“Whaddaya mean you don’t know?” She circled around, looking Homer up and down. “You’re either from here or you’re not from here.”
Her questions were leaning a bit on the snoopy side. “I’m not from here.”
“What’s your name?”
“Homer.”
She stopped circling and smiled. “Like the writer?”
“No. Like my grandpa.”
“Well, Homer, my name’s Lorelei. Want some tomato soup?” She pointed to a cart that stood at the edge of the sidewalk. The cart had a red umbrella with big letters: SCALDING HOT TOMATO SOUP. “You look like you need to eat. Do you like to eat?”
“I guess so.” Homer’s stomach rumbled as he followed her to the cart. Steam rose as she removed a metal lid. “You got money?”
“No.”
“No matter. I got lots of this stuff.” She ladled red liquid into a Styrofoam bowl. Homer sat on a bench next to the cart, balancing the bowl in his lap. “Here’s a spoon.”
“Thanks.” Homer blew on the soup. Across the street, a bunch of ladies sat at little painted tables outside a bakery. They wore fancy hats and sipped small cups of tea. Homer suddenly missed his mother. He blew on the soup again, then took a few sips. “It’s good,” he said. Mrs. Pudding never served soup for breakfast.
Lorelei sat next to him and opened a packet of saltine crackers, which she fed to Dog, one at a time. Crumbs flew out the sides of his mouth. “Scalding hot soup!” she hollered a couple of times. No one came to buy soup. “Most people want hotdogs with all the fixin’s, you know? The City’s full of hotdog carts.”
Homer wished they had a hotdog cart in Milkydale. He ate two more bowls of soup while Dog ate six more packets of crackers. Lorelei curled her legs onto the bench. “Homer’s one of my favorite writers,” she said. “I love The Odyssey, don’t you? I’ve read it nine times. Odysseus got to go to all those places and meet all those weird people like that Cyclops and that witch. Have you read The Odyssey?”
“Yeah. Mrs. Peepgrass assigned it last year.” Mrs. Peepgrass usually chose love stories about people named Heathcliff and Scarlett O’Hara, the kind of stories Homer wasn’t much interested in. But The Odyssey had been different. “It was pretty good.”
“Pretty good?” Lorelei swung her legs off the bench. “It’s the best story ever written. Odysseus was a hero. He left his home and family to go fight in the Trojan War. But when he tried to get back home, he had to face peril after peril. He thought he’d only be gone for a short while but he was gone for twenty years. Twenty years.”
Homer stopped eating as a powerful homesickness fell across him like a shadow.
“Just goes to show you that you never know what might happen.” Lorelei slid onto the sidewalk and scratched Dog’s head. “So, whatcha doing in The City?”
He pushed the feeling away. “I’m looking for a library. Do you know where one is?”
“Sure. I go there all the time. Want me to show you?”
Homer reached under his collar and pulled out his compass. “If you tell me what direction to go, then I can find it.”
Lorelei’s eyes got real wide and she leaped to her feet. “Hey, that’s a Galileo Compass. How’d you get one of those? Are your parents rich?”
A huge grin broke across Homer’s face. “You know about Galileo Compasses?”
“Of course I do. I had one once but I lost it. They’re the best compasses in the world.” She stuck her face right up to the dial. “Sure wish I could find mine. I retraced my steps a million times. If I could find it I’d never lose it again.” She sighed. Then she grabbed the empty soup bowls and tossed them into a garbage can. “You know, it’s pretty easy to get lost in The City, even with a fancy compass like that. I’d better take you to the library.” She set the lid back onto the soup canister and started pushing the cart down the sidewalk. Homer and Dog followed.
Homer didn’t feel as nervous talking to Lorelei as he always did when he talked to Carlotta. Lorelei didn’t seem to care that her face was smudged with dirt or that her short hair was kind of stringy. Or that she took big clomping steps like a boy. But she liked to read and she knew about compassess, so Homer thought she might possibly be the greatest girl ever. “Whatcha going to the library for?” she asked.
“I need to do some research.” Homer wasn’t sure how much to tell and how much not to tell. “I inherited something because my uncle died.”
“That’s too bad,” she said. The cart’s wheels rumbled. “My parents died. So did my grandparents.”
“That’s terrible. I’m sorry.” Homer pulled Dog away from a fire hydrant. “Who do you live with?”
“Just me.”
How was that possible? How could a kid live all alone in The City? He was about to ask that question when Dog tugged hard at the end of the leash. “Urrrr.” He pulled Homer off the sidewalk and into a little flower bed. Lorelei stopped pushing the cart as Dog sniffed the dirt. “I don’t know why he’s doing that,” Homer said, trying to pull Dog out of the bed. “He can’t smell. He can’t smell anything.”
“You’re gonna get a ticket if he messes up those flowers,” Lorelei said. “I got a ticket once for spitting on the sidewalk.”
But there was no pulling Dog from the flower bed because he’d walked around a rosebush and had tangled his leash in the thorny branches. As Homer tried to untangle the leash, a door slammed and a tall man stomped down the front stairs, right next to the flower bed. “Well I never!” he exclaimed angrily. Then he shook his fist at one of the upper story windows. “I’ll never do business with Snooty and Snooty again. Do you hear me? NEVER AGAIN!”
“You want some scalding soup?” Lorelei asked. The man snorted at her, then hurried down the sidewalk.
As Dog continued to sniff, Homer remembered the letter. The law office of Snooty and Snooty regrets to inform you that your relative, Mr. Drake Pudding, has been declared dead due to the carnivorous appetite of a reptilian beast. He was just outside the office of his uncle’s lawyers. Surely they’d know what had happened to his uncle’s belongings.
“Uh, Lorelei,” he said. “I need to do something here before I go to the library.”
“Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug. “The library’s eight blocks northeast. Well, see ya around. Bye, Dog!” And off she went, just like that.
“Thank you,” Homer called as her red apron disappeared around the corner. He wished he could spend more time talking to her. She’d been so nice. But the rope went taut again as Dog rolled in the dirt. “Hey, stop that.” Then Dog scrambled onto his paws. Dirt and pansies flew in all directions as he began digging a hole.
“We’re gonna get a ticket,” Homer said. The rosebush toppled over as the hole grew. Passersby shot dirty looks at Homer. A clump of bluebells landed on a lady’s head. A tulip flew into the road. He pulled the leash as hard as he could, lost his balance, and fell onto the sidewalk. That dog was as stubborn as Gwendolyn!
“Urrrr.” Dog stopped digging and trotted out of the flower bed. He stood over Homer, wagging his tail. Then he dropped something into Homer’s lap.
16
Misters T. and C. Snooty
Homer got to his feet, brushed dirt from his jacket and pants, then examined the heart-shaped brooch, careful not to prick himself on its rusty pin. Dirt was jammed into every crevice, but once polished up it might be pretty. “You sure know how to find things,” he told Dog as he tucked the brooch into his jacket pocket.
Dog wagged his little tail, then sneezed. Soil sprayed from his nostrils.
Homer set the rosebush into the hole, then packed dirt tightly around it. He collected the other upturned plants and tidied up as best he could. He started to lead Dog into the building, but Dog hesitated on the stairs. “Urrrr.”
“Don’t worry,” Homer told him. “I’m not returning you. I promise. I would never do that. I just need to ask the Snootys a question.”
No one else stood in the building’s cold, shiny lobby. Home
r skimmed the sign on the far wall. LAW OFFICES OF TOE AND JAM, FLOOR 3. LAW OFFICES OF PICKLE AND DILL, FLOOR 18. LAW OFFICES OF LIVINGSTON, SWINDLE, AND LEMONGRASS, FLOOR 25. LAW OFFICES OF SNOOTY AND SNOOTY, FLOOR 32.
Dog was having trouble keeping upright on the slick marble floor. His little nails scratched desperately as he tried to get some traction. He slid past the water fountain. Then slid over to an empty shoe-shine stand. Homer had to reach down and grab Dog’s collar to keep him from sliding right back out the front door.
Homer pushed the elevator button. A grinding noise sounded from the upper regions of the building as the elevator made its slow descent. Homer fidgeted nervously, for he’d never been to a law office or even to a thirty-second floor. There were no elevators in Milkydale. They had one at Walker’s Department Store, in the next village over, but it only went to the second floor.
Homer pushed the button again. Surely Snooty and Snooty would know where his uncle’s belongings had gone. Books and treasure hunting equipment can’t just vanish into thin air.
The double doors slid open. “Come on,” Homer said, stepping into the empty elevator. Pumping his back legs like an ice skater, Dog slid inside. Homer pushed button number thirty-two. Odd music floated from the ceiling—a toe-tapping melody without words.
Wa wa la la la la twing twing.
The doors began to close. “Hold that elevator!” a voice boomed.
Homer and Dog backed into the corner as a beefy man stopped the doors with his briefcase, then stepped inside. He took up so much space that Homer could only see a horizon of blue pinstripes. The man jabbed at a button. “Better hold tight,” he warned. “This elevator’s got a temper.” Right on cue, the elevator lifted a few feet, then dropped back to the lobby. Dog’s ears flew above his head. Homer bounced off the man’s backside.
The man jabbed the button again. “Prepare yourself. Feels like it’s going to be a doozy of a ride.”
The elevator lurched, rising higher this time. Then, with an exhausted groan, fell back to the lobby. Tomato soup sloshed as Homer’s stomach did a somersault. The man punched the button again and again. “Hope it doesn’t dash us to our deaths like it did to poor Mr. Lovelord.”
“Uh, excuse me,” Homer said, trying to squeeze his way past the expanse of pinstripes. “I think we’ll take the stairs.”
“There aren’t any stairs.” The elevator lurched again and started its slow climb, the cable complaining the entire way. Homer braced himself against the wall. Dog whimpered and wedged between Homer’s shins.
Creak. Groan. Grind.
“Going to the thirty-second floor I see.” The man looked over his shoulder. “Got business with Snotty and Snotty?”
“Snooty and Snooty.” The cable made a sound that reminded Homer of a brooding chicken.
“Well, you’d better take my card in case you suffer injuries on the way back down. Snotty doesn’t handle that sort of thing.” He handed Homer a white business card. MR. DILL, ATTORNEY-AT-LAW, SPECIALIZING IN PERSONAL INJURY AND UNWANTED PARTY GUESTS. “Why don’t you take this, too.” He pulled a catalog from his briefcase and handed it to Homer: STOUT AND HEFTY: DAPPER CLOTHING FOR DAPPER FELLOWS. “First impressions are everything, young man. Just because you come from the country doesn’t mean you have to look like you come from the country.”
The elevator lurched to a stop. Button eighteen lit up. Fluorescent light bled across the elevator ceiling as the doors slid open. “Remember my card,” Mr. Dill said. “If you should need it.” He stepped out but before Homer could escape, the doors smacked shut.
“Wait!” Homer cried. The elevator shook violently. Homer dropped the catalog and slid to the floor. He wrapped his arms around Dog’s trembling middle. His mouth said, “We’ll be okay,” but his brain said, We’re going to die!
Treasure hunters die all the time—it’s one of the job’s main hazards. Other hazards include losing a limb, catching an exotic rash, and being rejected by your family and friends because they think you’re weird. But dying is the biggest hazard because if you’re dead, well, then you’re dead.
It’s a well-known fact that treasure hunters rarely die in normal ways, say from a long illness or old age. Millicent Smith died in a fire. Sir Richard got sat on by his elephant. Rumpold Smeller walked the plank. Drake Pudding was eaten by a giant tortoise. But no treasure hunter, as far as Homer knew, had been killed by an elevator. It seemed unfair that his death would come on the very first day of his quest. Before he’d found a single piece of treasure.
He tightened his grip around Dog as the elevator rose higher. All the grinding, lurching, and jolting made him feel like he might throw up. Dog panted miserably. The cable shrieked. “Hold on,” Homer said, squeezing his eyes shut. “We’re almost there.” The elevator rocked back and forth, convulsed a few times, then stopped moving. All was still. The music paused. Button thirty-two lit up. Then the elevator made a pleasant ding sound, as if it were the nicest, most civilized elevator in the world, and the doors slid open.
Stumbling over each other, Homer and Dog made their escape.
Never in his twelve years had Homer Winslow Pudding been so happy to stand on solid ground. As his stomach settled he took a long look around the thirty-second floor’s reception room. The door at the far end had a sign: NO ENTRY. PRIVATE OFFICE. Two massive gold-framed portraits hung on each side of the door. The first was of an old man in a powdered wig and black robe. CONSTANTINE SNOOTY. The other was of the same old man in the same powdered wig and black robe. THERMOPOLIE SNOOTY.
On the other side of the room sat a vacant desk with a sign: RING BUZZER FOR ASSISTANCE. So he rang.
No one came to assist. Homer shuffled nervously in front of the desk. He picked up a plaque: MR. TWADDLE, LEGAL SECRETARY. It was the same man who had delivered the letters to the Pudding farm. Homer picked up a framed photograph of Mr. Twaddle in flowered swim trunks, holding a coconut drink. “Remember this guy?” Homer asked, showing Dog the photo.
Dog stood on his hind legs and scratched at Homer’s jacket pocket. “Urrrr.” He scratched again.
“You want this?” Homer took out the heart-shaped brooch. Dog dropped to the floor and wagged his tail. “Well, I guess you can have it. You’re the one who found it.” Homer tucked the end of the rusty pin safely into its clamp, then gave the brooch to Dog. Dog carried it to the other side of the room, dropped it in front of the door marked NO ENTRY. PRIVATE OFFICE. Then he sat and stared at the door.
That dog definitely does some weird things, Homer thought as he rang the bell again. Mr. Twaddle apparently liked going on holiday because there was a photo of him in ski gear and another of him on horseback at a place called the Dude Ranch and another of him on a cruise ship. Homer picked up a photo in which Mr. Twaddle, wearing a pinstriped suit, was posing in front of a bookcase. Something about the photo struck Homer as familiar. He looked closer, his gaze traveling across the bookcase. He gasped. All the books were about treasure hunting!
He reached over and rang the bell. And rang it and rang it and rang it.
“My turn!”
The office door flew open. Dog barked. Startled, Homer dropped the picture. An old man in a powdered wig and black robe pumped his arms madly as he wheeled his wooden wheelchair toward the doorway. Dog barked again, then scrambled to get out of the way.
“It’s not your turn. It’s my turn!” Another old man, also in a powdered wig and black robe, also sitting in a wooden wheelchair, tried to pass the first old man. They looked exactly like their portraits.
“You’ve gone senile. Get out of the way,” said the first old man.
For a moment, the two chairs got stuck in the doorway. Then one of the Snootys hit the other Snooty on the head with an umbrella, gaining a momentary lead. “Ha, ha! I’m going to be first.”
“Oh no you won’t.”
Wigs askew, they rolled across the reception room, beating one another with umbrellas until they came to a screeching stop at Homer’s feet.
“May I help you?” they asked in unison.
The scent of old age, a smell similar to the buttermilk his mom kept on the kitchen counter, crept toward Homer, along with the minty scent of arthritis lotion. He stepped back. “Uh, I’m Homer Pudding. You sent me a letter.”
The first Snooty scowled. “We don’t know anything about letters. Our secretary handles letters.”
“You also sent me this dog.”
The other Snooty stuck out his lower lip. “We don’t know anything about dogs. Our secretary handles dogs.”
“Would you like to sue someone?” the first Snooty asked, his eyes widening.
The other Snooty inched forward. “You could sue the person who made your jacket. It’s quite ugly.”
“Or you could sue my brother for insulting your taste in clothing.”
They turned and glared at each other. “I hate you.”
“I hate you more.”
“Excuse me,” Homer said as the Snootys tried to poke each other’s eyes out. “My uncle Drake died and you sent me a letter saying he had left me this dog.”
They stopped poking and glared at Dog. “That’s the droopiest dog I’ve ever seen.”
“I’ve seen droopier.”
“Are you returning the dog? There’s a five-day limit on returns.”
“No, I’m not returning him.” Homer gave Dog a reassuring look. “I’m not here about the dog. I’m trying to find out where all my uncle’s stuff went. He had lots of equipment and books and maps.”
“Stuff is handled by our secretary, Mr. Twaddle,” they said in unison.
“Where is Mr. Twaddle?”
“On holiday.”
Homer fidgeted. Mr. Twaddle had told Mrs. Pudding that he didn’t know anything about Uncle Drake’s stuff. He’d said all that was left was a pair of shoes and the dog. But all those treasure hunting books in the photo seemed mighty suspicious. “Do you know where my uncle lived? Before he died? He never gave us an address. I could go there and look for myself.”