by R. A. Spratt
When they reached the gates, Friday was skinny enough to squeeze through between two railings and Ian was athletic enough to climb over. Melanie was left standing on the wrong side.
‘Go ahead, I’ll have a nap and wait for you here,’ said Melanie.
‘No, you won’t, you’re coming with us,’ said Friday. ‘I’m not going to be stuck in a car with Ian and Uncle Bernie for the next two hours.’ She rifled in her bag and produced a battery-powered angle grinder and a pair of safety goggles. She put on the goggles. ‘Stand back!’
Two minutes and a lot of sparks later, Melanie was also on the far side of the now irreparably damaged fence.
In the distance a small car and a big plume of black smoke could be seen approaching.
‘I’m assuming that beaten-up old brown sedan belching smog belongs to your relative,’ said Ian.
‘Yes, that’s Uncle Bernie,’ agreed Friday. ‘What he saves on buying a new car he spends on having to replace his oil once a week.’
‘Hi Friday,’ called Uncle Bernie as he rolled down his window. ‘Where are we going?’
‘Ian’s house,’ said Friday. She turned to Ian. ‘Where exactly do you live?’
‘Wellsdown,’ said Ian.
‘Ooh fancy,’ said Melanie. ‘Even amongst rich people, that’s a posh place to live.’
‘It’s an expensive place to live when you’ve got no money,’ said Ian.
‘Here, Friday, I got you a birthday present,’ said Uncle Bernie, handing Friday a box.
‘But it’s not my birthday,’ said Friday.
‘Yes, it was. You turned twelve two weeks ago,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘You forgot your own birthday?!’ asked Ian.
‘I’ve been busy,’ said Friday as she opened the gift and lifted out a new green pork-pie hat. ‘Thanks, Uncle Bernie, I love it.’ She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek.
‘Let’s get going then,’ said Uncle Bernie, blushing.
‘We’ll have to make a stop along the way,’ said Ian as he climbed into the back seat.
‘Where?’ asked Friday. ‘Do you need to pick up some contraband? Electronics? Chocolate? Pre-written essays?’
‘We need to swing by the butcher shop to and pick up a big piece of steak,’ said Ian.
The reason for the steak became apparent when they pulled up outside Ian’s house and a large, angry Rottweiler with a rhinestone-studded collar started barking and lunging at them from the other side of the fence.
‘That’s your dog?’ asked Friday. ‘It’s almost as friendly as you.’
‘That’s Rocky. He’s my father’s dog,’ said Ian.
‘Does he bark like that at your mother?’ asked Friday.
‘Yes, and there’s nothing she can do about it,’ said Ian. ‘When you’re negotiating a divorce settlement, it doesn’t look good if you get rid of your husband’s dog.’ He took the dripping red piece of steak out of the butcher’s bag. ‘Here you go, boy.’ Ian hurled the meat over the fence to the far side of the garden. ‘Quick, make a dash for the front door.’
The four of them hurried down the front path to the house. The yard had once been a nice ornamental garden before Rocky had been kept in it.
The Wainscott residence was a large modern home. It didn’t look too excessively fancy, but you could just tell that there was a tennis court and a pool tucked behind it somewhere.
Friday pressed the doorbell and they waited. They could hear Rocky savaging the steak on the far side of the garden.
‘I wish your mother would hurry up,’ said Friday. ‘If that dog comes back I’m the shortest, so my jugular is closest to its mouth level.’
Ian reached across and pressed the doorbell again, three times in a row. But there was still no response. The sound of Rocky snarling stopped, then they could hear his paws thudding across grass.
‘Quick, run for the side gate!’ urged Ian.
They all ran around the house. Rocky was racing towards them. Ian flung the gate open so Melanie and Uncle Bernie could race through. Friday was a few paces behind.
‘Come on, Friday!’ yelled Ian.
‘She’s not going to make it,’ wailed Melanie.
Friday leapt headlong at the open gate. Ian slammed it shut behind her. She did a commando roll into a rosebush and Rocky leapt up against the outside of the fence in futile protest.
‘Wow!’ said Ian. ‘That was …’
Friday struggled to her feet then looked at the palm of her hand where she had been pricked by a thorn. There was a drop of blood. She fainted.
‘I was going to say impressive,’ said Ian, ‘but fainting kind of negates that.’
Fortunately there was a hosepipe nearby so Uncle Bernie was soon able to spray Friday in the face to revive her and they went in search of Mrs Wainscott.
As they walked around to the back garden, what they saw was a total surprise. Most houses in the neighbourhood had immaculate gardens with pristine lawns and beautiful flowerbeds, all maintained by teams of well-paid gardeners. The Wainscott garden was nothing like that. It still had the rolling contours of a formally designed landscape, but every inch of it had been transformed into a market garden. Where once there had been lawn there were now rows of every variety of vegetables. The tennis court had been planted with an orchard. The swimming pool was full of trout and water chestnuts. Amongst it all roamed very self-entitled chickens helping themselves to snails and slugs from the vegetable garden.
‘This isn’t what I expected,’ said Friday.
‘Money has been tight,’ said Ian. ‘Mother has taken up self-sufficiency. She grows all her own food.’
‘Sausage? Is that you?’
A woman who looked like an 18th-century peasant stood up in the middle of the cabbage patch. They hadn’t noticed her before because her clothes were vegetable-coloured and covered in dirt.
‘Yes, Mum, it’s me,’ said Ian.
‘Your mother calls you “Sausage”?’ said Friday. ‘I’m so glad we came. This is better than being paid in money.’
Mrs Wainscott came over and wrapped Ian in a big hug. ‘I’m so glad you’re here. You must see my eggplants – I’m going to have a bumper crop.’
‘Mum, I brought a friend from school,’ said Ian. ‘She’s a detective and she’s going to help look for Father’s diamonds. Her uncle is an investigator. He’s going to help too.’
‘Hello Mrs Wainscott,’ said Uncle Bernie, holding out his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you. You’ve got a fantastic crop of just about everything here. Your zucchinis are amazing.’ He nodded towards a patch of lush, large-leafed plants.
‘I know,’ said Mrs Wainscott. ‘Growing things gives me such pleasure. I was a bad mother to my poor Sausage, always out at functions, wining and dining. But I hope in some way I can make up for all that by being a good mother to my veggies.’ Mrs Wainscott looked fondly out at the expanse of her impressive vegetable garden.
‘I don’t think you can,’ said Melanie.
Friday stood on her foot.
‘Ow!’ said Melanie.
‘Shhh,’ said Friday.
‘What?’ asked Melanie. ‘No amount of home-grown tomatoes makes up for a neglected childhood.’
‘We’re not here about that,’ said Friday. ‘We’re here about the diamonds.’
‘Is it all right if Friday and Bernie take a look around?’ asked Ian.
‘Of course, dear,’ said Mrs Wainscott. ‘But be careful of the lettuce patch. I put down fresh pig muck this morning and it’s smelling a bit ripe.’
Friday and Uncle Bernie searched everywhere on the Wainscott property – all the places that people think are secret but are actually commonly used by everyone else trying to hide things. They checked the freezer, the flour jar, cavities in the tops of doors, under the carpet, and inside sofa cushions. Uncle Bernie even used a radio-imaging detector he had borrowed from work to search all the walls and ceiling spaces.
They found lots of stuff – eleven dollars and
forty-one cents in loose change, Mrs Wainscott’s spare car keys, a photo of Ian with a mullet haircut, which Friday regarded as priceless – but no diamonds.
‘They’ve got to be here somewhere,’ said Friday. ‘Do you have any lollipops?’
‘Why?’ asked Ian. ‘Do you think Dad hid the diamonds inside candy?’
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘Lollipops help me think. It’s the calorie boost. The sugar stimulates cognitive activity.’
‘They’ve got ice-cream,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I saw it when I was searching through the frozen peas packet.’
So Ian, Friday, Uncle Bernie and Melanie sat down and had a bowl of ice-cream each while they considered the problem.
‘It could be a purloined letter scenario,’ said Friday.
‘What’s that?’ asked Melanie.
‘A literary reference to Edgar Allan Poe,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It’s a story about a man who hid a letter in a letter rack because it was so obvious that no-one would think of looking there,’ said Friday.
‘But where is somewhere so obvious you wouldn’t think of looking for a diamond?’ asked Melanie. ‘You don’t have a diamond rack, do you?’
‘No,’ said Ian.
‘Maybe the chandelier,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘You could hang the stones amongst the cut glass and no-one would notice them.’
‘That’s a good idea,’ said Melanie.
‘Except we don’t have a chandelier,’ said Ian.
‘We have to try to think like Mr Wainscott,’ said Friday.
‘You think you can mind-meld with a forty-nine-year-old convicted jewel thief?’ asked Ian.
‘Your father thinks he is cleverer than everyone else,’ said Friday.
‘To be fair,’ said Ian, ‘most of the time, he’s right.’
‘He’s also got a sense of humour and a flair for dramatic gestures,’ said Friday to herself now, muttering a series of rhetorical questions. ‘The last I saw him he hid a massive diamond in his shoe. Now, where would he hide a series of small diamonds? People refer to diamonds as glass, but they also refer to them as rocks …’
Friday leapt to her feet.
‘What is it?’ said Ian.
‘Rocky!’ said Friday.
‘Huh?’ asked Ian.
‘He hid his rocks with Rocky,’ said Friday. ‘The pun would have been impossible for him to resist!’
Chapter 11
The Savage Dog
Moments later they all had their faces pressed to the living room window, watching Rocky out in the garden. Rocky was mindlessly savaging an azalea bush.
‘Look at his collar,’ said Friday. ‘Those aren’t rhinestones. They’re too sparkly. They’re real diamonds.’
‘He put millions of dollars’ worth of diamonds around his dog’s neck?’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It’s brilliant,’ said Friday. ‘No-one would think of looking there. If they went anywhere near Rocky, he would savagely attack them. He is his own built-in security system. And if Mr Wainscott ever escaped or was released from jail, he could come by and pick up his diamonds without even ringing the doorbell.’
‘That’s just a theory,’ said Ian sceptically. ‘You won’t know for sure until you have the collar in your hand, and how are you going to do that, clever clogs?’
‘I’ve never understood the origins of that expression,’ said Friday. ‘Perhaps it’s Dutch. Clogs are usually associated with Holland. But how would calling someone intelligent, hand-carved wooden shoes be an insult?’
‘You’re getting off the point, Friday,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It is a bit odd that your father would strap something so valuable to something so demented, stupid and bloodthirsty,’ said Melanie.
‘Rocky is brilliantly trained,’ said Ian. ‘Dad knows all about training animals from his time at Circus Skills University. But so that nobody else could order Rocky about, he trained him in Latvian.’
‘Why Latvian?’ asked Friday.
‘His childhood nanny was Latvian,’ said Ian. ‘Dad’s fluent in it.’
‘You speak lots of languages, Friday,’ said Melanie. ‘Is Latvian one of them?’
‘No,’ said Friday. ‘I speak Russian. Surely it can’t be too dissimilar.’
‘The gas-meter reader spoke Russian,’ said Ian. ‘He needed seventy-three stiches in his left calf. And he didn’t get to read the meter.’
‘Who do we know who might speak Latvian?’ asked Friday.
‘Well, actually,’ said Uncle Bernie, ‘I do.’
‘Uncle Bernie!’ exclaimed Friday. ‘You have a hidden depth.’
‘I was briefly a professional hockey player in the Latvian League,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘I didn’t know that!’ said Friday.
‘You know how it upsets your mum and dad to hear talk about sport,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I played for the Riga Raiders for half a season.’
‘What happened?’ asked Friday.
‘I got thrown out of the league for fighting on the ice,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘But I thought that’s what hockey players do?’ said Friday.
‘Yeah, but I accidentally hit the lady who sang the national anthem,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘While she was singing the national anthem?’ asked Melanie.
‘No, she burst onto the ice with a bunch of spectators to try to punch our goalkeeper,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘He’d just let in an own goal and they were feeling emotional. Fists started flying and my fist just happened to connect with her nose.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Friday.
‘It was a mess,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘They say her high notes never sounded the same again.’
‘Fascinating story,’ said Ian, ‘but, in summary, do you know the Latvian words for “sit”, “stay” and “stop biting my arm”?’
‘I think so,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘It has been a couple of decades since I’ve last tried my Latvian out. You don’t often bump into Latvians. Especially not Latvians who don’t speak better English than I speak Latvian.’
‘So long as your pronunciation is better than Rocky’s, I’m sure you’ll be all right,’ said Friday.
Two minutes later Uncle Bernie edged out the front door. As a precautionary measure, Ian had helped him gaffer-tape sofa cushions to his arms and legs.
As soon as Rocky sensed movement he spun around and ran full speed at Uncle Bernie.
‘What do I say?!’ Uncle Bernie panicked.
‘I don’t know,’ said Friday from the safety of the other side of the screen door. ‘Try “nice doggie”.’
‘Jauks suns! Jauks suns!’ yelled Uncle Bernie.
Rocky skidded to a halt.
‘Awesome,’ said Ian. ‘This is actually going to work.’
‘Tell him to sit,’ advised Friday.
‘Sédét!’ yelled Uncle Bernie.
Rocky obediently placed his rear end on the grass.
‘Now, slowly approach the dog and take the collar,’ said Friday
‘Do I have to?’ asked Uncle Bernie.
‘Yes!’ said Friday and Ian in unison.
Uncle Bernie slowly made his way towards Rocky. ‘Lūdzu nekož mani.’
‘What’s he saying?’ asked Melanie.
‘Knowing Uncle Bernie,’ said Friday, ‘probably something like please don’t bite me.’
‘I hope your uncle isn’t brutally mauled,’ said Mrs Wainscott as she joined them at the door. ‘He seems like such a nice man. And he knows his veggies.’
Uncle Bernie now had his hand on Rocky’s collar. ‘Labs suns, labs suns,’ he crooned.
Uncle Bernie unclipped the collar, patted Rocky and started making his way back towards the house. ‘I’ve got it!’ he yelled in English.
As soon as the English words were out of his mouth, Rocky snapped to attention, as if awoken from a trance, and launched himself at Uncle Bernie’s bottom.
‘Ow!’ yelped Uncle Bernie.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll save him!
’ yelled Mrs Wainscott as she ran to the kitchen and grabbed a dozen rashers of home-cured bacon. ‘Take that, you vicious dog!’ Mrs Wainscott hurled the bacon over Uncle Bernie. Rocky’s head whipped up and he chased after the rashers, giving Ian and Friday a chance to drag Uncle Bernie inside.
‘Did he hurt you?’ asked Mrs Wainscott.
‘Only my pride,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘And your bottom,’ said Friday. ‘Look, you’re bleeding.’
‘Never fear, I’ve been teaching myself how to sew,’ said Mrs Wainscott. ‘I’ll soon stitch that up.’
‘Maybe I should see a doctor,’ said Uncle Bernie.
‘It wouldn’t be worth the risk of walking past Rocky while you smelled of fresh blood,’ warned Mrs Wainscott. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll soon be right as rain. Although you might not enjoy sitting down for a while.’ She went to get her first-aid kit.
Friday took out her jeweller’s eyepiece and closely inspected the studs in Rocky’s collar.
‘Are they the real deal?’ asked Ian.
‘Please say they are,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’d hate to be having the worst day of my life for nothing.’
‘They’re diamonds, all right,’ said Friday. ‘Fifteen stones. All of them at least two carats. They’re worth over $50,000 each.’
‘$750,000!’ exclaimed Mrs Wainscott as she returned. ‘Why, that means that after we pay off the first and second mortgage, the car loan, the personal loans, the credit cards and your father’s dry-cleaning bill we’ll be …’
‘Rich?’ asked Ian hopefully.
‘Modestly comfortable,’ said Mrs Wainscott. ‘If we mainly eat vegetables and the council lets us keep using the pig manure generator.’
‘So I don’t have to quit school and get a job,’ said Ian.
‘Which is a relief,’ said Friday, ‘because it’s hard getting around those child labour laws. I know, I tried getting a job as a professional gambler once and the police took a dim view of the whole idea.’
‘That and the card counting,’ added Uncle Bernie.
