Scents and Sensibility (2 page)

“Chet! What do you think you're doing?”

Uh-oh. Possibly standing on my back legs, pawing at the door? Maybe more like clawing into it, somewhat deeply? If that was really happening, I got it under control and pronto. If you'd looked, you'd have seen me standing silent and still beside Bernie, like a good citizen, whatever that happened to be. You'd have thought I'd been like that the whole time. And . . . and hadn't I? Hey! You'd have been right! And me, too! Which made me like you! What a day I was having, and it had hardly begun! It was great to be home.

Stump stump stump.
That was the sound of Mr. Parsons on his walker, stumping toward the door. Stumping mixed with yipping in a way I found quite pleasant. Then came some grunting, the grunting of an old dude bending down to do something, and after that the door opened. Not much, but enough for Iggy to shoot through. Iggy! My best pal. We bounced off each other, Iggy spinning high in the air, and took off for parts unknown—my favorite kind of parts!—ears flat back from the wind we were making with our own speed, knocking over this and that, chasing every living—But no. None of that happened, except Iggy shooting through and bouncing off me. Why? Because Iggy was on a leash. A leash in the house? I'd never heard of such a thing. And even so, it almost didn't matter because the leash slipped from old Mr. Parsons's hand. But Bernie grabbed it, and Iggy came to a sudden halt, hanging in midair for what seemed like the longest time, before thumping back down.

“Uh, sorry to bother you, Daniel,” Bernie said.

“No bother,” said Mr. Parsons. “Nice to see you back. Read a rather hair-raising account of your recent adventures in the Sunday paper.”

“You know how they exaggerate,” Bernie said. “Didn't amount to much.”

“Nice to see you anyhow.”

And it was nice to see old Mr. Parsons. Was he getting skinnier? His shirt, buttoned to the neck, hung kind of loose on him. So did his long pants. His feet were bare, nice broad feet I'd always liked. I was considering giving them a quick lick when he said, “Anything I can do for you?”

“Actually,” Bernie said, getting a tighter grip on the leash, Iggy's stubby legs now churning at top speed, although he was going nowhere, “I was hoping to pick up the key Leda left with you.”

“Sure thing,” Mr. Parsons said. “Come on in.”

We entered the Parsonses' front hall, me first, after a little confusion in the doorway. Bernie tugged Iggy in after him and closed the door. Meanwhile, Mr. Parsons went to a small corner desk and opened the front drawer.

“That's funny,” he said. “I know I put it here.”

M
r. Parsons straightened, scratched his head. That's a human thing for when they're confused. In the nation within—which is what Bernie calls me and my kind—we scratch our heads, too, but only if they're itchy. And wouldn't you know? Seeing Mr. Parsons scratching his head made my own head itchy! So for moment or two we were both scratching away, me and old man Parsons. What a life!

Mr. Parsons—a wisp of his thin white hair now standing up—went through the drawer again. This time he took all the stuff inside and laid it on top of the desk, stuff like papers and pens and a flashlight and—and a tennis ball? I eased my way over there, eased a little quicker when I noticed Iggy easing in the same direction.

“That's funny,” he said again.

“One of the other drawers?” Bernie said.

Mr. Parsons shook his head. “They're for Mrs. Parsons's knitting supplies. Verboten territory.”

“Maybe she's seen it,” Bernie said.

Mr. Parsons picked up a scrap of paper and gazed at it. “Seen what?” he said.

“The key,” said Bernie. “That Leda left with you.”

“Afraid not,” Mr. Parsons said, putting everything back in the drawer.

At the last moment, Iggy made a play for the tennis ball, leaping the highest I'd ever seen him leap. But he just didn't have it in him, poor little guy. As for me, I'd already noticed that the knob on the drawer was kind of big, like a mushroom—don't get me started on mushrooms—with a narrow stem. We'd done lots of work on knobs like that, me and Bernie, work meaning a Slim Jim every time I opened a drawer. In short, I could have that tennis ball anytime I wanted. I'm a good worker.

“. . . back in the hospital before Leda dropped by,” Mr. Parsons was saying. “The docs have got some new procedure they want to try, but she has to get stronger first.” He turned to Bernie, his eyes a bit watery. “How's she going to get stronger in the hospital? Answer me that.”

“I don't know,” Bernie said.

“She hates the hospital,” said Mr. Parsons. “Edna's a free spirit, maybe something hard to spot in an old woman. But she was a cowgirl when I met her—folks had a ranch outside Sierra Vista. Could rope and ride good as any man or better.” Mr. Parsons paused, took a deep breath. On the way out, it turned all wheezy. He put a hand to his chest.

“How about a glass of water?” Bernie said.

“I'm all right,” said Mr. Parsons. “Sorry if I got a bit exercised there. It's just that we . . . we . . .”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Bernie said.

Iggy sat down beside Mr. Parsons's feet, leaned sideways, gave the nearest one a quick lick. What a tongue Iggy had! Enormous, especially considering how runty the rest of him was. Hard to imagine having a better pal than Iggy.

“Nice of you to say so,” said Mr. Parsons. “Couldn't ask for more in a neighbor than you, Bernie.” He glanced down at the desk. “Where the hell is that damn key?”

“Maybe you put it somewhere else.”

“Nope. I remember distinctly. There was a whole thought process. Directly in the top drawer, Danny boy—that's what I said to myself.”

“Could someone else have moved it? A cleaning lady, for example?”

“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.