Smells Like Dog (18 page)

Homer fell to his knees and threw his arms around Dog. “I’m sorry,” he whispered in one of the long ears. Dog poked his wet nose against Homer’s cheek and wagged his tail. Mr. and Mrs. Pudding had always taught their children that it was a sin to mistreat an animal. In her taxidermy practice, Gwendolyn had never harmed a single creature. Each one had been roadkill or been
killed by one of the farm dogs or barn cats. By choking Dog, Madame had proven, without a doubt, that she was the worst kind of person.

“Zelda’s Trinket Shop,” Madame said with disgust as she read the matchbook’s cover. She pulled out the coin and tossed the matchbook aside. “Won’t that towering freak be surprised when she finds out that I outsmarted her?”

Towering freak?
Homer clenched his jaw. The tall woman on the train had advised him to tuck the coin into the matchbook. And she’d watched while he’d done so, and while he’d put the matchbook into his jacket pocket.
She’d
told the museum director.

“I have done terrible, unspeakable things,” she’d said on the train.

Homer’s thoughts raced. Zelda and Madame were in this together. Zelda hadn’t taken the coin during the train ride because the conductor would have heard Homer scream for help. She’d left the dirty work to Madame.

Anger raged inside Homer as he watched Madame la Directeur gaze at the coin. But as quickly as the anger reached a boil, it was drowned by a rush of shame. He’d failed his uncle. Completely and utterly failed.

Madame pushed a button on the wall. A man’s voice blared from an overhead speaker. It was the same voice as earlier. “What?”

“Realm of Reptiles. Now!” she ordered.

“Why?”

“Do I pay you to ask why? There’s a dog and a stupid kid I need you to get rid of.”

Get rid of?
She’d kill them both, no doubt about it. Homer grabbed the end of Dog’s leash and ran for the hall. “There’s no use running,” Madame called, not bothering to follow. “He’ll find you. I’ve got cameras everywhere.”

Homer’s plan was to run through the Grand Hall and out the door by the ticket booth. That was the plan. But the elevator made a
ding
sound as it arrived from the basement. There’d be no time to get past it. “Come on,” he urged, pulling Dog into an exhibit called Beneath the Microscope.

Homer desperately looked for a place to hide. A giant microscope stood in the center of the room. Its lens reflected a protozoan onto a wide screen. Styrofoam bacteria, as tall as Mr. Pudding, stood in a cluster. A nucleus with orbiting electrons hung from the ceiling. Homer and Dog ran to the very back of the room, then squeezed behind something that looked like a giant fried egg but was labeled
AMOEBA.
“Shhh,” Homer whispered, crouching next to Dog. “Don’t move.” His heart pounded in his ears. Dog stuck his nose in Homer’s sleeve.

“Twaddle!” Madame hollered.

“What?”

Homer peered around the amoeba. Madame and Mr. Twaddle, the Snootys’ secretary, stood just outside the microscope exhibit. Mr. Twaddle wore the same pinstriped suit and two-toned shoes that he’d worn on the Sunday prior, when he’d delivered Dog to the Pudding Farm. Wasn’t he supposed to be on holiday?

“The front door is locked so they can’t get out. They’re probably somewhere on this floor,” Madame said. “Once you’ve gotten rid of them, meet me in the lair. We need to finish searching through those belongings.”

“But I’ve searched through them already.”

She shoved the coin in his face. “Look, you idiot. You see the little hole that’s been drilled into this coin? Drake managed to sneak the coin past you by attaching it to the mutt’s collar. It doesn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that one out.” She poked him in the chest. “So don’t tell me you’ve searched all his belongings because you haven’t found the map and it’s got to be there!” She poked him again, this time he almost fell over.

Homer held his breath. Madame la Directeur had his uncle’s belongings and she was looking for a map. It had to be the same map that Uncle Drake had been looking for. The one and only map.

“What’s so important about that coin?” Mr. Twaddle asked.

“None of your nosy business. But I’ve wanted it for a very long time and now it’s mine.” She kissed the coin. “Well? Why are you just standing there? Go find the kid.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Mr. Twaddle grumbled.

“Hurry up.” She shoved him. “I’ll meet you in the lair.”

Faint elevator music drifted into the microscope room as the elevator doors opened and closed. Dog pulled his nose out of Homer’s sleeve and started to yawn. Homer clamped his hand over Dog’s mouth.

“Shhhh.”

“Hey, kid!” Mr. Twaddle called. “Where are you? Kid!” His voice faded as he searched a different exhibit.

If Uncle Drake had found Rumpold Smeller’s map, Madame had no right to take it. But the last thing Homer wanted to do was to follow her into some sort of lair. Lairs are evil places, owned by evil people—everyone knows that. Lairs have things like poisonous moats, torture chambers, and doomsday weapons. But what were his options? If he went to the police department they’d never believe that Madame, a director by Royal Decree, had stolen his coin and his uncle’s belongings. And he had no proof. He couldn’t even lead them to the lair. They’d think he’d made the whole thing up.

Still, he could go home and start on that massive chore list. He could try to avoid the vacant lot where
the library had once stood. Try to forget that he’d failed to protect his uncle’s most treasured possession. Try to forget about treasure hunting altogether. Then watch his dad send Dog away.

Homer massaged the sore spot on Dog’s wrinkled neck where Madame had choked him. “I won’t let her hurt you again,” he whispered. “But we’ve got to find her lair. It’s the only way to get proof.” Dog turned his watery eyes up at Homer and whapped his tail against the amoeba.

“There you are!” Mr. Twaddle grabbed Homer’s arm and pulled him to his feet. Dog started barking.

“Let me go!” Homer cried, kicking Mr. Twaddle’s shin.

“Stop squirming.” Though not much taller than Homer, he easily overpowered him and forced him into the hallway. Dog clamped his teeth around Mr. Twaddle’s pant leg. “Get off me.” Mr. Twaddle shook his leg. Dog tumbled backward, a piece of fabric between his teeth. “Hey, these are my good pants.” Homer tried to kick the other shin but Mr. Twaddle shoved him up against the wall. “I said stop squirming. You’re making this difficult.” Well, that was the point. What did he think? That Homer would quietly follow him to who-knew-where?

Dog scrambled to his feet and sank his teeth into Mr. Twaddle’s ankle. “Ahhhh!” Mr. Twaddle let go of Homer and grabbed Dog. With a grunt, he heaved Dog
over his shoulder. “Can’t believe you still have this stupid dog. Leave it to Drake Pudding to have such a stupid mutt.” He started down the hall, Dog bouncing against his shoulder.

“Let him go,” Homer cried.

“Come on, kid, I’m not gonna hurt you. I just need to make sure you leave the museum.” Then he whipped around and glared at Homer “But if you try to kick me one more time, I might change my mind.” Dog whimpered.

Somewhere, deep inside, Homer believed that Mr. Twaddle wasn’t going to “get rid” of them. Maybe he shouldn’t have felt that way, but he did. Killing a kid was a whole lot more serious than stealing a coin. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t capable of hurting them. So Homer didn’t fight or argue. Instead, he followed Mr. Twaddle down the hall, his mind racing.
Maybe I can get some information from this guy.

“I saw your photos at Snooty and Snooty’s office. I saw the one with all the treasure-hunting books.”

Twaddle kept on walking. “This thing weighs a ton. What do you feed it? Doughnuts?”

“I have lots of treasure-hunting books, too,” Homer said.

“Good for you.”

The hallway ended near the gift shop, just across from
the Grand Hall’s wide staircase. A bin of polished rocks stood outside the gift shop. Little kids would think of those colorful rocks as treasures. “Why does Madame la Directeur have my uncle’s things?”

“You’re swimming up a dangerous river, kid. You keep asking questions like that and the same thing’ll happen to you that happened to your uncle. That woman will stop at nothing. Take my advice. Leave the museum while you can.
Alive.
”

The same thing’ll happen to you that happened to your uncle.

As Homer followed Mr. Twaddle across the Grand Hall’s marble floor, a frightening thought grew in his brain. What if it hadn’t been an accident after all? Gwendolyn had said that tortoises don’t eat people. Lorelei had pointed out that their mouths were way too small to swallow a person.

That woman will stop at nothing.

A queasy feeling washed over Homer’s body. What if Madame la Directeur had been responsible for Drake Pudding’s death?

Mr. Twaddle unlocked the ticket door and pushed it open. Then he dumped Dog outside. “Go home, kid. The City’s no place for a country boy.” Homer wanted to ask more questions but Mr. Twaddle shoved him into the night, then slammed and locked the door. Homer
watched through the glass as Mr. Twaddle grabbed a bag of Dinookies from the gift shop, then sauntered away.

Uncle Drake had been murdered. But why? So that Madame la Directeur could get her hands on his belongings and search for Rumpold Smeller’s map? The most famous pirate map in the world, searched for by countless treasure hunters and never found. But what if his uncle had truly found it? How could Homer allow his uncle’s killer to get away with murder and the map?

“Hi, Homer.”

Homer nearly jumped out of his shoes. He turned to find a smiling face and a head of crazy pink hair standing next to him.

“I couldn’t get back into the warehouse because all the stock boys had already shown up. So I thought I’d come and see how the party went.”

“Lorelei.” Homer had never been so happy to see anyone. Even Dog seemed happy as he poked her with his nose. “Lorelei, I need your help. You said you got into the museum for free all the time. Will you show me how?”

She frowned. “Can’t you just go back to the VIP entrance? Why do you have to sneak in?”

He had already told her everything. What harm could come from telling her the rest? Words flew out of his mouth. “She killed my uncle. It wasn’t an accident. I don’t know how she did it but she made it look like a
tortoise ate him. Tortoises don’t eat people. Gwendolyn knows that kind of stuff. And they never found his body, just his shoes. She could have put the shoes near the tortoise to make it look…”

“Calm down, Homer. Take a breath or you’ll faint.”

Homer took a breath. “She called him a thief. Then she took the coin. She said it belongs to the museum but if it belonged to the museum then my uncle wouldn’t have given it to me. He wasn’t a thief. And she took all his stuff because she thinks he has a map. That’s why Mr. Twaddle told my parents that Uncle Drake didn’t leave any belongings. Because he’s working for her and she took everything. She choked Dog.” Homer showed Lorelei the welt on Dog’s neck.

Lorelei knelt and stroked Dog’s back. “Who is
she?
”

“Madame la Directeur, head of the museum. That dark-haired lady with those real pointy high heels. She’s got a lair.”

Lorelei laughed. “A lair? No way. I’ve been in that museum a million times. I’ve never seen a lair.”

Homer felt his face go red. She didn’t believe him. Why should she? He sounded like a crazy person. Who has a lair? This wasn’t a science fiction movie. He braced himself, expecting her to laugh again. But she was real quiet as she scratched Dog’s rump. Then she looked up. “Okay. Let’s see if we can find this lair.”

Homer nodded, so overcome with gratitude that he almost hugged Lorelei. He sure didn’t want to look for the thing all by himself.

While Dog nibbled on some blades of neatly mowed grass, Homer unfolded his museum map. He and Lorelei sat against a stone lion. Huddling over the glossy paper, Homer ran his flashlight beam over each illustrated floor. “Sometimes you can find a secret space by comparing the external shape of a building to the internal arrangement of the walls.”

Lorelei, her shoulder pressed against Homer’s, searched with equal determination. No one in Mrs. Peepgrass’s class had ever helped Homer look for anything. They would never even believe him if he told them about an evil lair.
You’re such a weirdo, Homer Pudding.
But Lorelei was willing to believe. If she still needed a home when this was all over, he’d ask his parents to adopt her. They could turn the attic into her room. They could walk to school together and eat lunch together. She would never have to eat cold soup from a can again.

They ran their fingers along the map—his followed the external walls, hers followed the internal walls. Nothing appeared out of the ordinary. He moved his finger across the illustrated museum grounds. “Hey, what’s that?” He traced a pair of thick blue lines.

Lorelei pointed to the map’s legend. “Says ‘City Channel.’ ”

“A channel? Like, water?”

“I guess so.” She shrugged. “I’ve never seen any water around the museum. Except for the birdbaths.”

“According to this map, the channel runs up to the museum’s western wall and then back out the eastern wall. It must go under the museum.” Homer held out his compass. “That’s not possible, though, because we’re at the eastern wall and there’s no channel here.”