Scents and Sensibility (5 page)

Mr. Parsons smiled. His teeth were very yellow, but his smile was nice. “It's good to be optimistic. Gives you some lift over the years. But it's no help in the end to be a Pollyanna.”

Pollyanna? A new one on me. A perp? Sounded that way, if I was following things right. In which case: heads up, Pollyanna. Hope you look good in orange.

Meanwhile, Bernie was still saying nada.

“It's not just about the legal consequences,” Mr. Parsons went on. “A child is your investment in the future. We have just the one. No one wants their investment wiped out.”

Bernie nodded, a short nod that means he's come to a decision. “I promise,” he said.

Mr. Parsons nodded the same sort of nod. “It was a gift,” he said.

“The saguaro?” said Bernie.

“A thank-you gift.”

“From Billy?”

“A landscaper just drove up. No warning. All paid for, including the planting.”

“What was Billy thanking you for?” Bernie said.

“You may think we're very foolish,” said Mr. Parsons. “A foolish old couple, long past it.”

“How much did you give him?”

Mr. Parsons stared at Bernie for a moment. Then he started laughing. What was funny? I didn't get it. Maybe nothing was funny and tears were on the way again. But that didn't happen this time. Mr. Parsons's laughter wheezed to a stop. “We had to open a home equity line of credit,” he said. “We gave Billy twenty grand. But it's in the form of a loan.”

“Written form?” said Bernie.

“More like a handshake. And a kiss for his mom—he came to the hospital, sat with her for practically the whole afternoon, just holding her hand and talking about long-ago times. Billy remembers polka-dot socks she knit him in kindergarten. Can you imagine?”

Bernie was silent.

“It meant the world to her,” Mr. Parsons said. “I took a picture of the two of them.” He held up his phone so Bernie could see. I saw, too: Mrs. Parsons sitting up in bed, dark patches under her eyes and a big smile on her old face, plus a man leaning in, one arm around her shoulder, and an even bigger smile on his face. He had long fair hair down to his shoulders, and . . . and a small tattoo on one cheek, small but strange, perhaps a snakehead. I could feel how hard Bernie was looking at the picture.

“Did Billy say what the money's for?” he said.

“Why, to get him back on his feet, of course,” said Mr. Parsons.

“Why that specific amount?”

“Accreditation, a cheap car, living expenses—it all added up.”

“What sort of accreditation?”

“Forestry management,” said Mr. Parsons. “Billy's always loved the outdoors. They've got a program down at Rincon City College. Classes start next week.”

“Sounds promising,” Bernie said. “Except for the saguaro. I take it you called him when you went in the house?”

“No answer. I left a message. But shouldn't we be keeping an open mind? What if he bought the thing legitimately from a garden shop? He'd have had no way of knowing it was stolen.”

“We need to hear his side, no question,” Bernie said. “Any idea where he's living?”

“Nowhere permanent at the moment. He's looking for a place in Rincon City. Are . . . are you thinking of going down there, Bernie?”

“If we can't reach him by phone. How about trying again?”

Mr. Parsons took out his phone, tapped at the screen. “Hello, Billy? It's me, your fa—your dad. I'd like to talk to you, son, if you've got a minute or two. Nothing too . . . urgent, but, uh, at your earliest convenience.” He clicked off.

“Can I get that number?” Bernie said. Mr. Parsons read out the number and Bernie wrote it on a scrap of paper. “Does Billy know about me?” he said.

“Know about you? Just that you're a wonderful neighbor—and that includes Chet, too.”

Another no-brainer? And the day was still young: had to be a good sign.

“Does he know what we do for a living?” Bernie said.

“I don't think that ever came—wait a minute. Maybe it did. Was he in the house when Leda dropped off the key? I was outside when she drove up. We talked, I took the key in, and . . .” Mr. Parsons closed his eyes tight, a human thing meaning they're trying hard to remember something. Humans try so hard at all sorts of things! You really have to feel sorry for them sometimes. “And . . . yes, Billy came out of the kitchen.” Mr. Parsons's eyes opened. “He saw Leda's car driving off, made some remark about how fancy it was, and that's when I think I mentioned you were a detective.”

“In the context of Leda's fancy car coming with her second marriage.”

Mr. Parsons smiled. “You're amazing, Bernie. Figuring how things were from just a few random pieces.”

Message to Mr. Parsons: Tell me something I don't know!

“Makes me certain I'm doing the right thing,” Mr. Parsons went on, “although I may not tell Edna on my visit today.”

“The right thing being?” Bernie said.

“Hiring you, of course,” Mr. Parsons said. “To sort out this whole saguaro matter in a way that . . . in the right way.”

“I'd like to do that, Daniel. But money won't be changing hands.”

Whoa! What was that?

“I insist,” Mr. Parsons said.

Bernie? Hello? He's insisting. Wouldn't it actually be rude to—

“No way,” said Bernie. “We won't hear of it and that's that.”

We being? They both turned to me. “What's he barking about?” Mr. Parsons said.

“Probably wants you to slip him another piece of steak,” Bernie said.

No, no, it wasn't that at all. But, funny thing: then it was! What a life!

•  •  •

“Bernie and Chet!” said Mr. Singh, clapping his hands as we entered his shop, pawn brokerage at the front, tiny kitchen hidden by bright-colored hanging cloths at the back. “It's been entirely too long since I've laid eyes on that beautiful timepiece.”

The beautiful timepiece being Bernie's grandfather's watch, our most valuable possession. It lived in two places, either at Mr. Singh's or in the safe at—Whoa! I'd forgotten all about the safe! Eye on the ball, big guy, as Bernie always says, although nose on the ball works better for me. Maybe not for you. But forget all that, because at that very moment Mr. Singh was calling to his wife behind the brightly colored cloths.

“Dhara, would we have any curried goat at hand? Chet is here. And Bernie, of course.”

“Only by reheating,” Mrs. Singh called back. “Which is never as good, no matter what you say.”

“It's really not necessary,” Bernie said.

What did he mean? Reheating wasn't necessary? I was with him on that. Really, who cares? But if he meant—

“Just be patient,” said Mrs. Singh. “I am doctoring up as we speak.”

Now doctors were in the picture? In a cooking situation? I was not in the picture myself. I went closer to the brightly colored cloths and took a sniff or two. Mrs. Singh was the only human on the other side, as I'd thought. So therefore? Oh, no, not a so therefore! So therefores were Bernie's department, me bringing other things to the table. But wouldn't you know? Just when I was at a total loss, the cloths suddenly parted and there was Mrs. Singh—one of my very favorite people in the whole Valley!—laying a plate of curried goat at my feet.

My memories of goings-on at Mr. Singh's pawn brokerage were a bit hazy after that. Did Mr. Singh say something about seeing a watch similar to ours but not as nice going through the roof on
Antiques Roadshow
, and because of that he was now prepared to come across with way more green? Did Bernie tell him that we actually no longer had the watch? Was that followed by a less than happy discussion of our current insurance policy? Maybe, maybe not. All I'm sure of is that after I'd finished licking the plate clean, Bernie said, “If you're in touch with any of your competitors, I'd appreciate an alert.”

“Colleagues, Bernie, not competitors. We are a band of brothers in our little world, and—”

Is there a kind of laugh called a snicker? If so, that was what I heard coming from behind the brightly colored cloths.

“—and I will inform each and every one to be on the lookout.”

They shook hands. I took a last lick of the plate, a long, careful lick, and maybe a few more after that. Do things right: that's one of my core beliefs.

W
e hopped in the Porsche, me in the shotgun seat, Bernie behind the wheel, always our arrangement, with the exception of one time I'd rather forget when we got it reversed. Usually I'm brilliant at forgetting, so why couldn't I forget that particular episode? Don't ask me. Let's drop the whole subject. What to remember is that riding shotgun in the Porsche just happens to be my favorite thing in the whole world. Our ride's been a Porsche ever since the start of the Little Detective Agency, which had to be when I joined up, unless I was missing something. We've had three so far, each one older and more dinged up and nicer than the one before. The first went off a cliff—with Bernie in it!—and the second got blown up with no one in it. The Porsche we had now was two shades of red—and I could make out both, or at least one of them, sort of, no matter what Bernie says about me and red—painted personally by our car guy, Nixon Panero, best mechanic in the Valley and a real good buddy even though we'd put him away for a while. This Porsche also sported martini glass images on the front fenders, a last-minute addition by Nixon that had led to us getting pulled over more often than you might want. But we know most of the highway patrol dudes, and a lot of them have a treat or two somewhere in the cruiser, even a stale old biscuit under the seat, maybe news to you. I'm not fussy.

We zoomed up a ramp, got on the freeway, zipped over to the fast lane. Faster, Bernie, faster! He glanced over at me. “You're in a good mood,” he said.

No doubt about it! And why not? I stuck my head out into the wind, picked up so many smells I didn't know what to do with them!

“Home is the hunter, huh, big guy?”

Wow! We were going hunting? At last, at last, at last! I'd seen hunting on TV many times, been a little envious of those members of the nation within who got to chase after all those ducks and elk and animals I didn't even know the names of, so envious that more than once I might have tried to get in the TV and . . . and do things I'd have regretted later. But the point is we'd never been hunting. Why not? Bernie could shoot dimes out of the air. I'd seen him do it out in the desert, just the two of us. We'd done a lot of that in those strange days after the divorce when Charlie went away to live with Leda. So much fun to watch those dimes spinning in the sunshine and then
ping! ping! ping!
and they'd spark out into the blue. There's all kinds of beauty in life. Was that why we shot dimes out of the air, for beauty? I didn't know. One day it just stopped, stopped with a last dime still spinning in the air, untouched and unfired on, and Bernie tucking the .38 Special in his belt and turning away. Maybe not the happiest of days, totally unlike today because today we were finally going hunting! At last, at last, at last!

“Chet! What's getting into you? Knock it off!”

Getting into me? Hunting, of course.

“I mean it—back on your own seat or you're not coming. I can't see a damn thing.”

So what? We could find our way by my nose alone! Whoa, Chet. Not a good thought. We were a team, me and Bernie, meaning Bernie needed to see, if that's what he thought best. I got back on my own seat pronto, sat up tall and absolutely silent, silent to you, anyway. It takes real good hearing to pick up the sound of my heart, thump thump thumping in my chest.

Quiet and silent, but so much was going on in my mind, all of it about hunting, of course. Were mountain lions a possibility? I'd had an encounter with a mountain lion once, not good. Bears? I'd dealt with one of them, too. That was the fastest I'd ever run. Had Bernie laughed and laughed at the sight? Oh, yeah, but only when we were making our getaway, burning rubber for miles. Mother bears have a thing about their cubs, something I wouldn't be forgetting anytime soon.

We got off the freeway, drove through a neighborhood with lots of construction going on, slowed down. What sort of hunting ground was this? I started to ramp down my expectations—pretty much the hardest thing to do in life—from mountain lions and bears to squirrels and chipmunks. Would I be able to get excited at hunting chipmunks? Squirrels, maybe. Then it hit me we weren't even carrying! Bernie must have left our stopper behind. I can smell a gun even if it hasn't been fired or cleaned in a long time, and we were gunless, end of story. I know my job, amigo. But how could we hunt without a weapon?

Worries had pretty much taken over my mind by the time we came to a construction site at the end of a street, one of those big holes in the ground surrounded by a chain-link fence. Bernie parked and we hopped out, me actually hopping, and Bernie not, maybe on account of his bad leg, the one that got wounded in the war. But he doesn't talk about it, so I really don't know. And once when we were visiting Suzie after not seeing her for some time, he did hop out, possibly meaning he could do it if he wanted. But why would anyone choose not to? That was confusing.

I forgot all about it just like that and followed Bernie to an opening in the fence, followed from in front, just one of my tricks. A dusty pickup stood by the opening, passenger side window cracked open, but not enough for Shooter to squeeze through, which is what he tried doing the moment he spotted us. He barked at me. I barked at him. He barked at me. I—

“Chet!”

We walked along a curving path that led down the hole in the ground, me and Bernie, and there at the bottom stood Ellie Newburg, still dressed in her khaki uniform, now kind of muddy. She wore gloves, and in one of her gloved hands she was holding a frog, kind of greenish with black stripes. At her feet was a small, empty cage. We were hunting frogs? And Ellie had beaten us to it? That was as far as I could go on my own.