Dog on It (Chet and Bernie Series #1) by Spencer Quinn

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As sidekicks, Maxwell Smart and Agent 99 have nothing on Chet and Bernie. This charming detective duo make their debut in Dog On It, the first volume in Spencer Quinn's new mystery series. The fast-paced and funny tale is narrated by the inimitable Chet, Bernie's best friend and canine partner, whose personality and preferences are never in doubt: "I liked to sleep at the foot of Bernie's bed, but my favorite napping spot was in the breakfast nook, under the table with my back against the wall, all cool and shady, plus there was often good snacking around Bernie's chair."

Bernie's enterprise, the Little Detective Agency, limps along, waiting for the next job to arrive. While Chet freely admits that he doesn't always understand the humans around him, the mutt who failed to graduate from the police academy quickly establishes that he's got a nose made for sniffing out trouble -- as well as the tasty morsel.

When the story begins, Chet and Bernie are settled into the companionable routine they established when Bernie got divorced and lost custody of his son. Riding shotgun for stakeouts in Bernie's beat-up convertible (and snarfing up doughnuts and beef jerky) is the perfect life for Chet, though he knows Bernie's worried about cash flow.

But their luck is about to change. During a nighttime stroll through the neighborhood -- an older enclave in the southwestern desert that Bernie fears will soon be eclipsed by new development -- the pair encounter a panicked neighbor, Cynthia Chambliss. Waving a wad of bills, she beseeches Bernie to find her daughter, Madison, a 15-year-old who has been missing for several hours.

Bernie heeds the call of cash and the urgency of parental concern, but Madison soon returns home on her own, only to disappear again in short order -- this time for several days. Cynthia frantically rehires Bernie, but her ex, Damon Keefer, refuses to cooperate, insisting that Bernie be taken off the investigation. Nevertheless, intrigued by the young girl's apparent connections to a group of Russian thugs, Bernie and Chet follow a trail of clues that leads them into more danger than they'd bargained for.

As Chet and Bernie race across the desert toward Las Vegas in their sandblasted Porsche, Quinn's narrative unfolds with mounting suspense. At every stage of their journey, readers will warm to Chet's loyalty and courage -- to say nothing of his delightfully doggy digressions -- and be captivated by Spencer Quinn's deft blend of humor and thrills in this enormously entertaining tale, bound to be the first of many adventures.

About the Author
The pseudonymous Spencer Quinn lives with his dog, Audrey, in Cape Cod, where he is hard at work on the next Chet and Bernie adventure.

From Our Booksellers
There is nothing like seeing the world from a dog's point of view. --Kat Marchand, Ellicott City, MD

Chet's sweetness, honesty, and spot-on assessment of the idiosyncrasies of human behavior won me over. Dog On It was not only unputdownable, it was stay-up-all-night-reading-but-save-the-last-few-chapters-for-the-next-day-because-you-don't-want-it-to-be-over good. --Angela Corpus, Washington, DC

In his character Chet, Spencer Quinn has created a 21st-century Lassie, with a heart of gold, a sense of humor, and a mind of his own. --Patricia Sanders, Towson, MD

Hilarious and refreshing. I haven't giggled this much while reading since I first discovered My Family and Other Animals by Gerald Durrell. I look forward to reading more of Chet's adventures! --Elayne Carringer, Devon, PA

From Writers and Reviewers
Spencer Quinn speaks two languages -- suspense and dog -- fluently. Sometimes funny, sometimes touching, and in a few places terrifying. My sincere advice to you is to rush to your nearest bookstore and put your paws on this enchanting one-of-a-kind novel. --Stephen King

I love this book. I devoured it in one night. It is like Philip Marlowe working for Mma Ramotswe from The No. 1 Ladies' Detective Agency spun out by Charlotte on her beautiful web. --Cathleen Schine

Sit and stay! You're going to love Dog On It as much as I did, because it confirms what every dog fan has long suspected -- that our dogs are not only more fun than we are, they're smarter! --Lisa Scottoline

From the Publisher

Meet Chet, the wise and lovable canine narrator of Dog on It, who works alongside Bernie, a down-on-his-luck private investigator. Chet might have flunked out of police school ("I'd been the best leaper in K-9 class, which had led to all the trouble in a way I couldn't remember exactly, although blood was involved"), but he's a detective through and through.

In this, their first adventure, Chet and Bernie investigate the disappearance of Madison, a teenage girl who may or may not have been kidnapped, but who has definitely gotten mixed up with some very unsavory characters. A well-behaved, gifted student, she didn't arrive home after school and her divorced mother is frantic. Bernie is quick to take the case — something about a cash flow problem that Chet's not all that clear about — and he's relieved, if vaguely suspicious, when Madison turns up unharmed with a story that doesn't add up. But when she disappears for a second time in a week, Bernie and Chet aren't taking any chances; they launch a full-blown investigation. Without a ransom demand, they're not convinced it's a kidnapping, but they are sure of one thing: something smells funny.

Their search for clues takes them into the desert to biker bars and other exotic locals, with Chet's highly trained nose leading the way. Both Chet and Bernie bring their own special skills to the hunt, one that puts each of them in peril. But even as the bad guys try to turn the tables, this duo is nothing if not resourceful, and the result is an uncommonly satisfying adventure.

With his doggy ways and his endearingly hardboiled voice, Chet is full of heart and occasionally prone to mischief. He is intensely loyal toBernie, who, though distracted by issues that Chet has difficulty understanding — like divorce, child custody, and other peculiar human concerns — is enormously likable himself, in his flawed, all-too-human way.

Publishers Weekly

Set in the Valley of an unnamed Western state, Quinn's winning debut introduces one smart canine detective and his partner, PI Bernie Little of the Little Detective Agency, who's pretty quick on the uptake himself. Chet, a "lively mongrel" with one white ear and one black ear, serves as the book's narrator, communicating with Bert via doggy methods that verge on the telepathic ("I wagged my tail, that quick one-two wag meaning yes, not the over-the-top one that wags itself and can mean lots of things"). Wealthy divorcée Cynthia Chambliss hires Bernie, a former cop, to find her missing 15-year-old daughter, Madison, whose father is a real estate developer who smells suspiciously of cat. (Chet's keen sense of smell comes in handy.) When Madison reappears and disappears again, her dad says she's just a runaway, though Bernie thinks otherwise. Chet must use all his superdog tricks to extricate Bernie from a mighty tight fix in a climax that fans of classic mysteries are sure to appreciate. (Feb.)

Susan Hayes - Library Journal

At last, a dog lover's mystery that portrays dogs as they really are. Chet, the canine narrator, forgets he isn't supposed to bark. He doesn't remember the choker chain is around his neck. He wonders what the noise is when he finds himself growling and questions where the breeze is coming from when his tail is wagging. Although ideas may not remain in his head for long, his loyalty to and love for his owner, Bernie, a divorced, financially strapped PI, are forever in his heart. A teenage girl, Madison, goes missing and might have been kidnapped, and Bernie takes the case. Bernie, Chet, and Suzie, a newspaper investigative reporter, follow the clues to an abandoned ghost town and mine. Quinn's characters are endearing, and his narrative is intriguing, fast-moving, and well written. Even cat lovers will find it entertaining. This first in a projected series by newcomer Quinn is highly recommended.

Kirkus Reviews

A hard-bitten private eye and his loyal pooch refuse to give up on a tricky case. Short on cash, Bernie Little, in his debut appearance, hesitates to take on the case of a missing teen. When Madison Chambliss turns up, Bernie doesn't buy her story, but it doesn't matter; he's off the case. One of his hated divorce assignments, however, looks much more promising when Bernie develops a crush on reporter Suzie Sanchez, who joins him and his dog Chet on a stakeout. After Madison disappears a second time, Chet and Bernie follow her trail. Soon they fall victim to some nasty attacks. Madison's father, a developer in major financial trouble, may be involved with the Russian mafia. Was Madison kidnapped to put pressure on him? When Chet is dognapped and spirited away, he sees Madison held prisoner. Chet escapes, only to end up at a shelter where he's marked for death until Suzie, who luckily happens to be writing a story on shelters, rescues him. Unfortunately, he can't tell Bernie what he saw. The police think Madison has run away, but Bernie, who has a hunch she's in trouble, refuses to let go even when he's fired. The invaluable Chet has to pull him out of trouble repeatedly before the case is solved. Stalwart, often mischievous narrator Chet's amusing, perceptive canine take on the human characters should appeal to hard-boiled fans and canine fanciers alike. Agent: Molly Friedrich/Friedrich Agency

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Reading Group Guide

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ONE

I could smell him — or rather the booze on his breath — before he even opened the door, but my sense of smell is pretty good, probably better than yours. The key scratched against the lock, finally found the slot. The door opened and in, with a little stumble, came Bernie Little, founder and part owner (his ex-wife, Leda, walked off with the rest) of the Little Detective Agency. I'd seen him look worse, but not often.

He mustered a weak smile. "Hey, Chet."

I raised my tail and let it thump down on the rug, just so, sending a message.

"I'm a little late, sorry. Need to go out?"

Why would that be? Just because my back teeth were floating? But then I thought, What the hell, the poor guy, and I went over and pressed my head against the side of his leg. He scratched between my ears, really digging his fingers in, the way I like. Bliss. How about a little more, down the back of the neck? I hunched my shoulders a bit, giving him the idea. Ah, nice. Very nice.

We went outside, me and Bernie. There were three trees out front, my favorite being a big shady one just perfect for napping under. I lifted my leg against it. Wow. Hadn't realized I was that close to desperation. The night filled with splashing sounds and I zoned out a little, listening to them. I managed to stop the flow — not easy — and save some for dampening the rock at the end of the driveway and the wooden fence that separated our property from old man Heydrich's next door, plus a squirt or two between the slats. Only doing my job, but don't get me started on old man Heydrich.

Bernie was gazing up at the sky. A beautiful night — soft breeze, lots of stars, lights twinkling downthe canyon, and what was this? A new tennis ball on the lawn. I went over and sniffed it. Not one of mine, not anyone's I knew.

"Wanna play fetch?"

I pawed the thing. How did it get here? Cooped up all day, but I'd kept an ear cocked; except for when I dozed off, of course.

"Bring it here, Chet."

I didn't want to, not with this stranger's smell on it.

"Come on."

But I never said no to Bernie. I gave the ball a lick or two, making it mine, then took it over to Bernie and dropped it at his feet. Bernie reared back and threw the ball up the canyon road.

"Uh-oh — where'd it go?"

Where'd it go? He really couldn't see it? That never failed to surprise me, how poorly he saw after the sun went down. I tore after the ball, bouncing up the middle of the road in plain sight, got my back feet way forward and sprang, totally airborne, snaring it on the short hop, the way I like, then wheeling around in one skidding motion and racing full speed, head low, ears flattened by the wind I was making, and dropped it at Bernie's feet, putting on the brakes at the last moment. If you know something more fun than this, let me in on the secret.

"Got it on the short hop? Couldn't tell from here."

I wagged my tail, that quick one-two wag meaning yes, not the over-the-top one that wags itself and can mean lots of things, some of which I'm not too clear on myself.

"Nice." He picked up the ball and was rearing back again when a car came slowly down the street and stopped in front of us.

The window slid down and a woman leaned out. "Is this thirteen-three-oh-nine?"

Bernie nodded.

"I'm looking for Bernie Little, the detective."

"You found him."

She opened the door, started to get out, then saw me. "Is the dog all right?"

Bernie stiffened. I felt it; he was standing right beside me. "Depends what you mean."

"You know, is he safe, does he bite? I'm not that comfortable around dogs."

"He won't bite you."

Of course I wouldn't. But the idea was planted in my head, for sure. I could tell by all the saliva suddenly pooling in my mouth.

"Thanks. You never know about dogs."

Bernie said something under his breath, too low for even me to hear; but I knew I liked it, whatever it was.

She got out of the car, a tall woman with long fair hair and a smell of flowers and lemons, plus a trace of another smell that reminded me of what happens only sometimes to the females in my world. What would that be like, having it turned on all the time? Probably drive you crazy. I glanced at Bernie, watching her, patting his hair into place. Oh, Bernie.

"I'm not sure where to begin. Nothing like this has ever happened to me."

"Nothing like what?"

She wrung her hands. Hands are the weirdest things about humans, and the best: you can find out just about everything you need to know by watching them. "I live over on El Presidente." She waved vaguely.

El Presidente: Was that the one where the sewer pipes were still going in? I was bad on street names — except our own, Mesquite Road — but why not? I didn't need them to find my way.

"My name's Cynthia Chambliss. I work with a woman youhelped."

"Who?"

"Angela DiPesto."

Mercy. I remembered endless nights parked in front of motels up and down the state. We hated divorce work, me and Bernie, never even accepted any in the old days. But now we were having cash-flow problems, as Bernie put it. The truth was, I didn't really know what "cash-flow problems" meant, but whatever they were, they woke Bernie in the night, made him get up and pace around, sometimes lighting a cigarette, even though he'd worked so hard to stop.

Bernie didn't commit to anything about Angela DiPesto, just gave one of those little nods of his. Bernie was a great nodder. He had several different nods I could think of off the top of my head, all very readable once you knew what to look for. This particular nod meant: strike one.

"The fact is, Angie spoke of you highly — how you stuck it to that creep of a husband." She gave herself a little shake. I can do that way, way better. "So when this happened, and you being practically in the neighborhood and all...anyway, here I am." She rocked back and forth slightly, the way humans do when they're very nervous.

"When what happened?"

"This thing with Madison. She's disappeared."

"Madison is your daughter?"

"Didn't I say that? Sorry. I'm just so upset, I don't know what I'm..."

Her eyes glistened up. This was always pretty interesting, the crying thing; not the sound — I could relate to that — but the waterworks, as Bernie called them, especially when Leda was on the producing end. They get upset, humans, and then water comes out of their eyes, especially the women. What is that all about? Bernie gazed down at the ground, shuffled his feet; he didn't have a handle on it, either, although I'd once seen water seeping out of his own eyes, namely the day Leda had packed up all Charlie's things. Charlie was their kid — Bernie and Leda's — and now lived with Leda except for visits. We missed him, me and Bernie.

This woman — Cynthia? Chambliss? whatever her name was — the truth is, I have trouble catching names at first, sometimes miss other things, too, unless I have a real good view of the speaker's face — took a tissue from a little bag she carried and dabbed at her eyes. "Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry for. How long has Madison been missing?"

The woman started to answer, but at that moment I heard something rustling in the bushes on the far side of the driveway. The next thing I knew, I was in the bushes myself, sniffing around, maybe even digging, but only the littlest bit. Some kind of smell was in the air, frog or toad, or...uh-oh: snake. I didn't like snakes, didn't like them at —

"Chet? You're not digging in there, are you?"

I backed out of the bushes, trotted over to Bernie. Oops — my tail was down, tucked back in a guilty manner. I stuck it right up, high and innocent.

"Good boy." He patted my head. Thump thump. Ah.

The woman was tapping her foot on the ground. "So you're saying you won't help me?"

Bernie took a deep breath. His eyes looked tired. The booze was wearing off. He'd be sleepy very soon. I was feeling a bit sleepy myself. Plus a little taste of something might be nice. Were there any of those rawhide chew strips left in the top drawer by the kitchen sink, the ones with that Southwestern flav —

"That's not exactly what I said. Your daughter didn't come home from school today. That makes her gone, what, not yet eight hours? The police won't even open a missing-persons file till a full day's gone by."

Eight hours I had trouble with, but a full day I knew very well, from when the sun rose over the hills behind the garage to when it went down behind the hills on the other side.

"But you're not the police."

"True, and we don't always agree, but I agree on this. You say Madison's a sophomore in high school? So she's what? Sixteen?"

"Fifteen. She's in the gifted program."

"In my experience, fifteen-year olds sometimes forget to call home, especially when they're doing something impulsive, like going to the movies, or hanging out, or partying from time to time."

"It's a school night."

"Even on school nights."

"I told you — she's gifted."

"So was Billie Holiday."

"I'm sorry?" The woman looked confused; the confused human face is almost as ugly as the angry one. I didn't get the Billie Holiday thing, either, but at least I knew who she was — this singer Bernie listened to, especially when he was in one of his brooding moods.

But even if no one got what he was talking about, Bernie seemed pleased with himself, like he'd scored some point. I could tell by the smile that crossed his face, a little one, quickly gone. "Tell you what. If you don't hear from her by morning, give me a call." He held out his card.

She gave the card a hostile look, didn't touch it. "By morning? Seventy-six percent of disappearances are solved in the first twelve hours, or they're not..." Her eyes got wet again, and her voice sounded like something was choking her throat. "...solved at all."

"Where'd you hear that?"

"I didn't hear it. I looked it up on the Internet before I drove over. What you don't seem to understand is that Madison has never done anything like this and never would. Maybe if you won't help, you can recommend someone who will."

Recommend another agency? Had this ever happened before? I couldn't read the look on Bernie's face at all.

"If it's money you're worried about, I'm prepared to pay whatever you charge, plus a big bonus the moment you find her." She reached into her bag, pulled out a roll, peeled off some bills. "How's five hundred in advance?"

Bernie's eyes shifted over to the money and stayed there, his face now readable to anyone from any distance, his mind on cash flow. "I'd like to see her room first." When Bernie caved, he did it quickly and all at once. I'd seen it with Leda a thousand times.

Cynthia handed over the money. "Follow me."

Bernie stuffed the bills deep in his pocket. I ran over to our car — an old Porsche convertible, the body sandblasted, waiting a long time now for a new coat of paint — and jumped over the passenger-side door and into my seat.

"Hey. Did you see what your dog just did?"

Bernie nodded, the proud, confident nod, my favorite. "They call him Chet the Jet." Well, Bernie does, anyway, although not often.

A coyote shrieked in the canyon, not far from the back of the house. I'd have to deal with that later. I no longer felt tired at all. And Bernie, turning the key in the ignition, looked the same: rarin' to go. We thrived on work, me and Bernie.

Copyright © 2009 by Spencer Quinn