Ruff vs. Fluff

by Spencer Quinn

  And now a tear appeared in the corner of Harmony’s eye, too. She blinked it away and said, “I’m sorry.”

  Mr. Pelter shrugged his puny, bony shoulders. Harmony held out the water glass. He shook his head. Harmony put the glass down and was gazing at it and not at Mr. Pelter when she spoke.

  “Did you call the police?”

  “Call the police? When my daddy was a smuggler? Got to keep secrets in this life. We went on down the mountain and my daddy told Mr. Mahovlich. Then the two of them went back up there and buried the bodies, Florio and the Canadian. Name’s not coming to me.”

  “Florio was the gangster from New York?”

  “Uh-huh. My daddy and Foster Mahovlich buried the both of them and then went looking for the loot.”

  “What loot?”

  “The payment loot—aren’t you listening? Payment for the last shipments. Didn’t I already say? Florio would come up from New York and bury it somewheres on the mountain. Then the other guy—LeMaire, that was his name—would—”

  “LeMaire?”

  “—come down from Montreal and dig it up. There was no money—not big money—on either of the bodies, meaning the payment was still in the ground. Fifteen grand. A fortune in those days. But even with the map they could never find it.”

  “Map?”

  “My daddy had a map.” All of a sudden he sat up straight. “Isn’t that what you come here about?”

  “Yes, sir. What can you tell me about it?”

  “The Indians got it. That’s what I always thought.”

  “The Indians got the map?”

  Mr. Pelter snapped at her. “Not the map! The loot.”

  “But how do you know?”

  “Those woods are in their blood, that’s how.” Mr. Pelter looked my way. “Can you leave Queenie here with me?”

  “No,” Harmony said.

  Mr. Pelter got very sad. All the energy went out of him and he slumped back down. “Makes no difference,” he said very softly. Harmony leaned closer to hear. “Map’s only the half of it.”

  “What do you mean?” Harmony said.

  His eyes closed. His lips moved. At first no sound came out but then it did. “Map’s useless without the postcard.”

  “The postcard?”

  His lips moved again. “Nobody trusted nobody,” he said. “Good night.”

  Harmony clasped her hands together. “Please don’t go to sleep, Mr. Pelter.”

  Mr. Pelter shook his head, just the tiniest movement. “Leave Queenie,” he said, just the tiniest sound.

  I’D LIKE TO RENT THE SNOWMOBILE,” SAID Mr. Smithers, coming into the office where Mom and I were doing the books. She sits at the desk tapping away at different machines, and I lie under the desk and try to stay awake. Doing the books is a job, and sleeping on the job is a no-no. You pick these things up in the business world.

  “We don’t actually rent the snowmobile,” Mom said.

  “How about three hundred for the rest of the day?”

  “You seem to be making lots of generous offers, Mr. Smithers.”

  “Is that a problem? How about two fifty?”

  Mom laughed. “Okay,” she said. “Two fifty it is.”

  “First I’ll need a little lesson.”

  “You’ve never driven a snowmobile before?”

  “It can’t be that hard.”

  “It’s not. Where were you planning to go?”

  “Just exploring around. The nearby fields, maybe down to that river out back.”

  “The ice isn’t safe yet.”

  “Then I’ll stay off it. I’m not looking for adventure—just a little peaceful sightseeing.”

  “Sounds good,” said Mom. “Meet you outside in five minutes.”

  Mr. Smithers left the office. Mom put some stuff in a drawer and then she left, too. Was I in the mood to be alone? Nope. That hardly ever happens. I got up, had a nice stretch, and set off to find some company, heading first for the kitchen, my favorite room in the house.

  No one in the kitchen and nothing left out on the counters. Not that I’d even be tempted, but it makes sense to be aware of what’s going on around you. Once, for example, there’d been a platter of bacon-wrapped chicken kebabs. Do you know kebabs? They’re on sticks, a fact I’d learned that very day. I’d also learned how well bacon goes with chicken. Although is there anything bacon doesn’t go with? I thought about that question until I realized I was no longer in the kitchen, but had made my way to the small parlor, also empty.

  Where was everyone? I was just on my way back out when I again picked up that interesting scent, coming from behind the wine rack. I trotted over there and squeezed myself into the space between the wine rack and the wall. It was a space where I’d once found a very stale—but still tasty!—corn chip, maybe last spring. I didn’t remember it being such a tight squeeze back then. I wondered why. But not for long, because there, partly under the wine rack, lay a wallet. Made of leather—that was the important part. I pawed it out from under the wine rack and picked it up, immediately learning two things. First, this wallet had been in Queenie’s possession, and not long ago. Second, it smelled strongly of garlic and stale armpit sweat, which was Mr. Smithers’s smell. Had there been some talk about a missing wallet? I had a vague memory of that. And then it hit me, an amazing revelation. This was Mr. Smithers’s missing wallet! And I, Arthur, had found it! I, Arthur: the hero of the story! When was the last time that had happened? Possibly never! I pranced out of there with my prize in my mouth. Very soon I’d be hearing, Good boy, Arthur, and What a clever dog! and Maybe he deserves a kebab. Or two.

  Kebabs of the chicken wrapped in bacon kind—I almost left that out. But only because of how happy I was, too happy to think straight. Which was the best thing about happiness. Wow. What a thought! Not like me at all. I forgot it immediately.

  I trotted down the back hall, and there was Mom, dressed in ski pants and a ski jacket, and pulling on a wool hat.

  “Hey there, Arthur, someone’s in a good mood.” She gave me a closer look. “What you got there?”

  The missing wallet! I, Arthur! This was the moment to lay the wallet at Mom’s feet and let the good times roll. But crazily enough, I suddenly didn’t want to let it go. No reason. I just didn’t.

  Mom reached out. “That looks like …”

  I twisted my head away, then shook it from side to side, threw some prancing into the mix. What had gotten into me? I had no idea.

  “Arthur! Sit!”

  Sit? Mom wanted me to sit? Now, or sometime in the future, some better time when I actually felt like sitting?

  “I said sit!”

  Really? When I didn’t feel at all like sitting, would have much preferred to prance and twist, shake shake shaking that wallet in the back hall to my heart’s content? Oh, my heart! So, so content! What about leaping? Should I try a leap or two? Leaps are pretty tiring, and I’ve found it’s hard to get very far off the ground, but I leaped anyway! Leaped and pranced and twisted and shook and—

  “Arthur! Play dead!”

  I stopped whatever I was doing, rolled over, played dead. Playing dead means you go totally still with all paws in the air. It’s okay to keep your eyes open. How else are you going to see?

  Mom came forward, crouched down. She took the wallet from my mouth. Well, not right away.

  “Come on, Arthur. Let go.”

  But I just couldn’t. Not my fault. My mouth had taken over.

  Mom tugged at the wallet. “You’re a good boy for finding this, Arthur. Now don’t ruin it.”

  Ruin what? I didn’t understand. How I could I ruin anything? I was the hero!

  Mom tugged at the wallet. I tugged back. She tugged. I tugged. She—

  And then the wallet was in midair, stuff flying out of it all over the place. I went absolutely still, a good good boy, my tongue possibly flopping out one side of my mouth.

  Mom started picking things up. I’d spent enough time working the front desk to know what
these things were: Cash. Credit cards. What looked like a driver’s license. What looked like another driver’s license.

  Mom stood up straight, examining the two driver’s licenses. “What’s going on?” she said to herself. Well, to herself and me. “It’s the same photo on both of them, but one says Vincent Smithers and the other says Vincent Florio.” Mom gazed at me, or possibly right through me to something far, far away. Then she opened the back door. Mr. Smithers, also dressed in a ski outfit, was waiting outside, the tarp already off the snowmobile. He smiled.

  “Arthur seems to have found your wallet, Mr. Smithers,” Mom said. “Or is it Mr. Florio?” She held up the driver’s licenses.

  The smile stayed on his face, but now it looked mean. “What a clever animal!” he said. Then with no warning, he drew a gun. My heart started pounding away. “I’m ready for my lesson,” he said, and gestured at the snowmobile with the gun.

  Mom didn’t move. Lesson? I didn’t understand. All I knew was that heart of mine, pounding away. Love can make that happen, but so can hatred.

  “You seem like a smart person,” this bad man said. “Just be smart and you’ll do fine.”

  “You killed Mr. LeMaire,” Mom said. Poor Mom! Her body was shaking, although somehow she kept her head perfectly still.

  “What a suggestion!” he said. “But if there’s any truth to your wild guess, it should make your next decision easy.” He gestured with the gun again. “You’re driving.”

  Very slowly, Mom moved to the snowmobile, sat at the controls. The man—Smithers? Florio?—got on behind her, the gun poking into Mom’s side.

  “Let’s go!” he said.

  Mom fired up the machine. What was going on? I had no idea. But that gun! Poking into Mom! I charged.

  The snowmobile pulled away. I hit top speed and leaped, mouth open, teeth all set to sink themselves deep into the man’s leg, let him know what was what. But without even looking, he kicked out with his heavy boot, clobbering me in the face. I fell, scrambled up, fell, scrambled up again, and took off after that snowmobile, running with all my might.

  HI!” HARMONY SAID AS WE ENTERED the front hall. She closed the door with her heel, the exact kind of cool move I’d have made in her place. “Anybody home?”

  No answer. The inn was quiet.

  “Mom? Bro?”

  Still no answer. Harmony unzipped the backpack and I dropped down on the floor, landing in my silent way.

  “Arthur?”

  Arthur wasn’t around. I can always sense when he’s on the scene, hard to explain how. I just know.

  “What was the name of that guest?” Harmony said to me.

  That would be Mr. Smithers, the red-bearded dude I didn’t like and didn’t trust. Harmony went to the desk, checked the guest book.

  “Mr. Smithers? You here?”

  No answer from Mr. Smithers. Harmony wandered around the house and I followed. We popped our heads into the kitchen, the Big Room, and the small parlor. Harmony eyed the fire, a nice one, a long way from dying out.

  “Someone’s got to be around,” Harmony said.

  We climbed the back stairs, looked in Mom’s room and then Bro’s. And there was Bro, headphones in place, playing video games. His thumbs went wild on the controls. On the screen, horrible monsters were also going wild, hacking each other’s heads off and burning villages to the ground.

  “Bro? Bro. Bro!”

  Bro turned to us, his face blank, like he wasn’t really here. His thumbs went still. He took off the earphones. On the screen, a bloody, cut-off monster head was frozen in midair.

  “Yo,” he said.

  “Where’s Mom?”

  “Downstairs?”

  “If she was downstairs, would I be asking you?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Bro! Get it together.”

  “You’re in a good mood.”

  Harmony stamped her foot. That was a first. “Stop being such a stupid idiot.”

  “I know you think I’m stupid.”

  “I don’t. You’re not stupid.”

  “Then how come I’m a grade behind you?”

  “There’s no time for that now! We need to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “All this stuff I found out.”

  “At the library?”

  “No. Well, yes, that, too. But it’s mostly about this old man, Mr. Pelter. He used to drive for Foster Mahovlich.”

  “Foster has a chauffeur?”

  “Not that Foster! The grandfather or great-grandfather or whatever he was. The one who started the company. But the point is, Mr. Pelter has information.”

  “About the map?”

  “No. Well, yes. But it’s much bigger than that. Mr. LeMaire wasn’t even the first Mr. LeMaire killed up on the mountain!”

  “Huh?”

  “This all goes way back. Back to Prohibition.”

  “What was that again?”

  “Bro! We’ve been over it. There was a lumber road back then. It must have left some traces. We need to—”

  A faint tinkling sound came from below: the bell on the front hall desk.

  “Maybe that’s Mom,” Bro said.

  “Why would Mom be ringing the bell?”

  “Dunno,” said Bro, putting the headphones back on and reaching for the game controller, that little plastic thing with all the buttons. Harmony put her hand on it first.

  “Bro.”

  “What?”

  “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Downstairs.”

  “You want me to go downstairs with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Bro thought about that, but not for long. “Okay.”

  He dropped the headphones on his bed. We went downstairs, Bro and Harmony side by side, me trailing. Arthur always likes to be out in front. That’s one of many many differences between us. Trailing is better, of course, especially for keeping an eye on things. Arthur’s life is full of the unexpected. That’s not how I roll.

  “Prohibition was the no-alcohol thing?” Bro said as we came to the landing.

  “Yeah. It turned out to be good for gangsters and smugglers,” Harmony said, opening the door that led from our private quarters to the front hall of the inn. “And one of those smugglers was—”

  A woman stood at the front desk. Not Mom. She heard us coming and turned our way, the bell in her hand. Not Mom, but maybe around Mom’s age. She had dark hair and dark eyes and didn’t look happy.

  “Hello,” Harmony said. “Welcome to the Blackberry Hill Inn. How can we help you?”

  Which was exactly how Mom wanted visitors to be greeted. Mom and Harmony always got it right, followed by Bertha, Elrod, and Bro, in that order.

  “I’m not really … ,” the woman began. Then she noticed she was holding the bell and put it down. It made a muffled kind of tinkle. Right away I associated that muffled tinkle with this woman, as though that was her special sound. The world can be a very interesting place, especially seen through my eyes. Golden eyes, in case you’ve forgotten.

  “I guess I’d like to speak to the owner,” the woman said.

  “Our mom’s the owner,” Harmony said. “She should be back soon.”

  Bro piped up in that sudden way he has, a sort of burst. “Probably taking Arthur for a walk!”

  Harmony glanced at him and nodded. “She’s out walking our dog. But we—”

  “She thinks he’s too—” Bro began.

  But Harmony spoke over him. “—can register you if you’re planning to stay. I’m Harmony and this is Bro.”

  Mom thought Arthur was too what? I wanted to know, but the conversation had moved on.

  “Got any luggage?” Bro was saying.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be staying,” the woman said. “I just … just had to see. See with my own eyes. It’s still so unreal.”

  “Yeah?” said Bro. “What is?”

  The woman turned to Harmony. “My name’s Melanie Chang,” the woman said. �
��Alex LeMaire was my boyfriend.”

  “Oh,” Bro said.

  “Oh, dear,” said Harmony.

  “And now I’m seeing with my own eyes and it’s still not real,” Melanie Chang said. She started to cry, very softly, like she was crying to herself. Harmony went to her, touched her shoulder.

  “Bro?” she said. “Can you bring those tissues from the desk?”

  “What for?” said Bro.

  Not long after that, we were in the small parlor, Bro poking the fire, Melanie Chang seated in a comfy chair, a mug of tea on the armrest, Harmony and me on an ottoman we liked.

  “Do you know this sheriff?” Melanie said. “Mr. Hunzinger, if I caught the name?”

  “Yes,” said Harmony.

  “He told me he has the … the murderer in custody. Matty somebody or other. He let me see him.”

  “You saw Matty?” Harmony said.

  “Well, not directly. It was through a one-way mirror.”

  Bro jabbed the poker into the fire, real hard. A ball of hot sparks shot up the chimney.

  “A one-way mirror?” Harmony said. “The sheriff let you spy on Matty?”

  “That part happened so fast,” Melanie said. “It was over before I started to feel uncomfortable.”

  Harmony gave Melanie what I would have to call a hard look, so unusual on Harmony’s face.

  “Do you know this man, Matty?” Melanie said.

  Harmony nodded.

  “I’m so confused,” said Melanie. “He has a gentle face. I know you can’t go by things like that, but …” She sipped her tea, holding the mug, not quite steady, in both hands. “But one thing I do know is that Alex had no interest in an old trading post or Colonial artifacts. He never once mentioned any of that to me.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff?” Harmony said.

  “Yes,” said Melanie. “But he told me it didn’t matter. What mattered was that Matty thought Alex was after the artifacts. The sheriff really wasn’t interested in getting too deeply into all that. The important thing was that Matty ran.”

  Bro jabbed the poker into the fire, even harder this time.

  “What was Alex after?” Harmony said.

  Melanie shook her head. “That’s the question. He was such a complex man. Which was why I … I …” She turned away.