A Fistful of Collars: A Chet and Bernie Mystery (The Chet and Bernie Mystery Series)
Spencer Quinn
Language: English
Pages: 336
ISBN: 1451665172
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
In the newest adventure in the New York Times bestselling mystery series that the Los Angeles Times says is “nothing short of masterful,” Chet and Bernie find that Hollywood has gone to the dogs.
Everyone’s favorite detective team returns in a new adventure as canine narrator Chet and his human partner P.I. Bernie Little find that Hollywood has gone to the dogs.
While Tinseltown bad boy Thad Perry is in town shooting a big-budget Western, Bernie and Chet have to keep him out of trouble. But soon they discover Thad has a mysterious connection to the Valley, and the only people who know his secrets keep turning up dead before they can talk.
As Bernie’s love life goes long-distance and Chet’s late-night assignations give rise to an unexpected dividend, it’s all our two sleuths can do to keep the actor in their sights. Worst of all, Thad is a self-proclaimed cat person, and his feline friend Brando has taken an instant dislike to Chet.
Like the winning books before it, this fifth book in the series combines a topnotch mystery with genuine humor and a perceptive take on the relationship between human and dog that will stay with you long after the case is solved.
Bernie began, and then the front doors opened and out stepped Leda—and Charlie! Hadn’t seen him in way too long. We pulled in beside the silver car and I hopped out, possibly while we were still rolling. Had Bernie said something about that, maybe more than once? I had a faint memory. It grew fainter and then vanished completely. By that time, I was giving Charlie a great big greeting. “For God’s sake, Charlie,” Leda said. “Think of the germs.” “He’s just kissing me, Mom.” Leda hurried over
wrong direction. Bernie pointed toward the top of the gate. “Okay, Chet. Up and over.” Up and over? He wanted me to jump the gate? Not a good idea, the reasons why being so complicated that I didn’t even try to untangle them. Instead I just sat down. Bernie shook the box of treats. “Come on, big guy. Don’t you want one of these?” I did, big-time. But I stayed where I was. Bernie turned to Mr. Parsons. “Maybe the low-percentage play isn’t so low after all.” “Maybe,” said Mr. Parsons, giving
opened the water bottle, and tilted it up to her mouth. She took a sip, then all of a sudden was drinking and drinking, sucking the water from the bottle until it started crumpling in on itself. “How did he know I was so thirsty?” she said. Or something like that. I appeared to be no longer quite beside her, no longer sitting, to tell the truth, but on my way to Bernie; actually pretty much there, by his side, which is where it just so happens I feel my best. “. . . and was just wondering,” he
losing the check on the way home. “Artistic process?” Bernie said. “He’s six years old.” Charlie, who’d gone back to gazing at the sheet of paper—his lips moving silently, an interesting thing you saw sometimes in humans, no time to go into it now—looked up again, paused for a moment, and said, “How can I concentrate in this atmosphere?” Bernie’s mouth fell open. When was the last time that had happened? For a moment, he seemed about to speak, but nothing came out. He turned and stalked out of
where you’re going with that.” “Don’t be so cautious—I’ve got no connections on Wall Street.” “You’re just curious about his meals?” Jiggs said. “Sure,” said Bernie. “He’s a normal guy, eats normal food, like you and me.” “I’m partial to caviar, myself,” Bernie said. Caviar? A new one on me. Oh, wait, not quite. I came very close to remembering a party at the Ritz, possibly the Romanoffs’ anniversary. What a nice old couple, and we’d brought their runaway daughter back from Reno for them