Woof Page 17

  Or maybe not. Their faces were all telling different stories, none of them particularly cheery, like maybe a big noisy outburst of celebration wasn’t in the wings after all.

  “What’s that?” Rory said.

  The sheriff turned to Birdie. “Any comment?” he said.

  She gave him a quick look, part afraid, part angry. “It’s Black Jack,” she said. “What’s left of him.”

  “That’s the head?” Rory said. “And this is the whatever you call it that marlins have on their backs?”

  “The sail,” Birdie said.

  Rory knelt to touch it. “But—but it’s made of plastic or something. And it’s been painted.”

  “That’s the way it works for saltwater fish,” Birdie said. “They’re too delicate to be preserved.”

  “You seem to know a lot about this,” the sheriff said.

  Birdie didn’t answer him. “Let go, Bowser,” she said.

  I let go. But unless I was missing something, this thing was Black Jack, which was what all the fuss was about. And now here we had Black Jack—found by ol’ Bowser, by the way, a fact that should have been front and center—so shouldn’t this have been the end of fussing?

  Birdie picked up the head part, which had a head-shaped piece of foam inside. Black Jack’s eyes were missing. Birdie poked around in the holes where the eyes had been.

  “Looking for something, Birdie?” said the sheriff.

  Birdie shook her head.

  The sheriff moved closer to her. “I’ll be needing a more serious response than that.”

  Rory’s eyes opened wide. The sun beat down on us. The back of the sheriff’s uniform shirt was sweated right through and clung to his skin.

  “You can start,” the sheriff said, “by explaining how the remains of Black Jack came to be here by the refinery canal.”

  Birdie looked up at him. “But I don’t know.”

  “I need some help here,” the sheriff said. “I can’t very well question Bowser, can I?”

  Me? I was in the picture after all? Although maybe—judging by the tone of the sheriff’s voice, growing less and less pleasant in my ears—not in the good sort of way that ends, for example, with a treat. I moved closer to Birdie, turned and sat on her foot, meaning I now faced the sheriff. I’ve dealt with tough dudes in my life, in case the kind of life I led back in the city isn’t clear yet.

  “I don’t understand,” Birdie said.

  The sheriff squatted down to our level. His face, shiny with sweat, was now quite close to mine. I got a funny feeling in my teeth—actually, a kind of urge, to tell you the truth—and did my very best to keep a lid on things. Is that what I’m good at, keeping a lid on things? You probably have an opinion on that.

  “It’s pretty clear that Bowser has been here before,” the sheriff said. “And it’s just about as clear that he was already familiar with what he found. My guess is he was present when Black Jack was first brought to this spot. What I need to know—” He turned to Rory. “Rory? Go sit in the car.”

  Rory backed away a few steps, halted the moment the sheriff stopped looking at him.

  “What I need to know,” the sheriff said again, turning back to Birdie, “is what happened when you and Bowser were last here.”

  “I’ve never been here before,” Birdie said.

  The sheriff shook his head. “That’s just not good enough, Birdie. You’ve got to trust me to do the right thing. If this was a plot of your grandma’s to get at Mr. Straker in some way, then no one will blame you at all.”

  I felt Birdie trembling behind me. The sheriff’s face got shinier and shinier. At the same time the urge my teeth were feeling was getting stronger and stronger. Something was going to happen, and soon. I gathered my weight under me, the way you do when a powerful spring or leap is in the near future.

  Meanwhile, on account of how my eyes are situated on my face, I could see Birdie without turning my head. Don’t worry—I’m sure your eye setup has advantages, too, none occurring to me at present. The point is I got to see a sight I won’t soon forget, namely Birdie tilting up that little chin of hers, looking right into the sheriff’s eyes, and saying in a voice strong and clear, “Grammy would never ever do a thing like that.”

  The sheriff rose. “Very loyal of you,” he said, “but loyalty can be a double-edged sword. Now I’m going to ask for your cooperation one last time. Telling me the truth is in your best interests, bearing in mind the evidence of those flip-flops and the fact that your dog is not a coyote. I hope you realize this is an important moment in your life. Did you or did you not—”

  “DAD!”

  Rory’s voice rang out, high-pitched and very loud, pretty much a scream. We all whipped around to look at him, standing higher up on the grassy bank.

  “Stop, Dad,” he said, starting to cry. “Just stop.”

  Back in the cruiser, riding toward town, another new seating arrangement: the sheriff and Rory in front, me and Birdie in back, the remains of Black Jack in the trunk. The front seat was better than the back—and I hoped my future was full of front-seat riding—but any seat with Birdie was the best, so … So I actually lost the thread of what I was thinking, and lay down on the seat, my only remaining idea. And what was this down on the floor? A cigar, no doubt about it all. Hey! The kind with the yellow band, which Birdie and I seemed to be running into all the time these days. I stuck my head down, stretched my neck a little, and snapped it up.

  “Bowser?” said Birdie quietly. “What have you got there?”

  She took the cigar from me, gazed at it, and got very pale, all the color draining from her face, with the exception of her lips. Birdie actually looked kind of scary—if you were the type who could be scared—and the way she was staring at the back of the sheriff’s head was pretty scary, too. The next thing I knew I was making a sound that reminded me of whimpering, although there’s no way I would ever whimper, so it must have been something else.

  The sheriff glanced back in the rearview mirror. “Something going on back there?”

  Rory turned back to look. Birdie held up the cigar, even shook it a bit in the sheriff’s direction, like … like it was some kind of weapon.

  “What?” Rory said. “I don’t get it.”

  “This,” said Birdie, “was on the floor.”

  “Dad?” Rory said. “Now you’re smoking, too?”

  “Huh?” said the sheriff. “What the—what are you talking about?” He slowed the car, twisted around, saw the cigar. “Oh, for Pete’s sake. Of course not. Rep from the cigar company was handing those out at the chamber of commerce luncheon last week. Practically everyone in town got one.”

  “Oh,” Rory said.

  “Oh,” said Birdie.

  “But what,” the sheriff said, “did you mean by ‘now you’re smoking, too?’ ”

  “Um,” Rory said.

  “ ‘Too’ meaning another bad thing on my part?” the sheriff said. “On top of being mean to your girl—your friend back there?”

  Rory turned pink, and all the color that had drained from Birdie’s face came rushing back, and then some.

  “Criminals are the mean ones,” the sheriff said. “Not cops.”

  “You think Birdie’s a criminal?” Rory said, his voice rising.

  “Don’t raise your voice to me,” said the sheriff.

  But Rory raised it even more. “Birdie’s no criminal! And anyone who thinks so is stupid!”

  A muscle bulged in the side of the sheriff’s face and he gave Rory a terrible look. You see a look like that and you get ready for something terrible to happen, and happen quick. Instead, the sheriff’s whole body seemed to stiffen like he was caging up something inside, and he dialed the terrible look way down. “I know Birdie’s not pulling the strings, son. The real culprit is the one I’m after.” The rest of the ride—to the parking lot at Gaux Family Fish and Bait—was silent.

  “Wait here,” the sheriff said. He got out, closed the door hard, although you couldn’t c
all it slamming, not quite, and went into the shop. Rory sat in his seat up front, eyes straight ahead.

  “Thanks,” Birdie said.

  Rory didn’t answer right away. The car’s engine made a few small popping sounds. Finally, Rory said, “Guess what.”

  “What?”

  “I think I’ve got another loose tooth.”

  Birdie laughed, a quick, soft laugh, here and gone. Rory laughed the same way. We were back to silence by the time the sheriff returned, climbed into the car, and drove us out of the lot.

  “Snoozy says she’s gone home,” he said. Then he snorted, a sound humans don’t make nearly enough, one of their best. “Snoozy,” he said. “How am I supposed to do my job with characters like him around?” I didn’t know the answer, didn’t even understand the question. All I knew was that despite the fact that he’d turned out to be a snorter, I wasn’t liking the sheriff right now. I had action-packed plans for his future if he ever made Birdie unhappy again.

  We pulled up in front of our place—mine, Birdie, and Grammy’s—on Gentilly Lane, the nicest house in town, if you want my opinion. Have I mentioned the little flower garden to one side of the breezeway? If not, I should have by now. Grammy was on her knees in the garden, digging away with a small scoop.

  “Rory, you—” the sheriff began, but he didn’t finish. We all got out of the car. The sheriff went around to the trunk and opened it.

  Grammy rose, putting one hand on the side of the house to steady herself. “What’s going on?” she said. She wiped her face with the back of her hand, leaving a smear of dirt on her cheek.

  “Good news, Mrs. Gaux,” the sheriff said. “I’ve found Black Jack.”

  Grammy’s face brightened, maybe got a bit too bright. Wasn’t it kind of hot for gardening? She walked toward us, limping a bit, but pretty fast. The sheriff was just starting to lift Black Jack out of the trunk when Grammy came up beside him. She stopped in her tracks and pointed.

  “What’s that?”

  “Why, Black Jack, ma’am,” the sheriff said. “A little worse for wear, maybe, but repairable, don’t you think?”

  Grammy gazed at the remains of Black Jack. Her face lost all expression, became unreadable, at least to me. She turned her back and headed slowly away in the direction she’d come.

  “Mrs. Gaux?”

  “I don’t want the thing.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Keep it. Throw it away. Do whatever you want.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “There’s no meaning,” Grammy said. She glanced at Birdie, standing on the lawn, mouth open. “Come in the house, child.”

  “Uh, just a moment, Mrs. Gaux,” the sheriff said. Somehow Black Jack got loose and sagged out onto the street, the whole sail part separating and getting blown a few steps away by a breeze. “We need to have a talk about your granddaughter.”

  Grammy stopped and turned to him. “What did you say?”

  “Birdie’s conduct in this matter has opened up a whole slew of questions,” the sheriff said.

  Grammy’s voice shook. “My granddaughter’s conduct is no concern of yours.”

  The sheriff’s own voice hardened. “It very much is. There’s a real good chance she’s committed a crime, possibly several.”

  “Are you insane?”

  “Now just a minute. No way you can talk to me like that. I’m cutting you plenty of slack on account of your age—”

  “Dad!”

  “—but there’s a limit. And if you’ve been using Birdie to advance some scheme of your own, then that’s all going to come out. I suggest you cooperate, and stat.”

  Grammy put a hand on her chest. Her voice was suddenly weak. “Using Birdie?” she said, and then toppled over and lay facedown on the lawn.

  SHE’S GOING TO BE FINE, CONSIDERING,” said Dr. Rajatawan, rising from a chair by Grammy’s bed. Grammy lay on her back, eyes closed, softly breathing. “Dehydration plus heat exhaustion. I’m going to put her on an IV overnight, bring those electrolytes up to snuff. Do you know if she’s got ambulance coverage?”

  “Ambulance coverage?” said Birdie. She stood at the other side of Grammy’s bed, one hand resting on the covers. I sat beside Birdie, actually more in front and on her feet, an extremely comfortable position for me, and I like to be comfortable. Rory and the sheriff—who’d picked up Grammy and carried her inside like she weighed nothing—were long gone.

  “We’ll need an ambulance to get her to the hospital,” Dr. Rajatawan said.

  “But can’t you drive her?” Birdie said.

  “In a sensible world, yes. In the world of red tape, no.”

  Grammy spoke. Her voice was quiet, mostly just breath. “No hospital.”

  Dr. Rajatawan scratched his hair. “Well, Mrs. Gaux, it would only be for one night and then—”

  “Out of the question,” Grammy said in this new low and breathy voice of hers. “Hospital’s …” She licked her lips, her tongue all hard and dry. “… for sick people.”

  Dr. Rajatawan looked across the bed at Birdie. “I suppose an in-home IV can be arranged, but someone has to be with her.”

  “That’s me,” Birdie said.

  Dr. Rajatawan shook his head. The human head shake means no. The human head nod means yes. Human looks much better when they’re nodding, if you want my opinion. “I meant an adult. Is there an adult who’d come over for the night?”

  Birdie thought. “Well, there’s Mr. Savoy.”

  “The librarian?” said Dr. Rajatawan. “He’ll do.”

  Grammy’s eyelids trembled but didn’t quite open. Her voice seemed a little stronger. “Why on earth him, child?”

  “Uh,” said Birdie.

  “Get Snoozy, for pity’s sake,” Grammy said. “We’re already paying him.”

  “I don’t know this Snoozy person,” said Dr. Rajatawan. “Is he an adult?”

  “You mean, like, over twenty-one?” Birdie said. “Yeah.”

  We walked Dr. Rajatawan out to his car.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “Your grandmother’s going to be fine.”

  “You said ‘considering’ before. She’ll be fine, considering.”

  Dr. Rajatawan paused and gave Birdie a look. “Considering her health issues.”

  “Health issues?”

  “Certain chronic conditions, more common than not at her age.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Dr. Rajatawan spread his hands. “Organs don’t last forever. What do you know about the heart?”

  “It pumps blood?”

  “Correct. And that blood carries life-giving oxygen to every part of the body. Your grandmother’s heart isn’t doing the job as well as it once did.” He paused. “She hasn’t mentioned this?”

  “No.”

  “In that case, perhaps I shouldn’t have …” He opened his car door. “With those fluids we’ll get her back to normal in no time. That’s all you really have to know.” Dr. Rajatawan sat in the car and drove off.

  “Normal, considering,” said Birdie. All at once she got very pale, as pale as Grammy on the bed. For a horrible moment, I thought she was going to topple over, too! Instead, Birdie sat down kind of hard on the lawn and put her head in her hands. Whimpering started up nearby, not hers, and how could it have been mine? I’m no whimperer. I pushed up against her as close as I could.

  She put her hand on my back, used ol’ Bowser to help stand herself up.

  “Oh, Bowser,” she said. “As long as the sheriff’s after her she’ll never get well.”

  “Dehydrated?” Snoozy said. “I knew it!”

  Birdie opened the door to Grammy’s bedroom and Snoozy looked in. Grammy lay as she had before, on her back, eyes closed, her thin hair spread out on the pillow. A bag of clear liquid hung on a stand beside her, a tube connecting it to her arm.

  “She didn’t have her ice tea today,” Snoozy whispered.

  “Why not?” Birdie whispered back.

  “You know the
way she always has ice tea right at noon, two sugars? She skipped it today.”

  “I get that. But why?”

  “She had that testy look on her face. I was afraid to ask.” He went into the room, sat in the easy chair in the corner. “I’ll be fine right here,” Snoozy said, still whispering. He took a magazine from his back pocket and unfolded it.

  “Ski Magazine?” Birdie said, also still whispering.

  “I’m a subscriber.”

  “I didn’t know you skied.”

  “Me? Freeze my buns off?” Snoozy opened the magazine, smoothed out a page. “I’ve never even seen snow.” He started reading.

  We went back to Birdie’s room. It was late afternoon now, the light turning orange in a way that always makes me a bit uneasy. Previously in my life there’d been nothing I could do about it, but now there was the simple solution of curling up at Birdie’s feet, which I did.

  “It’s all very clear, Bowser.” What great news! “Our job is to make sure Grammy gets better.” She tapped away at the computer.

  “Real estate,” she said after a while. And something about casinos. And maybe Biloxi. It all seemed a bit familiar but no clear picture formed in my mind. I’m fine with that!

  “Something about that picture Mr. Savoy showed us bothered me, Bowser. Can’t put my finger … Okay, here it is.” Her hands went still. She gazed at the screen. I went still myself. It got so quiet in Birdie’s room that I could hear our two hearts beating, mine with that ol’ boom-boom, boom-boom and hers with that lovely pit-pat, pit-pat. And then: “Oh my god! Donny’s standing beside the pickup, Bowser—the same one with the tinted windows. See what this means? Old man Straker was playing golf in Abbeville. Therefore, Donny stole Black Jack.” She snapped the laptop shut. It sounded like thunder to me. I was on my feet in a flash. “So what are we going to do about it?”

  I had no idea, but I’d never been readier. And wouldn’t you know? At that very moment I heard a car door open. I zipped over to the window and looked out.

  “What’s going on?” Birdie said. “Did you hear something?”

  Poor Birdie, but at least she now had me to handle the hearing side of life. She came up behind me, peered over my shoulder. Out on the street a woman was getting out of a taxi. An old woman with orangey hair, clutching a little purse. She went to the driver’s door, had a brief conversation that maybe didn’t go well, and started moving toward the house, stumping along on a walker.