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    The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One: A Chet and Bernie Mystery eShort Story
    The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One: A Chet and Bernie Mystery eShort Story
    The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One: A Chet and Bernie Mystery eShort Story
    Ebook62 pages55 minutes

    The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One: A Chet and Bernie Mystery eShort Story

    By Spencer Quinn

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Chet and Bernie—everybody’s favorite human-canine detective team—return in an e-original short story that gives Chet’s best friend Iggy his moment in the spotlight.

    Iggy is a dog who doesn’t get out much, so it’s big news when elderly Mr. Parsons knocks on Bernie’s door to say that Iggy has vanished. In the search for Iggy, Chet and Bernie find Mrs. Parsons unconscious on her bedroom floor, in need of urgent medical care. But it’s only when they arrive at the hospital that things get really interesting.

    With a jewel thief making short work of hospital patients’ valuables, it seems that Iggy is not alone in disappearing right out from under somebody’s nose. Suspects are plentiful and witnesses are few. But when little Iggy reappears, tail wagging, it turns out he holds the key to solving the entire affair.

    In addition to a clever caper and the return of much beloved characters, this gem of a short story is a testament to the enduring power of friendship in all its forms: neighbor to neighbor, man to dog, dog to dog. Here is a treat you’ll devour in one sitting—rather like Chet with a juicy steak that’s been momentarily left unattended!
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherAtria Books
    Release dateAug 13, 2013
    ISBN9781476703602
    Author

    Spencer Quinn

    Spencer Quinn is the bestselling author of eight Chet and Bernie mystery series, as well as the #1 New York Times bestselling Bowser and Birdie series for middle-grade readers. He lives on Cape Cod with his wife Diana—and dogs Audrey and Pearl. Keep up with him by visiting SpenceQuinn.com.

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      The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One - Spencer Quinn

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      The Iggy Chronicles, Volume One, by Spencer Quinn, Atria

      Old Mr. Parsons knocked on our door. I was lying in the front hall, eyes closed and not really in the mood to open them even though Mr. Parsons was a good buddy. Mr. Parsons had a knock all his own, quiet yet bony, but I’d already known it was him just from the slow bumpitty bump of his steps—he used a walker, couldn’t make it much easier for me than that—and of course how could you miss his old-man smell, kind of like stacks of yellowed crumbling newspapers we’d once toppled over, me and Bernie, revealing a perp whose name escapes me—although no perp ever escapes me and Bernie, not in the end—and . . . and where were we going with this? Easy to lose the thread sometimes: once I had one caught way up inside my mouth. It dangled down and tickled my tongue in a bothersome way. But not now: no thread worries, no worries of any kind. A lovely dream featuring snacks and treats was getting ready to take me in.

      Mr. Parsons knocked again. Bernie? he called through the door. You there?

      Bernie, my partner in the Little Detective Agency, was here all right but hadn’t yet made an appearance. His snoring, coming from the bedroom down the hall, made a lovely sound, actually musical to my way of thinking. We’d had a late night down at Central Booking, trying to hand over a perp we’d busted, name of Truffles Siminoni, whose MO was all about boosting fancy food from high-end restaurant kitchens. We had lots of pals at Central Booking, everything usually going smoothly, but last night there’d been a hitch—something about the evidence having disappeared, was that it? A pound of caviar, whatever caviar happened to be, or possibly two pounds? While I was wondering about all that, although not wondering hard, Mr. Parsons called Bernie’s name again. His wavery old voice sounded even waverier and older than usual. I rose, gave myself a shake—not the long kind that starts at my nose, goes to the tip of my tail, and then all the way back, and sometimes makes one more round after that!—no, this was a just a quick shake to get going.

      I went down the hall to Bernie’s bedroom, and just as I was about to enter gave myself one of those good long shakes after all. Some things you can’t explain. At that moment I happened to lick my muzzle. Hey! It tasted salty. Another thing I couldn’t explain, and coming so soon after the first one, something about . . . about . . . whatever. The day was off to a good start: that was my takeaway.

      It was quiet and dark in Bernie’s room, and smelled of Bernie. Bernie’s the best-smelling human I’ve ever encountered, no one else even close. He just never stops giving off this wonderful mix of apples, bourbon, salt and pepper, with just a hint of something funky in the background. Who wouldn’t love Bernie? Actually a surprising number of people, starting with his ex-wife Leda, who used to sleep on the side of the bed where Bernie wasn’t at the moment. He lay over at the other edge, all twisted in the sheets, hair mussed up and his eyebrows, too—beautifully thick eyebrows with a language all their own—and one leg sticking out. It

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