Arf

by Spencer Quinn

  The hook device was on the end of a thick chain. Perkins lowered it into the pond, making a small splash that seemed quite loud for some reason. He let the links of the chain run out through his hands.

  “Should do it,” said Mr. Santini. “Depth maxes out at thirty feet.”

  Perkins fixed one of the links to a cleat near the bow, stopping the hooks from sinking any lower in the pond. The sheriff turned the wheel and the launch chugged around and around at a very slow speed. No one—not the men on the boat, the campers on the shore, or Birdie—spoke a word. Even the insects had gone silent. I could hear Birdie’s heart going pat-pat, pat-pat. And then there was my own heart, boom-booming away. As for what was happening out on the pond, I had no clue.

  The launch—all black, which maybe I should have mentioned before—glided in circles a little while longer, and then seemed to lurch very slightly.

  “Whoa!” Perkins said, his deep, rumbly voice shaking the air, at least to my way of hearing.

  The sheriff backed the launch up a tiny bit, the engine throbbing low and sending ripples across the water. Perkins began hauling on the chain, grunting once or twice with the effort even though he was such a big guy. The chain rose up from the pond, one dripping link after another. Then came some weeds, blackish green and mucky, and after that a sight that made all the humans gasp, except for the men on the boat. Some even turned away, although not Birdie. I myself sat down and waited for the smell of death to arrive. It came soon enough.

  An ambulance drove slowly down Paradise Way from the direction of the gate. Sheriff Cannon, now back on shore, yelled at people to go home. Mr. Santini said something to him that I couldn’t make out. The sheriff snapped at him. Mr. Santini snapped back.

  “Come on, Bowser,” Birdie said.

  We went up Glory Street, left the campground, and walked home. Birdie trembled the whole way. I hated seeing that. And how afraid she was! I could smell just about nothing else except her fear. My tail kept wanting to droop. Up, tail! Up and stay up! It pretty much obeyed me the rest of the way. From time to time I gave Birdie a little nudge, just to remind her that she had me.

  No one was home, not in our part of the house or in Grammy’s.

  “Why, Bowser? Why couldn’t somebody just be here?”

  Whatever that was, it didn’t sound like Birdie to me.

  “And what are you barking about?”

  Barking? News to me, but I heard barking, beyond any doubt, and it wasn’t coming from Birdie. She reached out and stroked my head.

  “You’re upset, too, huh?” She kept stroking me, and her trembling settled down to just about nothing. I put a lid on any barking that had been going on and gazed into her eyes: still the color of the sky, yes, but on a cloudy—maybe even stormy—day. We kind of huddled together for a bit.

  Birdie rose. “Come on, Bowser.”

  We opened the door to Gaux Family Fish and Bait—Birdie doing the actual work with the doorknob, me in more of a supporting role—and went inside. Snoozy was alone in the store. He had a rod in his hand and appeared to be practicing his sideways casts. At the moment, he’d hooked a pair of yellow rain pants that was hanging on a clothes rack display.

  “Where is everybody?” Birdie said.

  “I’m somebody,” said Snoozy, reeling in the rain pants.

  “I meant Grammy,” Birdie said. “Or my mom.”

  Snoozy unhooked the rain pants. I heard a faint ripping sound.

  “Your mom’s gone out in the pirogue with that businessman, showing him around.”

  “What businessman?”

  “Nice friendly guy from New Orleans.” Snoozy rubbed his finger and thumb together, a human sign you see from time to time, its meaning unknown to me. “Mover-and-shaker type.”

  “Vin Pardo?”

  “Sounds right,” Snoozy said. “As for your grammy, she had to go pick up a—”

  The door opened behind us and in came Grammy. Her washed-out eyes took in the scene, fastened on Snoozy.

  “How many times have I told you?” she said.

  “It’s not what it looks like,” Snoozy said, sort of trying to hide the rod behind his back. “I wasn’t really casting in the store. More like showing Birdie here how to—”

  Birdie burst into tears and ran to Grammy, throwing her arms around her. Grammy’s eyes and mouth opened wide, like she was totally astonished.

  “Snoozy!” she said. “What on earth is going on?”

  “Me?” said Snoozy. “Me?”

  “Oh, Grammy,” Birdie cried. “It’s so horrible.”

  “What is, child?” Grammy rubbed Birdie’s back. “What happened? Tell me.”

  I sat down right next to Birdie. That was my place. And what was this? On the other side of Birdie, who should appear but Snoozy, a glass of water in his hand.

  “Birdie?” he said quietly. “Water.”

  Birdie took the glass, sipped from it. She stepped away from Grammy, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.

  “Out with it,” Grammy said. “Can’t be as bad as all that.”

  “But it is,” Birdie told her. And she started in on a long story, all about Drea, and Junior, and a newspaper clipping in a smashed guitar, and a body at the bottom of Mr. Santini’s pond.

  Grammy held up her hand. “Bolden?”

  “Yes, Grammy.”

  “But that was the name of the victim on the last case!”

  “I know, Grammy. That’s why—”

  Grammy put her bony hand to her chest. Her face lost all its color, went so white her teeth looked dark yellow. All the strength inside her seemed to leak out at once, and she slumped to the floor.

  But not quite. Somehow Snoozy—moving fast not just for him but for any human—leaped forward and caught Grammy in midair. Then, pretty much carrying her bodily, he got her seated in a chair. Birdie still had her water glass. She held it out for Grammy. Grammy took it, her hand so shaky that Birdie had to help her drink. Their heads touched. Grammy’s color started coming back.

  “You all right, boss?” Snoozy said.

  “Of course I’m all right,” said Grammy, but in a wheezy little voice. She gave her head an angry little shake that reminded me a lot of Birdie, and tried again. “Of course I’m all right.” Now she was back to sounding more like Grammy.

  “Just checking,” Snoozy said.

  Not long after that, we went home. Birdie got Grammy seated at the kitchen table, poured her some ice tea. “Ah,” said Grammy. “There’s life in tea.”

  Birdie topped up Grammy’s glass to the brim. Grammy picked up the phone, called Mama, got no answer. “Still up the bayou, out of range,” she said, taking another sip. Birdie poured herself some limeade. I went over to my bowl and lapped up some water. I wasn’t really thirsty—more just being polite—but oddly enough I did turn out to be thirsty after all. Funny how that works! I ended up licking the bowl dry. And then felt kind of proud of myself. Things were going well. Then I remembered that they weren’t.

  “I just don’t understand,” Grammy said. “How did you meet this … this Drea in the first place?”

  “It was on the bridge, Grammy. We were fishing and …”

  “Who’s we?”

  “Me and Junior, and—”

  There was a knock at the door. A knock at the door and I hadn’t even heard footsteps? That was bad. I hurried over there, and through the door I smelled a gun. True, it hadn’t been fired recently, but I wasn’t taking chances, not on a day like this. I planted myself right in front of the door, made myself very big, and growled my deepest growl.

  “Who’s there?” Grammy called.

  “Sheriff Cannon, ma’am. May I come in?”

  Grammy gazed across the table at Birdie. Poor Birdie, looking pale and especially small at the moment. Maybe she didn’t know how to make herself big. Although it’s possible you need a coat of fur to do that, meaning ol’ Bowser hits the jackpot again.

  “What’s it about?” Grammy said, her voice still rai
sed.

  “I’d like to make sure that Birdie’s all right.”

  Grammy lowered her voice. “Okay with you, child?”

  Birdie nodded.

  “It’s open,” Grammy called.

  The sheriff came in. He took off his hat. “Afternoon, ma’am, Birdie. I’m a little surprised your door’s unlocked, Mrs. Gaux, what with the recent break-in and all.”

  “It’s broad daylight, for heaven’s sake,” Grammy said. “And we’re here and wide awake, two people and a dog. What kind of town would it be if we had to lock our doors twenty-four seven?”

  “A town like many others,” the sheriff said. “Maybe most.”

  “I surely hope not,” said Grammy. She glared at the sheriff.

  “I’m with you,” he said. “Mind if I sit?”

  Grammy gestured toward an empty chair. “Tea?”

  “Tea would be real nice,” the sheriff said. He sat down, set his hat on his knee, rubbed his chin. I heard a rasping sound, like maybe he hadn’t shaved yet today.

  Birdie put a glass of tea in front of him, slid over the sugar bowl. He spooned some sugar in his glass, sipped, and took a deep breath.

  “Well?” said Grammy.

  The sheriff nodded and sat straighter in his chair. He had a big strong face with big strong features, but right now it mostly looked tired. “As you may know already, we fished—excuse me, we recovered the body of Drea Bolden from the pond down at Santini’s Campground. Birdie here, I’m sorry to say, was the person who actually discovered the body.”

  “Sorry to say?” said Grammy. “Why is that?”

  “On account of her being a child, of course,” the sheriff said.

  “She’s eleven,” Grammy said. “Not a baby.”

  The sheriff gave Grammy the sort of sideways look one human gives another when human one doesn’t quite get where human two is coming from. “You all right, Birdie?” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Birdie, although she now looked even paler to me. “And it was really Bowser who … who figured it out.”

  That Birdie! You had to love her, and I did.

  The sheriff smiled a little smile and turned to me. “What else have you figured out, Bowser? I could sure use some help.”

  What else had I figured out? Wow! What a question! I didn’t even know where to begin. That made it pretty easy to forget the whole thing, which I did.

  The sheriff took another sip of tea. “Three main points, ma’am, if you’ll bear with me. First, cause of death. That’s in the hands of the medical examiner, and we won’t know until next week, what with how backed up they are and all the budget cuts. But I observed no evidence of anything untoward.”

  “I don’t understand,” Birdie said.

  “Meaning there was nothing to suggest any cause of death other than accidental drowning.”

  “But—but what about her guitar?” Birdie said. “It was all smashed up.”

  “It’s my understanding that was all about some sort of artistic frustration,” the sheriff said.

  “What?” said Birdie. “Who told you that?”

  “I caught up with young Junior Tebbets on my way over here. I believe that was what he was telling me.”

  “He was?” Birdie said.

  “Or at least trying to,” said the sheriff. “Do you have any reason to suspect another cause, when it comes to the guitar?”

  “There was a sort of newspaper clipping inside,” Birdie said.

  “Junior mentioned that. We’ll be conducting a careful examination of the guitar first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “But mostly it was gone. Ripped out.”

  “Junior told me something about that, too, and we’ll be looking into it,” the sheriff said. “Moving on to point—”

  “Back up a bit,” Grammy said. “Who’d go swimming in that foul pond in the first place?”

  “A surprising number of the campers down there, according to Santini,” the sheriff said. “Mr. Santini, that is.”

  “He’ll be watching your investigation closely, is my guess,” Grammy said.

  “Oh, no doubt,” the sheriff said.

  “Election coming up,” Grammy said.

  “True,” said the sheriff. “But that won’t affect how I do my job, not one bit.”

  Grammy nodded. “Point two,” she said.

  “Point two,” said the sheriff, “is kind of strange. It appears that Drea Bolden was the daughter of Henry R. Bolden, a real estate developer from New Orleans and the murder victim in the case your son, Captain Gaux, was working on when he …” He glanced at Birdie. “When he passed.”

  Grammy reached for her tea, her hand shaky again. But she got it under control and took a long swig. “Birdie was just informing me of that fact,” Grammy said. “If it is a fact.”

  “Pretty much a certainty,” the sheriff said. “I’ve got a call into—”

  At that moment, I heard laughter from out on the breezeway. Mama’s laughter, to be precise. We all heard it—Birdie, Grammy, the sheriff, and me—and we all turned toward the door. It opened and there was Mama, looking pretty happy, her face reddened by a day in the sun, a bunch of wildflowers in her hand. Beside her stood Vin Pardo, also looking pretty happy, his face reddened by the sun, as well. In his hand was a bottle of wine with a ribbon tied tight around the neck. One other thing I noticed was a bandage on his forehead, over one eye. It wasn’t the smallest bandage I’d ever seen, although you couldn’t have called it huge. My fur rose like iron spikes again, from my neck all the way to the tip of my tail. I wished I’d been responsible for whatever had happened to his forehead.

  MAMA’S HAPPY LOOK WAVERED AND for a moment seemed to hang in the air, like it was separate from her, a very weird sight I didn’t need to see again anytime soon. “Uh, hi, everybody. Hello, Sheriff.”

  The sheriff nodded. “Mrs. Gaux,” he said.

  Mama glanced at Birdie, then at Grammy. “Is … is everything all right?”

  “No,” said the sheriff. “I can’t say that everything is all right. Far from it. I’m afraid there’s been a drowning down at Santini’s pond. Birdie discovered the body.”

  “Oh, no,” Mama said. She left Pardo’s side, hurried over to Birdie, bent forward kind of awkwardly—down to Birdie’s sitting level—put her hands on Birdie’s arms, and gazed at her face. “Are you okay, sweetheart? Are you okay?”

  Birdie gave her a brisk nod for yes, although her eyes filled with tears at the same time. Mama held her tight and didn’t let go. At the same time, she looked across the table at the sheriff. “Who … who drowned? Was it someone we know?”

  “As for that,” the sheriff began, and then stopped and turned toward Pardo, still standing in the doorway.

  Pardo raised his hands in one of those human who-me gestures. “Sorry to have stumbled in at a bad time,” he said. “Thanks for the tour, Jen. I’ll be getting along.”

  “And you are?” said the sheriff.

  “This is Vin Pardo,” Mama said. “Vin, Sheriff Cannon.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Sheriff,” Pardo said. “I … hope it’s nothing too serious.”

  “A drowning is always serious,” said the sheriff.

  “Of course,” said Pardo. “Stupid of me to put it like that. What I meant was I hoped Jen and her family won’t be too troubled.” He came into the room a step or two, set the bottle of wine on the counter. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do, Jen,” he said and turned for the door.

  “Where you from, Mr. Pardo?” the sheriff said.

  “New Orleans,” said Pardo, stopping but not turning to look back. Was he waiting for the sheriff to say something more. Maybe about the wine? That was my only guess.

  “Have a nice day,” the sheriff said, which I hadn’t thought of at all. Pardo went out and closed the door.

  Mama pulled up a chair and sat close to Birdie. There were little rosy splotches on her cheeks, like she was blushing a bit, blushing something you see from time to time on female faces
, not so often with boys and never with men, and about which I understand zip.

  “How … how did this happen?” she said.

  “As I was saying when you arrived,” the sheriff told her, “we’re waiting on the medical examiner’s report. But neither I nor Officer Perkins nor the EMTs observed anything to indicate causes other than accidental drowning. That being said—”

  “How can you tell accidental drowning from drowning on purpose?” Grammy broke in, her voice, always pretty sharp, now at its sharpest.

  The sheriff sat up straight. “That usually involves other forms of evidence. A note left behind or”—he shot a quick glance at Birdie—“a letter sent to a friend, for example. What I meant was we found no signs of violence.”

  “But … but the guitar,” Birdie said.

  The sheriff sighed. “Birdie’s referring to a broken guitar that the—”

  Mama interrupted the sheriff, waved her hand like she was shooing away flies. We had no flies in the kitchen at the moment and hardly ever did, on account of Grammy being so strict about keeping the screens closed. She was also deadly with the swatter, should a fly or two happen to sneak in.

  “Slow down. Please. What I meant was how did it happen that my daughter was the one who discovered the … who discovered all this? I don’t understand.”

  “Actually,” the sheriff said, “that’s something I’m not too clear about myself. I was wondering if Birdie could fill in some of the blanks.”

  Everyone turned to Birdie. Everyone except me. I kept a close watch on the sheriff.

  “Fill in the blanks?” she said. “Like how?”

  “Well,” said the sheriff, “how did you meet Drea Bolden in the first place?” He turned to Mama. “That being the name of the deceased.”

  “Bolden?” Mama said. She put her hand to her chest, just as Grammy had done back at the store. I had the craziest thought of my life: Where’s Snoozy? But we didn’t end up needing him. Mama held on to her strength. “Bolden?” she said. “That was the name of—”