Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  “Got it!” she whispered, and slipped the envelope inside her T-shirt. “Let’s go!”

  We were leaving so soon? No more rummaging or chitchat with the post office folks? A fun visit so far, except for the problem with the mailman’s head, but if Birdie said we were going, we went. And pretty fast, Birdie pretty much running toward the front door and me trotting by her side. She flung the door open and we hurried down the street. Just before the door closed, I heard the faint voice of the post office woman trailing after us.

  “What happened to the kid and her dog?”

  “Asking me to explain kids?” said the mailman. “Way above my pay grade.”

  Back in Birdie’s room, she took the envelope out from under her T-shirt, removed the photo of Miranda and the pearls, and gave it a look. “Here’s a thought, Bowser,” she said.

  I had plenty of space for it at the moment. Birdie’s timing was perfect.

  “Mrs. Richelieu saw me with the camera up on the bridge. Is it possible she figured out what I was doing? And then realized that her whole insurance scam idea or whatever it was might be in trouble? Which is how come the pearls ended up getting found in a laundry hamper?”

  So complicated! There wasn’t a thing I could do to help Birdie with this one.

  “No way,” she went on. “How could she have figured all that out for sure? But then … I just don’t know. How else could she have known about the photo?” I had no idea. “But we need to watch out for Mrs. Richelieu—that’s for sure.”

  Oh, that was all? Not a problem. I told myself, Bowser, watch out for Mrs. Richelieu. Was barking at her at every sighting a good idea? Had to be. What about biting her, too? I gave that some thought, went back and forth. Biting was a no-no—I knew that. At the same time, I could never allow anything bad to happen to Birdie. And there was no denying that biting Vin Pardo had worked out nicely, unless I was missing something.

  Meanwhile, Birdie was tapping the edge of the photo against her teeth, lost in thought. “Know what we need?”

  My guess was a snack.

  “A hidey-hole,” Birdie went on. “A safe little hidey-hole known only to us.”

  She cast a careful look around our bedroom. Something important was going on—I had no doubt about that. Would we be keeping snacks in the hidey-hole of ours? That was as far as I could take it.

  Birdie’s gaze finally came to rest on a grate in the ceiling, one of those grates for covering air vents. We had a few in the house, such as the one in Grammy’s bedroom, the vent with the fluttering sound inside. This grate in our bedroom was over the bed.

  “Aha!” she said. The next thing I knew Birdie had placed her desk chair on the bed—the fun we were about to have!—and started climbing on top of it. Of course, that was where I wanted to be, too. Sometimes in this life, there’s just no containing yourself. Maybe most of the time in my case. I hope that’s not a problem.

  “Bowser!”

  Soon after that we were picking ourselves off the floor, no harm done. Our next try was just as much fun or more—Birdie actually balancing on the tippy chair and reaching the rolled-up photo toward a hole in the grate—before the containing-myself period came to an end.

  “Once more,” Birdie said as we picked ourselves up again, “and I’ll have to put you out in the hall and close the door.”

  Oh, no, not that again! And so soon!

  “And cool it with the whimpering!” Birdie said. “We don’t whimper in this family.”

  Whimpering? I thought I heard it, too. I listened my hardest. The whimpering died away. I sat down, if you could still call it sitting when your butt isn’t quite touching the floor. Birdie picked up the chair, set it on the bed, climbed up, gave me a quick, anxious glance—about what I had no idea—and slid the rolled-up photo through a hole in the grate and into the vent. She was just climbing down when our door opened.

  Grammy took in the scene. “What in heaven’s name is going on?”

  “Um, we were just sort of … playing a game,” Birdie said. “Me and Bowser.”

  “A game, huh?” Grammy gave me a look that could have been friendlier. “I’m starting to think that this mutt’s a bad influence on you.”

  “You don’t mean that, Grammy.”

  “Hrrmf,” said Grammy. “And speaking of bad influences, the Tebbets boy is at the front door.”

  “Junior?” said Birdie. “A bad influence?”

  “The Tebbetses have been bad influences in these parts for generations.”

  “You liked that po’boy, Grammy.”

  “So? Bad people can be good cooks.”

  “They can?”

  Grammy gave Birdie a long look. Her face softened the littlest bit. “Maybe not often.”

  BROUGHT MY DRUMSTICKS THIS TIME,” Junior said as Birdie and I went outside.

  “I see that,” Birdie said.

  “I can play as we go,” Junior said.

  “What are you talking about?”

  At that moment we happened to be passing the blue mailbox on the other side of Gentilly Lane. “Like this,” Junior said. He gave the drumsticks a quick twirl and then rat-a-tat-tatted something fast and loud on the mailbox. Birdie closed her eyes tight and Junior stopped right away.

  “Got a headache?” he said, drumsticks poised in midair.

  Birdie opened her eyes. “No.”

  “Whew. My stepmom—the new one—does that eyes closing thing when she gets headaches, and she gets headaches all the time.”

  “I’m fine,” Birdie said.

  “You didn’t like that beat?” said Junior. “Is that it? I’ve got hundreds more, maybe thousands.”

  “That’s a lot.”

  “How many do you think Drea will want to hear?”

  “Of your beats?” Birdie said. “Why not ask her?”

  “Hey! Hadn’t thought of that.”

  I was starting to like Junior more and more. I gave him a friendly bump, very gentle. He didn’t even fall down, not all the way.

  Mr. Santini stuck out his potbelly and narrowed his eyes, not his best look, in my opinion. “You kids back again?”

  “Yup,” said Junior.

  “Yup? That’s how you address your elders?”

  “Sorry, elder,” Junior said.

  Mr. Santini gazed at Junior, a twitch starting up in the side of his face. He turned to Birdie. “Any chance that grandmother of yours would put up a campaign poster at the store next election season?”

  “I could ask,” said Birdie.

  “Fair enough,” Mr. Santini said. “Lookin’ for the biker gal?”

  “We are,” Birdie said.

  “Workin’ on that music reading competition?”

  “Gotta get it down cold,” said Junior.

  Mr. Santini turned back to Junior. “Only way to win. You gonna win?”

  “Try my hardest,” said Junior.

  “Tryin’s good,” Mr. Santini said. “Winnin’s better. So win! Good for the town when our people win.”

  “It is?” Birdie said.

  “Of course—stands to reason.” Mr. Santini stepped aside. “Go on down. Haven’t seen her yet today.” He checked his watch. “Gettin’ on four o’clock. Musician’s hours.”

  We walked down the middle path—Paradise Way, unless my memory was playing tricks on me, and I’ve got the trickiest memory around. The air was full of buzzing insects, their buzzing so loud I could hardly hear myself think, so I gave up the idea of even trying. Did all that buzzing bother Birdie and Junior? Didn’t seem to. I wondered whether they even heard it. Human ears? A big puzzle.

  “So, uh,” Junior said, “you’ve got a great arm, huh?”

  “What do mean?” said Birdie.

  “You know. For pitching.”

  Birdie stopped and turned to him, hands on her hips. “Where’d you hear that?”

  Junior shrugged. “Word gets around.”

  Birdie stood there, hands on hips, and blew air through her lips, making that cool vibration I like. I
t cut right through the insect drone, maybe even silencing it.

  “You mad or something?” Junior said.

  “What kind of town is this?” Birdie said. “How come everybody’s in everybody else’s business?”

  “Dunno,” Junior said.

  Birdie lowered her hands and we walked on, rounding the bend on Paradise Way. The scummy pond came into view, Drea’s green tent standing near the shore, with her motorcycle parked out front.

  “Baseball’s a drag, if you want my opinion,” Junior said.

  “I don’t.”

  “Not sayin’ everyone who thinks baseball’s their life is a drag,” Junior went on. “Mentioning no names. Rory, for example.”

  Birdie gave him a look.

  “See?” said Junior. “I knew you were mad.”

  “I’m not mad.”

  “You look mad.”

  “I’m not, so don’t say it again.”

  “I’ll just think it.”

  Birdie sped up. I sped up with her. We opened some space between us and Junior, and came to the tent ahead of him. The flap was closed and no sounds came from inside.

  “Um, hello,” Birdie said. “Drea? It’s me, Birdie.”

  “And Junior,” Junior said, coming up beside us. “Brought my sticks today.”

  Silence. Not even the sound of a human peacefully sleeping, one of my favorite sounds, especially when the sleeper was Birdie.

  “Probably napping,” Junior said. “Musician’s hours.” He raised his voice. “Drea! Wakey wakey!”

  Nothing but silence from inside the tent. Junior twirled his drumsticks and played a quick tat-a-tat-tat on the side of the tent.

  “Don’t,” Birdie said.

  “Why not?” said Junior. But he stopped drumming. “How come you’re in such a bad mood today?”

  Birdie didn’t answer. She glanced around Drea’s campsite. No sign of Drea, if that was what she was looking for. A tiny breeze wafted by and I caught a very faint scent I didn’t like at all. I got my nose up and sniffed, but the scent was gone.

  “Maybe she went for a walk,” Junior said.

  “Yeah,” said Birdie. We went for a walk ourselves, checking out the campsites around Drea’s. They were all unoccupied except for one, where an old couple sat on lawn chairs, the woman smoking, the man cutting his fingernails.

  “Excuse me,” Birdie called to them. “Have you seen Drea?”

  “Drea?” said the woman.

  “From space ninety-six on Paradise Way.”

  The man looked up. “We’re hunnert and forty-two.”

  “She’s not askin’ for that,” the woman snapped at him. “She’s askin’ for—what was it again?”

  “Drea,” Birdie said. She pointed. “Her tent’s back that way. She’s got kind of greenish hair.”

  “Don’t know nobody with greenish hair,” said the woman.

  “But I’d kinda like to,” said the man quietly.

  “What did you just say?” said the woman.

  “Nuthin’.”

  We went back to Drea’s tent. Junior gazed out at the pond. “Maybe she’s gone for a swim.”

  “Who’d want to swim in that?” Birdie said.

  Me, for one, especially if there was a chance of meeting up with a certain frog of my acquaintance. We moved down to the edge of the pond. The water was still, not a ripple on the surface. No one swimming; no frog soaking up rays on a lily pad. But I did pick up Drea’s scent, so maybe she had gone for a swim at some point. What did humans do after a swim? They changed out of their bathing suits and back into regular clothes. Me and my kind just gave ourselves a good shake, so much simpler.

  We returned to the tent. Did Birdie think Drea might be changing inside? Even though no breathing was happening in there? Although it’s true that sometimes humans held their breath. Once Nola and Birdie had a contest about who could hold their breath the longest. I never wanted to see that again.

  Birdie raised a corner of the flap and peeked inside.

  “See anything?” Junior said.

  “Looks … normal. Maybe she drove out in a car with another camper or something.”

  “Yeah, shoulda thought of that. We gonna wait?”

  “Can’t hurt to wait a little—whoa.” Birdie squinted into the tent.

  “Whoa?”

  Birdie raised the flap some more and moved inside.

  “Okay to do this?” Junior said. “Kind of like somebody’s house, isn’t it?”

  Birdie didn’t answer. By that time I was in the tent myself. Everything looked normal, as Birdie had said. There was an open motorcycle saddlebag on the floor, a pair of blue jeans neatly folded on top. Also, an unrolled sleeping bag, zipped up, lying on an inflatable pad. But—what was this? In the shadows between the sleeping bag and the side of the tent, lay Drea’s guitar, totally wrecked.

  Birdie went over and picked it up. A string caught on something and made a jangly twang, horrible to my ears.

  “What happened to her guitar?” Junior said.

  Birdie held it up. The neck was just about snapped in two and the body was twisted and broken. Junior said, “Who was that rock star, used to smash his guitar at every performance?”

  “I don’t know,” Birdie said. “But how could this be that?”

  Junior nodded. He came forward and took the guitar in a gentle way and then just sort of held it. Meanwhile, Birdie looked around some more and sniffed the air.

  “Smells swampy in here,” she said.

  Birdie was right about that. So nice to find out that little nose of hers could at least do something. But who could have missed the swampy smell in Drea’s tent, so strong I smelled nothing else?

  “This is one of those real spongy parts of town,” Junior said.

  “Spongy?”

  “The ground. Like the swamp is sneaking up underneath.”

  “That sounds like a bad dream.”

  “Got the idea from a bad dream, actually,” Junior said.

  “You have lots of them?” said Birdie.

  “Bad dreams? Wouldn’t say lots. Maybe once every—hey. What’s this?” He turned the guitar over, revealing a yellowed and worn strip of paper glued to the inside of what remained of the body. Birdie leaned in.

  “Looks like a newspaper clipping,” she said. “Just the banner at the top. The rest is torn away.”

  “New Orleans Times-Picayune,” Junior said. “Page three from September fourth, two thousand and—something or other. Last two numbers are gone.” He looked up. “How come she keeps this inside her guitar? Probably on account of whatever’s in the missing part, huh?”

  “Unless it’s the date itself,” said Birdie.

  “A birthday or something like that?” Junior said.

  “No clue,” Birdie said. “We’ll just have to ask her.”

  “Maybe there’s something written on the back.” Junior pinched a corner of the old newspaper strip between his finger and thumb and peeled it off the wood. Or tried to. What happened was that the whole newspaper strip just sort of crumbled to dust.

  “Uh-oh,” Junior said. He quickly laid the broken guitar on the sleeping bag and stepped away. “Think she’s upset about something?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she was trying to play some song and couldn’t get it right?”

  “So she smashed up her guitar?” Birdie said.

  “Yeah,” Junior said. His forehead wrinkled up. “Who was that painter who cut off his ear?”

  “Van somebody,” said Birdie. “Did he do that because he was having trouble with a painting?”

  “Why else would he?”

  “ ’Cause maybe he was crazy,” Birdie said.

  Junior thought about that. “You think Drea’s crazy?”

  Birdie shook her head.

  “She has that green hair,” said Junior.

  “You have a Mohawk.”

  “And I’m crazy as a loon.”

  Birdie laughed.

  “Least that’s w
hat my dad says,” Junior added.

  Birdie stopped laughing.

  We left the tent, stood outside. Junior paced around a bit, drumsticks loose in his hand, kind of like he’d forgotten about them. Birdie walked over to the motorcycle, touched the tailpipe with her toe. I followed Drea’s scent down to the water.

  “What should we do?” Birdie said.

  “About what?” said Junior.

  “About … about Drea saying to come at four and now we’re here and …”

  “How about we wait for a few more minutes?” Junior said.

  “Okay.”

  We waited. After a very short time, I barked.

  “Bowser, what are you barking about?”

  I barked again.

  “Cool it.”

  I pawed at the edge of the water and barked some more, a high-pitched bark that irritates everybody, me included.

  “What’s buggin’ him?” Junior said.

  “He seems to get funny around this pond,” said Birdie. “Come here, Bowser.”

  Junior gazed at the pond. “It is kind of nasty. Are a few minutes up yet?”

  Birdie toed the tailpipe again. “I guess so. Bowser! Come!”

  Junior was right about the nastiness of the pond. I didn’t want to hang around it any longer. But wasn’t it part of my job? To stay there until somebody did something?

  “Bowser!”

  I stood by the edge of the pond, mouth open, possibly panting slightly.

  “Bowser? Are you all right?” Birdie hurried over, knelt, and took my face in her hands. She looked worried. About me? The last thing I wanted. I gave myself a good shake, shaking off whatever had been bothering me, and the three of us walked back up Paradise Way.

  Mr. Santini was by the gate, wearing earphones and whacking weeds with a weed whacker. He shut it down as we approached, raising the earphones off one ear.

  “How’d it go, Junior?” he said. “Gonna kill ’em?”

  “Kill?” said Junior. “Kill who?”

  “Whoever. In the music competition.”

  “Uh, I didn’t have a lesson.”