Woof Page 9

  “Next,” said Birdie, moving toward the fishing rods displayed on the side wall, “we straighten up all the—” She paused, her eyes on the parking lot. A cruiser was pulling up in front of the store, blue light off, but still—why were cruisers in our lives all of a sudden? It reminded me of the old days, down in the city, and what I wanted were the new days and nothing but.

  The sheriff got out of the car, a black briefcase under his arm. He hitched up his pants and walked toward the door. Birdie’s heart started up again. I edged a little closer to her.

  GOOD MORNING, BIRDIE,” THE SHERIFF said, coming inside.

  “Um, hi, Mr. Can—hi, Sheriff,” Birdie said. “My grandma’s not here yet. Won’t be in till nine thirty.”

  “That’s all right,” the sheriff said. “Just swung by to say hello.”

  “You did?”

  “And to take another look at Bowser, here. I understand he made quite a splash over at my place yesterday afternoon.”

  “Splash?” Birdie said, her voice suddenly sounding kind of feeble.

  “An impression,” said the sheriff. “Sugarplum’s pretty much been sleeping ever since.”

  “Oh, good,” Birdie said.

  The sheriff’s smile broadened. You see all sorts of teeth in the human mouth—big, little, white, yellow, brown, nicely shaped, chipped, broken, metallic, or sometimes none at all. The sheriff’s were on the biggish side and very white, although I mean biggish for a human; in fact, Sugarplum’s teeth were probably bigger than his, and as for mine, don’t even ask.

  “Good in what way?” he said.

  Sometimes human faces—the female ones especially—go a bit red. That happened now to Birdie. “Uh, you know, getting her rest, that kind of thing.”

  “And dogs seem to need a lot of it,” the sheriff said. “How did Bowser do last night?”

  “Last night?”

  “Do you always answer questions with a question?” the sheriff said.

  “Why do you ask?” said Birdie.

  The sheriff went very still. His face darkened and for a moment I thought trouble was on the way, big-time. My teeth got the feeling I might have mentioned that comes over them when biting may be called for. Then he threw back his head and started laughing, loud, booming laughter that … that actually made me want to bite him even more. That was bad, I know. Biting humans was bad to begin with, except when you had to—supposing Birdie needed protection, for example—and why would you bite a happy human? Weren’t laughing humans the happiest kind? So biting the sheriff was off the table, at least for now.

  “Oh, my,” the sheriff said, wiping his eyes. “Got me with a good one.” He shook his head. “Rory doesn’t have a prayer.”

  “A prayer at what?” Birdie said. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

  That set off more laughter, a sort of mini version of the first round. “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing at all. But wasn’t last night Bowser’s first at your place? That’s why I asked how he did.”

  “Oh,” said Birdie. “Fine.”

  “Yeah?” said the sheriff, no longer laughing or even smiling. “Slept right through, did he?”

  “He …” Birdie gazed at the floor. “I think he likes it at our place.”

  Were they talking about me? Me and liking the place at the end of Gentilly Lane? I loved it! My plan was to live there forever. Want a reason? Boudin for breakfast. Want another one, even better? Birdie. Yes, Birdie was even better than boudin, something I never dreamed I’d be thinking about any human. So everything should have been going smoothly right now, but judging from how the sheriff was looking at Birdie and how she was doing anything but look at him, it was not.

  “I’m sure he does,” the sheriff said. He glanced around the shop. “Everything all right when you opened up today?”

  “Yeah,” Birdie said.

  “No sign of more trouble is what I meant. Nothing else missing?”

  “No,” Birdie said, her voice rising slightly. “And—and if you’re talking about a treasure map, Grammy says it’s just a stupid pipe dream!”

  “Those her words or yours?” the sheriff said.

  “Hers. But I believe her—so they can be mine, too.”

  The sheriff took a notebook from his pocket, wrote something down. “I’m inclined to agree with you,” he said. “With both of you. There was a development last night that puts a new light on things.”

  “A development? Have you found Black Jack?”

  “Afraid not. This was the complicating type of development. Fact is, we had a break-in last night over at Straker’s Emporium.” He gazed down at her.

  And this time she gazed right back up at him, except for maybe a bit too much blinking. “Oh,” she said. The kid was off the charts, although I wasn’t sure why I was having that thought at this particular moment. As for break-ins at Straker’s place last night, I was pretty sure I’d been there myself and remembered nothing I’d call a break-in. Birdie and I had hung out for a while and then Stevie Straker and a couple of pals had paid a visit, but wasn’t Stevie old man Straker’s boy, meaning he had every right to be there? The poor sheriff—a nice enough dude, but he was headed down the wrong road.

  “Ever hear the expression ‘MO’?” the sheriff said.

  “No.”

  “Means way of operating. The MO on last night’s break-in is different from what happened here yesterday, and it looks like nothing got taken, but the fact that our only two fishing businesses become crime scenes on the very same day doesn’t feel like a coincidence to me.”

  “How come it’s a crime scene if nothing got taken?” Birdie said.

  “We’re not a hundred percent sure nothing got taken—Mr. Straker’s still conducting a search. A very meticulous search. But breaking and entering is a crime by itself even if nothing is taken, and the evidence of the break-in is beyond doubt. The perpetrator or perpetrators broke a window and left glass all over the place.”

  That last part about a broken window and glass all over the place awoke a faint memory in my mind. It grew fainter and fainter and then vanished, I hoped forever.

  “Oh,” said Birdie.

  “So bring your grandma into the loop on this and tell her to get in touch if she’s got any questions,” the sheriff said.

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t want to alarm anyone, but until we make an arrest it’s important for you folks and Mr. Straker to be alert to any potential threat. Within sensible limits, of course. I’m not too happy about the fact that Mr. Straker seems to be packing a .45 inside the store.”

  “Um,” said Birdie.

  “Nothing I can do—permit’s in order, he’s got every right. I wish …” The sheriff went quiet. “Just don’t want your grandma to get too wound up about this.”

  “She doesn’t have a .45,” Birdie said.

  “Small mercies,” said the sheriff. “Mr. Straker’s what they call a piece of work.”

  “I don’t really know him.”

  “Totally understandable—how many adults are actually interesting to kids, when you come right down to it? On the other hand, he seems to have taken an interest in you.”

  Birdie seemed to tip backward a bit. “He has?”

  “Some story about yesterday afternoon. Apparently, he thought a kid was spying on him from the old town side of the bayou and—”

  “I wasn’t spying! I was taking Bowser for a walk!”

  That was me! And I remembered that walk. Whatever this was about, I had Birdie’s back.

  “Thought as much,” said the sheriff with a smile. “Some of our citizens are a little on the touchy side. Thanks for your time, Birdie.” He turned to go, took a step or two, and stopped. “Almost forgot.” The sheriff opened his briefcase, fished around inside. “Did I say the only sign of a break-in was the broken window? That might not be the whole story. Now where in heck did I put the … Ah, here we go.” And from the briefcase, he drew out a flip-flop, a kind of familiar-looking flip-flop, the polka-dot pat
tern being somewhat unusual in my experience. The sheriff held it up so Birdie could take a good look.

  She took a good look. The fear smell rose off her, came to me in waves, but her face stayed pretty normal, and her voice sounded pretty normal, too, if not quite as strong as usual. “A flip-flop,” she said.

  “Exactly,” said the sheriff. “Size six, meaning a small person or a kid. As for the polka-dot pattern, would that be something a boy or a man would choose?”

  He went silent. The silence seemed to put on weight, if that makes sense. At last Birdie spoke. “I don’t know.”

  The sheriff smiled, or at least showed those big white teeth, his eyes not joining in. “Me neither,” he said. “Plus there’s nothing to indicate that the perp left it behind—any customer might have forgotten it there and not noticed. Boating types tend to have tough soles on their feet, wouldn’t necessarily miss a flip-flop. But for the moment, it’s all we’ve got.” He glanced down at Birdie’s feet. She was wearing sneakers, silver with blue laces. “Familiar with the Cinderella story, Birdie?”

  “Where the pumpkin turns into a golden carriage?”

  “I was thinking more of the glass slipper part,” the sheriff said. “I wonder who has the matching polka-dot flip-flop?”

  Birdie shrugged. Another silence. This time Birdie did nothing to end it, just stood there while the sheriff watched her and she looked at the wall.

  “Only a fairy tale, of course,” the sheriff said, putting the flip-flop back in the briefcase. “Kind of a long shot, but if you see anyone sporting a single polka-dot flip-flop, let me know.”

  Birdie nodded.

  “Also, feel free to drop in anytime.”

  “To the station?”

  He laughed, a laugh that made Birdie’s face redden again. “I meant at home. Be nice for Sugarplum to have a buddy.” The sheriff touched the brim of his hat and left the store.

  Birdie didn’t move until the sheriff had gotten into the cruiser and driven out of sight. Then she turned to me. “Oh, Bowser, what are we going to do?”

  About what? I had no idea. As for taking action, the only idea that occurred to me was to sit on Birdie’s feet, which was what I did.

  She put her hand on my head. I felt it tremble. “Does he think it was me? Or does he know it was me, and he’s just playing cat and mouse?”

  Whoa! I’d seen that particular game more than once in my life and wanted no part of it. There was one good sign, namely the complete absence of cat or mouse smell coming off the sheriff. He carried Sugarplum’s scent big-time, bad enough, yes, but nothing like the complete horror of cat and mouse, which never ends well for one of the parties in the game. I’m sure you know which.

  “And that’s not all,” Birdie said. “What about Solange? Does Nola know what she’s up to? If she doesn’t, is it up to me to tell her? Which would make me a rat, correct? But Solange isn’t my friend, Nola is. And Solange called me a snotnose, if you recall.” She paused, and when she continued her voice was softer. “You hardly ever get to hear what people really think of you. Am I a snotnose?”

  I shifted my head slightly, studied Birdie’s nose. Was it the best human nose I’d ever seen? No question about that: not too big, not too small, beautifully shaped, slightly reddened by the sun. As for snot, I saw absolutely none, although I smelled a little. Every single human smells of snot—some way, way more than others. That’s just how they roll. Much more disturbing was this news of rat involvement to go along with cats and mice. Things were getting complicated.

  “Plus there’s old man Straker and his stupid .45. Did you see how relieved the sheriff was when I told him Grammy didn’t have one? Like old man Straker and Grammy are gearing up for a shoot-out one day. It’s almost funny. Except it’s not. And what about my evidence?” She took a baggie from the pocket of her shorts. Inside were two cigar butts, both with gold labels. “Doesn’t it mean old man Straker’s the thief? But how do I tell the sheriff without him knowing I’m a breaker-inner myself?”

  So hard to follow all this! Or any of it, really. My takeaway: Something was bothering Birdie.

  “But the worst part?” she said. “I was spying on old man Straker. Meaning I flat-out lied to the sheriff. I was so mad I almost believed the lie myself. But now it gives me a real bad feeling in my stom—”

  The door opened and in came Grammy. “What was that?” she said.

  “Nothing,” said Birdie, turning toward her real quick. “Just talking to Bowser.”

  “Hrrmf,” said Grammy.

  “Grammy? What’s that on your wrist?”

  Grammy glanced at her wrist. “Nothing.”

  “It looks like one of those hospital wristbands.”

  Grammy went over to a display case, took out a knife, sliced off the wristband. “Routine testing, of no interest to nobody,” she said. “Any customers yet?”

  “Not exactly,” Birdie said. “Sheriff Cannon dropped by.”

  “Has he found Black Jack?” Grammy said, starting to sound excited.

  “Not exactly.”

  “Stop saying ‘not exactly,’ child! What happened?”

  “Um, well …” Birdie’s gaze went to Grammy, then to the cutoff wristband on the display case. “It looks like there was a break-in at old man Straker’s place, too.”

  That was the beginning of a long back-and-forth, in which I lost interest until Grammy’s voice suddenly rose and she said, “Packing a .45, huh? Two can play that game.”

  “What do you mean, Grammy?” Birdie said.

  Grammy marched across the floor, through a doorway, and into a small office at the back of the store, Birdie and I right behind her, with me possibly out in front by the end. Grammy unlocked a file cabinet drawer and took out a gun.

  “Grammy? What’s that?”

  “.38 Smith and Wesson revolver,” Grammy said. “Also known as a police special.”

  “I didn’t know you had a gun. I don’t think—”

  “It’s not mine. Belonged to … to your daddy. I kept it after he … after …” The gun shook a little in her hand.

  “Was that a good idea?” Birdie said.

  “Why not?”

  “Well, Grammy, do you have a permit, for example?”

  “Not exactly,” said Grammy.

  “Then?”

  “Then what?”

  “Maybe it should go back in the file cabinet.”

  “You telling me what to do?”

  “No, Grammy.”

  Her voice rose to a shout. “Because that’s not how it works.” The room went extra quiet, which often happens after a loud noise passes through. Grammy looked down at the gun in her hand, still not steady, and seemed a bit surprised to see it there, kind of a crazy thought on my part. She put it back in the file cabinet and locked the drawer. “Thanks for opening up,” she said, her voice now very soft and wavery. “Now go on home.”

  One thing I’d already noticed about this town, St. Roch, if I had my facts right: There were a lot of run-down pickups on the road. As Birdie and I crossed the parking lot, the most run-down one I’d seen yet pulled up at the front of the store, Snoozy at the wheel and an older dude rocking a frayed gray ponytail in the passenger seat. They got out, the ponytail dude walking with a limp.

  “Hey, Birdie,” said Snoozy.

  “Hey,” said Birdie.

  “You know my uncle Lem? Lem LaChance, Birdie Gaux.”

  “Hey.”

  “Hey.”

  Snoozy’s gaze shifted toward the store. “She in?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “In a good … like, frame of mind?”

  “Depends.”

  “What I thought,” Snoozy said. “Uncle Lem here’s got another bag of crawfish to sell.”

  The ponytail dude lifted a burlap bag full of wriggling creatures out of the pickup bed. “Caught fresh this mornin’,” said Lem. I smelled the crawfish, smelled the bayou, also smelled the booze on Lem’s breath. What an interesting mix! Life was good.
/>   “I’ve got an idea,” Birdie said.

  “Shoot,” said Snoozy.

  “How about you buying the crawfish?”

  “Me? Buying the crawfish offa my own uncle Lem?”

  “And then giving them to Grammy, free of charge.”

  Snoozy and his uncle Lem looked amazed. The look faded first from Snoozy’s face. “Think I see where you’re goin’ with this.” He turned to Lem. “Gimme.”

  “Let’s see some green.”

  “I’ll owe you.”

  “Owe me? Think I was born yesterday? Cash on the barrelhead, that’s my philosophy of—”

  Snoozy grabbed the burlap bag of crawfish right out of Lem’s hands and hurried toward the door. Lem called him a name or two I’m sure he didn’t mean, then looked down at Birdie. “Excuse my language.”

  “No problem,” Birdie said. “But speaking of yesterday …”

  LEM LACHANCE WAS A PRETTY BIG DUDE, although of the lumpy, gut-sagging type. Birdie was small and thin, yet somehow she seemed to have him backed up against the battered pickup. Was it because his eyes were red rimmed and crusty at the edges and hers were as clear as the blue sky? That made no sense to me. So why did I even think it?

  “Yesterday, huh?” Lem said. “That woulda been Tuesday.”

  “Wednesday,” said Birdie.

  “Hmm. What happened to Tuesday?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Birdie said. “It’s about those crawfish you sold us.”

  “I sold you crawfish?”

  “Snoozy was alone in the store at the time. You sold them to him.”

  “Right, right, it’s all coming back to me. Crawfish, yeah. Totally fresh every morning. Got my traps set in the best spot in all of Acadiana. Hope you’re not askin’ where, ’cause I’ll go to my grave.”

  “I’m more interested in Black Jack.”

  Lem blinked. “The fish?”

  “Yes,” said Birdie. “The prize marlin caught by my great-granddad when he came back from the war.”

  “It got stolen?”