That afternoon, Billy honked his horn and Mom called, Billy’s here, from behind her closed bedroom door.
Don’t you want you say hi? I shouted to her.
Not today, she shouted back.
I hesitated before I left the house. Mom’s bedroom door remained closed. It didn’t matter, anyway. Billy didn’t ring the bell, just waited in the car with the engine still running.
There’s my favorite girl, Billy said as I hopped into the car. He always called me that, his favorite girl. It would have embarrassed me if my parents said anything so sappy. With Billy, it made me feel like the kid I still wanted to be but knew at twelve was no longer cool. We turned out of the driveway, and my house retreated into the distance. I wondered if Mom was watching us leave from her bedroom window.
Boy, do I have a surprise for you. Billy shot me one of his oversized smiles. I searched his face for any of the strain I’d seen on Mom’s. Billy looked content, giddy.
A surprise? Although I never would have admitted it to Joanie, a surprise from Billy was still a greater thrill than stealing lipstick from the drugstore, a better rush than driving too fast down Highway 1 with Joanie’s older sisters.
Hey, reach in there for me. Billy pointed toward the glove compartment where a black envelope rested on top of his car registration. It was the right size to hold tickets to Universal Studios or a concert at the Hollywood Bowl, but Billy never would have given me a present so straightforwardly. There’d be no fun in it. I had to earn his gifts through solving his clues.
I tore open the envelope and read the riddle aloud. My flag is red, white and blue, though I’m not a land you call home. You might think it a lozh’—I didn’t know how to pronounce that word—but at my closest point, I’m two and a half miles from American soil.
France? I guessed. Billy looked dubiously at me. Canada?
Canada’s flag is only red and white. You’re getting warmer, or should I say colder, much, much colder.
Russia? I asked uncertainly.
Vernvy! he said in his best Russian accent.
You’re taking me to Russia? Was there an earthquake? I pictured Billy and me in shearling hats, trekking through snow to survey the damage to a remote town.
I think your mom would have my head for that, Billy said.
With the mention of Mom, Billy and I quieted. I knew we were both remembering how our eyes had locked while he fought with Mom in the middle of the night.
Is everything okay with you and Mom?
Nothing for you to worry about. He paused, began to say something, then paused again before rolling to a stop outside a building on Venice Boulevard that looked condemned. Now, let’s see about that clue.
This is where we’re going? I asked, counting the storefront’s boarded-up windows. Usually, his adventures involved state parks and mountaintops, secluded beaches. Something in that building has to do with Russia?
Vernvy! He hopped out of the car and bowed, motioning me toward the metal front door. It was unlocked, and he held it open for me.
Are we allowed to be here? I hesitated, peeking behind him into the dark interior. It looks closed.
It’s not open today, but the manager owes me a favor. It’s always more fun to have a museum to yourself, don’t you think? He walked inside and waved me to follow. Trust me, he called. Trust me. His mantra. And I always did.
The front room was dimly lit. Glass cases lined the austere walls. Opera played softly from hidden speakers. The case beside the door was filled with taxidermy bats, moles and other small rodents. The next case held shimmering gemstones.
It’s modeled off nineteeth-century oddity museums, Billy explained. Science, art and nature displayed together for the well-rounded mind. A wunderkammer, if you will.
A wunderkammer. I tested the word in my mouth, waiting for its magic to hit me. Billy’s eyes drifted toward a case in the far corner of the room. It was filled with miniature figurines—painted elephants, clowns, a ringmaster, acrobats. The case was labeled The Russian Circus.
I peeked inside the glass, searching for something amiss, a figurine that didn’t belong, a riddle scribbled across the circus tent. Sure enough, the next clue was taped to the back of the case.
Like the fabric of my name, my title is lowly yet noble. I’m named not for the rough wool I bear but the origin of a river in Northumberland.
Billy laughed when he saw the bewildered look on my face. He rubbed my head and guided me into the next room. It was as overwhelming as the first room was sparse. The walls were cluttered with detailed renderings of dogs in garish frames. There was one portrait of a person, a faded painting of a man with a beard and top hat called Baron Tweedmouth. Beside his portrait, a placard offered a brief history of the lord, a Scottish businessman and member of the House of Commons.
Rumor has it, Billy said, in 1858 Lord Tweedmouth went to a Russian circus where he saw this fantastic performance by Russian sheepdogs. After the show, he made an offer to buy a pair of dogs, but the ringmaster refused to separate the troupe. So, story goes, Tweedmouth bought the whole lot and bred those sheepdogs to create the retriever. Billy gestured toward a filing cabinet beside the portrait. Open it. It’s part of the exhibit. I tore through reproductions of Baron Tweedmouth’s papers, fairly certain where this was headed. I loved that about Billy’s adventures. Even though I always figured out where the quest was going before we got there, he refused to let me rush through the lesson. Billy stopped me when I discarded a copy of the baron’s breeding records. Historians found those records in the 1950s and realized the Russian circus was a myth. Billy pointed to a description of a retriever’s keen nose. See here? Retrievers were already used for tracking before 1858, so Lord Tweedmouth couldn’t have bred Russian sheepdogs to create the retriever. His finger continued down the page, tracing the lineage of Tweedmouth’s dogs. Instead, he bred the retrievers he already owned to produce the perfect hunting companion.
Does this mean what I think it means? I danced like I had to pee.
Depends on what you think it means.
I flipped over the breeding records and found the next clue written on the back.
Don’t call me a beauty, a goddess, the prettiest of the lot. You might consider these pet names the same but only one has a certain ring to it.
I examined each portrait until I located a tweed water spaniel named Belle. Beside her portrait, a plaque explained that Belle was bred with Nous, a yellow retriever, to create the golden retriever.
No way, I shouted. No freaking way. I jumped up and down, hugging Billy, screaming unintelligibly.
Not so fast, Billy cautioned. You have to find her first.
I searched the crowded room for an envelope that may have contained the next clue. On the far wall, a photograph of a modern golden retriever hung between its ancestors. Its simple black frame pulled away from the wall. I slid my hand into the empty space, removing an index card. It listed an address on Culver Boulevard.
Outside, I didn’t wait for my eyes to adjust to the light, just took off down Venice past other storefronts that looked condemned and auto-body shops.
Miranda, slow down, Billy shouted, panting as he raced to catch up with me.
At the light at Culver and Venice, I jogged in place like a runner trying to keep her heart rate up. A dog, a dog, a dog, a dog, I said. The light changed and I sprinted across the street.
Billy’s laughter trailed me as we raced past the historic hotel, the restaurants that lined Culver Boulevard. The address was a few blocks down, a pet shop that sold parakeets.
The owner also breeds goldens, Billy explained as he caught his breath.
Inside,