Heart of Barkness

by Spencer Quinn

  “Your friends all mentioned it,” Eliza said. “Your bravery.”

  “What friends?”

  “Sergeant Torres. Captain Stine. An odd character named Otis DeWayne who made a fuss about leaving his weapon at security. A number of odd characters, in fact. One—I didn’t catch his name—might have just escaped from Central State Correctional, if I understood him properly.”

  “Putting you on, most likely,” Bernie said. “They all were, about the so-called—about that other part. My job’s more like yours—following a trail of symptoms to the guilty diagnosis.”

  Eliza laughed.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “No joke. It’s just that I haven’t had this much fun in ages.”

  “Um,” said Bernie. He raised his glass. “Well, then, here’s to—”

  What was coming next? Here’s to more and more treats? Here’s to fetch forever? I never found out what. Not because Cleon slipped up with the spareribs. None of the ribs even came close to getting loose before he had them all arranged and closed the big lid on the smoker. But at that exact moment, Bernie’s phone buzzed, and he took it out of his pocket and gave it a glance, the kind of glance that meant this was an annoyance and he wouldn’t even take the call.

  Except he did take the call. “Hello? Lotty? I can hardly—Lotty?”

  He rose. “Sorry, Eliza.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “I … ah…”

  Some surprises are happy, some not. This was the unhappy kind: I could see that all over Eliza’s face. I had a very good viewing angle because by then I was in my place beside Bernie, ready for anything.

  “Right now?” Eliza said.

  “Afraid so.”

  She took a long look at Bernie. Her mouth opened and closed. And opened again. “And Lotty is…?”

  “A client. Sort of.”

  “Sort of.”

  Bernie laid some money on the table.

  “That won’t be necessary,” said Eliza. Somewhere down the street a door closed.

  Ten

  Once we raced Zippo Zatarian, the best wheelman in the Valley, up and down the Sagebrush Mountain switchbacks for no reason. The way Bernie was driving after we left Max’s Memphis Ribs reminded me of that day, although then he’d been laughing most of the way—No reason’s the best reason, big guy!—and now he wasn’t laughing at all. Did that mean we were about to win nothing again? I sat up my tallest, in a very good mood, and I’d been in a very good mood already.

  We fishtailed off a stretch of two-lane blacktop and onto a narrow dirt road, almost a track. “Should save us time,” Bernie said. “I didn’t like the sound of her voice, not one little bit.”

  Whose voice might that have been? Eliza’s? I had a clear memory of her voice, could hear it in my head: an easy-on-the-ears kind of voice, but it had the hint of a low throb that meant plenty of oomph in reserve. Who wouldn’t like a voice like that? I gave Bernie a long look. Most dudes, when they’re driving like this, meaning the motor is shrieking and the up-ahead view is piling in way too fast, tend to hunch forward and squeeze the wheel so tight you can see all the bones in their hands, but not Bernie. He was actually kind of sitting back, and his hands were loose on the wheel. That didn’t mean he wasn’t concentrating. I could feel his concentration, like the air just before lightning. Bottom line: we were doing great. The only problem was the lack of any other cars in sight. Did that mean we were racing nobody? For no reason? Human behavior sometimes has … how would you put it? Gaps? Yes, gaps. Human behavior sometimes has gaps in it, no offense.

  We swung onto another dirt road, this one wider, with a falling-down fence on one side. That seemed familiar, and when we topped a slope and a small, square ranch house appeared not far away, I was suddenly in the picture, if the picture was about paying another call on Lotty. Fine with me. I liked Lotty, a big fan of Chet the Jet. Maybe that would mean a treat this time.

  Bernie hit the brakes. We skidded to a stop in front of the ranch house and hopped out of the Porsche, me actually hopping and—and Bernie hopping, too! Or just about. We ran up to the front door, which was hanging open. Bernie halted and raised his hand. I froze and didn’t make a sound.

  “Lotty?” Bernie called. “Lotty?”

  No answer.

  “Lotty?”

  Silence. Bernie glanced at me. “Hear anything?” he said in a low voice.

  Well, of course, but not from inside the house. Smells? That was different. A tiny indoorsy breeze flowed through the doorway and it carried an important smell. When I pick up that particular smell I sit straight up, facing the direction the smell is coming from. Which is what I did now. Bernie pushed the door open. I like to be first when it comes to going through doorways, and almost always am—but not this time. Bernie put his hand on my neck, not heavily, just a touch. From Bernie and only Bernie, that was enough.

  Everything was nice and tidy inside Lotty’s ranch house. No dust on the living room coffee table, no towels on the bathroom floor, no dishes in the kitchen sink—not even any drying in the dish rack, just one lone knife, the big kind Bernie uses for carving the turkey on Thanksgiving. Normally just the thought of Thanksgiving turkey makes me want some, and if not turkey then anything at all, but that didn’t happen this time, here in Lotty’s quiet house.

  We entered the bedroom at the end of the hall, me because I was following the smell I’d smelled from out front, Bernie—on account of the shortcomings of his nose—probably for other reasons, maybe that it was the only room left, for example.

  Also nice and tidy, this bedroom. There was a dresser with one of those makeup mirrors—Leda had had one, although not Suzie—and a guitar stand with two guitars, and a window with a view of the piano out on the patio. Plus a big bed, all made up. Clint Swann lay there on his stomach like he was taking a nap, eyes closed, face toward us. He was fully clothed, even wore his snakeskin cowboy boots. Lots of humans napped in their clothes, but only drunks, in my experience, kept their boots on.

  But booze wasn’t the smell I was picking up. Booze is one of the easiest, by the way, so don’t go fooling yourself on that score.

  “Clint?” Bernie said. “Clint? Wake up. Where’s Lotty?”

  No answer from Clint. He just lay there. One of his cowboy boots was twisted to the side in a way that couldn’t have been comfortable. Bernie seemed to notice that. His mood changed. I could feel it darkening within him.

  “Clint?”

  Bernie moved forward, leaned over Clint, gripped his shoulder, gave it a shake, not particularly gentle.

  “Clint!”

  Nothing from Clint.

  Bernie rolled him over. Clint flopped in a loose, rag doll way. I’d had one experience with a rag doll, possibly belonging to the daughter of a rich dude from LA who didn’t quite become our client, so I knew how rag dolls moved. But that’s not the main point, the main point being what we saw when Clint was rolled over. Namely blood, which I’d been smelling from the get-go.

  Blood is something you get familiar with in this line of work. I’d seen a lot more than this, and plenty of times. With Clint, we had a roundish red splotch on the bedspread, and a smaller one in the middle of his chest, both still a bit damp. His shirt—one of those western shirts you see a lot of in these parts, although not on Bernie, who prefers Hawaiian shirts, like the one with surfing coconuts that he wore today—had a small tear, short and narrow, where the blood had leaked out. Bernie put his finger on Clint’s neck, and shook his head. At that moment I heard a siren, distant but coming our way. Should I also mention that I picked up the tiniest aroma of hair gel? There. It’s done.

  Bernie reached into his back pocket, took out surgical gloves, and began opening one of Clint’s hands, which was closed tight. Hey! I hadn’t noticed that! What can you say about Bernie? Better than the best? Is that a thing?

  But he never did get that hand open, instead went still, which had to mean he’d finally heard the siren. I gazed at his ears: they we
re doing the best they could.

  Bernie straightened, took a careful look around the room, went to the closet. He stood there for a moment or two, then suddenly flung the door open, real quick.

  There was no one in the closet, living or dead, which I already knew. Had Bernie known, too? In which case, why was he looking in the closet? He seemed to be interested in the clothes hanging on the rail, all of them cowgirl dresses of the fancy kind, with lots of fringe and sparkles. Why? I had no idea. The siren grew louder. Bernie closed the closet door.

  We went back outside, Bernie pocketing the surgical gloves. A squad car, green and yellow with lights flashing on top and the siren going BWAA BWAA—a horrible noise I’d had to get used to in my job, but still hated—pulled up. The siren did one of those quick fades, like a screamer getting choked—oh, what a terrible thought! Where had that come from? And the driver stepped out of the car.

  He was a big old guy in uniform, a uniform that included a cowboy hat and a sidearm on his hip. Some of the faces out in the desert have seen lots of sun. This guy’s face was like that, leathery and sort of saddle-colored. His bushy mustache looked extra-white. He gave us a squinty-eyed look and then his hand moved—the smooth, sure movement of someone younger—and rested on the butt of that sidearm.

  “Name’s Grimble,” he said. “Sheriff of this county.”

  “Bernie Little,” Bernie said. “And this is Chet.”

  Sheriff Grimble, maybe not a fan of me and my kind, didn’t look my way.

  “And what brings you here, Bernie Little?”

  “A social visit,” Bernie said. “But we found a body inside. I assume you got a call.”

  “Is that a question?”

  “No.”

  “Sounded like a question to me,” Sheriff Grimble said. “I’ll ask the questions.”

  “Okay,” Bernie said.

  “What you said about getting a call—that’s a cop-type remark. But you’re not a cop.”

  “No.”

  “What are you?”

  “A private investigator, based in the Valley.”

  The sheriff held out his hand. Bernie came forward, opened his wallet, took out our license—we’ve been through this before—and gave it to the sheriff. There’s a picture of Bernie on it, but you can see me, too, in the background and sort of on my way into the photographer’s room. The sheriff looked at the front, then the back.

  “Got a reference at Valley PD?”

  “Do you know Lou Stine?”

  “Met him,” the sheriff said. “Stay put.” He got back in the cruiser, took out his phone. He spoke, listened, grunted, put the phone away, climbed out of the car. “Social visit?” he said.

  “Correct.”

  “Not working a case?”

  “No.”

  “Got a client? Lotty Pilgrim, for example?”

  “Why would she want a private detective?”

  “Another question,” said the sheriff. “Makes two. One more and we won’t be friends.”

  “How will I cope?” said Bernie.

  The sheriff gave him a long gaze, unfriendly for sure. Bernie gazed right back, not in a friendly or an unfriendly way, in no way at all: one of my favorite Bernie looks, although the sheriff didn’t seem to like it. I got my paws under me. From where I was I could have jumped right over his head. But that wasn’t the plan.

  The sheriff finally turned away from Bernie and nodded toward the house. “Is it her in there?”

  Bernie shook his head. “Clint Swann,” he said. “The manager.”

  “Manager, hell,” said the sheriff. He handed Bernie our license, actually kind of slapping it on Bernie’s palm. “Let’s see the bastard.” He motioned for Bernie to go first. Usually I go first, as I mentioned quite recently, but in a case like this I prefer last. I followed along, right at the sheriff’s heels. He glanced back, taking his first real good look at me, and made a face like: Whoa!

  Life is so much more comfortable when two beings come to an understanding.

  * * *

  We went into the bedroom and looked at Clint. The dead keep changing, which is kind of strange if you think about it, which I don’t. Clint, for example, was turning a bit waxy and giving off more—and stronger—smells. The sheriff snapped on his own surgical gloves and saw what we’d already seen, namely the opening—like a little tear—in Clint’s chest.

  “This is when I hate the job,” the sheriff said. He pointed his chin at Clint. “An abuser—emotionally for sure and maybe more than that. Plus a parasite. The latest—and last, I guess—in a long line of abusers and parasites. Who can blame her? Everyone snaps eventually.”

  “You’re talking about Lotty?” Bernie said.

  The sheriff nodded.

  “Quick on the draw, Sheriff,” Bernie said. “Unless you know things I don’t.”

  “Makes two of us,” the sheriff said. “You show me yours. Where is she? And what brought you here?”

  “Can’t help you with the first one,” said Bernie. “As for the second, I met her the other night. She had a little problem with her tip jar. We got it sorted out.”

  “So that’s why you’re here? A tip jar problem, whatever the hell that is?”

  Bernie nodded.

  “You’re expecting payment?”

  “I’m a fan of her music.”

  “’Cause payment ain’t happening. Lotty’s got no money, never did.”

  “How’s that possible? ‘How You Hung the Moon’ was big. George Jones sang it, for god’s sake.”

  “Don’t ask me to explain the music business,” the sheriff said. He glanced down at Clint. “But I’ve known Lotty a long time. Leastwise, I knew her way back. She’s from around here—Fort Kidder—and so am I. She was friends with my big sister Jean—rest in peace—in high school. This was before she went to Austin. Austin, Nashville, Santa Fe, other places in New Mexico, maybe—meaning decades went by. But she moved back here last year and we had coffee once or twice. Know what she told me?” He pointed to Clint. “That she was madly in love and in hate with him. Exact words—in love and in hate. Ever heard that one before?”

  “No,” Bernie said.

  “She’s an artist, of course, maybe explains a lot,” said the sheriff. “She also told me that if she was a man she’d probably end up killing him one day.”

  “Kind of an old-fashioned remark.”

  “Lotty’s an old-fashioned gal,” the sheriff said. At that moment, his gaze went to Clint’s hand, the tightly closed one. He leaned forward, opened the hand, held up a pink earring. “You one of those hipster types? Sport an earring every now and then?”

  “Now you’re wasting time,” Bernie said.

  The sheriff didn’t like that. A muscle bulged in his jaw, like … like he was a biter? We’d see about that. “Happen to notice that bejeezus-size knife in the dish rack?” he said.

  “It’s not that big,” Bernie said.

  “Didn’t wash it off or nothing like that, by any chance?”

  “No.”

  “Ever had it in your hand?”

  “What are you getting at?”

  “You’re a man. Maybe the kind an old-fashioned gal might employ to do the things old-fashioned gals don’t do.”

  “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Whoa! What was this? Weren’t we having a nice little back-and-forth? And now arresting Bernie was in the cards? How was the sheriff planning to do that with me around? I checked his gun hand, just hanging by his side. Could that hand reach for the gun and draw it before I had his wrist between my teeth? Care to place a wager?

  But none of that happened. The sheriff’s jaw muscle stopped bulging. “Not after what Lou Stine said about you,” he said. “Hadn’t taken him for the effusive type.” He brushed off his hands, took out his phone, called his crime scene dudes. After that, he turned to Bernie and gave him a still-here? look. “Nice meeting you,” he said. “Safe journey.”

  “Where am I going?”

  “Wherever
you like. But I wouldn’t want to trip on you.”

  “Then I’ll need to know where you’re headed so I can stay away.”

  “You’re almost funny,” Sheriff Grimble said. “I’ll be tracking down Lotty. And not looking forward to it.”

  Eleven

  “One good thing about all that hospital time,” Bernie said, “I gave up smoking. Gave it up forever.”

  Wow! I hadn’t known that! And he’d been trying for so long! I laid a paw on the steering wheel, which made sense to me at the time.

  “Che—et?”

  I took my paw off the wheel, and then had some trouble figuring out where to put it. Had that ever happened before? I tried the dashboard, the armrest, the gear shift—

  “Che—et?”

  —and finally my paw came down on the edge of my seat, more or less by accident, and stayed there.

  “What gets into you?”

  Nothing. Nothing gets into me. We rode along in silence. I’d never been more silent in my life. You wouldn’t have known I was there.

  “I even got to the point,” Bernie said after a while, “where I didn’t have the urge. But today I’m past that point. Do you see what I mean?”

  I did not.

  Soon we came to a little town. Bernie parked in front of a convenience store and went inside. When he came out, he was … opening a pack of cigarettes? Getting past the point of not having the urge meant you had the urge again? What a complicated thought, way beyond my usual abilities. It vanished without a trace, and none too soon.

  Bernie stuck a cigarette in his mouth and tossed the pack—still filled with all the other cigarettes—into a trash barrel. What a confusing day we were having! He got into the car and lit up.

  “Ah,” he said, sitting back in his seat and blowing out a cloud of smoke. I could feel how relaxed he was, relaxed a bit myself, even though I’d already been relaxed. Hadn’t I? I tried to remember and all of a sudden felt very unrelaxed.

  “So many questions,” Bernie said. “We need to think.” He tapped some ash out the window. “Question one—who tipped the sheriff? Question two—why did Lotty call us? Question three—where is she?”