Woof Page 13

  “Because I was once young and pretty?”

  Maybelline sat with the book in her lap, gazing into it. Birdie and Nola looked down at the back of Maybelline’s head—how scrawny her neck was!—and said nothing. I wondered about the possibility of getting in a quick lick of that leather book cover.

  “Here,” Maybelline said, turning a page, “are Dan and your great-grandfather Maurice in uniform, the day they left for France.”

  “He was so handsome!” Birdie said.

  “Right you are,” said Maybelline again. “And Maurice was pleasant-looking enough in his own way.”

  “I meant Maur—” Birdie began, then cut herself off.

  “Ah, and what’s this?” Maybelline said, turning another page.

  “My grammy?” said Birdie. “And that’s Black Jack on the hook! This must be the day they caught him!” Birdie pointed. “There’s Maurice, but he looks so much older.”

  “They were all like that, the ones who came home from the war.”

  Nola leaned in. “Who’s the big guy at the back, by the gas pump?”

  “Frank Straker.”

  “How come he’s looking at my great-grandpa like that?”

  “Not worth talking about,” said Maybelline, closing the book. “Which is why I don’t talk about any of this.”

  “But you did with Des,” Birdie said.

  Maybelline grew still. “Des? Oh, no. I couldn’t have.”

  “Does he come visit you?” said Nola.

  “Never! No one visits.”

  “Maybe you went on an outing to Des’s house?” Birdie said.

  Maybelline gazed out the window. “They have a shark I did, back in the fifties.” A long pause, and then she added, “Des took me out to the garage to see it.”

  “And that got you talking about Black Jack?” Birdie said.

  “I … I don’t know.”

  “And the treasure map?” said Nola.

  “Treasure map?” said Maybelline, twisting around to see them better, her bony hands clawing into the chair arms. “There is no treasure map. I never talk about it.”

  “But—but Des says you hid it in the space behind Black Jack’s right eye!” Birdie said.

  Maybelline pounded her bony fist on the chair arm. A tiny cloud of dust rose off the fabric. “Why, oh why, is everyone asking me about this? I’m so tired. It has to stop!”

  “Sorry,” said Birdie. “But who else was asking?”

  Maybelline gave her a real unfriendly look. “At least he brought port.”

  “Who?” said Nola.

  Tears welled up in Maybelline’s eyes. “I used to like a glass of port, hadn’t tasted it in so long.” She started to cry, put her face in her hands. “When will I ever learn? When?”

  Birdie touched Maybelline’s shoulder. “Who was this person you’re—”

  Maybelline shook her off. “Go! Just go!” She stopped crying but kept her face hidden in her hands. “Have mercy,” she said, her voice now very quiet.

  We went.

  NICE VISIT?” SAID THE WOMAN AT the desk.

  “Uh, she liked Bowser a lot,” Birdie said.

  “That’s the name of the dog?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Cool name. Has bowwow sort of in it.” The woman had lost me completely. She shot a careful look my way. “Must eat you out of house and home.”

  “Not so far,” Birdie said.

  Of course not! Why did people even keep saying it? At the moment, for example, I wasn’t the least bit hungry. Well, maybe a little, but nothing I couldn’t manage. Sometimes in this life you just have to control yourself. The times when you don’t have to are always better. What’s up with that?

  “Planning on coming again?” the woman said.

  “If she wants us to,” said Birdie.

  “That’d be nice. Did I mention she never has visitors?”

  “Yeah,” said Nola. “But, in fact, there was one.”

  “A visitor? Oh, I don’t think so.”

  “She mentioned some man,” Nola said.

  The woman shook her head. “I’d remember a thing like that.”

  “Maybe you weren’t on duty at the time,” Birdie said.

  “I’m on duty till the cows come home.”

  Wow! A whole new wrinkle. I’d never been close to a cow, but I’d seen cows in fields—they appeared to eat grass, which I only do when I’m not feeling quite my very best—and knew their smell, none of which I was picking up here in the lobby. Maybe they’d be along later. And if not, did this poor woman just have to wait and wait? Suppose the cows never felt like coming home, or got lost on the way? Cows looked like the kind of creatures that might get lost pretty easily.

  “… but,” the woman was saying, “no harm in checking the sign-ins.” She leafed through a thick wad of pages on a clipboard. “Just as I’d thought, not one single—wait a minute. What’s this?” The woman peered closer. “Musta been the day I went down to … right, right. Anyway, here it is, week ago Tuesday, three p.m., Ms. Peckham did have a visitor, name of … kind of hard to read. Can you make it out?” She turned the clipboard so Birdie and Nola could see.

  “Donald, maybe?” said Nola. “Ronald?”

  “No, that’s a D—it’s Donald,” Birdie said. “Donald L. Spikes.”

  “No, that’s an R,” said Nola. “Donald L. Spires.”

  “Never heard of him,” said the woman at the desk.

  “So Maybelline told Des and also this Donald L. Spires guy?” Nola said, as we walked out of Sunrise Acres. Always good to step outside, but this time was even better for some reason. “Any chance Des gave her port, too? I just don’t see Maybelline blabbing to the likes of Des.”

  The girls looked at each other. Their faces started swelling up in a weird way. All at once they were laughing, saying “the likes of Des,” and laughing again. What was going on? I began to get nervous, thought about chewing my tail, one of my go-to moves during nervous times.

  We walked a few blocks, the bayou glittering through the trees from time to time, and then the girls said goodbye, Nola going one way and me and Birdie another. After a couple more blocks, Birdie said, “Wonder if there’s any connection between Des and Donald L. Spires?” I had no idea, but soon Birdie came up with a brilliant one. “How about we ask him?”

  Wow! What more was there to say about Birdie?

  Not much later, we were back in Hilltop Estates, the neighborhood of the big brick houses. Passing the very biggest brick house—old man Straker’s, if I’d heard Nola right—I thought I saw a face in an upstairs window, but when I looked again it was gone. Then we were back at Des’s house, Birdie knocking at the door.

  “Des! Wake up!”

  No footsteps sounded this time, not a peep from inside. The house was silent.

  “Let’s go home, Bowser. I know a shortcut.”

  Another brilliant idea! Home was all about food, treats, a comfy bed, everything a dude such as myself could ever want. We left Hilltop Estates, turned onto a dirt road with a ditch on one side—“Bowser! Don’t drink that water!”—and the backyards of a few widely spaced houses on the other.

  “Suppose Des and this other guy,” Birdie began, but then I heard a car coming up real fast from behind us. We both turned. The car—actually a pickup, and not just a pickup but a shiny black one with tinted windows—roared up and braked to a sudden swerving stop right beside us, raising a huge dust cloud.

  Then it got very quiet out on this—what would you call it? A lonely road, maybe? Yes, it turned out we were on a lonely road, me and Birdie. There was no one around, not a breath of air, and nothing moved. Not even the dust cloud, which just hung in the air, thick and golden brown.

  A door—maybe the driver’s door, but it was hard to see through all the dust—opened very slowly. A man spoke. He had a friendly sounding voice. It bothered me. Kind of strange: Why get bothered by a friendly sounding voice?

  “Hop in,” the man said. “Too hot for walking. I’ll g
ive you a lift.”

  “I don’t get in cars with strangers,” said Birdie.

  “Oh, that’s all right,” the man said. “I’m no stranger. More like a longtime admirer.”

  “Who are you?”

  “A true friend.”

  Not a breath of air on this lonely road, and the air itself seemed to get heavier. “I don’t think so,” Birdie said, and she started to back away.

  But not quickly enough, not far enough. A big hand shot out through the dust cloud and grabbed Birdie by the arm.

  “No! Let go! Let go of me!”

  Oh, no. My Birdie, screaming in fear. I hated hearing that. And her scream did no good, because whoever this was, hidden behind the dust cloud, was not about to let go. Instead, he jerked Birdie’s arm real hard, dragging her toward the open door. He yanked her right off her feet and started pulling her inside and there was nothing she could do. He was big. She was small. Did that make him think he was free to do whatever he wanted? This was the worst thing I’d ever seen in my life. That was my only thought. The next moment I was in midair, and the moment after that I sank my teeth deep into the arm of this man who would dare to harm Birdie. And I mean deep!

  Now it was the man’s turn to scream, which he did, in real fear and pain, but he didn’t let Birdie go. He kept on pulling her inside. She kicked wildly and did more screaming of her own. But the sound that dominated all the others was a ferocious growl that came from deep in the chest of ol’ Bowser. The man punched me in the head, once, twice, more. Good luck with that, my friend. I gave my head one fierce twist, ripping my teeth into him even deeper.

  That did it. He wailed—first wail I’d heard from a grown man—and took his horrible hand off Birdie. She fell past me, onto the road. I myself was way too mad to let go of him. His heavy fist pounded my head one more time, and then he gave up on that idea. Instead, he reached past me and yanked the door closed. Of course it wouldn’t close on account of me being trapped in there, getting squeezed between the door and the body of the car. As if that would make me let go! Then the engine roared and the car started surging ahead. Uh-oh. Was this going to be a problem?

  “Bowser! Let him go!”

  What was this? Yet another brilliant idea? Birdie was on fire! I let go, tumbled onto the road, rolled over a few times, and trotted over to her, no worse for wear. By now the black pickup was out of sight and the dust was settling. Birdie knelt and held me. She looked so scared! Her eyes filled with tears, but just when they were about to flow, she gave her head that angry little shake. Cry, Birdie, cry. It’s all right. But she did not.

  “I didn’t recognize the voice,” Birdie said, “but he hardly spoke and it was over so fast.”

  Sheriff Cannon nodded. We were in his office at the police station, Birdie and I seated on one side of a big desk—Birdie on a chair, me on the floor beside her—and the sheriff on the other. “And you don’t have a physical description?”

  “There was a big cloud of dust.”

  “You mentioned that.” The sheriff rubbed his big square chin. “What you’re describing is attempted kidnapping.”

  Birdie nodded.

  “That’s a serious crime,” the sheriff said, “totally intolerable. So I’m going to ask for all your help.”

  Birdie nodded again.

  “Do you need some time? Recover a bit? Gather your thoughts? Some who’d been through what you’ve alleged—what you’ve been through—would be downright hysterical right now. How about another glass of water?”

  Birdie gave her head that angry shake, just a tiny one this time. “I’m all right,” she said.

  The sheriff gave her a funny look. “Yes,” he said, “I can see that.” He rocked back and forth in his chair. “This hand that grabbed you—anything distinctive about it?”

  “A man’s hand,” Birdie said. “Big.”

  “Uh-huh,” said the sheriff. “Was this man wearing any rings, for example? A watch?”

  “I don’t know,” Birdie said.

  “Uh-huh,” said the sheriff again.

  “But,” said Birdie, “I can describe the car. It was a black pickup with tinted windows.”

  “Get the plate number, by any chance? Even a partial can be a big help.”

  Birdie shook her head.

  “Was it a Louisiana plate?”

  “I don’t remember anything about the plate.”

  “Back to the pickup, then,” said the sheriff. “Make? Model?”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ford F-150, say, or Dodge Ram.”

  “I’m not too good on cars that way,” Birdie said. She leaned forward. “But this one fits into the case perfectly, Sheriff!”

  “What case?”

  “The Black Jack case, of course! Snoozy’s uncle Lem said he saw a black pickup with tinted windows pulling away from our shop just when he came with the crawfish! Don’t you see? It all fits together!”

  The sheriff leaned back in his chair. “Not sure that I do see, Birdie. Not sure we’re on the same page, you and me.”

  Birdie leaned back, too. “I don’t understand.”

  “Have you been leveling with me, Birdie? About Black Jack? About the break-in at Straker’s?”

  Birdie’s lip began to tremble. I hated seeing that! I wondered about the possibility of leaping right over that desk, got the feeling it was doable. And maybe I would have taken a swing at it, but at that moment the sheriff’s door opened and a uniformed cop stuck her head in.

  “Canvassed the whole area, Sheriff. No one saw nothin’. No one heard nothin’.” She went away.

  The sheriff nodded to himself, then turned to Birdie. “If this is all a scheme of your grandma’s—part of some foolish old vendetta—and you’re caught in the middle, then I promise I’ll keep you out of it. But I need the truth, and now.”

  Birdie started to rise, like she was being pulled right out of her chair. “Scheme? Vendetta? I don’t even know what you mean. Are you saying you don’t believe me?”

  “I’d like to,” the sheriff said. “But everyone knows your grandmother’s a bit—let’s say over the top when it comes to the Straker family, and I wouldn’t put anything past her when it comes to—”

  Birdie did a very strange thing. She covered her ears with her hands! And then ran from the room. I ran with her.

  “Birdie!”

  We didn’t stop. We didn’t look back.

  “It’s just the two of us, Bowser,” Birdie said. Wow! Then we were golden!

  She filled my water bowl. This was back in the kitchen at our place on Gentilly Lane, and her hand was shaking.

  “What are we going to do? Should I tell Grammy? She’ll get so upset! Probably march right down to the sheriff’s office. What if he starts up on the vendetta thing? She’ll go wild! But if I don’t tell her, then … oh, Bowser. I need time. Time to think. What if—”

  The phone rang. Birdie picked it up.

  “Uh, hi, Grammy.” She listened. “No, I’m fine. Maybe … maybe I’m just getting a cold.” She listened some more. Her hand left sweat marks on the phone. “What about Bowser? … He’ll be good. I promise.”

  Birdie hung up, turned to me. “Grammy wants help on a swamp tour.” She gave me a look. Oh, no! Was she still scared? And worried and mixed up, on top of that? I had no idea why, just pressed up against her. She patted my back. “You have to be good,” she said.

  No problem at all! I started right then and there by lapping up the whole bowlful of water in record time. Birdie rose, closed her eyes, took a deep breath. We hit the road.

  “You’re going to like this, Bowser.”

  We were walking along the bayou, out behind Gaux Family Fish and Bait, me and Birdie side by side, so I was liking whatever it was already. And if a ham sandwich happened to appear? So much the better!

  “But there are lots of rules in boats, and Grammy’s strict. First, no moving around.”

  No moving around? Boats? None of this was adding up, although there w
ere certainly boats in view, including a small silver one tied up to a rickety-looking dock that stuck out into the water. Grammy stood on the dock, a cooler at her feet, along with a big dude wearing a big straw hat with a bird feather in the band. He looked kind of familiar.

  “Whoa,” said Birdie. “That guy looks kind of familiar.”

  You had to love Birdie. At least, I had to. I was liking a lot of the humans I’d been running into recently—Rory, for example, and Nola, and Mrs. Claymore, and Maybelline, and Grammy, too, of course, who’d said yes in the very beginning—but I loved Birdie. And she loved me! So life was perfect.

  We walked out on the dock. “Better late than never,” said Grammy, looking up. Her eyes narrowed. She gave Birdie a very close look. “You all right, child?”

  “Sure, Grammy.”

  Grammy’s gaze stayed on Birdie for an extra moment or two. “This here’s my granddaughter, Birdie,” she said to the familiar-looking dude. “Birdie, say hi to our customer, Mr…. uh, don’t think I caught your name.”

  “Everyone calls me Donny,” he said, sending a smile our way. “And I’ve already had the pleasure of meeting Birdie—and this, um, amazing dog of hers.”

  “Oh?” said Grammy.

  “We had a quick visit over at the bridge,” Donny said, still with that smile on his face. Yes, the big suntanned dude from the black-and-red boat, Fun ’n Games, the dude with the smiley face down below and the watchful face up above, around the eyes, although that was hard to see at the moment, on account of the shadow under his hat brim. “Didn’t we, Birdie?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Everyone calls me Donny.”

  “Okay,” Birdie said. “Did you catch anything, sir?”

  The smiley part of his face got even smilier. “Nothing worth a mention.”

  Grammy, bending over the cooler, paused. “Where’d you go?”

  “Out in the bay, maybe half a mile south of that red buoy.”

  “Usin’ what for bait?”

  “Spinners.”

  “Hrrmf,” said Grammy. She picked up the cooler. “Now, Donny, you get yourself aboard, take that middle seat.”

  Donny stepped down into the silver boat, turned toward her. “Want to hand me that coo—”