Harmony bent beside him. “It’s all flattened in a kind of bowl.”
Bro rose. “I think Arthur made that.”
“He kept trying to climb up?” said Harmony.
“And falling back down.”
That was exactly it! How had they figured that out?
“But he got up the last time,” Harmony said.
“Did you give him a treat?” said Bro.
“Yes.”
“Then that’s the answer. The point is, when he couldn’t get up, he came back to get us.”
“But Mom would never go up there and leave him behind,” Harmony said.
They both tilted up their heads and shouted, “Mom! Mom!”
First there was silence. Then their own voices came down from above—from that old old old Sokoki Trail, if I was getting this right—now sounding far away and scared.
“Mom! Mom!”
WE SAT BY THE FIRE, ME AND THIS Melanie person. I could have joined her on the nice comfy chair, but I didn’t want to be that close to her unhappiness. If Mom or one of the kids is unhappy, that’s somewhat different. Melanie was a stranger. I take my time with these things. After a while her head tipped sideways and she fell asleep. Very slowly her face lost that unhappy expression. It didn’t go all the way to happy, instead remaining neutral. Melanie turned out to be pleasant to look at. I looked at her and was even contemplating joining her after all, when I suddenly remembered my wallet. Perhaps not my wallet originally, but my wallet now.
I headed over to the wine rack, slipped behind it, and—surprise, surprise. No wallet. One or two quick sniffs and the mystery was solved: Arthur had been this way and now had my wallet, unless he’d lost it or buried it and of course forgotten where, both strong possibilities. I considered revenge, but quickly realized I didn’t even know Arthur’s whereabouts at the moment. Hadn’t he just been barking at the front door? In fact, where was everybody? I went very still, almost my stillest, and listened carefully. No one was home, no one except me and Melanie. Gazing at the fire and thinking deep thoughts, had I lost track of events? That can happen, especially to those who aren’t simpleminded.
I glanced at the window over the wine rack, saw it was almost fully dark outside. Yes, events had passed me by. I know what you’re thinking: their loss. And I agree. But still, I found myself a little anxious. I glanced over at Melanie, still sleeping by the fire. No help there. Wasn’t this the time of day when everyone was around? I smelled nothing cooking. One part of me wanted to stay right there, hidden behind the wine rack. Another part of me wanted to slip down to the basement and check out the mouse situation. The two parts were still fighting it out when I heard the front door open. At last! Mom!
But … not so fast, Queenie. Those approaching footsteps were not the footsteps of Mom, Harmony, or Bro; not those of Bertha, Elrod, or Big Fred; not even those of Dad, who hadn’t been around in some time and was not missed, at least by me. These footsteps were vaguely familiar, meaning I’d heard them before but not often. I stayed behind the wine rack, peeking through the bottles.
A big man appeared through the open double doors of the parlor, one of those big men with a barrel-like upper body and sticklike legs. No one had switched on the lights, but firelight gleamed on his huge gold watch and flickered across his face. It was Mr. Mahovlich.
He scanned the room, his gaze passing right by me and finally fixing on Melanie, asleep in her chair. Mr. Mahovlich came into the room, walked quite close to her, and switched on a small table lamp. He peered down at Melanie for a moment or two, then stepped back and coughed into his hand, not a real cough but the kind humans make to let you know they’re around. As if I didn’t always know already.
“Uh, miss?” he said.
Melanie’s eyes flew open. She saw Mr. Mahovlich. “Oh!” she cried, and put her hand to her chest. “You … you scared me.”
He gave her a smile that looked warm, if you didn’t know him. “Nothing scary about me, miss. Name’s Harrison Mahovlich, but everyone calls me Bud.”
Interesting. I’d never heard him called anything but Mr. Mahovlich.
“I’m a good friend of the family,” he went on. “Wonderful family. Wonderful inn, a credit to the town. Are you a guest?”
“Yes,” said Melanie, sitting up straighter. “At least, I think so. I haven’t actually registered yet.” She glanced at the window. “Goodness, what time is it?”
Mr. Mahovlich—he’d never be Bud to me—checked his gold watch. “Ten minutes to seven.”
“I can’t believe how long I’ve …” Melanie peered past him toward the darkened front hall. “It’s so quiet. Where is everyone?”
“I was going to ask you that,” said Mr. Mahovlich.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, nothing to worry about. Mind if I join you?”
He pulled up the ottoman, actually the ottoman I thought of as my own. I made a mental note—I’m a great maker of mental notes—to do something to the ottoman after he left, soon I hoped, that would Queenie-ize it once more.
“Are you here for the skiing, miss?”
“Melanie, please,” she said. “And no, no skiing. I … I’m not really here for any of the usual reasons.”
Mr. Mahovlich smiled. “Now you’ve got me curious. But no need to explain. You know what they say about curiosity.”
Not that again. Where does this idea come from? How can it be stamped out? A problem for later. At the moment I thought it was important to focus on the here and now.
“Speaking of cats,” Melanie was saying, “there was a beautiful one here earlier.” She looked around. “I don’t see it.”
A beautiful one? I came to a decision: Melanie was all right.
“Don’t know about a cat,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “I do know they’ve got a dog.”
As for Mr. Mahovlich, he was worse than I’d thought.
“I haven’t seen a dog,” Melanie said.
“A big fat mutt,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “Don’t recall the name.”
Which proved there’s good in everybody, even someone like Mr. Mahovlich.
“But as for my reason for being here,” Melanie said, “I suppose you could say it’s part of the grieving process.” Tears filled her eyes. “Even though I hate that term—like there’s a checklist with boxes to tick off.”
“So sorry,” said Mr. Mahovlich. He put his hands together. “Someone close to you died?”
“My boyfriend,” Melanie said. “He … he was murdered.”
“Murdered?”
Melanie nodded. “It happened here. I don’t mean right here in this inn, but up on a nearby mountain.”
“Mount Misty?”
“That’s right. You probably heard something about it.”
“Just rumors,” Mr. Mahovlich said. “Not much in the way of hard facts.”
“Hard facts appear to be scarce right now,” Melanie said.
Mr. Mahovlich seemed to be waiting for her to continue, but she stared into the fire instead.
He cleared his throat. “Was his name LeMaire? I think that’s what it said in the paper.”
She nodded. “Alex LeMaire. I call … called him Sasha.”
“Always liked that name,” said Mr. Mahovlich.
Melanie looked at him, perhaps sizing him up for the first time. I got the feeling she decided he was a nice guy.
“Do you know the local sheriff?” she said.
“Hunzinger? I’ve met him.”
“What’s he like?”
“Couldn’t really say,” Mr. Mahovlich said. “Why do you ask?”
“I met with him,” Melanie said. “He told me he’s made an arrest.”
“I heard something about that.”
“The sheriff is convinced that he’s got the killer, a man named Matty Comeau.”
“I heard that, too.”
“He believes it was all about Colonial artifacts and a lost trading post.”
“Yeah?”
Melanie nod
ded. “His theory is that Alex wanted to dig them up. Comeau’s an amateur archaeologist and hates when random people come to dig in the woods. They met on the mountain and Comeau … did what he did.”
“Do I hear some doubt in your voice?”
“Alex had no interest in Colonial artifacts. He never mentioned them once to me.”
“That’s puzzling,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “Then why did he come here?”
“It’s a long story,” Melanie said, “and quite complicated. I was telling those very nice kids—Harmony and Bro, I believe?”
“That’s right,” Mr. Mahovlich said.
“I was telling them all about it when they suddenly had to go.”
“Oh?” He glanced around. “It is a bit of a surprise that no one’s here. Any idea where they went?”
“Harmony said they’d be back soon.”
Mr. Mahovlich rose, went to the back window, gazed out. “Isn’t there usually a snowmobile parked out back?”
“I have no idea.”
He went on gazing into the night. The moon had risen and its light turned his face to stone.
“Is there someone who does know the sheriff?” Melanie said. “Someone he’ll listen to?”
“I’d have to think,” said Mr. Mahovlich, and from my angle I could see that he was thinking hard. “What is it that you want the sheriff to hear?”
“Well, for starters I think he should look into the whereabouts of a man named Vincent Florio. Where was he when Sasha was killed?”
Mr. Mahovlich went very still, as though he really had turned to stone. “Go on,” he said, his voice soft. Soft in a way I didn’t like one little bit, but Melanie heard it differently.
“Thanks for being a good listener,” she said. “This is about long-ago events—and I don’t know how much of it, if any, is true. But doesn’t Sasha’s death …” She fell silent.
“I like a good story,” Mr. Mahovlich said, turning to her with a smile.
“All right, then,” said Melanie, and she started in on what I’d already heard, all about maps, postcards, gold.
“A good story for sure,” Mr. Mahovlich said when she was done.
“How much truth do you think is in it?” she said.
“I’m in no position to judge,” said Mr. Mahovlich. “But what I can do is try to rustle up your hosts.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“No trouble,” said Mr. Mahovlich, moving toward the door. “Enjoy your stay.”
He went into the hall. I slipped out from behind the wine rack and followed him in my silent way, past the desk and to the front door. He opened it and stepped outside. I was right at his heels, not a place where a human is apt to spot you. We walked to his car. Mr. Mahovlich opened the driver-side door. He got in. And so did I, gliding onto the floor of the back seat. Mr. Mahovlich turned the key and we were off. Did I have a plan in mind? Possibly not, but I can improvise if necessary, just another one of my talents.
THE SOUND OF MOM! MOM! DIED away, and then the night went quiet. The kids looked at each other. Something unspoken passed between them. That happens with me and my kind all the time! Just another reason to love the kids.
Bro turned to me. “Think you can get up there, big guy?”
I did! For sure! Piece of cake! Even if cake’s not my favorite, although I don’t turn my nose up at it. I don’t turn my nose up at any kind of food. That wouldn’t be polite.
“Okay,” Bro said. “Go!”
When Bro says go, I go. Unless I’m extra tired or feeling lazy. And right now I wasn’t either of them. I gave my head a quick shake, just to bat my ears against the side of my face, get the blood flowing, and charged up those steps cut into the rock face and beyond those steps, scrambling up the steep slope, clawing my way past the rusty handholds until—
But no.
Somehow—maybe a bit tired after all, especially in the legs—I lost my grip and tumbled backward, off the cliff and down. Plop. I landed flat on my back in the snow. Didn’t hurt at all. I popped right back up. At least in my mind. In actual fact, it might be more accurate to say I continued to lie on my back in the snow, paws up, mouth open. I decided to pop back up the very first moment I felt ready.
“Got a treat on you?” Bro said.
“No.”
“Then we’ll have to carry him up.”
“How?” said Harmony.
“We’ll get him on my shoulders.”
“You could get hurt.”
“What else can we do?”
Harmony faced back down the trail, the way we’d come. After a very short distance it vanished into the darkness. “We could go for help.”
“How long would that take?”
There was a pause. Then Harmony said, “You’re right.”
“About what?”
“Just kneel down, Bro.”
Right then the moon appeared over the trees, and everything close by was silver and clear. Bro knelt.
“Come on, Arthur,” Harmony said. “Up we go.” She patted Bro’s shoulder.
What was this? Some new game? Normally, getting taught a new game involves treats. That was the best part! I’ve been taught many games, including fetch and shake, and actually managed to learn one, namely playing dead, so I knew that we always started with, Hey, Arthur, want a treat?
But was I hearing that now? No. Meaning I was supposed to do what? Climb up on Bro’s shoulders or some crazy thing with no treat in the picture? I tried to make sense of that and failed.
“Arthur!” And now Harmony was snapping at me? That had never happened before. We were in a bad way. “Up! Now! We need you to find Mom.”
Mom? I’d forgotten about Mom. Mom! The next thing I knew I was up on Bro’s shoulders, hanging on tight as he climbed the steps and then pulled us up the cliff face, handhold by handhold. I could feel how hard Bro was trying, could feel the strength that was suddenly in his body, almost the strength of a man. He never grunted, not even once.
We reached the top. Bro crawled up onto level ground, his chest heaving. Harmony scrambled up beside us. She touched Bro’s arm, so gently he might not even have felt it.
“Ready?” she said.
“Yup.”
Bro started to rise. I stayed where I was, clinging to his shoulders. I was pleased with learning a new trick and was pretty sure a treat would be coming eventually. I trusted Harmony and Bro. But more important, I realized that I liked riding around on Bro’s shoulders. Why hadn’t I thought of this before? Was there any reason most of my future traveling time couldn’t be spent like this? What was the word riders always said when they wanted a horse to get moving? I was still trying to come up with it when Bro said, “Arthur! For god’s sake!” He gave a quick twist and then I was on the ground.
“Concentrate, Arthur,” Harmony said. I had no clue what she meant. Then she added, “Find Mom.”
I got that. Mom!
I sniffed the night air, picked up Mom’s lovely scent right away, and kind of over it in a way that’s hard to describe, the garlicky, stale-armpit smell of Vincent Florio. Also, mixed in with the Mom part was the smell of human fear. Poor Mom! I picked up the pace.
I’d been this way before, of course. We were back on the old Sokoki Trail. It looked different in the moonlight, but it smelled the same, and part of that same smell was the smell of bear, not recent. Had all the bears gone to sleep by now, that long wintry sleep of theirs? I’d heard something about it and hoped it was true.
I led the way, up the steep rise through the Christmas-type trees and onto the flatter part, moving sideways across Mount Misty. I felt something strange and alive under my paws. It had to be the strength of Mount Misty, even if that made no sense. The kids’ boots crunched in the snow. I myself was silent as a cat. Whoa! Forget that last part.
We crossed a frozen stream, tiny moons reflecting on the ice, and moved onto deeper snow. There were two sets of footprints in this snow, big footprints and not as big footprints. No one said anything.
We picked up the pace, even though it was already picked up plenty. The little tower of stones appeared, and after that the frozen waterfall, like a silver curtain in the moonlight. And soon we were back in the tiny, snowy meadow. Had I found some sort of map around here? I had a faint memory of that. Whatever it was couldn’t have been important. I did have a clear memory of me and Harmony discovering the body of Mr. LeMaire, hidden under the tangle of branches on the other side. But the scents I was following—Mom’s and Florio’s—did not lead that way, and neither did their tracks. Instead those scents and those tracks took a sharp turn and entered some thick woods, thicker than any we’d seen so far, blocking almost all the moonlight. But I could see that the tracks were now in single file, the big footprints often blotting out the small ones.
“Whoever it is is walking behind her,” Harmony said.
“Yeah,” said Bro.
“Like in a bad way.”
“I know.”
They were right. It was a bad way. I’d never liked Mr. Florio, not even back when he was Mr. Smithers. Now just the thought of him was making me angry. I hardly ever got angry. When was the last time? Oh, yeah. The sheriff and Mr. Immler. What had that all been about? I tried to remember but too many pieces were missing.
Meanwhile we’d come to a spot where the woods opened up a little on one side, almost like the beginning of some sort of snowy lane, although it was too overgrown with bushes and small trees to be an actual lane. Mom and Mr. Florio had gone that way, so we did, too. With me in front, just in case you’re like me and forget important things from time to time.
“This must be where it cut across the Sokoki Trail,” Harmony said.
“The old lumber road?” said Bro.
“That’s right,” Harmony said. “The smugglers’ truck—”
“The Mahovlich truck?”
“Yeah, driven by Mr. Pelter’s dad. It came right through here. We must be—”
At that moment we heard—I don’t know what to call it: a shout? a call? a cry? But a human voice, a woman’s voice, in fact, the voice of Mom.
And then we were running, not easy in the snow, but I hardly noticed. Me first, then Harmony, then Bro. But soon it was Harmony, then Bro, and then me. That was very bad. Was this a good moment for barking? Just a sharpish bark or two to remind the kids of right and wrong? Yes, it probably was a good moment, but could I run my fastest—which involves a lot of panting—and bark at the same time? No. Therefore I decided to save my barking for later. Saved barking turns out to be sharper and louder when I finally let loose, a fact you might not know.
Ruff vs. Fluff Page 18
