Spencer Quinn - Tor/Forge Blog

Excerpt: It’s a Wonderful Woof by Spencer Quinn

September 21, 2021September 21, 2021admin

Spencer Quinn’s opens in a new windowIt’s a Wonderful Woof presents a holiday adventure for Chet the dog, “the most lovable narrator in crime fiction” (Boston Globe), and his human partner, PI Bernie Little.

Holiday time in the Valley, and in the holiday spirit—despite the dismal shape of the finances at the Little Detective Agency—Bernie refers a potential client to Victor Klovsky, a fellow private eye. It’s also true that the case—promising lots of online research but little action—doesn’t appeal to Bernie, while it seems perfect for Victor, who is not cut out for rough stuff. But Victor disappears in a rough-stuff way, and when he doesn’t show up at his mom’s to light the Hanukkah candles, she hires Chet and Bernie to find him.

They soon discover that Victor’s client has also vanished. The trail leads to the ruins of a mission called Nuestra Señora de los Saguaros, dating back to the earliest Spanish explorers. Some very dangerous people are interested in the old mission. Does some dusty archive hold the secret of a previously unknown art treasure, possibly buried for centuries? What does the Flight into Egypt—when Mary, Joseph and the baby Jesus fled Herod—have to do with saguaros, the Sonoran desert cactus?

No one is better than Chet at nosing out buried secrets, but before he can, he and Bernie are forced to take flight themselves, chased through a Christmas Eve blizzard by a murderous foe who loves art all too much.

opens in a new windowIt’s a Wonderful Woof will be available on October 19th, 2021. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

The Muertos throw the best Christmas party in the whole Valley. The Valley’s where we live, me and Bernie. It goes on forever in all directions, and is almost certainly in Arizona, based on things I hear from time to time. That’s not important. Is it important that the Muertos are the roughest, toughest biker gang around? Maybe to you, but not to us. The Little Detective Agency deals with the roughest and toughest every day. Little is Bernie’s last name, I’m Chet, pure and simple, and the agency’s just the two of us. Why would we need anyone else? That’s the important part.

The Muertos party takes place in their clubhouse and lasts for several days, but we usually leave before dawn on the first night. It gets pretty noisy what with the motorcycle races up and down the big staircase to the second floor, and a sort of dance on motorcycles to a tune called the hora, I believe, which I knew from a bat mitzvah where I’d come upon a forgotten tray of steak tip canapes, our departure following soon after.

Right now, as we made our way to the door, the hora amped down and Junior Ruiz, president of the Muertos, began zooming around in tight circles on his giant Harley with his wife on his shoulders and his mother on her shoulders. He braked to a stop beside us, revved the engine once or twice, and over its roar yelled, “Wanna climb up on Mama, Bernie?”

“Um,” said Bernie, “I don’t really—”

“Aw come on, Bernie,” Mama called down. “Where’s your sense of fun?”

“Very nice of you, given the history, but—” “History? What history?”

“Didn’t you end up doing eighteen months at Northern State?”

“Turned out as only three on account of overcrowding. Three months I can do in my sleep.”

“Which is actually how it went down, no?” said Junior’s wife.

Mama, up on Junior’s wife’s shoulders, if I haven’t made that clear, gave Junior’s wife a sort of kick in the sides with the heels of her white cowboy boots, like she was on horseback. Junior’s wife did not look like a horse. She actually looked a lot like Mama, except younger and not quite so jiggly.

“Watch your mouth, girl,” Mama said. “And besides, Bernie, I’ll never forget how nicely you busted me—especially the way Chet grabbed my pant leg, so gently.”

Grabbing perps by the pant leg is how we close our cases, me doing the grabbing and Bernie standing by with the cuffs. I checked out Mama’s pants and wouldn’t you know? They were the exact same pants she’d been wearing that day, red leather with golden leather fringes! I remembered the taste of those golden fringes so well! Have you ever noticed how the taste of something—or even the memory of the taste—makes long-ago happenings suddenly pop up in your mind like they were just yesterday? It all came back to me: Mama lighting the fuse, the door blowing off the safe, Mama reaching inside with a lovely look on her face, so excited and alive, which was when we showed up. There’s a lot of fun to be had in this business. A strong breeze started up behind me. In practically no time I figured out it was my tail, feeling tip-top and letting all our Muertos buddies know. I couldn’t wait for . . . for whatever was going to happen after now.

A moment or two later we were out in the street, a dark alley, in fact, and in the sketchiest part of South Pedroia, which is the sketchiest part of town. The sky was dim and pinkish, no moon, no stars, a typical Valley night sky. Bernie glanced back at the door to the clubhouse.

“There’s your holiday spirit, Chet,” Bernie said. “No grudges. Instead—forgiveness. Maybe not standard biker philosophy but isn’t that all the more reason to value it?” I had no idea, didn’t understand the question. But it was about bikers and I understood them very well, so no worries.

“Is forgiving possible without forgetting?” Bernie went on. He smiled at me, a pinkish smile that was a bit scary. “You’re the expert on forgiving. Fill me in.”

Forgiving? A new one on me. I was very familiar with forgetting of course, could forget like you wouldn’t believe. My takeaway? I was a good, good boy.

We turned the corner, which led to another alley, darker and sketchier than the one we’d been on. Our ride—a Porsche, but not the old one that had gone off a cliff, or the other old one that got blown up, but the oldest one of all, with martini glasses painted on the fenders—sat at the end of the block, in a cone of light shining from a rooftop lamp. In between us and it, we had some sort of commotion going on. We picked up the pace and headed toward the action, our MO when it comes to trouble ahead.

At first it looked like this particular commotion was all about two shadows—one big, one small—dancing a choppy kind of dance, but as we closed in we saw it was a real big dude beating up a real little one. The big dude backhanded the tiny dude across the face and the tiny dude went flying. He landed on his back, snatched up a trash can lid and held it like a shield, closing his eyes. Closing his eyes? How was that going to help? The big dude whisked the trash can lid out of his hands and flung it away. Here’s something I’ve noticed: You may be eager for whatever’s coming next, but it’s very hard to predict in this life. For example, who would have guessed that the trash can lid would now be spinning through the air just like a Frisbee! Who could blame himself for what followed? Not me, amigo. I charged after that trash can lid, sprang up, actually too high—I love when that happens—and snagged it on my way back down.

After that I trotted over to Bernie as I always do with a freshly caught Frisbee. Only . . . only a trash can lid is not a Frisbee, and Bernie was not waiting to take it, a happy smile on his face, but was turned the other way, trying to haul the big dude off the tiny one. The big dude didn’t like that. He jumped to his feet, drew back his fist, got ready to launch an enormous roundhouse punch. Oh dear. That was my thought at the moment. Not “oh dear”

on account of Bernie being in trouble and there I was, his partner, standing by with a trash can lid in my mouth—although let me point out that I quickly dropped the trash can lid and got right back to looking like a total pro. But my “oh dear” was more about disappointment at the big guy’s technique. An enormous windup like his meant the fight was already over. Bernie stepped inside and threw that sweet, sweet uppercut. Click! Right on the point of a too-large chin. Not bang or boom, but simply a click, very neat and tidy. Then came the part I love the best, how speedily Bernie’s fist gets back to the starting position, just as speedy as the actual punch or even speedier, in case another uppercut was needed—which would still be a first, in my experience. Meanwhile the big guy’s eyes were rolling up and he was slumping down, one of those interesting sights you see in our line of work. And all at once I understood what humans meant when they said they were having an up and down kind of day! Wow! You could learn so much in this life just by being there.

I trotted over to the big guy and barked, not loudly, simply sending a message. I’m here too, buddy boy. Bernie glanced over at me and now came that happy smile. “Can’t believe you caught that thing,” he said. “One of your very best.”

So I’d done good after all! What a break, just one lucky day after another, starting with the day I’d met Bernie, which was also the same day I’d washed out of K-9 school—and on the very last test, namely leaping, my very best thing! How had that happened? Was a cat somehow involved? I thought so, but the details had grown dim. None of that mattered. We were partners, me and Bernie, case closed. Whoa! Aren’t cases closed with me grabbing the perp by the pant leg? For just a second I had the crazy idea of grabbing Bernie’s! No way I could let that happen, so in order to direct my teeth into something good and useful, I turned to the big dude. Still in dreamland. Was there any point in grabbing his pant leg? Not that I could see. I was a bit confused. My tail drooped. Oh no! I got it back up there, and in no uncertain terms. At that point, Bernie looked down at the tiny dude and this strange confused interlude went pop like a soap bubble. The fun I’ve had chasing those around! But no time for that now.

Bernie bent down, looked closer. “Victor?” he said. “Is that you?”

My goodness! Victor Klovsky, for sure. He had an inky smell you didn’t run into often with humans, except for old ones, and Victor wasn’t old. He had a scruffy beard without a trace of white, a narrow face, now somewhat mashed up, and, behind the thick lenses of his glasses, eyes that were always on the nervous side. Right now the glasses weren’t quite in place, but were kind of twisted and hung off one ear. He’d looked a lot better the last time I’d seen him, at the Great Western Private Eye Convention where Bernie had given the keynote speech. Easy to remember since Victor was one of the few remaining in the audience when Bernie’s speech came to an end. Wait. I take that back. There was still a big big audience. I just happened to spot Victor in the crowd. The point is that Victor is in the same business as we are! Sort of.

“Bernie?” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Right back atcha.” Bernie removed Victor’s glasses, straightened them out, gently replaced them on Victor’s face.

Victor blinked a couple of times and then groaned. It hurt him to blink? You didn’t see that every day. There are a lot of tough guys and gals in our line of work. Victor wasn’t one of them.

“I’m on a case.” Victor sounded a little annoyed. “What else would I be doing?”

“I thought your MO was all about working online and then calling in Valley PD for the heavy lift—um, for the mopping up.” “I’m branching out,” Victor said. He wiped his nose on the back of his hand, saw a faint reddish smear. His eyes opened

wide. “Oh my god—I’m bleeding!”

Bernie peered closer. “It doesn’t actually look too—”

Victor grabbed Bernie’s wrist. The sight of Victor’s small, delicate hand wrapped around—or partly wrapped around—Bernie’s mighty wrist said something to me. I didn’t know what but at the same time knew I would never forget it. Funny how the mind works.

“Bernie! Am I lacerated? Do I need stitches?”

“Don’t know about lacerated,” Bernie said. “I’m not even sure of the definition, but—”

“Lacerate, for god’s sake, from the Latin laceratio, a tearing, rending, mutilation. Bernie! Am I mutilated? Tell me the truth! I can take it!” Victor’s eyes filled with tears.

Bernie glanced around, patted his pockets, ended up ripping off a small strip from the hem of his shirt, the Hawaiian shirt with the surfing cats, my least favorite of Bernie’s Hawaiian shirts. He folded the strip in half and pressed it lightly to the side of Victor’s nose.

“Ouch!” said Victor.

“Just hold it there like that,” Bernie said. “You’re going to be fine.”

Victor placed his hand on a surfing cat, took over the pressing from Bernie. He winced but didn’t say ouch again.

“Who’s your friend?” Bernie said, pointing his chin at the big dude, lying in the alley, chest rising and falling peacefully.

“He’s no friend,” said Victor. “Turns out he’s a dangerous criminal.”

“Want me to cuff him?”

“Hmm,” Victor said. “Hadn’t thought of that. Would it be legal?”

Bernie gave Victor a long look. “I’ll take responsibility. Got cuffs on you?”

“On me? You mean on my person in the here and now? Afraid not. I don’t actually own any. Should I?”

“The plastic kind works fine,” Bernie said. He took a pair of cuffs from his back pocket, flipped the big guy over on his front, got him nice and cuffed in no time. Then he sat down beside Victor, resting his back against the brick wall. I sat, too, but much closer to the big guy.

“Is there a warrant out for him?” Bernie said.

“Oh, definitely. Although I didn’t know that at the time.

Meaning when I took the case. He’s an email scammer, preys mostly on little old ladies. A lot of my business is about tracking down guys like that.”

“So most of your clients are little old ladies?”

“They feel humiliated. It’s an eye-opener for some of them, brings out a sort of hidden ferocity. I’m on eggshells twenty-four seven. But with this guy it turned out the scamming was more of a fill in between jobs. He’s a truck hijacker, liquor trucks especially.”

Bernie shot Victor a sideways glance. “So what are you doing in a place like this with a guy like that?”

“Like I said, I’m branching out. I was planning on bringing him in. There’s a ten-thousand-dollar reward from the state Longhauler’s Association. Nothing to sneeze at.”

And sure enough neither of them sneezed. It turned out I was following this back and forth rather well, a bit of a surprise.

“You were planning to bring him in without cuffs?”

“I confess it slipped my mind.” Victor lowered his voice. “But I’m armed, Bernie.”

“Oh?”

Victor shifted slightly, a movement that made him groan. “Stupid thing got stuck in my back pocket. That’s when the situation began to deteriorate.”

“You have a firearm stuck in your back pocket?” “Duly licensed.”

“Is the safety on?”

“You push it forward for that? Or is it the other way?” “How did you get into this business?” Bernie said.

“I’m a researcher par excellence,” said Victor. “It seemed like a logical extension.”

“Roll over,” Bernie told him. “Slow and easy.” “Huh? What are you trying to do?”

“Clear that weapon from your pocket without killing anyone,” Bernie said.

No worries. It turned out that Victor’s gun was loaded backward, so no one could have gotten killed anyway. Next Victor discovered his phone had no service in this part of town, so Bernie lent him ours to call in. As soon as we heard the sirens, Bernie rose. I rose with him.

“Where are you going?” Victor said. “Home,” said Bernie. “It’s late.”

“But . . . but don’t you want to stay for the denouement?”

Whatever that was about delighted Bernie. A real big laugh just burst out of him. I jumped right up and got my paws on his chest, pretty delighted myself for no reason I could have explained.

“It’s your case,” Bernie said. “Merry Christmas and . . . and . . .” “Get back to doing what I do best?” said Victor.

“Something like that.”

“Good advice,” Victor said. “Taking it a little further, have you ever considered hiring anyone, especially of the information-era type?”

Bernie shook his head.

“Doesn’t it get a bit lonely, working all by yourself?”

“All by myself?” Bernie said. He didn’t get it. Neither did I. The big guy’s eyes fluttered open, checked things out, fluttered closed. Bernie went over to him, crouched down, and spoke quietly in his ear, an ear of what I believe is called the cauliflower type. “Don’t even consider getting up.”

Not long after that we were in the Porsche and headed into what remained of the night, just one of the many things we do best. The sound of the sirens faded down to nothing, but then popped up in another part of town. There’s lots of danger in this world, which was exactly what Bernie had told Ms. Pernick, our accountant, when she asked him to describe our business plan. Ms. Pernick had opened her eyes wide and shook her head, a human combo that comes before they say, “Wow!” Although in this case Ms. Pernick had left it unsaid.

Pre-order a Copy of It’s A Wonderful Woof—available October 19th!

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Lists / What's New

Every Forge Book Coming Fall 2021

August 31, 2021May 6, 2024admin

Fall is almost upon us, which means we have a new season of books coming your way! Don your flannel shirts, grab your spiced drinks, and take a look at what Forge has to offer this fall.

September 7th

opens in a new window opens in a new windowAn Irish Country Welcome by Patrick Taylor

In the close-knit Northern Irish village of Ballybucklebo, it’s said that a new baby brings its own welcome. Young doctor Barry Laverty and his wife Sue are anxiously awaiting their first child, but as the community itself prepares to welcome a new decade, the closing months of the 1960s bring more than a televised moon landing to Barry, his friends, his neighbors, and his patients, including a number of sticky questions.

A fledgling doctor joins the practice as a trainee, but will the very upper-class Sebastian Carson be a good fit for the rough and tumble of Irish country life? And as sectarian tensions rise elsewhere in Ulster, can a Protestant man marry the Catholic woman he dearly loves, despite his father’s opposition? And who exactly is going to win the award for the best dandelion wine at this year’s Harvest Festival?

But while Barry and Dr. Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly and their fellow physicians deal with everything from brain surgery to a tractor accident to a difficult pregnancy, there’s still time to share the comforting joys and pleasures of this very special place: fly-fishing, boat races, and even the town’s very first talent competition!

Now available in paperback!

September 14th

opens in a new window opens in a new windowHer Perfect Life by Hank Phillippi Ryan

Everyone knows Lily Atwood—and that may be her biggest problem. The beloved television reporter has it all—fame, fortune, Emmys, an adorable seven-year-old daughter, and the hashtag her loving fans created: #PerfectLily. To keep it, all she has to do is protect one life-changing secret. Her own.

Lily has an anonymous source who feeds her story tips—but suddenly, the source begins telling Lily inside information about her own life. How does he—or she—know the truth?

Lily understands that no one reveals a secret unless they have a reason. Now she’s terrified someone is determined to destroy her world—and with it, everyone and everything she holds dear.

How much will she risk to keep her perfect life?

October 12th

opens in a new window opens in a new windowAn Irish Country Yuletide by Patrick Taylor

December 1965. ‘Tis the season once again in the cozy Irish village of Ballybucklebo, which means that Doctor Fingal Flahertie O’Reilly, his young colleague Barry Laverty, and their assorted friends, neighbors, and patients are enjoying all their favorite holiday traditions: caroling, trimming the tree, finding the perfect gifts for their near and dear ones, and anticipating a proper Yuletide feast complete with roast turkey and chestnut stuffing. There’s even the promise of snow in the air, raising the prospect of a white Christmas.

Not that trouble has entirely taken a holiday as the season brings its fair share of challenges as well, including a black-sheep brother hoping to reconcile with his estranged family before it’s too late, a worrisome outbreak of chickenpox, and a sick little girl whose faith in Christmas is in danger of being crushed in the worst way.

As roaring fireplaces combat the brisk December chill, it’s up to O’Reilly to play Santa, both literally and figuratively, to make sure that Ballybucklebo has a Christmas it will never forget!

October 19th

opens in a new window opens in a new windowIt’s a Wonderful Woof by Spencer Quinn

November 2nd

opens in a new window opens in a new windowI Will Not Die Alone by Dera White, illustrated by Joe Bennett

Dera White’s I Will Not Die Alone is a hilarious, feel-good story about the end of the world. Featuring illustrations by Joe Bennett, it is a story full of realistic self-love affirmations for all of us who are just trying to get by, until we die.

November 16th

opens in a new window opens in a new windowA Bathroom Book for People Not Pooping or Peeing but Using the Bathroom as an Escape by Joe Pera, illustrated by Joe Bennett

Joe Pera goes to the bathroom a lot. And his friend, Joe Bennett, does too. They both have small bladders but more often it’s just to get a moment of quiet, a break from work, or because it’s the only way they know how to politely end conversations.

So they created a functional meditative guide to help people who suffer from social anxiety and deal with it in this very particular way. Although it’s a comedic book, the goal is to help these readers:

Relax
Recharge
Rejoin the world outside of the bathroom

It’s also fun entertainment for people simply hiding in the bathroom to avoid doing work.

opens in a new window opens in a new windowA Secret Never Told by Shelley Noble

Philomena Amesbury, expatriate Countess of Dunbridge, is bored. Coney Island in the sweltering summer of 1908 offers no shortage of diversions for a young woman of means, but sea bathing, horse racing, and even amusement parks can’t hold a candle to uncovering dastardly plots and chasing villains. Lady Dunbridge hadn’t had a big challenge in months.

Fate obliges when Phil is called upon to host a dinner party in honor of a visiting Austrian psychologist whose revolutionary theories may be of interest to the War Department, not to mention various foreign powers, and who may have already survived one attempt on his life. The guest list includes a wealthy industrialist, various rival scientists and academics, a party hypnotist, a flamboyant party-crasher, and a damaged beauty whose cloudy psyche is lost in a world of its own. Before the night is out, one of the guests is dead with a bullet between the eyes and Phil finds herself with another mystery on her hands, even if it’s unclear who exactly the intended victim was meant to be.

Worse yet, the police’s prime suspect is a mystery man who Phil happens to be rather intimately acquainted with. Now it’s up to Lady Dunbridge, with the invaluable assistance of her intrepid butler and lady’s maid, to find the real culprit before the police nab the wrong one . . .

opens in a new window opens in a new windowLaw of the Land by Elmer Kelton

Sixteen stories, where good meets bad, and everything inbetween, from the legendary author of the west, Elmer Kelton.

Law of the Land chronicles some of his most exciting and dangerous tales of the old west, collected together for the first time–including the exciting first publication of a never-before published Kelton story, Biscuits for Bandit.

Author Features / What's New

Writing Tips from Author Spencer Quinn

July 5, 2021June 29, 2021admin1 Comment

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opens in a new windowTender Is the Bite is the 11th book in Spencer Quinn’s beloved Chet & Bernie Mystery series. After writing a series with that many books, he knows a thing or two about writing! Read on to hear Spencer’s writing tips for aspiring authors.

My mother, also a writer, taught me most of what I know about writing by the time I was eleven or so. Unlike kids out drilling on the tennis court or golf course – which, like writing, are also skills best learned young – I didn’t know it was happening at the time. The lessons were taught obliquely. And speaking of angles, that was one of the things she taught me: the power of the oblique. The power of the oblique angle comes from its subtlety – not just subtlety in the writing, but subtlety in the writer’s perceptions. Here’s an example from Tender Is The Bite, where Weatherly, a possible new love interest of Bernie’s (the detective in the A Chet and Bernie Mystery series), is talking to him, all described by Chet (a narrating dog but not a talking one!):

“Grammie says the two of them walked together, your great grandfather and my great grandmother.”

“Hiking?” said Bernie.

“Possibly that, too,” said Weatherly. “But Grammie’s an old-fashioned woman, very straitlaced and genteel.”

There was a long silence. A road runner popped up beside a bush and then popped back down.

“Oh,” Bernie said.

Oblique means not spelling things out, being almost anywhere except on the nose. There are only 53 words in the little passage above, but the reader – I hope to god! – gets a feel for all the characters, living and dead, human and not. Nobody spells anything out – well, except for the road runner, popping “up beside a bush.” Read into that what you will! And it’s in the very next line that Bernie gets what must have happened long ago – with the hint of what might happen now, several generations along.

It probably won’t surprise you that the core of my advice is to be as original as you can. Each one of us, in my belief, possesses some rare quality of mind or character. Use it! Get that on the page. That’s the road to some sort of artistic satisfaction. But it’s only fair to point out that it might be more practical – in a getting published sense – to ignore what I’m saying completely and simply try to imitate some bestselling writer, perhaps with a change or two, like setting the stories in Bolivia instead of Hollywood. You may end up with a comfortable career. Or you may end up as the writing equivalent of a cover band, playing jaded Stones hits in some dive.

My mother was a big believer in the power of dialogue. Have you ever noticed that there’s something unique in everyone’s speech? You can tell so much about a person by what they say, how they say it, the volume, rhythm, dynamics of their speech – so much like music, in a way. One thing to avoid in dialogue – although you see it all the time – is overt exposition that never happens in real life. “Well, hi Bob, haven’t seen you in ages, not since our divorce, as I recall. Remember how I had that affair with your cousin Marky, and how upset you got? Jeez! Did you know I actually didn’t end up with him? I’m marrying Maxie instead! Yes, your dad! So how’s things with you?”

Avoid the above! (Although it turned into a rather amusing example of dramatic irony, a la Browning’s My Last Duchess. But forget that part.) Here’s what I’m talking about, again from Tender Is The Bite. Olek, a mysterious Ukrainian operative of some sort, drops in for a visit, bringing vodka.:

“So then we have something in common, you and I,” Olek said. “And not only boxing. I, too, am former military man.”

“You’ve done research on me,” Bernie said.

“Homework and more homework,” said Olek. “’Train hard, fight easy’ – General Suvorov. I was army, like you. Saw fighting, like you – but maybe not so organized.”

“Oh?”

“We sleep next to a five-hundred kilo gorilla.”

“The Russians?”

Olek nodded and took another drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Yes, always the Russians. Sometimes we kill them, sometimes we kill with them.”

A dark look passed over Bernie’s face. “We did some of that, too,” he said.

“But not with the Russians,” said Olek. “And you yourselves are also a gorilla, maybe one thousand kilos. A nicer gorilla, sure thing, even friendly.” He refilled his glass, topped up Bernie’s. “To the friendly gorilla.”

Doesn’t Olek come into focus, just from how he talks? He even makes Bernie see things in a new light. Also the story is advanced, something you as the writer should be thinking of constantly.

And now for my last piece of advice. Find a strict taskmaster who’s interested in your career – if necessary, a taskmaster in your own head. My strict taskmaster is Pearl (pictured here on one of her many beach outings). She lounges on the couch behind me in the office while I write. I can feel her thinking, “Come on, Pete! Concentrate! One more paragraph! Make it sharp! You can do it!”

Order Tender Is the Bite—available on July 6, 2021!

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Excerpts / What's New

Excerpt: Tender Is the Bite by Spencer Quinn

April 23, 2021March 20, 2024admin

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Spencer Quinn’s Tender Is the Bite is a brand new adventure in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling series that Stephen King calls “without a doubt the most original mystery series currently available.”

Chet and Bernie are contacted by a terribly scared young woman who seems to want their help. Before she can even tell them her name, she flees in panic. But in that brief meeting Chet sniffs out an important secret about her, a secret at the heart of the mystery he and Bernie set out to solve.

It’s a case with no client and no crime and yet great danger, with the duo facing a powerful politician who has a lot to lose. Their only hope lies with a ferret named Griffie who adores Bernie. Is there room for a ferret in the Chet and Bernie relationship? That’s the challenge Chet faces, the biggest of his career. Hanging in the balance are the lives of two mistreated young women and the future of the whole state.

opens in a new windowTender Is the Bite will be available on July 6, 2021. Please enjoy the following excerpt!

One

“I think we’re being followed,” Bernie said.

That had to be one of Bernie’s jokes. Have I mentioned that he can be quite the jokester? Probably not, since we’re just getting started, but who else except Bernie would even think of saying that? We were creeping along at walking speed on the East Canyon Freeway at rush hour, stuck in an endless river of traffic. Of course we were being followed, followed by too many cars to count! Not only too many for me to count—I don’t go past two—but also for Bernie. And Bernie’s always the smartest human in the room, one of the reasons the Little Detective Agency is so successful, leaving out the finances part. It’s called that on account of Bernie’s last name being Little. I’m Chet, pure and simple, not the smartest human in the room, in fact, not human. I bring other things to the table.

Bernie glanced at the rearview mirror. Our ride’s a Porsche, not the old one that went off a cliff, or the older one that got blown up, but the new one—which happens to be the very oldest—with the martini glasses paint job on the fenders. We used to have a top and also a very cool chain hanging from the rearview mirror, a chain we’d taken off a biker after . . . what would you call it? A dispute? Good enough. But recently, we’d had to use it to temporarily cuff—wow! Another biker! How amazing was that? I came close to finding some sort of deep meaning, but before I could get there, Bernie said, “Three lanes over, six cars back, in front of the Amazon truck—see the maroon Kia?”

I checked the rearview mirror myself. Three? Six? Amazon? Maroon? Kia? Every single one of them not easy for me. But I’ve always been lucky in life, so all I saw in the rearview mirror was Bernie. My Bernie. He has the best face in the world, especially if you like strong noses and eyebrows with a language all their own, and I do. He has plans to get that slightly crooked angle in his nose straightened out after he’s sure it won’t be broken again. But that would mean game over for his uppercut, that sweet, sweet uppercut guaranteed to put perps to sleep, so I hope his nose stays just how it is forever.

“Can’t make out the driver,” he said, “but that Kia was in the back corner of the Donut Heaven lot, meaning whoever it is has been with us for ten miles on a real complicated route.” He turned to me and smiled. “Dollars to doughnuts, Chet.”

That was a puzzler. Bernie’d had a cruller, and I’d gone with the sausage croissant, doughnuts not even mentioned. Just to make sure, I licked my muzzle, picking up the unmistakable— and wonderful—taste of sausage. But in our business, you have to be sure, so I did it again and again and again and—

“Something the matter, big guy?”

Nothing. We were good. I stopped whatever I’d been doing, sat up straight in the shotgun seat, alert and ready for action, a total pro.

“Let’s run a little test,” Bernie said, suddenly crossing several lanes and taking an exit. There was some honking, but I’d heard worse. The point was we were taking charge and naming names! Chet! Bernie! Those are all the names you need to know for now. We’ve been followed by bad guys more than once, the last time down in a little village south of the border, an incident involving an army-type tank packed with unfriendly cartel dudes and a dead-end alley. That had turned into an exciting adventure, full of all sorts of fancy driving on Bernie’s part—and even for a fun moment or two on mine!—but nothing like that was happening now. Instead, we rolled along nice and easy, turning onto one street, then another, and a bunch more, and finally ending up in a shady part of Old Town, with small wooden houses on one side and a park on the other, not one of those green, grassy parks that Bernie hates but the rocky, cactusy kind he likes. He didn’t check the rearview, not even once. We pulled over and stopped on the park side and just sat there. A car went slowly by. Was that what maroon looked like? So nice to be learning new things! Meanwhile, I caught a glimpse of the driver: a young woman, eyes on the road, baseball cap on her head, ponytail sticking out the back. Ponies are horses, and I’ve had lots of experience with horses, none good. They’re prima donnas, each and every one. So how come some humans want to look like them? A complete mystery. But solving mysteries is what we do, me and Bernie. Life was good. I felt tip-top.

Meanwhile, the maroon car kept going, made a turn at the next block, and vanished from sight. Right away, I got the picture. She’d been following us. Now we were going to follow her! That’s called turning the tables in our business. Here’s a secret: you don’t always need a table to do it, although once we did use an actual table, turning it upside down on the Boccerino brothers and perhaps also on some unlucky folks sitting nearby. That was at the Ritz, where we haven’t been back.

But forget all that, because Bernie wasn’t turning the key, jamming the car into gear, stomping on the gas, burning rubber. He was just sitting there, gazing peacefully ahead, possibly even falling asleep. Bernie? I laid a paw on his shoulder in the friendliest way.

“Ooof!” said Bernie, possibly crashing into—well, not crashing into, more like leaning against his door, most likely what he wanted to do anyway. He gave me a look that could have meant anything. I gave him the same look back. Bernie laughed. Laughter’s the best human sound, and Bernie’s is the best of the best, even when it’s a quiet laugh like this one.

“No worries,” he said. “We’re not dealing with a pro.”

Good to know. Were we dealing with anything? Anybody? When was the last time we got paid? I was wondering about all that when the maroon car came by again, this time slowing down, pulling over, and parking in front of us.

“The most amateur kind of amateur,” Bernie said.

We sat. The ponytail woman sat, not once checking her mirror or glancing back at us.

“An amateur and scared,” Bernie said. He made a little click click noise, meaning, Let’s roll, big guy. We hopped out, me actually hopping right over my closed door and Bernie just getting out in the normal human way, which was our usual MO. But I’d seen him hop out—for example, the time with that whole cluster of sidewinders under the driver’s seat—so he had it in him.

We walked up to the maroon car. The way we do this, amateur—whatever that happens to be—or not, is Bernie on the driver’s side and me on the other. How many perps have taken one look at Bernie and then dived out the passenger-side door, only to get a real big surprise—namely, me? But that didn’t happen with the ponytail woman. Instead, she went on sitting there, hands holding the wheel tight.

Bernie leaned down and spoke through her open window. “We’ve got to stop meeting like this,” he said.

Whoa. We’d met this woman before? One thing about my nose: it remembers the smell of everyone I’ve ever met, and it did not remember this woman. She had an interesting smell, a bit piney, that made me think of New Mexico, which we’d visited on several cases, picking up a speeding ticket every time. Through the open passenger-side window, I was getting my first clear look at her face. A young face, but not quite as young as the face of a college kid. In the faces of college kids, you can still see a bit of the little kid face that was. There was no little kid left in the ponytail woman’s face, which was turning pink. Her eyes were big and the brightest blue I’d ever seen, actually the color of this morning’s sky, like the sky was shining inside her.

“Sorry,” Bernie said. “Bad joke.”

I’m sure it was a very good joke, although it’s true the woman hadn’t laughed. But I was glad to hear it was a joke and we hadn’t met before, because now I didn’t need to choose between my nose and Bernie’s word, which would have been the hardest choice of my life. Stay away from hard choices if you want to be happy.

Pre-order Tender Is the Bite—available on July 6, 2021!

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Author Features / What's New

Q&A with Spencer Quinn, Author of Of Mutts and Men

June 29, 2020June 25, 2020admin3 Comments

Author Spencer Quinn answered some of our most burning questions in a rapid fire Q&A! Read his answers below, and get ready for the release of opens in a new windowOf Mutts and Men on July 7th!

opens in a new windowWhat’s your preferred method for writing? Do you handwrite or type?

My preferred method hasn’t been invented yet. It would involve prose traveling directly from the mind to the blank page. Until then, I type. My handwriting cannot be read by human eyes.

What’s your favorite cure for writer’s block?

I step back and think of the engine that drives the story. Unfortunately, some novels don’t have engines, but in the case of Chet and Bernie, the engine is the love between the two main characters. When I remember that, some narrative route always suggests itself.

What song/album/musical artist inspires you?

Music is very important to me. I often listen while I write. Right now I seem to be enjoying the old Marty Robbins song “Begging to You,” both in Marty’s version and also Cyndi Lauper’s cover.

What’s the best writing advice you’ve ever received?

My mother, who taught me almost everything I know about writing by the time I was eleven or so, said, “Push every situation as far as you can.”

Favorite way to unwind outdoors?

It used to be skiing and playing tennis. Now it’s bike riding and playing tennis. I’ve ridden at least ten miles just about every day since the lockdown, often on Cape Cod’s beautiful Shining Sea Bike Path. (I still ski in my dreams.)

Favorite way to unwind indoors?

Sleeping at night! Isn’t that how we’re supposed to unwind? Knitting up the raveled sleeve of care, and all that? I’ve always been a great sleeper (not a napper).

Best dog name you’ve ever heard?

Chet! A surprising number of readers seem to have named dogs after him.

Pre-order your copy of Of Mutts and Men:

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Author Features / On Writing

Spencer Quinn on the Chet and Bernie Fandom

June 18, 2020June 18, 2020admin4 Comments

It’s no secret: the Chet & Bernie Mysteries series by Spencer Quinn has a dedicated and generous fan base. What’s not to love about a book series told from the perspective of an endearing, mystery-solving dog? To get excited for the upcoming book in the series, opens in a new windowOf Mutts and Men, read Spencer Quinn’s thoughts on the Chet & Bernie fandom and on being a big fan of his fans.

By Spencer Quinn

opens in a new window“Chet and Bernie are my happy place.”

That’s an actual quote from a reader of the Chet and Bernie series, but others in a similar vein come in every day via email, Facebook, the blog, or Twitter. How about a few more?

“I never get tired of these books. I may have read them twice but I wouldn’t know because … these books are such a joy!”

“I am starting the series again for the third time, this time on audiobook. I am listening while I walk—lost 3 pounds so far!”

“I’d like to think there is a parallel universe where their world exists and maybe we will visit someday.”

“I keep one on bed stand and one by the sofa. Whenever I start feeling down/anxious/worried I have an immediate pick me up!”

“Please don’t wait too long between Chet and Bernie books. They are so good for my soul.”

Okay! Enough! Writer patting self on back is not a good look. Did I expect this kind of reader reaction when I began the series? No. I don’t think about reader reaction while I’m writing. That would be a distraction and distraction is an enemy of the imagination. To digress for a moment: writing fiction has two components, imagination and technique. Technique – which can be taught, at least to a certain extent – is always on call once you’ve got it. Imagination might be reluctant on certain days, and try not to answer the bell. I’ve always been lucky in that if I just sit there for a few minutes my imagination begins to stir. If necessary I can sort of prod it. Here’s how: I think of the engine that is driving the story, its beating heart. Regrettably some novels lack a beating heart. I don’t know what you’d do in that situation, but the beating heart of the Chet and Bernie series is the love between Chet and Bernie (Bernie being the detective and Chet his dog). Once my imagination remembers that, we’re on our way.

And how nice! This digression has led us right to the bulls-eye of what I’m supposed to be talking about, namely why this series seems to have struck such a deep chord in readers. What I set out to do was write good mysteries – mysteries would still be good if written in a conventional narrative form – and have them narrated by a dog. Not a talking dog! A talking dog would ruin it! But dogs have a narrative of what’s going on in their heads, and that’s what I try to get on the page. (I also want my mysteries to include thematic material – to be about something. Of Mutts and Men, the new Chet and Bernie – and don’t worry, they can be read in any order – was inspired by real events concerning cynical university endowment investing and water issues in the southwest.)

One thing I quickly discovered: Chet’s an unreliable narrator, at least in human terms. When you marry an unreliable narrator to the traditional plotting of a mystery, you suddenly find that you’ve blown up the form. And possibly create something fresh! I think that freshness is part of the appeal to the readers. But the bigger part is the beating heart I mentioned – the love between Chet and Bernie. That just appeared during the writing. I didn’t consciously put it in and might not even have been aware of it. But I sure am now! The readers started letting me know right away and they haven’t stopped. Not infrequently they tell me that C&B have helped them or their family in difficult times – of illness, for example, or death of someone close. That’s humbling.

I’ve become a fan of the fans. They share photos of their dogs on Chet’s FB page (and not just dogs, but cats, gerbils, birds, and even the odd stuffed animal. Check out our Friend-of-the-Month contest!). They often quote favorite passages from the books – and use Chetisms in daily life! Chet and Bernie fans are funny and smart and decent and very entertaining. And generous! One day this patchwork quilt arrived, all about the stories and made by readers in different parts of the country. Or take a look at these handmade wooden blocks. The fans are decorating my office for me. A writer couldn’t ask for more.

Now it’s time to let Of Mutts and Men out in the big wide world. It is literally – and I hope figuratively – the deepest in the series so far. The fans – a sort of Chet and Bernie Trust – will let know soon enough.

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Excerpts / What's New

Excerpt: Of Mutts and Men by Spencer Quinn

May 1, 2020April 8, 2024admin3 Comments

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Spencer Quinn’s opens in a new windowOf Mutts and Men is the latest in the New York Times and USA Today bestselling series that the Los Angeles Times called “nothing short of masterful”…

When Chet the dog, “the most lovable narrator in all of crime fiction” (Boston Globe), and his partner, PI Bernie Little of the desert-based Little Detective Agency, arrive to a meeting with hydrologist Wendell Nero, they are in for a shocking sight—Wendell has come to a violent and mysterious end. What did the hydrologist want to see them about? Is his death a random robbery, or something more? Chet and Bernie, working for nothing more than an eight-pack of Slim Jims, are on the case.

Bernie might be the only one who thinks the police have arrested the wrong man, including the perp’s own defense attorney. Chet and Bernie begin to look into Wendell’s work, a search that leads to a struggling winemaker who has received an offer he can’t refuse. Meanwhile, Chet is smelling water where there is no water, and soon Chet and Bernie are in danger like never before.

opens in a new windowOf Mutts and Men will be available on July 7, 2020. Please enjoy the following excerpt.

One

A rooftop chase? Who’s got it better than me?

Chasing down perps is what we do, me and Bernie. We’re partners in the Little Detective Agency, Little being Bernie’s last name. I’m Chet, pure and simple. When it comes to chasing down perps, rooftop chasing is what you might call a specialty within a specialty, if you see what I mean. And if you don’t then . . . then actually I’m right there with you. The point is that rooftop chases don’t happen often, so when they do you’ve got to enjoy them with all your heart. No problem. Enjoying with all my heart is one of my best things, right up there with leaping and grabbing perps by the pant leg.

There are two kinds of perps who get involved in rooftop chases. The first kind—and most perps are the first kind—realize pretty quick that it’s game over unless you’re up for doing something daring, and they’re all dared out by that time: you can see it in their eyes. The second kind of perp believes somewhere deep down that he can fly. What we had on this particular warehouse rooftop in the most run-down section of South Pedroia, which is the most run-down part of the whole Valley, was the second kind of perp.

Our perp was tall and lean and ran very well. For a human, I should add, meaning he was in fact on the slowish side. I loped along behind him as he headed toward the edge of the roof. At the same time, I glanced back to see what was keeping Bernie. And there he was, popping up through the open hatchway from the top floor of the building. My Bernie! The sky was a fiery orange, the way the sky gets around here when the sun goes down, and so Bernie’s eyes and teeth were orange, too. There’s all kinds of beauty in life.

“Stop!” Bernie yelled. “Where the hell do you think you’re going?”

The perp—have I mentioned that he was carrying a painting under one arm, a gold-framed painting of old-time cowboys around a fire, stolen, of course, which was why we were all here—turned to Bernie and said, “None of your damn business.”

“You’re missing the point.” Now Bernie was running, too. A very graceful runner, in my opinion, but hampered by the old war wound in one of his legs, only coming into play in situations like this. “Which is,” Bernie went on, huffing and puffing from all those stairs we’d climbed to get up here on the roof, “that you’ve got nowhere to—”

Whatever was coming next—sure to be brilliant, since Bernie’s always the smartest human in the room—remained unsaid, because at that moment the perp reached the edge of the roof and just kept going. Yes, with his legs churning in the air, high over the alley separating this warehouse from the next one! This was something I’d seen in cartoons—of which Bernie and I had watched many in the period after his divorce from Leda—but never in real life. Nothing beats real life, amigo. I was thinking that very thought as I soared off the edge of the roof myself. Free! Free as a bird, although the tiny eyes of birds always look so angry to me, meaning all that freedom was wasted on them.

Meanwhile the perp was touching down on the next rooftop. More or less. In fact, more less than more, since he ended up a bit short. All that actually touched down were the fingers of one hand, clutching desperately at the tarpaper surface of the roof. And now his other hand was clutching desperately, too, meaning the perp had to let go of the painting. It went spinning high in the air, the golden frame turning sunset orange.

What a lot going on! No time to even think, which happens to be when I’m at my best. In a flash I snagged the painting right out of the air, landed on the roof, nice and smooth—sticking the landing, as Bernie calls it—then let the painting go, wheeled around and trotted over to the perp.

He seemed to be hanging from the roof by his fingertips. That couldn’t have been easy. I felt proud of him in a way, as though he belonged to me. Which he sort of did, although he probably didn’t realize it yet. I looked down at him. He looked up at me. His eyes were . . .how to put this? Terrified, maybe? Something like that.

“Help. Help me.”

He turned out to have a squeaky voice, not at all pleasant, especially to ears like mine, so sensitive to the tinny and the shrill.

“Chet?”

That was Bernie, calling from the first rooftop. He stood at the edge, his lovely face a bit worried, for no reason I could see.

“Be careful, big guy. Don’t take any risks.”

“Huh?” said the perp, still hanging off the roof and now kicking his legs a bit, as though . . .as though he might swim his way up. What a strange thought! Meanwhile I was trying to remember what a risk was, but it just wouldn’t come.

“Help! Help me!”

Poor guy. The swimming thing wasn’t working at all and he seemed to be slip-slip-slipping. I went to the edge with the idea of leaning over, grabbing him by the scruff of the neck, and then digging in with my paws and hoisting him up, but before I could start any of that, he flailed out with one hand and grabbed onto one of my front legs.

“Let him go!” Bernie shouted.

“But—but then I’ll fall.”

“So what?” Bernie said.

“Really?” said the perp.

Although not particularly strong-looking, he turned out to have an iron grip, at least in this particular situation. I tried to pull my leg free but got nowhere, and began sliding closer and closer to the edge.

Bernie reached into his pocket, drew the .38 Special. “Let him go or I’ll shoot,” he said.

“I’ll take my chances,” said the perp.

Whoa! Didn’t he know Bernie was a crack shot, could shoot holes through dimes spinning in midair? What other reason could there be for such a strange remark? I decided to forgive him, although Bernie didn’t look like he was in a forgiving mood. In fact, I’d never seen him so mad. His face looked almost ugly, maybe the most astonishing sight I’d seen in my whole life. He jammed the .38 Special back in his pocket, lowered his head, started running in a quick little circle, and then charged toward us across the roof.

No, Bernie, no! Not with your bad leg! Stay! Sit! Stay!

Sit stay, as I knew very well, only works some of the time. It didn’t work on Bernie, not now. He came soaring—kind of—across the gap between the warehouses, cleared it by plenty or at least some—and stuck the landing . . . just about!

“Ouch,” he said, but not loud. Then he picked himself up and hurried over, reached down, grabbed our perp by the collar, and kind of flipped him right up and onto the roof.

The perp lay panting on his back. Between pants, he said, “Thanks, buddy. My whole life flashed before my eyes.”

“Punishment enough,” Bernie said.

The perp’s eyes widened. “You . . . you mean you’re letting me go?”

Bernie gazed down at him. His anger faded away, real fast, and he started laughing. He laughed and laughed, not in the least angry anymore, but happy. That made me happy! I was so happy I came close to prancing around on the rooftop. But that wouldn’t have been professional, so instead I grabbed the perp by the pant leg, the most professional move that came to mind. Case closed.

“Oh, thank you, thank you, thank you!” said Mr. Rusk, taking the painting from Bernie. He held it up at arm’s length and gazed at those cowboys around the campfire. “Remington at the height of his powers. Did you ever dream we’d see it again, Irene?”

We stood at the front entrance to a huge house way up in the hills above High Chapparal Estates, the richest neighborhood in the whole Valley, although no neighboring houses could be seen from this spot: me, Bernie, and Mr. and Mrs. Rusk, the clients. They looked much younger than they smelled, true about a lot of the folks up here in the hills, but perhaps not something you yourself would have noticed, your sense of smell being what it is. No offense.

“Not at first,” Irene said. “But I changed my mind after meeting Bernie.” She reached out as though to take Bernie’s hand in both of hers, a handshake move I was familiar with, but ended up doing something new, namely grabbing onto his forearm and not letting go. “How can I ever repay you? Ezra would have been grouchy for the rest of his life.”

Ezra frowned. “We’re repaying by paying his requested fee, Irene. That’s how it works.”

“You take the fun out of everything,” Irene said. She tilted her head, smiled up at Bernie. “Why not throw in a bonus, Ezra? I know you give out bonuses.”

“Only at Christmas,” said Ezra. “And only to top producers.”

“You’re saying Bernie’s not a top producer?”

“Whoa,” Bernie said. “I don’t want a bonus.”

No bonus? With the state of our finances? Had Bernie forgotten about our self-storage in South Pedroia, stacked from floor to ceiling with Hawaiian pants, not one pair sold? It couldn’t have slipped his mind completely, because sometimes after a few drinks he says, “Hawaiian shirts are big, so why not Hawaiian pants? I just don’t get it.” And then there was the tin futures play. We would have been rich, except for an earthquake in Bolivia, or possibly the earthquake not happening. Bernie! Bonus! Yes!

But no.

“No bonus?” Irene said. “Did you hear that, Ezra?”

“I did.” He peered at the painting. “But what are these? They look like two little . . . punctures in the canvas.”

“Come and join our little party,” Irene said, tugging on Bernie’s arm. “It’s the least we can do, isn’t it, Ezra?”

“But . . . but these punctures. They almost look like teeth marks or something.”

“For god’s sake, stop fussing. You got your stupid painting back.”

“Stupid? It’s one of the loveliest evocations of the old West I’ve ever—”

“Give it a rest. You’re not fooled by all that old West crap, are you, Bernie?”

Irene pulled him into the house.

“Well, in fact,” Bernie began. “There’s lots to be said for—”

“And this beautiful creature’s invited, too, of course.” Irene glanced my way. “All in all, a very pleasing team to the eye.” She squeezed Bernie’s arm, her hands by now quite high up, more above his elbow than not. “Chet, wasn’t it? Does he like filet? I’ll have Emilia grind some up.”

Well, well. What a very considerate woman! For just one moment, something unpleasant, possibly having to do with teeth marks, snagged in my memory, but then it was washed away, like by a mighty river of fun flowing through my mind. A mighty river of fun in my mind? What a life!

We joined the little party, actually a very big party. The backyard was a sort of water park, with a waterfall, a stream, and lots of pools, some with fish swimming in them, and some with human swimmers. I polished off a bowl of ground filet and another, and possibly one more. Not long after that, we were alone—the usual case at big parties, Bernie being better at small parties—just the two of us at a table by a palm tree, Bernie with a glass of bourbon and me underneath, watching him through the glass tabletop. He was gazing at the waterfall.

“Water, water everywhere,” he said.

Not the first time I’d heard that. Water was often on Bernie’s mind, the aquifer being one of his biggest worries. Once I’d actually laid eyes on the aquifer, a tiny mud puddle down at the bottom of a deep construction site, which was when I finally understood the problem. We needed lots more aquifer. Was it for sale somewhere? That was as far as I could take it on my own.

Bernie took a sip of bourbon, more of a big swallow than a sip. “Probably the same water cycling round and round,” he said, “but didn’t anybody consider the evaporation effect?”

A man by himself at the nearest table sat up straight, a trim white-haired man who was also drinking bourbon, the smell impossible to miss. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

Bernie turned to him. “No?”

“You in the business, by any chance?” said the man. He had one of those deeply tanned and lined faces you see here in the desert, his blue eyes washed out and pale.

“What business is that?” Bernie said.

“Hydrology.”

“Meaning the study of water?”

“That, plus the practical applications of.” He made a sweeping hand gesture at the waterfall, stream, pools. “I designed all this—meaning the guts of it, the parts you don’t see.

Evaporation effect? I was worried sick about it, told these . . . these plutocrats I had no interest in their project, period.”

At that moment Irene went by, a glass of champagne in her hand. “Plutocrats, Wendell? Is that nice? Tell him we’re not plutocrats, Bernie.”

“Um, I’m not even actually sure about the exact dictionary—”

“But I’m glad you two have found each other,” Irene went on, or maybe just kept going. “This is the private eye I told you about, Wendell. Who brought home the bacon for us. Bernie Little, say hi to Wendell Nero, chairman emeritus of the geology department at Valley College. And he did end up doing our project, which is why it’s such a success. Wendell’s fierce on the outside but he’s really just a big pussycat.”

Don’t rely on me for the details of what happened next. Because: Bacon! Pussycat! There’d been no bacon whatsoever at any time during our work on the cowboy painting case. You can take that to the bank, although maybe not to our bank, where there’d been some recent issue with Ms. Mendez, the manager. As for pussycat, this white-haired dude did not smell, look, or sound at all like any pussycat on the planet, and I’d had many pussycat experiences in my career, none pleasant. I wrestled in my mind with these problems, bacon and pussycat, getting nowhere. By the time I gave up, Wendell Nero was sitting at our table, and the two glasses of bourbon, his and Bernie’s, seemed to have been topped up.

“ . . . safe bet,” Wendell was saying, “because I didn’t think they’d get to square one on the permitting. But they waltzed right through.”

“Uh-huh,” Bernie said.

“You don’t look shocked.”

Bernie smiled.

“I suppose it’s funny in a way,” Wendell said.

“A rueful way,” said Bernie.

Wendell gave him a long look, then nodded. “So I ended up doing the project after all.”

“Because anyone else would have done it worse,” Bernie said.

“Exactly. I mitigated at every turn. There’s much less volume than it appears, and the flow shuts off automatically from noon to five p.m.” He watched the waterfall, took a big drink. “But . . .” His voice trailed away. Then his gaze found me. “This your dog?”

“His name’s Chet,” Bernie said. “He did the actual recovery of the painting.”

Wendell’s snowy eyebrows rose. “Yeah?” he said.

“Chet can be very persuasive.”

How nice to hear! I tried to remember the exact meaning of persuasive, but before I could come up with it—these things take time—Wendell reached down and scratched my head, right between the ears where it’s so hard to reach. Just from how he did it, I knew he was a friend of the nation within the nation, which is what Bernie calls me and my kind.

“I’ve had a number of dogs myself,” Wendell said. “Characters, each and every one, if you know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bernie said.

“No more dogs now,” said Wendell. “All in the past.”

“Why is that?”

“The lifespan discrepancy. Couldn’t take it anymore. Like a lot of things.” He looked down, almost as though shielding his eyes from view. Bernie turned away, sat still and quiet. It felt like something was going on, but if so it went right by me.

At last Wendell looked up. “Do you handle other kinds of cases, Bernie, beside stolen

Property?”

“We do,” Bernie said. “Did you have something in mind?”

Wendell’s pale eyes got an inward look, like . . . like maybe he was trying to see into his own mind. Then he took a deep breath and said, “Can we meet tomorrow morning?”

“Where?” said Bernie.

“I’ll be on site. Do you know Dollhouse Canyon?”

“No.”

Wendell drew on a cocktail napkin, handed it to Bernie. “Ten o’clock?”

“See you then,” Bernie said.

Next morning we hit the road, Bernie behind the wheel and me riding shotgun, our usual setup. Although once we ended up doing it the other way! A rather exciting outing, but no time for that now. Our ride’s an old Porsche, not the one that went off the cliff or the other one that got blown up, but our new one, the oldest of all, and the best, mostly because of the martini glasses pattern on the front fenders.

We crossed the Rio Vista Bridge—the smells rising up from below rich and indescribable, something about a Superfund cleanup—took the West Valley freeway all the way out of town, turned onto two-lane blacktop, came to a fork with paved road in one direction, dirt track in the other. Bernie checked the cocktail napkin, followed the dirt track, and at last we were in the middle of nowhere, where we liked it best, me and Bernie. I could feel him relax inside.

“Ah,” he said.

That was Bernie. He always knows just the right word.

The dirt track led us past a huge red rock with a big black bird perched on top, then down into a long and narrow box canyon.

“Dollhouse Canyon,” Bernie said.

At the end of the canyon stood a white trailer with blue writing on the side. Bernie read the writing. “Nero Hydrological Consulting. Water Equals Life.”

We parked near the trailer and hopped out, me actually hopping. And almost landing in a thicket of jumping cholla! I’ve had a lot of experience with jumping cholla, all of it bad. Those yellow spines are capable of doing some hopping of their own, which is the whole point of jumping cholla, but hard to remember for some reason. I moved to Bernie’s other side, getting him between me and the thicket. Did that mean I’d rather he got stuck with the yellow spines instead of me? I hoped not and left it like that.

We stood side by side in front of the trailer. The day still smelled fresh and new, and so did we, Bernie because he’d taken a shower before we left, and me because . . . because I just do. He was wearing jeans, flip-flops, and the Hawaiian shirt with the laughing pineapples. I had on my everyday collar, the gator skin one I’d picked up on a case down in bayou country that there’s no time to tell you about now. Bernie knocked on the trailer door. No answer. He knocked again. No answer. “Wendell? Dr. Nero?” Zip.

Bernie turned, cupped his hands, called out, “Wendell? Wendell?”

From the sides of the box canyon, the call came back. “Wendell? Wendell?”

Then there was silence. I sniffed at the crack under the door. Uh-oh. I have this certain low, rumbly bark that’s only for Bernie. I barked it now. Bernie looked at me and stopped feeling relaxed inside. He turned the doorknob. The door opened. After a moment of confusion, we went inside. Me first.

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Lists / What's New

Eight Mysteries We Can’t Wait to Solve This Year

January 2, 2020May 3, 2024admin1 Comment

By Alison Bunis

The new year is finally here. Take a deep breath and savor the clean slate. But what’s that scent drifting in? Is that…new book smell?? Of course it is! Forge has a whole new lineup of fantastic mysteries for 2020, and they’ll be bringing you all the new book smell, mysterious thrills, and page-turning plot twists your heart could ever desire. To get you excited, here are just a few of the books you can look forward to this year from Forge. On your marks…get set…read!

opens in a new windowBlame the Dead by Ed Ruggero (3/3/20)

opens in a new windowThe nurses of the US Army’s Field Hospitals contend with heat, dirt, German counterattacks, and a flood of horribly wounded GIs. At the 11th Field Hospital near Palermo, Sicily, in the summer of 1943, they also live with the constant threat of violent assault by one of their own—until someone shoots Dr. Myers Stephenson in the head. Former Philadelphia beat cop turned Military Police lieutenant Eddie Harkins is assigned the case, and he has no idea how to investigate a murder. But Eddie is determined to get to the truth. As his investigation gets more complicated and more dangerous, it becomes clear that this hospital unit is rotten to its core, that the nurses are not safe, and that the patients who have survived Nazi bullets are still at risk in this place that is supposed to save them.

opens in a new windowGone By Midnight by Candice Fox (3/10/20)

opens in a new windowIt’s every parent’s nightmare. Four young boys are left alone in a hotel room while their parents dine downstairs. When Sara Farrow checks on the children at midnight, her son has disappeared. Distrustful of the police, Sara turns to Crimson Lake’s unlikeliest private investigators: disgraced cop Ted Conkaffey and convicted killer Amanda Pharrell. For Ted, the case couldn’t have come at a worse time. Two years ago a false accusation robbed him of his career, his reputation, and most importantly, his family. But now Lillian, the daughter he barely knows, is coming to stay in his ramshackle cottage by the lake. With Lillian at his side, Ted must dredge up the area’s worst characters to find the missing boy. The clock is ticking, and the danger he uncovers could put his own child in deadly peril.

opens in a new windowDo No Harm by Max Allan Collins (3/10/20)

opens in a new windowThe latest book in the Nathan Heller series picks up in 1954, with Heller taking on the Sam Sheppard case: a young doctor is startled from sleep and discovers his wife brutally murdered. He claims that a mysterious intruder killed his wife. But all the evidence points to a disturbed husband who has grown tired of married life and yearned to be free at all costs. Sheppard is swiftly convicted and sent to rot in prison. But just how firm was the evidence…and was it tampered with to fit a convenient narrative that settled scores and pushed political agendas?

opens in a new windowDead West by Matt Goldman (6/2/20)

opens in a new windowIn Matt Goldman’s fourth standalone entry in the Nils Shapiro series, Nils accepts what appears to be an easy, lucrative job: find out if Beverly Mayer’s grandson is throwing away his trust fund in Hollywood after his fiancée’s tragic death. But nothing is what it seems in Los Angeles. Nils quickly suspects that Ebben Mayer’s fiancée was murdered, and that Ebben himself may have been the target. As Nils moves into Ebben’s inner circle, he discovers that everyone in Ebben’s professional life—his agent, manager, a screenwriter, a producer—seem to have dubious motives at best. With Nil’s friend Jameson White, who has come to Los Angeles to deal with demons of his own, acting as Ebben’s bodyguard, Nils sets out to find a killer before it’s too late.

opens in a new windowOf Mutts & Men by Spencer Quinn (7/7/20)

opens in a new windowGet ready for another canine crime caper, narrated by the world’s fluffiest PI: Chet the dog. When Chet and his human, Bernie Little of the Little Detective Agency. arrive to a meeting with hydrologist Wendell Nero, they’re greeted by a shocking sight—Wendell has been killed. What did the hydrologist want to see them about? Is his death a random robbery, or something more? Chet and Bernie, working for nothing more than an eight-pack of Slim Jims, are on the case. As Chet and Bernie look into Wendell’s work, their search leads to a struggling winemaker who has received an offer he can’t refuse. Meanwhile, Chet is smelling water where there is no water, and soon Chet and Bernie are in danger like never before…

opens in a new windowThe First to Lie by Hank Phillippi Ryan (8/4/20)

opens in a new windowWe all have our reasons for being who we are—but what if being someone else could get you what you want? After a devastating betrayal, a young woman sets off on an obsessive path to justice, no matter what dark family secrets are revealed. What she doesn’t know—she isn’t the only one plotting her revenge.

An affluent daughter of privilege. A glamorous manipulative wannabe. A determined reporter, in too deep. A grieving widow who has to choose her own reality. Who will be the first to lie? And when the stakes are life and death, do a few lies really matter?

opens in a new windowAnd Now She’s Gone by Rachel Howzell Hall (9/22/20)

opens in a new windowIsabel Lincoln is gone.

But is she missing?

It’s up to Grayson Sykes to find her. Although she is reluctant to track down a woman who may not want to be found, Gray’s search for Isabel Lincoln becomes more complicated and dangerous with every new revelation about the woman’s secrets and the truth she’s hidden from her friends and family—even as Grayson is forced to confront secrets from the past she thought she’d finally left behind.

opens in a new windowA Resolution at Midnight by Shelley Noble (10/13/20)

opens in a new windowIt’s Christmas in Gilded Age Manhattan. For the first time ever an amazing, giant ball will drop along a rod on the roof of the New York Times building to ring in the New Year. Everyone plans to attend the event. But the murder of a prominent newsman puts something of a damper on the festivities. And when a young newspaperwoman is the target of a similar attack, it’s clear this is not just a single act of violence but a conspiracy of malicious proportions. Really, you’d think murderers would take a holiday. Something absolutely must be done. And Lady Dunbridge is happy to oblige.

What's New

Behind the Scenes: The Making of the Heart of Barkness Cover!

July 25, 2019May 13, 2024torforge2 Comments

We all love the final result, but how did we get such a good shot of Chet & Bernie? Well, it took a little book cover magic, a talented photographer, and one very good boy!

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