Smells Like Dog (13 page)

The elevator lurched to a stop. Button eighteen lit up. Fluorescent light bled across the elevator ceiling as the doors slid open. “Remember my card,” Mr. Dill said. “If you should need it.” He stepped out but before Homer could escape, the doors smacked shut.

“Wait!” Homer cried. The elevator shook violently. Homer dropped the catalog and slid to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Dog’s trembling middle. His mouth said, “We’ll be okay,” but his brain said,
We’re going to die!

Treasure hunters die all the time—it’s one of the job’s main hazards. Other hazards include losing a limb, catching an exotic rash, and being rejected by your family and friends because they think you’re weird. But dying is the biggest hazard because if you’re dead, well, then you’re dead.

It’s a well-known fact that treasure hunters rarely die in normal ways, say from a long illness or old age. Millicent Smith died in a fire. Sir Richard got sat on by his elephant. Rumpold Smeller walked the plank. Drake Pudding was eaten by a giant tortoise. But no treasure hunter, as far as Homer knew, had been killed by an elevator. It seemed unfair that his death would come on the very first day of his quest. Before he’d found a single piece of treasure.

He tightened his grip around Dog as the elevator rose
higher. All the grinding, lurching, and jolting made him feel like he might throw up. Dog panted miserably. The cable shrieked. “Hold on,” Homer said, squeezing his eyes shut. “We’re almost there.” The elevator rocked back and forth, convulsed a few times, then stopped moving. All was still. The music paused. Button thirty-two lit up. Then the elevator made a pleasant
ding
sound, as if it were the nicest, most civilized elevator in the world, and the doors slid open.

Stumbling over each other, Homer and Dog made their escape.

Never in his twelve years had Homer Winslow Pudding been so happy to stand on solid ground. As his stomach settled he took a long look around the thirty-second floor’s reception room. The door at the far end had a sign:
NO ENTRY. PRIVATE OFFICE
. Two massive gold-framed portraits hung on each side of the door. The first was of an old man in a powdered wig and black robe.
CONSTANTINE SNOOTY
. The other was of the same old man in the same powdered wig and black robe.
THERMOPOLIE SNOOTY
.

On the other side of the room sat a vacant desk with a sign:
RING BUZZER FOR ASSISTANCE
. So he rang.

No one came to assist. Homer shuffled nervously in front of the desk. He picked up a plaque:
MR. TWADDLE, LEGAL SECRETARY
. It was the same man who had delivered
the letters to the Pudding farm. Homer picked up a framed photograph of Mr. Twaddle in flowered swim trunks, holding a coconut drink. “Remember this guy?” Homer asked, showing Dog the photo.

Dog stood on his hind legs and scratched at Homer’s jacket pocket. “Urrrr.” He scratched again.

“You want this?” Homer took out the heart-shaped brooch. Dog dropped to the floor and wagged his tail. “Well, I guess you can have it. You’re the one who found it.” Homer tucked the end of the rusty pin safely into its clamp, then gave the brooch to Dog. Dog carried it to the other side of the room, dropped it in front of the door marked
NO ENTRY. PRIVATE OFFICE
. Then he sat and stared at the door.

That dog definitely does some weird things,
Homer thought as he rang the bell again. Mr. Twaddle apparently liked going on holiday because there was a photo of him in ski gear and another of him on horseback at a place called the Dude Ranch and another of him on a cruise ship. Homer picked up a photo in which Mr. Twaddle, wearing a pinstriped suit, was posing in front of a bookcase. Something about the photo struck Homer as familiar. He looked closer, his gaze traveling across the bookcase. He gasped. All the books were about treasure hunting!

He reached over and rang the bell. And rang it and rang it and rang it.

“My turn!”

The office door flew open. Dog barked. Startled, Homer dropped the picture. An old man in a powdered wig and black robe pumped his arms madly as he wheeled his wooden wheelchair toward the doorway. Dog barked again, then scrambled to get out of the way.

“It’s not your turn. It’s my turn!” Another old man, also in a powdered wig and black robe, also sitting in a wooden wheelchair, tried to pass the first old man. They looked exactly like their portraits.

“You’ve gone senile. Get out of the way,” said the first old man.

For a moment, the two chairs got stuck in the doorway. Then one of the Snootys hit the other Snooty on the head with an umbrella, gaining a momentary lead. “Ha, ha! I’m going to be first.”

“Oh no you won’t.”

Wigs askew, they rolled across the reception room, beating one another with umbrellas until they came to a screeching stop at Homer’s feet.

“May I help you?” they asked in unison.

The scent of old age, a smell similar to the buttermilk his mom kept on the kitchen counter, crept toward Homer, along with the minty scent of arthritis lotion. He stepped back. “Uh, I’m Homer Pudding. You sent me a letter.”

The first Snooty scowled. “We don’t know anything about letters. Our secretary handles letters.”

“You also sent me this dog.”

The other Snooty stuck out his lower lip. “We don’t know anything about dogs. Our secretary handles dogs.”

“Would you like to sue someone?” the first Snooty asked, his eyes widening.

The other Snooty inched forward. “You could sue the person who made your jacket. It’s quite ugly.”

“Or you could sue my brother for insulting your taste in clothing.”

They turned and glared at each other. “I hate you.”

“I hate you more.”

“Excuse me,” Homer said as the Snootys tried to poke each other’s eyes out. “My uncle Drake died and you sent me a letter saying he had left me this dog.”

They stopped poking and glared at Dog. “That’s the droopiest dog I’ve ever seen.”

“I’ve seen droopier.”

“Are you returning the dog? There’s a five-day limit on returns.”

“No, I’m not returning him.” Homer gave Dog a reassuring look. “I’m not here about the dog. I’m trying to find out where all my uncle’s stuff went. He had lots of equipment and books and maps.”

“Stuff is handled by our secretary, Mr. Twaddle,” they said in unison.

“Where is Mr. Twaddle?”

“On holiday.”

Homer fidgeted. Mr. Twaddle had told Mrs. Pudding that he didn’t know anything about Uncle Drake’s stuff. He’d said all that was left was a pair of shoes and the dog. But all those treasure hunting books in the photo seemed mighty suspicious. “Do you know where my uncle lived? Before he died? He never gave us an address. I could go there and look for myself.”

“Who are you again?” they asked.

“Urrrr.” Carrying the brooch in his mouth, Dog wandered up to the wheelchairs. With a toss of his head, the brooch flew out of his mouth and hit the first Snooty on the nose.

“Ouch!”

The second Snooty pointed his umbrella at Homer. “Your dog has injured my brother, Constantine. Call the courthouse. I’m going to sue your dog.”

They’re crazy,
Homer thought, which was probably why Mr. Twaddle took so many holidays.

“Wait.” Constantine plucked the brooch from his lap and held it in his bony hand. “I can’t believe my eyes. Why, it’s my long-lost brooch. I bought it on the very
day she proclaimed her love. But then it was lost. How I’ve longed for its return.”

“Hmmmph,” snorted his brother. “What a load of nonsense. She never actually proclaimed her love.”

Constantine’s face turned red. “She certainly did. She chose me, not you. And I was going to give her this brooch that very night and tell her that I loved her in return but then it
mysteriously disappeared
.” He leaned over the side of his wheelchair until he was nose to nose with Dog. “Where did you find this?”

“Urrrr.”

“He found it in the flower bed,” Homer said. “Outside the building.”

“In the flower bed?” Constantine Snooty wheeled his chair to the room’s only window. “Young man, open this.” He rapped the windowsill with his umbrella. Homer opened the window. “Now look down and tell me what you see.”

Homer stuck his head out the window. Thirty-two floors was a dizzyingly long distance from the ground. Even the Milkydale Ferris wheel didn’t reach that high. “I see a street, and people, and the flower bed where Dog dug up that brooch.”

“Exactly!” Constantine spun his wheelchair and pointed a trembling finger at his brother. “You threw it out the window, didn’t you, Thermopolie?”

Thermopolie adjusted his powdered wig. “No comment. I have the right to remain silent.”

“I knew it!” Constantine hollered. “You threw it out the window because you were jealous. You wanted her but she wanted me. And we were going to meet that night at Chez Bill’s and I was going to give her the brooch and ask her to marry me. But when I went to get the brooch from my desk it had disappeared. Then I had to fill out the police report and then the elevator broke down and by the time I got to the restaurant she had gone. I never saw her again.” He stomped his feet against the footrest. “I’m going to sue you for ruining my life!”

The Snootys wheeled their chairs, circling each other like wild roosters, their wigs bobbing like head feathers. “I saved your life,” Thermopolie said. “What kind of future would you have with a woman who can’t fit into an elevator or ride on a Ferris wheel?”

Can’t fit into an elevator or ride on a Ferris wheel? Could it be? Had the brooch been meant for the sad woman on the train? As the Snootys raised their umbrellas and took aim at each other’s heads, Homer tried to figure out what to do. Clearly they didn’t care about
his
predicament. If only he could talk to their secretary, Mr. Twaddle. “Excuse me but…”

“I’m going to kill you!”

“Not if I kill you first!”

They charged, umbrellas swinging, eyes bulging, but it was a sudden tremor beneath Homer’s feet that caught his attention. A man had leaped through the open window and landed beside the secretary’s desk. At first Homer didn’t recognize the man’s face because it wasn’t upside down. Black hair hung to his shoulders and a black mustache dipped to his pointed beard. Ajitabh, the cloud man, waved a sword at Homer. “We must talk.”

Homer’s heart jumped into his throat. Though death by sword would look better than death by elevator in the
Encyclopedia of Treasure Hunters,
Homer still clung fiercely to the conviction that he was too young to die.

The Snooty brothers, so busy trying to strangle each other, didn’t notice the intruder. Dog growled. Homer, his legs gone wobbly, backed up until he reached the elevator.

“Homer, there’s no time to waste,” Ajitabh said. “You must come with me.”

Dog circled Ajitabh, barking, but keeping a good distance. Homer punched the elevator button.
Ding.
He couldn’t believe his luck. It hadn’t been called back to the lobby. The doors slid open.

Wa wa la la la la twing twing.

“Dog!” Homer yelled. Ajitabh tried to grab Dog but just as he reached out, the Snooty brothers crashed into him. As Ajitabh struggled to untangle himself from
wheelchairs, flailing limbs, and umbrellas, Homer dove into the elevator and slid across its floor on the Stout and Hefty catalog. He crashed into the back wall, then scrambled to his feet. “DOG!” he cried. Dog barreled in. Homer punched the
LOBBY
button. “Come on, close, close, close!”

“I admit it!” Thermopolie cried. “I threw the brooch out the window.”

“I knew it!” Constantine hollered. “Prepare to die!”

“Homer, wait!” Ajitabh pushed the wheelchairs aside. “I need to talk to you.”

Please close, please close, please close
. Homer punched
LOBBY
again.

“Homer, I know about the coin. Homer…” Ajitabh called, reaching out.

The elevator doors closed.

H
omer and Dog ran down the crowded sidewalk, confused and frightened, bouncing off pedestrians like pinballs. There’d been no time to put on Dog’s leash. No time to stop and ask for directions. That cloud man could swoop down at any moment. How did he know about the coin? Would he keep trying to kill Homer unless Homer handed it over? Which way was the Museum of Natural History?

“Look where you’re going,” a lady snapped.

“Watch out,” a man said as Dog galloped between his legs.

“Sorry,” Homer called out for the hundredth time. He had to find Gwendolyn. She’d never believe him. She’d roll her eyes and say,
I don’t want to hear one of your stupid stories, Homer.
But she had to believe him. Ajitabh was dead serious about getting his hands on the coin.

Dog groaned. He slowed to a trot, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. Homer was tired, too, but that sword had looked really sharp. Gustav Gustavson, the Swedish treasure hunter made famous by his discovery of Aphrodite’s toothbrush, had lost the end of his nose in a sword fight. Homer put a hand over his nose. That must have really hurt.