Scents and Sensibility Read online

  “Flora’s having some health issues herself—hasn’t come in three weeks now.”

  “Has anyone else been in the house?”

  “No,” said Mr. Parsons. “Other than . . .” He paused, licked his lips.

  “Other than?” said Bernie.

  Mr. Parsons spread his hands, then brought them together, fingertips up. “Had Billy here for a few days.”

  “Who’s Billy?”

  Mr. Parsons met Bernie’s gaze for a moment, then looked down. “Our son.”

  “You’ve never mentioned a son.”

  “No,” said Mr. Parsons. “He’s been . . . living far away. And we haven’t been . . . how would you put it?”

  “In communication?”

  “I was going to say ‘close.’ But ‘in communication’ is better. We haven’t been in communication for a long time.”

  “None of my business, but has something changed?”

  Mr. Parsons thought about that. “I’ve been asking myself the question—what’s changed? Aside from the obvious, of course.”

  “The obvious?”

  Mr. Parsons opened his mouth to reply, but before he could, someone knocked on the door. A real quiet someone—how could they get so close without me knowing? I went right to the door but didn’t bark. Bernie wouldn’t want me to—I just knew that. And don’t forget it wasn’t my job here at the Parsonses’ house. It was Iggy’s. So why was he trotting down the hall toward the back of the house? That was Iggy: full of surprises.

  Knock knock.

  “Want me to get that?” Bernie said.

  “I’ll handle it,” said Mr. Parsons, maybe a little annoyed, for reasons I didn’t know. He reached for his walker, stumped over to the door, and opened it. On the other side stood a woman in a khaki uniform. She had light hair, blue eyes, white teeth, and other things, too, all adding up to the kind of woman Bernie tended to have trouble with.

  “You the property owner?” she said to Mr. Parsons.

  “That’s right,” he said.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Daniel L. Parsons.”

  She took out a notebook and wrote something down. “I’m Special Investigator Newburg, Department of Agriculture,” she said, flashing a badge. “What can you tell me about the cactus on your front lawn?”

  “It’s a saguaro,” Mr. Parsons said.

  Which I knew to be true, but the answer didn’t seem to please Special Investigator Newburg. “I’m aware of that,” she said. “I’m asking about its provenance, meaning where did you—”

  “I know the meaning of ‘provenance,’ ” Mr. Parsons said, his back straightening and his voice losing some of its wispiness.

  “Then answer the question,” said Special Investigator Newburg.

  “Can we ramp down the attitude?” Bernie said. “Mr. Parsons here is not a criminal.”

  Special Investigator Newburg turned slowly to Bernie. “Who are you?”

  “A friend.”

  Another answer I could see she didn’t like. Her eyebrows kind of went together in the middle, and her mouth opened in that lippy way humans have when something sharp is coming, but then she noticed me and seemed to change. She blinked a couple of times, gave her head a quick shake—the only good thing I’d seen from her so far—then turned back to her notebook.

  “It’s a simple question,” she said. “Where did you get the cactus?”

  “It . . .”

  Mr. Parsons’s hands tightened on the walker, like things had gone wobbly. He licked his lips again, maybe on account of how dry and cracked they were. I licked my own lips. They felt just fine.

  “It just arrived,” Mr. Parsons said.

  “Just arrived?” said Special Investigator Newburg. I wasn’t liking Ms. Newburg as much as I liked most humans, but then I picked up a faint scent coming off her, the scent of a member of the nation within, a member of the nation within who smelled a lot like . . . me. Have I described my scent yet? Hate to slow things down when by now we’ve definitely gotten started, but my scent is pretty important. Scents are not so easy to describe, but this will give you some idea about mine: a mix of old leather, salt and pepper, mink coats—I knew about mink coats on account of Bernie had one, his grandma’s, that he gave to Leda—and a soupçon—a favorite word of Bernie’s, meaning, I think, a tiny drop of soup: in my case, cream of tomato. Plus there’s the faint scent of gator, coming off my collar, but no time to get into that now. The point is I was smelling a member of the nation within who smelled a lot like me, minus the gator part.

  “. . . more or less a gift,” Mr. Parsons was saying.

  “More?” said Newburg. “Less?”

  Mr. Parsons began to tremble a little. He bent over the walker, hanging on harder.

  “A gift,” he said.

  “From who?” said the special investigator.

  There was a long pause. Mr. Parsons glanced at Bernie—who was watching with one of those complicated expressions you sometimes see on his face, complicated expressions that I never understand and wish would go away fast—then gazed down at his feet.

  “Anonymous,” he said.

  “Speak up, please,” said Newburg. “I didn’t catch that.”

  Bernie spoke up, spoke up plenty. “Then there’s something wrong with your hearing. He said ‘anonymous.’ ”

  Wow! Bernie had better hearing than Special Investigator Newburg? Made sense since his ears were bigger than hers—by a lot, actually—but Bernie’s hearing had never been one of our strengths. I got the feeling that the Little Detective Agency was just getting started.

  Special Investigator Newburg gave Bernie a hard look. “If you’re really a friend, you’ll stay out of this.”

  “And what is ‘this,’ exactly?” Bernie said.

  That hard look stayed on Bernie. “How about I show you?” she said. “Then, if you’re a true friend, you’ll persuade Mr.—” She checked her notebook. “—Parsons here to cooperate.”

  After a brief moment of confusion in the doorway, we went outside, first me, then Newburg, Mr. Parsons, and Bernie. Just as Bernie closed the door, Iggy, somewhere back in the house, must have figured out, too late, what was going on. I knew that from the heavy thump against the door, followed by yip-yip-yipping.

  We stood by the saguaro. Special Investigator Newburg took out her phone, held it so Mr. Parsons could see. “Check this out,” she said.

  “I’m not certain what I’m looking at,” said Mr. Parsons.

  “An app we created at the department,” said Newburg.

  “I’ve heard of apps,” said Mr. Parsons, “but can’t say as I truly—”

  “Never mind all that,” Newburg said. “Were you aware that it’s illegal in this state to move or transport a saguaro cactus from public or private land without a permit?”

  “No,” said Mr. Parsons.

  “Ignorance of the law is no excuse.”

  “I know,” said Mr. Parsons. “And that law sounds right to me, now that I think of it.”

  “You don’t have a permit for this one, do you, Mr. Parsons?”

  “No ma’am.”

  “Right answer,” said Newburg. “One hundred percent verifiable—there’s a chip planted in this cactus, and when I open the app and point the phone like this, it fires right up. Like that. See?”

  “I see some numbers,” Mr. Parsons said.

  “Those numbers are GPS coordinates. This particular cactus was dug up out of the desert at 32 degrees 13 minutes 12 seconds north and 110 degrees 32 minutes 28 seconds west, give or take, meaning just east of Rincon City.” Special Investigator Newburg tucked the phone away. “That’s what I’ve got, Mr. Parsons. What have you got?”

  Mr. Parsons licked his cracked lips again. “I don’t know what to say.” He turned to Bernie.

  “Is there any chance,” Bernie said, “the person who gave you the cactus had a permit?”

  “I . . . I don’t know.”

  “How about making a call or two?”
Bernie said.

  “Is there a listing for ‘anonymous’?” said Newburg.

  Which didn’t sound at all friendly to me, but then came a surprise, namely Bernie laughing a quick little laugh. Newburg’s eyebrows rose in surprise and, at least for a moment or two, she didn’t seem so annoyed. Hey! Her eyebrows were kind of like Bernie’s, speaking a language of their own, even though she had way less going on when it came to eyebrow size.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Parsons just stood leaning on his walker, still trembling a bit.

  “Go,” said Newburg, but for the first time a little gently. “Make a call or two.”

  Mr. Parsons made his way back into the house. That left me, Bernie, and Newburg standing by the cactus, meaning there were more than two of us. Two was best, in my opinion, and also as far as I go when it comes to numbers.

  Bernie and Newburg exchanged a glance. I thought of Silent Sammy Cipher, a perp of our acquaintance who spoke to us once and once only. “Whoever talks first is a loser, pal.” You can find Sammy over at Central State Correctional, breaking rocks in the hot sun, and if you can’t get there soon, no problem.

  Bernie, the farthest from a loser you’ll ever see, spoke first. For a moment, I had this picture in my head of Special Investigator Newburg in an orange jumpsuit, no telling why.

  “I know you’re just doing your job,” Bernie said.

  “Spare me,” said Newburg.

  One of Bernie’s techniques—mine, too! No wonder the Little Detective Agency is so successful, other than the finances part, in case I haven’t mentioned the financial part already!—is plowing right along. That’s what he did now, continuing as though Newburg hadn’t said a word. “And it’s an important job. I respect it. I admire it.”

  “Stop already.”

  “But he’s an old man in poor health and his wife’s dying in the hospital.”

  “Everybody has a story.”

  “That’s no reason to tune out.”

  Newburg’s eyes shifted slightly, like she was paying attention to something inside.

  “How about going easy on him?” Bernie went on. “We’ll do whatever we can to help you.”

  “Is that the royal we?”

  “It’s me and Chet here, commoners both.”

  We were commoners? I was just finding that out now? But whatever commoners happened to be, for sure it was something good, if the group included Bernie. So: just one more reason to be in a fine mood, which I was already.

  “Chet’s your dog?” Newburg was saying.

  Bernie nodded. Newburg turned my way. Her head tilted to one side, a sign she was trying to get a different angle on things; we do that, too, where I come from. She seemed about to say something, but at that moment, someone popped up into view in the shotgun seat window of her truck, parked by the side of the road. Did I mention her pickup truck already, all dusty, painted the color of her uniform except for a green and gold shield in on the side? If not, I should have. Don’t be mad. The whole truck thing isn’t really important anyway. The important part was this someone who’d popped up into view. First, he was a member of the nation within. Second, he was just a puppy. After second came a lot more, including the fact that his ears didn’t match, one being white and the other black. Also I’d come upon this little dude before, out in the canyon behind Mesquite Road. We’d even had a playful dustup, if memory serves, which it hardly ever does in my experience.

  He saw me and barked. I should have liked the sound of that bark, on account of how similar to mine it sounded—nowhere near as powerful, of course, hardly seems necessary to throw that in—but for some reason it annoyed me. I barked back at him, sending a clear message. Meanwhile, both Bernie and Newburg were looking from me to the puppy and back again.

  “I’d heard something about a puppy matching that description being loose in the neighborhood,” Bernie said.

  “Shooter is never ‘loose,’ ” said Newburg. “But that shoe most certainly fits someone else in our happy little scene.”

  Shoes were the subject? Bernie wore flip-flops, Special Investigator Newburg boots, and Shooter—if I’d caught the little dude’s name—and I had no need for shoes of any kind. That was as far as I could take it. Meanwhile, all eyes were on me, for some reason. I thought of rolling over and playing dead, a trick I hadn’t performed since my own puppy days.

  THREE

  * * *

  My neighbor,” Special Investigator Newburg said, “had a bitch—since deceased—”

  “Sorry to hear that.”

  “—who got knocked up a while back by a perpetrator unknown.”

  All eyes still on me? That made no sense. Wasn’t a perpetrator something like a perp? That ruled me out—I was the number one enemy of perps here in the Valley, had grabbed so many by the pant leg that I’d lost count! Actually losing count after two, but that wasn’t the point. The point was: Why me? In moments of uncertainty like this, a go-to move that usually works—as you may or may not know—is marking something. The only good marking post around was the big saguaro, which I’d already marked, but now I marked it again. Humans often say you can’t have too much of a good thing—and I’m sure they’re right—but from the looks on their faces as they watched me with one back leg raised, I got the feeling that Bernie and Special Investigator Newburg had forgotten all about that saying, at least temporarily.

  “Shooter being the result?” Bernie said.

  “Correct.”

  “How big was the litter?”

  “Just Shooter. My neighbor was having problems at the time. I took him.”

  Bernie glanced my way. “Any point in a DNA test?”

  “To confirm the obvious?” said Newburg. “I’m not paying.”

  Bernie nodded like that made sense, whatever it was. I finished what I was doing and sat by myself in the Parsonses’ front yard. I would have preferred sitting by Bernie, but . . . but sort of wanted him to call me over. Which he did not. I sat up tall and alert, a total pro. It was all I could think of to do.

  “I didn’t think this could happen,” Bernie said.

  “That’s what they all say,” said Newburg. “You owe me child support.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Bernie said. Newburg didn’t reply, and her face showed nothing, at least to me. “Where do you live?” Bernie said.

  “On Wildheart Way,” said Newburg.

  “That’s the other side of the canyon?”

  “Correct.”

  “And your neighbor?”

  “Down the block from me.”

  Bernie nodded again. “Got a moment?” he said. “I want to show you something.”

  Special Investigator Newburg checked the Parsonses’ door, still closed, then turned toward Shooter. The passenger-side window was cracked open enough for him to stick his muzzle way out, which he was doing. It was the right move, and I’d have done the same. “Okay,” Newburg said.

  We walked over to our place and around to the back gate. Bernie unlocked it and we went inside. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m Bernie Little, by the way.”

  “Ellie,” said Special Investigator Newburg. “I like your fountain,” she added as they shook hands.

  “It’s a swan.”

  Ellie Newburg quickly let go of Bernie’s hand. “I can see that.”

  “A bit abstract,” Bernie said. “This particular rendering, which was why I mentioned it.”

  “It’s not abstract to me,” said Ellie. “And it captures the essence of swans very well, in my opinion.”

  “The essence being?”

  “That beauty can be nasty inside.”

  Then came a silence in which they both quickly looked at each other and quickly looked away. No idea what that was all about. What were we even doing? I had no idea. But it was always nice to be on the patio. No complaints, amigo.

  “I grew up on a lake near Pinetop,” Ellie said. “We had swans out front all the time, so I got to know them.” She pointed her chin at the fountain. “This is what you w
anted me to see?”

  Bernie shook his head. “Check out the gate.”

  “What about it?”

  “The height.”

  He hurried into the house. I stayed where I was. A no-brainer. We had a stranger on the property and security’s my job; also, no-brainers are my favorite kind of brainer. I kept my eye on Ellie. She took a look at the gate, then turned to me.

  “An interesting guy,” she said. “The most interesting guy I’ve come across in some time, matter of fact, but is he nuts?”

  I had no idea who she was talking about, was unable to help.

  She took out her phone. “How about a quick search?” She tapped at the screen, then gazed at it for a few moments. “Well, well,” she said, which was around the time Bernie came back out, and she put the phone away. Or maybe not. All my attention was on Bernie, on account of what he had in his hand, namely a Slim Jim. The day, already off to a rockin’ start, was about to get even better! I couldn’t believe my luck, except that I could. I’ve had a very lucky life, especially after joining up with my partner Bernie.

  “What’s going on?” said Ellie.

  “Just trying to explain what happened here,” Bernie said. “Sit tight, Chet. Ms. Newburg and I are going out for a bit.”

  “Huh?” said Ellie.

  Bernie led her through the gate and then closed it. I sat tight, which I took to mean was all about trotting right over to the gate and pawing at the wood.

  “Chet—cool it.”

  I paused, one paw in the air. They started talking, talking with me not there. That was bothersome.

  “Did you check out the gate?” Bernie said.

  “What about it?”

  “No way under, right?”

  “Not that I can see,” said Ellie.

  “And would you call it high?”

  “Gotta be six and half feet.”

  “Seven,” said Bernie. “I used to let Chet sleep out by himself on nice evenings. Hard to imagine that gate being leapable.”

  “No way.”

  “Exactly my point—a . . . a black swan event, if you see what I mean”

  “I do not,” said Ellie.

  “You will,” Bernie said. Then he called to me: “Hey, Chet. Got a Slim Jim here, big guy. Come and get it.”