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In the third book in the brilliant New York Times bestselling series featuring a lovable and wise dog narrator, Chet and Bernie go under the big top to solve the most unlikely missing persons (and animals!) case ever.
Chet has smelled a lot of unusual things in his years as trusted companion and partner to P.I. Bernie Little, but nothing has prepared him for the exotic scents he encounters when an old-fashioned traveling circus comes to town. Bernie scores tickets to this ...
In the third book in the brilliant New York Times bestselling series featuring a lovable and wise dog narrator, Chet and Bernie go under the big top to solve the most unlikely missing persons (and animals!) case ever.
Chet has smelled a lot of unusual things in his years as trusted companion and partner to P.I. Bernie Little, but nothing has prepared him for the exotic scents he encounters when an old-fashioned traveling circus comes to town. Bernie scores tickets to this less-than-greatest show-on-earth because his son Charlie is crazy about elephants. The only problem is that Peanut, the headlining pachyderm of this particular one-ring circus, has gone missing—along with her trainer, Uri DeLeath. Stranger still, no one saw them leave. How does an elephant vanish without a trace?
At first there’s nothing Bernie and Chet can do—it’s a police matter and they have no standing in the case. But then they’re hired by Popo the Clown, who has his own reasons for wanting to find out what has become of the mysteriously missing duo. After Chet takes a few sniffs in Peanut’s trailer and picks up her one-of-a-kind scent, he and Bernie are in hot pursuit, heading far away from the bright lights of the traveling show and into the dark desert night.
Some very dangerous people would prefer that Chet and Bernie disappear for good and will go to any lengths to make that happen. Across the border in Mexico and separated from Bernie, Chet must use all his natural strength and doggy smarts to try to save himself—not to mention Bernie and a decidedly uncooperative Peanut, too.
To Fetch a Thief shows why readers everywhere have fallen head-over-paws in love with the Chet and Bernie mystery series. Top-notch suspense, humor, and insight into the ways our canine companions think and behave make this the most entertaining and irresistible book in the series yet.
“Tender-hearted Chet and literal-minded Bernie are the coolest human/pooch duo this side of Wallace and Gromit.”
“Nothing short of masterful.”
—Los Angeles Times
“Spencer Quinn speaks two languages—suspense and dog—fluently.”
“The most winning detective duo since Shaggy met Scooby.”
—Christian Science Monitor
“Fast-moving and fun. Expect this series to become the hot new thing.”
Chet, canine half of the Little Detective Agency (Thereby Hangs a Tail, 2010, etc.), is just the sleuth to find a missing circus elephant.
No doubt about it: Peanut is the star attraction of the Drummond Family Traveling Circus. So Bernie Little and his son Charlie are disappointed to find a "No Show Today" sign on the big top when they arrive with their free tickets. Both the precocious pachyderm and her trainer, Uri DeLeath, have disappeared. Popo the Clown hires Bernie to find the missing pair, but it's Chet who follows Peanut's scent right past the security booth. Could guard Darren Quigley be slacker enough to have missed an escapee the size of Peanut? When Quigley points Bernie in the direction of Free All Animals Now, Chet's nose—however disappointed by the aroma of Nadia Worth's chili, which turns out to be vegetarian—says the animal-rights activists aren't hiding the missing circus beast. Acrobat Ollie Filipoff says he saw an 18-wheeler marked with four roses on its side on the circus grounds the night of the disappearance. But Tex Rosa, owner of Cuatro Rosas Trucking, says all his rigs were out of state that night. When Darren's thuggish friend Jocko attacks the pair with a baseball bat, Chet saves Bernie's bacon ("Bacon? There'd been bacon last night?" wonders Chet) and Bernie realizes that whoever kidnapped the circus pair isn't playing for peanuts.
Tender-hearted Chet and literal-minded Bernie are the coolest human/pooch duo this side of Wallace and Gromit.
I smell trouble,” Bernie said.
Better stop right there. Not that I doubt Bernie. The truth is, I believe everything he says. And he has a nice big nose for a human. But what’s that saying? Not much.
It’s a fact that trouble has a smell—human trouble especially, sour and penetrating—but Bernie had never smelled trouble before, or if so he hadn’t mentioned it, and Bernie mentioned all kinds of things to me. We’re partners in the Little Detective Agency, me and Bernie, Bernie’s last name being Little. I’m Chet, pure and simple.
I took a quick sniff, smelled no trouble whatsoever, just as I’d expected, but did smell lots of other stuff, including burgers cooking on a grill. I looked around: no grill in sight, and this wasn’t the time to go searching, although all at once I was a bit hungry, maybe even more than a bit. We were on the job, trailing some woman whose name I’d forgotten. She’d led us out of the Valley to a motel in a flea-bitten desert town. That was what Bernie called it—flea-bitten—but I felt no fleas at all, hadn’t been bothered by them in ages, not since I started on the drops. But the funny thing was, even though I didn’t have fleas, just the thought of them suddenly made me itchy. I started scratching, first behind my ear, soon along my side, then both at once, really digging in with my claws, faster and—
“Chet, for God’s sake.”
I went still, one of my back paws frozen in midair. Bernie gave me a close look. “Don’t tell me I forgot the drops?” I gave him a close look right back. Bernie has these faint lines on his forehead. When he worries, they get deeper, like now. I don’t like it when Bernie worries. I pushed all thoughts about scratching clear out of my mind and sat straight up in the shotgun seat—my very favorite spot—alert and flealess.
We were in the Porsche. There are fancy Porsches out there—we see them on the freeways; we’ve got freeways out the yingyang in the Valley—but ours isn’t one of them. It’s very old, brown with yellow doors, and there’s a bullet hole in the back license plate. How that happened is a story for another time.
There was one palm tree on the street in front of the motel, a small one with dusty leaves, and we were parked behind it. That was part of our stakeout technique, hiding behind trees. Maybe it was our whole technique: I couldn’t think of any other parts at the moment. Beyond the palm tree stood the motel, horseshoe-shaped—just one of the many strange things about horses, that they wore shoes—with parking in between. Two cars in the lot, parked far from each other. One, a red convertible, belonged to the woman we were tailing. The other, a dark sedan, had been there when we arrived.
We gazed at the motel door closest to the red convertible. The woman—short, blond, curvy—had jumped out of the car and gone straight inside. Since then—nothing. That was one of the problems with divorce work: no action. We hated divorce work, me and Bernie—our specialty was missing persons—but with the state of our finances we couldn’t turn down anything. How our finances got this way is a long story, hard to keep straight in my head. Early on, there’d been the Hawaiian pants. Bernie loves Hawaiian shirts—right now he was wearing the one with the trumpet pattern—and he got the idea that people would snap up Hawaiian pants. In the end, they got snapped up by us. We’ve got a closet full of them, plus lots more at our self-storage in Pedroia. Later on came the tin futures. The tin futures looked good after some find in Bolivia, but then an earthquake buried everything, so here we were, back on the divorce beat.
Our client was a sad-eyed little guy named Marvin Winkleman who owned a ticket agency downtown. Don’t ask me what a ticket agency is. What’s important is that he thought his wife was cheating, and coughed up the $500 retainer. Don’t ask me about the cheating part, either. It’s a human thing; we operate differently in my world. “Just find out, one way or another,” Winkleman said. “I’ve got to know.”
Later, driving away, Bernie said, “Why do they always have to know? What’s wrong with ignorance is bliss?” I had no idea.
We sat. Nothing happened. The dusty palm leaves hung motionless. Bernie got fidgety. He opened the glove box, checked behind the visor, patted his pockets. Poor Bernie. He never bought cigarettes anymore, was trying to quit. After a while he gave up, sat back, folded his arms. Bernie has nice strong arms. I kept my eyes on them. Time passed. Then I heard a faint metallic sound and looked out. The motel door opened and out came the blond woman, patting her hair. I glanced at Bernie. Hey! His eyes were closed. I barked, not a loud bark but the soft kind I swallow in my throat. Bernie’s eyelids flew open. He put his hand on me, sat up straight, reached for the camera, and took her picture.
The blond woman got in the convertible and checked herself in the mirror. Bernie took another picture. She put on lipstick, gave her mouth a nice stretch. I gave my mouth a nice stretch, too, for no reason. “Looks pretty happy, doesn’t she?” Bernie said. She backed out of her space, drove out of the lot and down the street, away from us. Bernie took pictures of the motel, the blinking sign outside, the palm tree, and me. Then we went back to watching the motel room door. “Maybe there’s no one in there,” Bernie said. “Like she just enjoys a solitary little nap out in the desert now and then, making this a wild goose chase.”
Wild goose chase? I’d heard that one before, wanted to go on a wild goose chase very badly, but there were no geese in sight. Once—was this back when the Hawaiian pants returns started coming in?—I’d heard Bernie say, “Our goose is cooked.” But no cooked goose ever appeared. Meanwhile, I was hungry. The smell of burgers on the grill, while not as strong as—
The motel door opened. A man stepped out, a tall man in a white shirt and dark pants, knotting his tie. “Bingo,” said Bernie, I’m not sure why. I knew bingo—a game they played at the Police Athletic League fund-raiser, an event I’d been to only once and probably wouldn’t be back to, what with how exciting it turned out to be, and that unfortunate incident with my tail and all those little plastic chips on the chief’s card—but was this a time for games? Bernie aimed the camera at the man, gazed into it, and said, “Oh my God.” He slowly lowered the camera.
The man glanced around in a quick way that reminded me of lots of perps we’d taken down and walked to the dark sedan at the other end of the motel parking lot.
“Recognize him, Chet?” said Bernie in a low voice.
I wasn’t sure. Nothing wrong with my eyes—although Bernie says I can’t be trusted when it comes to color, so don’t put any money on the convertible being red—but they’re really more of a backup to my nose and my ears, and the man was too far away for me to get a whiff, plus he wasn’t saying anything. Still, he moved in a way that was kind of familiar, stiff and long-legged, like one of those birds that can’t fly, their name escaping me at the moment. The man unlocked the sedan. “Those software geeks,” Bernie said. “I should have known from the flip-flops. It’s Malcolm.”
Malcolm? This divorce case dude was someone we knew already? I checked those feet: long skinny feet with long skinny toes. I remembered the smell of those feet, somewhat like a big round piece of cheese Bernie had once left outside for a day or two. Yes, Malcolm for sure. I didn’t like Malcolm, even though I like just about every human I’ve ever met, even some of the perps and gangbangers. Malcolm didn’t like me, either; he was one of those humans who got nervous around my kind.
Malcolm climbed into his car and drove away. “What the hell are we going to do?” Bernie said. Huh? Weren’t we going to do what we always did when a divorce case worked out like this, which was deliver the evidence, collect the final check, grab a bite somewhere? “Specifically, what are we going to do about Leda?”
Leda? What did . . .? But then I began to see, sort of. Bernie was divorced himself. He has a kid, Charlie, who we only get to see some weekends and holidays. Charlie mainly lives in a big house in High Chaparral Estates, one of the nicest developments in the whole Valley, with Bernie’s ex-wife, Leda, and her boyfriend. The boyfriend was Malcolm. What else do you need to know? Maybe just that Bernie misses Charlie a lot—and so do I—but he never misses Leda—and neither do I. And then there’s Suzie Sanchez, a reporter for the Valley Tribune and sort of Bernie’s girlfriend. Suzie smells great—kind of like soap and lemons—and has a full box of treats in her car at all times. She’s a gem.
Bernie felt under the seat, found a mangled cigarette, lit up. He took a deep breath, blew out a big smoke cloud. I love the smell, would smoke if I could. His whole body relaxed; I could feel it. I could also feel him thinking, a nice feeling, like breezes brushing by. I waited, my own mind empty and peaceful.
“We could tell her,” he said after a while. “Or not tell her.”
He smoked some more.
“If we tell her, what happens? Something, for sure. If we don’t tell her, maybe nothing happens. Nothing is often the best policy.” Bernie’s hand reached out in that absentminded way it does sometimes and gave me a pat. Bernie’s a great patter, the very best. “Still, it’s a time bomb, ticking away. But do all time bombs go off?” Bombs? Bombs were somehow in the picture? Wasn’t this divorce work? I knew bombs, of course, could sniff them out, something I’d learned in K-9 school. I’d done pretty well in K-9 school, up until the very last day. The only thing left had been the leaping test. And leaping is just about my very best thing. Then came some confusion. Was a cat involved? And blood? I ended up flunking out, but that was how Bernie and I got together, so it worked out great. But forget all that. The point is I can smell bombs, and there was no bomb smell in the air outside the motel. Detective work could be confusing. You had to be patient. “Got to be patient, big guy.” Bernie said that a lot. It meant just sitting, not always so easy.
Bernie took one last drag, then got out of the car and ground the butt into the dirt. He had a thing about forest fires, although there were no forests around out here in the desert, just this palm tree, a few shrubs, rocks, dirt. Bernie turned to me. “Is ignorance bliss? Hits a little closer to home now, doesn’t it, Chet?”
Didn’t quite get that. Were we going home? Fine with me, but shouldn’t we swing by the client first, pick up the check? Otherwise why bother with divorce work?
Bernie got back in the car, started to turn the key, then went still. “And what’s best for Charlie?” he said.
We left the desert, rode up and over the mountain pass where the air is always so fresh—I had my head stuck way out—and back into the Valley. The Valley is huge, goes on forever in all directions. The air got less fresh and started shimmering, the sky turning from blue to hazy orange. Bernie’s hands tightened on the wheel. “Imagine what this looked like when Kit Carson rode through,” he said. Kit Carson comes up from time to time. I couldn’t remember what he’d done, but if it was bad we’d bring him down eventually. Message to Kit Carson: an orange jumpsuit is in your future.
The downtown towers appeared, just the tops of them, the rest lost in the haze. Soon we were down in the haze ourselves. We parked in front of one of the towers and went into a coffee shop on the ground floor. No one there except Marvin Winkleman, sitting at a front table and gazing into his coffee cup, head down. Hey! He was one of those comb-over dudes. Love comb-overs! Humans can be very entertaining, no offense.
Winkleman looked up. “You’ve got news?” Human sweat is a big subject, but for now, let’s just say the nervous kind has a special tang that travels a long way, very easy to sniff out, and I was sniffing it out now.
Bernie nodded and took a seat at the table. I sat on the floor beside him.
“Good news or bad?” said Winkleman.
Bernie put the laptop on the table, turned it so Winkleman could see, and plugged in the camera. “These are in sequence,” he said, “time stamped at the bottom left.”
Winkleman looked at the pictures, his face gray in the laptop’s light. His sad eyes got sadder. “Who is he?” he said.
Bernie was silent for a moment. Then he said, “Does it really matter?”
Winkleman thought. His thoughts weren’t like soft breezes, were more like dark shadows that I didn’t want near me. “Guess not,” he said. “What’s the point?” He put his head in his hands. This happens sometimes, maybe like the human head can get to be too much to support.
“Um,” said Bernie. When he feels uncomfortable he bites his lip; he was doing it now. “Do, uh, you have any kids?”
“We were waiting for the right time.” Or something like that: kind of hard to hear, with Winkleman’s hands covering his face.
“Well,” said Bernie. “Then, uh . . .”
Winkleman uncovered his face. A tear rolled out of one eye. Waterworks: I was always on the lookout for that. Human tears taste salty. I know from this one time Charlie cried after he fell off his bike, and I licked his face. I had no desire to lick Winkleman’s face. “You’re telling me things could be worse?” he said.
“Maybe a cliché,” Bernie said. “Not very helpful, in retrospect.”
Winkleman wiped away the tear. “Sorry,” he said. “Crazy to take it out on the messenger.” He opened his checkbook. “How much do I owe you?”
Bernie checked his watch. “Today doesn’t count as a full day.” Oh, Bernie. “Let’s call it eight hundred.”
Winkleman handed over the check. “Got any kids yourself?” he said.
Winkleman reached into his pocket, produced a big wad of tickets, gave Bernie two. “Here,” he said. New tears welled up in his eyes, trembled at the edge of the lower lids. “Kids like the circus.”
Bernie rose. At that moment I noticed a little something on the floor. I couldn’t think of the name of that little something for the longest time, not until after I’d snapped it up and swallowed it down. Croissant: that was it. Not the sausage-and-egg kind, which I’d had once behind a Dumpster at the North Valley Mall, but still: delish, and I’d been hungry since the stakeout. Could have downed another croissant, in fact, and maybe even another after that.
“Chet? You coming?”
We headed for the door. Just as we went out, I glanced back and saw Winkleman standing by a trash receptacle. He took the gold ring off his finger and dropped it inside. Bernie had a gold ring that looked just the same. He kept it in a drawer in the office. I came very close to having a big thought, but it didn’t quite come.
The phone buzzed just as Bernie started up the car. Bernie had the phone rigged so the voice came through the speakers. “Bernie? Amy here.” I knew Amy. She was the vet. A nice woman, big and round, with soft hands, but I never liked going to the vet. “I’ve got the lab report on that lump.” Bernie leaned forward.
© 2010 SPENCER QUINN
Posted August 10, 2010
Having secured an advanced readers copy by winning the quiz contest on the Chet the Dog blog, it is indeed an honor and a privilege to post the very first review. Needless to say, it is one terrrific read (with apologies to you know who). The plotting, character development, suspense, and moral tone (highlighting the problem of exotic animal smuggling) will grab you from the first page and take you for the ride of your life through the rest of the book. And parts of it are just laugh out loud, fall on the floor hilarious, including one or two real surprises (at least for some). Spence's ability to channel Chet as the narrator offers a POV so totally unique, yet so believable, as Chet draws you in by his musings on human foibles, linguistic phraseology, and his ability to partially recall events of the past concerning things gone awry, probably because of Chet himself (or sometimes Bernie). And the evolving relationship between Chet and Peanut, the kidnapped circus elephant at the center of the plot, is both poignant and sweet. Gripping and exciting throughout, but leaving you feel really good by the end; can't ask for more than what Spence has delivered here. With the Little Detective Agency on the job, perps beware -- it will soon be jump suit time and breaking rocks in the hot sun! Thank you Spence, Bernie and Chet for once again saving the day and providing a tale so tantilizing and fun.
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Posted February 24, 2013
This book was as entertaining as the prior 3 in the series. I have a problem with the so called
"Christians" who judge others. First of all the gay couple is not even played up, I don't see that he had a
hidden agenda. There are gay couples all around us, get a life! To say they would not tell their
Christian friends is so bigoted. Hey pal, the person sitting next to you in church just might be gay.
2 out of 2 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted December 7, 2011
I was very disappointed that the author incorporated a homosexual couple into the book. I don't like agendas being put into stories. I loved the first two books and was happy to share them with neighbors, however, I would have been embarrassed to share this book with young people or with Christians. I didn't even finish the entire story once it started talking about a homosexual couple. I am so sorry I had to toss it in the fireplace.
I will purchase the next Chet and Bernie book with the hopes of being able to enjoy it and pass it on to friends and neighbors.
2 out of 21 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted September 9, 2010
This is the third Chet and Bernie book and my favorite so far. It starts out slowly with Bernie and his son Charlie going to the circus. There they discover that the star of the circus, Peanut the Elephant, is missing.
Charlie is upset and asks his Dad to investigate.
Gently we are drawn deeper and deeper into the story. Spencer Quinn pulls us along with hilarious scenes and sneaky clues. As before, Chet with his superior tracking skills is a wonderful detective, and Bernie with his superior questioning skills is just as good. Each step seems so logical and easy and soon you just can't put the book down. Great surprises occur and the end of the book is a satisfying and exciting climax.
One of my favorite scenes is Chet and Bernie interviewing the Nun in a church in Mexico.
Great humor and a deep message about animal trafficking make this a 'tip-top' choice.
(Review of an Advance Reader's Copy)
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Posted May 26, 2012
I like these books - they are very novel (pardon the pun) being from a dog's point of view and at the same time I whole hardheartedly agree with "Anonymous" who can't recommend it for Christians. I HATE IT when author's put their agenda in the book - this one in the form of the gay couple. Can't we leave all that political, environmental, gay, religious-type agendas out of the books (all books) and give us just a simple good read? If you want to talk about "issues" write a book about issues - don't sneak your issues in to your novel where you had to invent a place to insert them.
1 out of 9 people found this review helpful.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted June 30, 2011
First things first: I am an avid reader, but not a big fan of mysteries or 'cutsey' books.
However, I just discovered the three 'Chet and Bernie' books within the last month or so, and I am hooked!
The characters are real, and the way the mysteries are told (through the eyes of Chet the dog) is not contrived as you might expect, but extremely well done and believable.
I am purchasing all the available books and am looking forward to the 4th in the series.
Two paws up, WAY up!
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Posted October 24, 2014
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Posted August 20, 2014
Posted July 14, 2014
Have read the first 3 + 2 short stories and I haven't gotten fed up yet. I just love those books! I am of course a dog-lover which could explain my enthusiasm!Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted May 30, 2014
I felt that this one was not quite up to the level of the two previous books. Still got many chuckles and laughs from Chet but I didn't find the overall story that good. I'll give the series at least one more try, hoping to find a replacement for "Thee Cat Who…." series.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted April 7, 2014
This is the third installment. This is every bit as good as the first book, which is rare. You usually get tired of the same words or phrases, but Mr. Quinn makes them pertinent and not monotonous. This book made me smile and laugh out loud.
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Posted December 11, 2013
Posted August 26, 2013
Posted June 23, 2013
Another great installment of Chet and Bernie. I love the Dog narration and the perspective it gives the reader. This story was as good as the other two and different enough to keep me reading.
Looking forward to more from Chet.
Posted May 11, 2013
Spencer Quinn has a way of creating a humorous picture of how Chet the dog sees the world. This is an entertaining read with a mystery theme to keep you guessing. Chet's mentioning events from his past will keep you involved with his approach to Bernie's activities. This is light reading for a break from some of the dark mysteries I enjoy. Be sure to read the short story about how a cat was involved. This is not just a dog-lovers book, although I now look at my dog and wonder what he's thinking.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted March 29, 2013
Posted March 25, 2013
I'm a dog person and enjoy detective stories. This series is a fun read and not intellectually challenging. I can easily see my dog acting and thinking like Chet or not thinking at all, also like Chet.Was this review helpful? Yes NoThank you for your feedback. Report this reviewThank you, this review has been flagged.
Posted February 2, 2013
Posted January 10, 2013