The Iggy Chronicles, Volume 2 by Spencer Quinn

I think my boyfriend is cheating on me.”
    We should have walked away at that very moment, me and Bernie—or better yet run, our tails between our legs. Not so easy in Bernie’s case, since, maybe like you, he’s stuck with living a tailless life, poor guy. Imagine that! Actually, I can’t. The good news is that I’ve got enough tail for two, a strong, bushy, pleasing-to-the-eye tail that even has a mind of its own. Sometimes it wags me! Or just about. I’m not so easy to wag, being a hundred-plus-pounder and strong for my size, Bernie says. And not just Bernie: ask some of the perps up at Northern Correctional, although they may not have time for chitchat, what with being so busy breaking rocks in the hot sun. The point is we’ve taken down lots of perps here at the Little Detective Agency. Bernie’s last name is Little. I’m Chet, pure and simple.
    This customer with the cheating boyfriend problem did not look like a perp. What she looked like was the kind of woman who has a certain effect on Bernie. A lock of her golden hair—mostly golden, that is, the roots telling a darker story—drooped down over one eye, and she flicked it back into place with a little shake of the head. That got Bernie’s attention, big-time. Why? I just didn’t understand.
    â€œWell, uh, Sherry, is it?” Bernie said.
    â€œSherry Caputo. Lieutenant Stine of Valley PD recommended you. He’s my neighbor.”
    â€œVery . . . thoughtful of him,” Bernie said. “The thing is, Sherry, that while I’m sorry to hear about your situation—”
    â€œTell me about it,” the woman said. “If he’s cheating, I’m going to wring his neck.”
    â€œAnd if he’s not?”
    Sherry blinked. “I hadn’t thought of that.” Her eyes shifted, sometimes a sign that human thinking was in the works. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” she said.
    â€œRight,” said Bernie. “Exactly. Glad you said that. The thing is, this isn’t really the kind of job we take on. Missing persons is more our line.”
    â€œStine said you’d say that. He also told me about the Hawaiian pants.”
    Oh, no. Not that. Is there such a thing as being too brilliant? That’s the story of the Hawaiian pants. Bernie’s a big fan of Hawaiian shirts, the one he was wearing at the moment—with a pattern of hula-dancing mules—not one of my favorites. And this was in the early days with Bernie, before I’d even met a mule, namely Rummy, about whom more some other time, or never. Where I’m going with this is . . . is . . . right! The Hawaiian pants! One night, after a bourbon or two—or maybe more, but I don’t go past two, the perfect number, to my way of thinking—Bernie suddenly slammed his hand down on the table real hard and said, “Hawaiian pants! We’re rich!” At which point I’d taken off, running all over the house, darting into and out of every room, meaning the kitchen, Bernie’s bedroom, Charlie’s bedroom, the office, the front hall, the living room, not necessarily in that order—or any order! Who needs order? Especially when Bernie’s on top of the world. If Bernie’s on top of the world, I’m on top of the world. And when he’s not I still am! Or close. So round and round and round I flew, zigging and zagging, claws digging in deep, leaning into the turns so sharply that I almost—
    â€œCHET!”
    Better back up a bit. First, the bedrooms. In the predivorce days, Bernie’s bedroom was actually his and Leda’s. Then it was just Bernie’s, although the divorce hadn’t gone through yet. That was around the time I flunked out of K-9 school, something I’d rather not go into now, and gotten together with Bernie. After that came a real weird time when Leda moved back in—bringing their kid Charlie