Thereby Hangs a Tail Read Free Page A

a croak. “I need more—”
    Knock knock knock.
    Bernie’s other eye opened, this one even redder. “What?” he said. And then: “Who?”
    I barked.
    “Someone’s at the door?” He turned to the bedside clock, maybe a painful movement because he winced and said, “Ow.” Then he squinted at the clock, rubbed his eyes, squinted again. “But it’s only—”
    Knock knock knock knock—and even more knocks. That sharp ratta-tat-tat was driving me crazy, and maybe Bernie, too. He put a hand to his head, rose, leaning sideways slightly as though the room was spinning in the other direction, and staggered into the bathroom. Then came peeing sounds—which reminded me I had to go too, in fact, pretty soon—running-water sounds, and the interesting clitter-clatter that happens when a bottle of pills gets spilled. Not long after that—and meanwhile more knocking, plus Iggy’s muffled yipping—Bernie emerged wearing his polka-dot bathrobe, face scrubbed and hair combed, except for a small stick-out hornlike thing on one side, not very noticeable. Then, holding the robe together with one hand—the belt, I remembered, had been part of a fun tug-of-war game we’d played on Charlie’s last visit, me, Charlie, and Bernie ending up in a heap on the floor (but I had the belt, meaning I was the winner, right? Wasn’t that the point of tug-of-war?)—then—where was I?—oh, yeah: Bernie moved toward the front door.
    Knock knock knock. “Christ Almighty,” Bernie said. “I’m coming.” He turned the knob and pulled—maybe more forcefully than he’d intended—flinging the door open; Bernie lost his grip and the knob thumped hard against the wall. At the same time, he also lost his grip on the polka-dot robe, which fell open.
    The blond woman’s eyes, pale green, I thought, but don’t take my word for it—Bernie says I’m not too good with colors— dipped down, widened very slightly, then rose up and took in Bernie’s face, her eyes now narrowing fast. “Perhaps I’ve made a mistake,” she said. Once on the Discovery Channel Bernie and I watched a show about polar bears—hoo, boy—and there’d been this picture of a long, pointy icicle, slowly dripping. No icicles in the Valley, of course, but for some reason, the sound of the blond woman’s voice made me think of that picture. Funny how the mind works.
    Meanwhile, Bernie was blinking and saying, “Um.”
    “I was looking for a private detective named Bernie Little,” the woman said.
    “Bingo,” said Bernie.
    “I beg your pardon?” the woman said.
    “Meaning you found him. Me. I’m Bernie Little. And this”— he turned and gestured at me, polka-dot robe opening again, but only for a moment—“is Chet.” She gave me a look, actually quite a careful one. My tail started wagging. “What can I do for you?” Bernie said.
    “I’m Adelina Borghese,” the woman said.
    “Pleased to meet you,” said Bernie, extending his hand. Adelina Borghese’s hand remained at her side.
    “Didn’t that policeman mention me?” she said. “I thought this was all set up.”
    “Ah,” said Bernie. “The client with the ridic—” He stopped himself. “Uh, come in. Please. The office is—” He motioned down the hall. Adelina’s gaze followed the movement, paused on a pair of boxers lying on the floor. Bernie noticed. “Um, on vacation,” he said. “The maid.”
    We had a maid? So many things I liked about Bernie, and that was just one of them: you learned something new every day. But no time to think about that now. I bolted outside, raced to the rock at the end of the driveway, and lifted my leg. At the same time, I heard that yip-yip-yip, and, leg still up, turned my head— I can turn it practically right around backward if I have to—and there was Iggy at his window. Good to see Iggy, but—uh-oh, what was that? He was lifting his leg, too.
    Not long after, we were sitting in the office—Adelina Borghese in one of the client chairs, Bernie