Scents and Sensibility by Spencer Quinn Read Free Book Online

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!
    â€¢Â Â â€¢Â Â â€¢
    â€œBernie 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.
    â€œDhara, would we have any curried goat at hand? Chet is here. And Bernie, of course.”
    â€œOnly by reheating,” Mrs. Singh called back. “Which is never as good, no matter what you say.”
    â€œIt’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—
    â€œJust 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.”
    â€œColleagues, 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.
    â€œâ€”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.

FIVE
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    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