smuggling, and all connected to a strange but innocent-seeming desert music festival called Cactus Man. They unearth clues that take them back to a long-ago kidnapping where the ransom money disappeared even though the kidnappers were caught. Stirring up the past brings our detective duo to the attention of a ruthless and charismatic criminal with a cult following, a criminal who sees at once what Chet and Bernie mean to each other and knows how to exploit it.
Chet and Bernie are in top form as they face real danger in their own backyard, take on some seriously bad dudes in an unforgiving environment, and discover unexpected truths about their own natures.
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About the Author
Randi Baird
Spencer Quinn is the author of seven previous bestselling Chet and Bernie mystery novels. He lives on Cape Cod with his dogs, Audrey and Pearl. When not keeping them out of mischief, he is hard at work on the next Chet and Bernie mystery. Keep up with him—and with Chet and Bernie—by visiting ChetTheDog.com.
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Also by Spencer Quinn
Dog on It
Thereby Hangs a Tail
To Fetch a Thief
The Dog Who Knew Too Much
A Fistful of Collars
The Sound and the Furry
Paw and Order
Scents and Sensibility
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This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Spencer Quinn
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ISBN 978-1-4767-0367-1
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