Scents and Sensibility by Spencer Quinn Read Free Book Online Page B

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—
    â€œChet!”
    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.
    â€œWhat you got there?” Bernie said.
    Ellie glanced at Bernie. Did her eyes—pretty icy, as I recalled—warm up a bit? That was my impression, but I’ve been wrong before. Take the time a perp name of Ticface Fescue jumped off the Rio Arroyo Bridge rather than let me take him gently by the pant leg and close the case. I hadn’t had a clue that was coming. And the next thing I’d known there I was in midair myself! Lucky for me we had water down below, it being monsoon season at the time. I’d ended up grabbing a soggy pant leg, no harm done.
    Meanwhile, Ellie, in answer to I had no idea what, was saying, “Chiricahua leopard frog, Bernie. A mature male of the species.”
    â€œCute little critter,” Bernie said, leaning in closer.
    The frog looked at me. I looked at him. I would never attack a little froggy or harm one in any way, certainly not by biting or anything of that nature. Was pawing at him another story? Could pawing even be called attacking? I thought not. One of my front paws got this feeling that sometimes comes over it where it just has to paw. Just has to! Paws paw! And then my other paw got it, even worse. While they tried to make up their minds who was going to do the actual pawing—uh-oh, we had more than two minds involved here all of a sudden?—I shifted my position a bit, sort of narrowing in. And what was this? Bernie shifted his position, too, kind of blocking me off? Not on purpose, of course: the thought didn’t even occur to me.
    â€œThe question is,” Ellie said, “what’s it doing here?”
    Bernie glanced down at a small puddle at the very bottom of the hole we stood in. Hey! Was it growing a bit? I went over, the mud feeling nice and cool on my foot pads, and licked up some of the water. It looked kind of muddy but tasted terrific.
    â€œDon’t frogs like water?” Bernie said.
    Ellie nodded. “And these leopard frogs also like excavations. But this one’s a good twenty miles from the nearest known leopard frog habitat. The kicker, of course, being that they’re on the endangered list.”
    â€œDidn’t know that was part of your job,” Bernie said.
    â€œThere’s overlap,” said Ellie. “And a lot of calls seem to come my way, who knows why.”
    â€œMaybe because . . .” Bernie stopped himself.
    â€œBecause what?” said Ellie. They exchanged a look, kind of complicated on both sides.
    â€œI mean this in a nice way.”
    â€œUh-oh.”
    Bernie smiled. “You get calls because people can see you’re a bulldog.”
    What a stunner! I know bulldogs, of course. Take Tyke, for example, not a tyke at all but a massive dude with rippling muscles and drool pretty much always streaming from his mouth, a