In the irresistible second installment of the New York Times bestselling Chet and Bernie cozy mystery series, which has been hailed as “enchanting [and] one-of-a-kind” (Stephen King), Chet gets a glimpse of the show dog world turned deadly. What first seems like a walk in the park to wise and lovable canine narrator Chet and his human companion Bernie—to investigate threats made against a pretty, pampered show dog—turns into a serious mystery when Princess and her owner are abducted. To make matters worse, Bernie’s on-again, off-again girlfriend, reporter Susie Sanchez, disappears too. When Chet is separated from Bernie, this clever sleuth is on his own to put the pieces together, find his way home, and save the day. Spencer Quinn’s “brilliantly original” ( Richmond Times-Dispatch ) and “masterful” ( Los Angeles Times ) series combines genuine suspense and intrigue with humor and insight for a tail-wagging good time dog lovers won’t soon forget. 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. Thereby Hangs a Tail ONE The perp looked around—what nasty little eyes he had!—and saw there was nowhere to go. We were in some kind of warehouse, big and shadowy, with a few grimy high-up windows and tall stacks of machine parts. I couldn’t remember how the warehouse fit in, exactly, or even what the whole case was all about; only knew beyond a doubt, from those nasty eyes and that sour end-of-the-line smell, a bit like those kosher pickles Bernie had with his BLTs—I’d tried one; once was enough for the kosher pickles, although I always had time for a BLT—that this guy was the perp. I lunged forward and grabbed him by the pant leg. Case closed. The perp cried out in pain, a horrible, high-pitched sound that made me want to cover my ears. Too bad I can’t do that, but no complaints—I’m happy the way I am (even if my ears don’t match, something I found out about a while back but can’t get into right now). The perp’s noises went on and on and finally it hit me that maybe I had more than just his pant leg. That happened sometimes: my teeth are probably longer than yours and sharper, too. What was that? Yes, the taste of blood. My mistake, but a very exciting one all the same. “Call him off!” the perp screamed. “I give up.” Bernie came running up from behind. “Good work, Chet,” he said, huffing and puffing. Poor Bernie—he was trying to give up smoking again but not having much luck. “Get him off! He’s biting me!” “Chet wouldn’t bite,” Bernie said. “Not deliberately.” “Not deliberately? What are you—” “On the other hand, round about now he usually likes to hear a confession.” “Huh? He’s a goddamn dog.” “Language,” said Bernie. Those nasty eyes shifted around, looking wild now. “But he’s a dog.” “True,” Bernie said. I wagged my tail. And maybe, on account of the good mood I was in—what was better than a job well done?—shook my head from side to side a bit. “Aaiieeee! I confess! I confess!” “To what?” “To what? The El Camino jewel heist, for Christ sake.” “El Camino jewel heist?” said Bernie. “We’re here about the Bar J Guest Ranch arson.” “That, too,” said the perp. “Just get him offa me.” “Chet?” Bernie said. “Chet?” Oh, all right, but how about that taste, human blood? Addictive or what? Hours later we had two checks, one for the arson, one for the jewel heist, and a good thing, too, because our finances were a mess—alimony, child support, a bad investment in some company with plans to make Hawaiian pants just like the Hawaiian shirts Bernie wears on special occasions, and not much work lately except for divorce cases, never any fun. We run a detective agency, me and Bernie, called the Little Detective Agency on account of Little being Bernie’s last name. My name’s Chet, pure and simple. Headquarters is our house on Mesquite Road, a nice place with a big tree out front, perfect for napping under, and the whole canyon easily accessible out back, if it just so happens someone left the gate open. And then, up in the canyon—well, say no more. “This calls for a celebration,” Bernie said. “How about a chew strip?” Was that a serious question? Who says no to a chew strip? He opened the cupboard over the sink, where the chew strips were kept; at one time, a very nice time, they’d been on an open shelf, lower down. “And while we’re at it . . .” Uh-oh. Bernie reached for the bottle of bourbon, standing by the chew strip box. We sat out back, watching the light change on the far side of the canyon as the sun went down, Bernie at the table sipping bourbon, me under it, trying to take my time with the chew strip. This wasn’t any chew strip, but a high-end bacon-flavored rawhide chew from Rover and Company, an outfit owned by our buddy Simon something or other, whom we’d met on a missing-