Smells Like Dog (17 page)

The patrol car sped away. Madame shook Mr. Dill’s hand. Then she picked up Mr. Pudding’s cap and threw it into the bushes. As she headed back toward the museum, a sinister smile spread across her face. Homer knew, without an inkling of doubt, that danger was heading his way—a high-heeled force that would come between him and his quest. No way was he going to hand over the coin.

He ran back through the Grand Hall. Frantically, he opened his museum map. Lorelei had said that the coin collection was on the third floor. His eyes scanned the index. Cave of Brilliance, third floor. Clutching the map, he charged back up the carpeted stairs. “Come on!” he yelled as he ran past Life on the Edge.

Dog, who’d been engaged in a staring contest with a stuffed narwhal, slid across the glassy floor and followed Homer down the hall. Far below, a door slammed shut and heels clicked across the Grand Hall’s marble floor.

Homer found the door to the stairwell. Not in a million years would he take another elevator. Halfway up, Dog started huffing and puffing so Homer looped his arms under Dog’s middle and heaved him up the last steps. “You gotta stop eating so much,” he grumbled. Then, grabbing Dog’s leash, he stumbled onto the third floor. Homer froze, holding his breath. The elevator stood silent. No clicking heels approached. “Come on,” he whispered.

Charging down the hall, they passed a giant stuffed praying mantis that guarded the entry to World of Insects. Dog whimpered and picked up his pace. A stuffed ostrich stood outside World of Birds. “There it is,” Homer whispered. At the end of the hall, twinkling light beckoned from the mouth of a gigantic cave. Just inside the cave, Homer and Dog skidded to a stop.

It was the stuff of stories and dreams. Row after row of little treasures, each set neatly on black velvet, each protected beneath a lighted glass case. Rubies, sapphires, diamonds, turquoise, amber, and jade. What pirates set sail for, what treasure hunters left home for—glittering, shiny miracles, grown deep in the earth. But there was no time to ogle. A tingling feeling shot up Homer’s legs as he spotted the display at the back of the cave. He led Dog past a wall of geodes and pressed his hands against the back case, his eyes skimming each section—Roman coins, Egyptian coins, and Celtic coins.
Come on, come
on. Where is it?
Greek, Persian, and Mayan coins. Disappointment swept over him. Not a single coin was engraved with a treasure chest or the letters
L.O.S.T.
“It’s got to be here.”

Dog growled. Homer spun around.

Madame la Directeur stood in the cave’s entry. “You won’t find it in there,” she said coldly, gemstone light bouncing off her dark eyes.

“Uh, find what?” Homer asked, moving away from the coins. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His heart skipped a beat as he realized that there was no other way out of the cave.

“You don’t need to pretend, Homer. I know about the coin.”

“What coin?” Homer felt as trapped as a fossil in a rock.

Madame took a step into the cave. “The coin that your uncle cleverly sent to you. I don’t suppose you’d like to give it to me, as a thank-you for inviting you to our little party?”

Homer pressed his lips real tight, not saying a word. Was she insane? Even if the party had been an
actual
party, he wouldn’t give her the coin. No way.

“I can show you where the coin came from.” She raised her eyebrows and took another step. “Isn’t that why you’re here? Wouldn’t you like me to show you?”

Homer thought hard and furious about his choices. He could try to escape but where would he go? He’d come to The City to solve this mystery and so far he’d found a great big nothing. This woman could clearly not be trusted. She’d lied to Gwendolyn, she’d had his father and sister arrested, but she knew what he wanted to know.

He tightened his grip on Dog’s leash. “Okay. Show me.”

G
wendolyn was right,
Homer thought as he followed Madame from the Cave of Brilliance. Madame la Directeur was beautiful. But it wasn’t a warm kind of beauty like Mrs. Pudding’s—the kind that flows from a smiling face and covers everyone like a warm quilt. Madame’s beauty came from an awful lot of makeup and from fancy clothes and jewelry. It was the kind of beauty that is meant to impress upon first glance. Homer wasn’t impressed.

“All that sparkles is not splendid,” Uncle Drake had
often said. “Remember that fool’s gold might look like treasure, but it’s just a worthless chunk of rock.”

At the end of the hall, Madame pushed the elevator button. Homer shook his head and Dog backed away. “We don’t like elevators.”

“We’re going to the first floor,” she said. “So get in.”

“No.” Homer held his chin up and looked her straight in the eye. “We’ll take the stairs.”

Madame clenched her jaw. Her neck and cheeks flushed. “Fine! We’ll take the stairs.”

Upon reaching the first floor, Homer and Dog followed Madame into the Realm of Reptiles. Hot, heavy air greeted them with a smothering hug. A path of Astroturf wound between fake tropical trees. Stuffed pythons, boa constrictors, and cobras dangled from branches, their glass slit eyes watching hungrily. Dog’s coarse back hairs stiffened and a low growl rose in the depths of his throat. “Keep that mongrel away from the exhibits,” Madame said as she led them into the heart of the jungle. “This room is my pride and joy.” She stopped in front of a wall of glass.

Keeping a safe distance between himself and Madame, Homer looked past his own reflection into the frozen eyes of a man dressed in safari gear.
That’s the kind of outfit I need,
he thought, admiring the multipocketed khaki shorts and the crisp khaki shirt.
Uncle Drake used to dress like that.
Homer ran a hand over his corduroy jacket. Too
bad they didn’t carry safari clothes at Walker’s Department Store.

He continued to gaze with envy. The man’s hat was waterproof with a wide brim for sun protection. His trekking boots and extra-thick wool socks provided leech and snake protection. He clutched a pair of Extra Strong Borington Binoculars. Behind the man, a shotgun and rucksack leaned against a field tent. Books and maps were scattered on a small field desk, along with a camera. “Who is he?” Homer asked.

“That is a replica of Dr. Lionel Wortworthy,” Madame said. “The greatest herpetologist who ever lived.”

“Oh. You mean he studied reptiles and amphibians?”

“Precisely. Dr. Wortworthy caught and stuffed every specimen in this room.”

“All of them?” There had to be hundreds of creatures in there, from the tiniest neon red frog to a tree trunk–size yellow anaconda.

“Do you mind?” Madame pointed to the window where Homer had pressed his fingers. Then she removed a handkerchief from her suit pocket and wiped away his fingerprints. From the corner of his eye, Homer saw Dog lift his leg on a stuffed iguana. “I have spent a great deal of time on this exhibit. Everything you see is authentic. Those are Dr. Wortworthy’s actual clothes, that’s his actual tent, and that was his favorite camera.
It’s all real. Except for Dr. Wortworthy, of course. But it’s his true likeness.”

“Who are those guys?” Homer asked, pointing to two faces, half-hidden behind some shrubs at the back of Wortworthy’s exhibit. While pointing, he accidentally dropped Dog’s leash. Dog took off to explore the room.

“Those
guys
are cannibals. That’s how Dr. Wortworthy met his unfortunate demise.”

“Oh.” A terrible image of the doctor sitting in a stewpot filled Homer’s mind.

Madame tossed the handkerchief at a corner garbage can, but missed. Grumbling, she picked it up and stuffed it into the can. Then she gave the can a kick. Then another kick. After a deep breath, she turned back to Homer. “Where was I? Oh yes. Dr. Wortworthy was my father. He spent his life searching for rare and unknown species of reptiles and amphibians. Between expeditions, he’d stop here at the museum and drop off his specimens. Because he was such a prolific collector, his wife, Wilma von Weiner, had a special present made for him.”

“Wilma von Weiner?” Homer said. “She’s one of the most famous treasure hunters ever. She discovered the Lost Temple of the Reptile King.”

Madame curled her upper lip. “If you’re going to interrupt me, then at least tell me something I don’t already know.” She began to pace. “As I was saying, the
special present that Wilma, my mother, presented to my father was a coin—a commemorative coin with the letters
L.O.S.T.
on it.”

“L.O.S.T.?”
Homer cried. Then he tried to hide his excitement by examining his jacket buttons. “Um, you wouldn’t happen to know what those letters stand for? Not that I really care.”

“Of course I know what they stand for.” Madame stopped pacing. “They stand for… uh… they stand for… um… ‘Lots of Stuffed Things.’ Yes, that’s it. ‘Lots of Stuffed Things.’ Because, of course, Dr. Wortworthy stuffed so many things over the years.”

That sure didn’t sound right. And the way she’d hesitated reminded Homer of all the times he’d hesitated, just before lying to Mrs. Peepgrass about paying attention. “No, Mrs. Peepgrass, I wasn’t daydreaming about treasure hunting. I was… um… I was… er… thinking about… fractions and decimals.”

Madame’s story made no sense. If the coin commemorated the stuffing of many things, why would it have a treasure chest on its flip side?

“The coin that my mother gave to my father is the very same coin that you have in your pocket.” Madame stepped closer to Homer. “It belongs to the museum. So if you’ll just turn it over to me, then I can put it back in the exhibit where it belongs.”

“But I don’t…”

She stomped her high heel. “DO NOT lie to me. Drake stole the coin from this museum and then gave it to you. I know it’s in your pocket, inside a matchbook, and I want it now.” She held out her gloved hand.

Homer nearly fell over a stuffed leatherback turtle as he stepped away from Madame’s searing gaze. Why would his uncle steal from a museum when he had spent his entire life trying to find things to donate to museums? And how could Madame know about the matchbook? Gwendolyn knew about the coin but not about the matchbook.

“Is that why you invited me here? Because you think I have your coin?”

“Of course. You don’t really think you’re some sort of VIP, do you?” She snickered. “I was actually hoping that Drake had given you something else, something we’d both been looking for. But I’ll take the coin as a consolation prize.”

Homer fought the instinct to shove his hand in his pocket to protect the coin. He sidestepped around the turtle. “I think I’d better be going.” Where was Dog?

“You’re not going anywhere. Do you want me to call the police and tell them that you are in possession of a stolen object?” Madame strode toward him. “Possessing
a stolen object is a crime in The City—a crime that carries a prison term.”

“Prison?” Beads of sweat broke out on Homer’s forehead. The room’s sweltering temperature and the glowing reptilian eyes were starting to make him feel dizzy. He looked past Madame to the room’s distant corner. Dog had sunk his teeth into a stuffed alligator.

“No one has to know that your uncle was a thief. That can be our little secret.” Madame held out her hand again and wiggled her fingers. “You can come and look at the coin anytime you’d like. You wouldn’t want to deny the public a chance to see it, would you?”

“Uncle Drake would never steal from a museum. He always told me that the purpose of treasure hunting is for the greater good.” Homer whistled, trying to get Dog’s attention. If he made a run for it, he could reach the hallway before Madame. Surely she couldn’t run very fast in those high heels. “Dog,” Homer called. “Come here, Dog.”

“Grrrr.” Dog wrestled the alligator, tipping it over.

Madame la Directeur’s gaze burned into Homer. “Freedom or jail. Take your pick.”

“Um, I need to use the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” Homer turned to leave. “Dog?”

“Grrrr.” An alligator leg flew across the room.

Madame clenched her hands into fists. “Listen, you stupid country bumpkin, that coin is rightfully mine. Hand it over or…”

Dog waddled across the room, a second alligator leg clamped in his mouth. Madame reached down and grabbed Dog’s leash.

“Or you’ll never see your ugly dog again.”

M
adame la Directeur yanked the leash. Dog yelped and dropped the alligator leg. She yanked harder. Dog yelped louder.

“Stop it,” Homer said. “You’re hurting him.”

Madame leaned over, slid her fingers beneath Dog’s collar, and pulled it into a chokehold. Dog whimpered and looked at Homer.
Why is she doing this to me?
his watery eyes asked.

“Stop. Oh, please stop,” Homer cried. “That’s my dog. Please don’t hurt him.”

With a grunt, Madame lifted Dog by his collar. He kicked as his stubby front legs rose off the ground. His long ears swayed as he hung in midair. “The dog or the coin,” Madame demanded. Dog whimpered, struggling to breathe.

“STOP!” Homer lunged at Madame and grabbed one of her arms. His mother had always told him that under NO circumstances was he ever allowed to hit a girl, but what if that girl was choking your dog? He pulled Madame’s arm, trying to loosen her grip, but she was surprisingly strong. He pried at her fingers. Her leg shot out and she kicked Homer’s shin with her pointy high heel. “OW!” As he fell backward, searing pain shot up his leg but it was nothing compared to the agony he felt watching Dog suffocate. Homer shoved his hand into his pocket and held out the matchbook. “TAKE IT!” he cried. “Take it. Just take it.” He threw it at her. She let go of the collar and caught the matchbook in midair. Dog tumbled onto the Astroturf.