Smells Like Dog (21 page)

“Where the devil is that letter?” Ajitabh asked. “Show him the letter.”

Zelda reached into her bag and pulled out a plain envelope. “Drake gave this to me a week ago last Saturday.
He came out to my trinket shop on an unexpected visit. He seemed agitated, nervous, kept looking out the window. He told me that he was in danger and that he wanted to make sure you got this letter if…” She wiped a tear from her eye. “If anything happened to him. He didn’t want to leave the letter with his lawyer. I don’t blame him. Those Snootys are most…
forgetful
.” She stifled a sob. “Here. Read it.”

Homer took the letter from her outstretched hand. He sat on the zebra pillow and turned the envelope over. A wax seal with Drake’s initials,
D.H.P.
, was still intact. As Dog burrowed beneath some pillows, Homer broke the seal and pulled out the letter. A blanket of sadness wrapped around him as he recognized his uncle’s handwriting. Only a few days had passed since he’d learned of his uncle’s death. It still didn’t seem real. He turned his back to Zelda and Ajitabh and read to himself. His uncle’s confident voice rose off the page.

Tears fell from Homer’s eyes as he read the letter again and again. He hunched his shoulders and wiped his face with his jacket sleeve.

“There’s no need to hide your tears,” Zelda said. “Sadness is nothing to be ashamed of. Sadness is the truest measure of being alive.”

“I thought love was the truest measure,” Ajitabh said.

“Do not speak to me of love,” she said slowly, as if each word brought her pain.

No one spoke for a while. The woodstove crackled and popped and Dog snored beneath the pillows. Finally, when the tears had subsided, Homer turned around and gazed at his uncle’s friends. As his fear melted away, their villainous appearances also melted away. He hadn’t before noticed the twinkle in Ajitabh’s eyes or the gentleness in Zelda’s voice. “Why didn’t you tell me who you were on the train?”

“I thought it more appropriate for Ajitabh to speak to you first. He was, after all, your uncle’s best friend.” She looked away. “And I tend to frighten people.”

“Why didn’t my uncle ever tell me about you?”

Ajitabh sipped his tea. “He wanted you to finish your schooling before you joined us on a quest.”

Homer couldn’t believe his ears. He scrambled onto his knees. “Join you?”

“Why certainly. When you came of age.”

“When we were on the roof, you said that I could still claim some sort of membership. What membership?” Homer asked.

“Ah yes. That.” Ajitabh stood and walked over to the woodstove. He opened its glass door and tossed in a few pieces of kindling. As the fire’s warmth drifted throughout the room, Homer peeled off his corduroy jacket, preparing himself for what was sure to be an exciting story. Ajitabh cleared his throat. “The moment I heard that Drake had died, I went to find you, Homer. I needed to know if Drake had given you the coin. But what I discovered was that he had given you that hound.”

Dog, his rump sticking out of a pillow pile, snored louder.

“It surprised me to learn of this dog—most likely a stray he had picked up somewhere. Rather nice of you to take care of him.”

“I don’t mind taking care of him.” Homer reached out to scratch Dog but stopped, not wanting to wake him. “But my dad wants to send him back. He can’t smell so he eats weird things, but I like him.”

“Every boy should have a dog,” Ajitabh said, arranging the burning logs with a poker.

“What about every girl?” Zelda asked.

“Girls do well with dogs, certainly, and with cats, horses, rats, and all that. But dogs and boys go together like slugs and rain. It’s a simple universal equation. I hope that your father changes his mind.” Ajitabh set the poker aside, then returned to his pillow. “Getting back
to the issue at hand, after you told me that you had only received the hound, I went to Drake’s apartment and found that it had been emptied of everything.”

“I know where it all went,” Homer said excitedly. “Madame la Directeur stole all his stuff and put it in her lair.”

Ajitabh slapped his knee. “By Jove, I suspected as much but I didn’t have time to investigate. Zelda called and told me that she had run into you on the train and that you had the coin after all. So I followed you from the train station. I tried to talk to you at the law office but you ran off.”

“My sister told Madame la Directeur about the coin. Madame said it belonged to the museum and that Uncle Drake had stolen it.”

“Nonsense,” Zelda said, her voice rumbling angrily. “Drake Pudding never stole anything. That coin belongs to you, Homer. By giving you the coin, Drake has passed his membership to you. You are to take his place in a secret society.”

“A secret society?”

“Yes.” She folded her hands. “The Society of L.O.S.T.”

H
uh?” Homer leaned on the coffee table. “The what?”

“The Society of L.O.S.T.—Legends, Objects, Secrets, and Treasures,” Ajitabh said, filling Zelda’s glass with tea.

Homer pushed away his bangs. “Madame said that the initials stood for ‘Lots of Stuffed Things.’ I knew that couldn’t be right. But she said the coin belonged to the museum. That it belonged in Dr. Wortworthy’s exhibit.”

Zelda reached across the table and patted Homer’s hand. “Put everything that Madame told you out of your head. She’s a liar. She wanted the coin because she desires membership in the Society as much as she desires wealth. Maybe more.”

“Madame was kicked out of the Society five years ago,” Ajitabh said, “when it was discovered that she had sold stolen treasure for personal gain.”

Homer’s mind raced as he tried to take in all the information. “She said she knew my uncle. That’s how she knew him? Because they both belonged to this… Society?”

“Pancakes are served.” Mumble, the old cook, scuttled across the room, a tray perched in his hands. First he set a platter on the table. Homer’s stomach went crazy as the scent of steaming pancakes filled the air. “I made them especially
large,
” Mumble said, giving Zelda a pitying look. Then, from the pockets of his apron, he pulled out a bottle of maple syrup, a bottle of strawberry syrup, and a bottle of blueberry syrup. “And some chickpea curry.” He set a bowl on the table. Then he pulled a meaty bone from his apron pocket. “For the hound.”

“Much appreciated, Mumble. How’s the girl?” Ajitabh asked.

“She ate five pancakes, then fell asleep in the guest room. But that rat of hers stole my silver spoon. It was a
gift from my mother. I treasured that spoon.” He shuffled back out the door.

The stack of pancakes was even taller than the one at the Milkydale County Fair’s pancake-eating contest. Ajitabh passed out plates, forks, and napkins and everyone dug in. Homer nudged Dog awake and showed him the bone. Dog wagged his tail as he happily gnawed. “These pancakes are great,” Homer said after taking his first bite. Although Zelda could probably fit an entire pancake into her mouth, she cut them into dainty pieces.

“Please pass the syrup,” she said.

“Which one?” Homer asked as a strawberry river ran down his pancakes.

“What does it matter? One is as sweet as the next. The resulting rise in my blood sugar may induce a few moments of light-headed giddiness but I shall still be a very large woman who lives alone and who cannot ride on a Ferris wheel. And who has never found love.”

“For God’s sake, Zelda, don’t start with that again.” Ajitabh handed her the maple syrup.

Homer wanted to ask Zelda if the reason she seemed so sad had something to do with that missed date with Mr. Snooty at Chez Bill’s, but he felt too embarrassed to ask.

As he filled his belly with warm, fluffy pancakes, happiness filled him, too. Up in the mountain tower he felt
close to his uncle. Gwendolyn and his father were out of jail, safe at home in their own beds. And his parents wouldn’t be worried about him, believing he’d gone on a museum field trip. “Will you tell me about the Society?” he asked.

“Righteo.” Ajitabh finished a spoonful of curry, then sat back on his cushion. “It all begins with Wilma von Weiner. Forty-five years ago she discovered the Lost Temple of the Reptile King and became one of the world’s most famous faces. She couldn’t even go to the grocery without a mob of reporters trailing her. Though quite at ease trekking through a jungle of poisonous snakes, she was shy by nature and hated public attention. So she went into hiding.”

Homer knew that part, but that’s where the story always ended in the history books. “Where’d she go?” he asked.

“To South America with her husband, Dr. Wortworthy, where she assisted him with his obsessive collection of rare reptiles and amphibians. But while this life kept her from the public eye, it did not satisfy her. Wortworthy had no interest in treasure hunting and Wilma discovered that she had little interest in catching and stuffing frogs. And, even though she had a young daughter for companionship, she began to feel rather lonely.”

“Her daughter is Madame,” Homer said.

“Yes, that’s right. And it was because of her loneliness that Wilma came up with the idea for the Society of L.O.S.T.—to provide a means for likeminded treasure hunters to socialize and plan quests in secret. She handpicked the membership and each member had to swear an oath of secrecy.”

“Is that why I’ve never read about L.O.S.T.?”

Ajitabh nodded. “It’s one of the few secret societies that has actually been kept secret. Great riches pass through its hands. Imagine what would happen if a thief discovered the meeting locations.”

Dog, who’d been tearing at the bone, waddled over to the coffee table and poked his nose at one of the glasses of tea. “I think he’s thirsty,” Homer said. Mumble appeared immediately and placed a bowl of water on the floor. Dog’s long ears flopped into the bowl as he eagerly lapped. “Thanks,” Homer called as Mumble left. What great service.

“Where was I?” Ajitabh asked.

“The Society of L.O.S.T.,” Zelda said, helping herself to another pancake.

“Ah, yes. Along with their love of treasure hunting, the original members shared Wilma’s passionate belief that the sole purpose of treasure hunting was to unearth the marvels and mysteries of the past for the education, enrichment, and enlightenment of the public. So each
member swore a second oath to give all discoveries to the appropriate museum or university.”

“So Wilma wasn’t evil, like her daughter?” Homer asked.

“I never met her but I’ve been told she was charming,” Ajitabh said. “Unfortunately, she died only ten years after founding the Society. Thus, the question arose, how would the Society continue to flourish as the original membership died off? It was unanimously decided that future membership would be awarded in two ways—by bloodline or by achievement. But each new member still had to swear the first oath of secrecy and the second oath to use his or her treasure-hunting skills for the greater good. Zelda and I are the newest members, as was your uncle Drake.”

Homer’s pancake-filled belly pushed uncomfortably against his pants, so he set his plate aside. He made room for Dog, who curled up on his pillow and started gnawing on the bone again. “How did my uncle become a member?”

“Through achievement. When he found King Tut’s bathing suit he caught the Society’s attention and they invited him to join.”

“That’s how he met Madame la Directeur,” Zelda said, dabbing syrup from her lips. “She inherited her membership from her mother, of course.”

“Because Dr. Wortworthy did not know about L.O.S.T. Madame only learned about it many years after her mother’s death. When she had reached adulthood, the Society approached her. She had followed in her father’s footsteps and had become a doctor of herpetology, but the Society opened up a whole new world for her. She caught the treasure-hunting bug and with Drake’s help, they set out to find the sunken HMS
Bombastic
.”