The Missing Dog Is Spotted (6 page)

“Me, too,” Loyola said. “It's awful that he's living alone.”

Trevor remembered that Mr. Fester had mentioned a son who was worried about him. It would be a grownup son, given Mr. Fester's age.

“Maybe his son could take care of him,” Trevor suggested, recalling how his own parents phoned his grandparents on a weekly basis to make sure they were doing okay.

“Maybe. Let's see what we can find out the next time we drop by,” Loyola said.

All that week, Trevor walked from school to home and back taking his regular straightforward route. By the end of the week, he realized that he had stopped looking for Buster without even knowing it.

“Hello, Mr. Fester,” Trevor said the following Wednesday when Mr. Fester answered the door.

“Have you seen Buster?” Mr. Fester asked immediately.

It had become their sad routine.

“No,” Trevor said, bracing himself for Mr. Fester's look of despair, which was sure to come.

It did.

“Oh,” Mr. Fester said pitifully, bowing his head.

“Mr. Fester,” Loyola cut in, putting their plan into play straight away. “You told us that you have a son.”

“Yes,” Mr. Fester said, wiping his eyes.

“Do you see him much?” she asked.

“Not as much as I'd like. He's busy with his three girls, and he runs his own business.”

“What type of business?” Loyola asked.

“He has a craft studio. He makes his own pottery.”

“Where's his studio?” she asked.

“He doesn't live here. He lives on the eastern shore in Lower Narrow Spit.”

“I've been there,” Loyola said. “That's where they have the annual lobster festival.”

“That's right. It's this weekend. I'm going to visit him, and he wants me to check out the seniors' residence named Sunset Manor while I'm there.”

“How long will you be gone for?”

“Hard to say. Will you keep a lookout for Buster while I'm away?”

Trevor cut in.

“Sure we will. Does your son know that Buster's missing?” he asked.

“No. Not yet. I was hoping Buster would come home before he found out.”

“Maybe it's time to tell him,” Trevor said gingerly.

He knew exactly what he was doing. If he could get Mr. Fester to confess about his long-dead dog to his son, his son would see that his dad was confused and shouldn't be living alone. And Mr. Fester would get the help he needed.

“You're right. It's time,” Mr. Fester said, his shoulders sagging, his arms hanging limply.

“We better go exercise these dogs,” Trevor said. “And we'll look out for Buster.”

It was a lie. Trevor and Loyola both knew it.

Mr. Fester waved them off and stood forlornly at the door for the longest time.

“Do you think we did the right thing? Getting Mr. Fester to tell his son about Buster?” Loyola asked.

“That's the only way his son will see what's going on,” Trevor said. “Besides, Mr. Fester must be really lonely. And that whole thing about finding playing cards with the queen wearing glasses that his wife tucked into used books? That's just downright sad. I can barely stand to think about it.”

Loyola nodded along, but Trevor still felt uneasy, as if he was snitching on someone he cared about.

Poor Mr. Fester.

When Trevor and Loyola reported for duty at the animal shelter on the third Wednesday in May, it was Isabelle Myers who spoke first.

“Mr. Fester's been calling here every day from his son's house in Lower Narrow Spit, still looking for Buster. It's pitiful. I can't understand why we haven't come across that missing dog.”

“There is no Buster,” Trevor said flatly.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Buster died years ago. Mr. Fester is confused.”

“Oh dear,” Isabelle Myers said. “Well, that makes sense. We have a very good record when it comes to lost dogs. Eventually, they all show up here. Even strays.”

“Not this time,” Trevor said. “Does Mr. Fester's son know that he's calling you?”

“I'm not sure,” Isabelle Myers said. “Perhaps I should ask to speak to his son the next time Mr. Fester calls, and then I can explain the situation.”

“Good idea,” Trevor said.

Not only was he getting Mr. Fester to rat on himself, he was now getting others to rat him out, too.

It was for Mr. Fester's own good, Trevor reasoned. So why did he continue to feel bad? Maybe he should bring it up with the lunch crowd back at Queensview. See what they thought.

“How's community service going?” he asked the boys the next day over sandwiches.

“I'm reading
The Case of the Waylaid Water Gun
out loud to a group of men who are losing their vision,” Noah said, having been assigned to the hospital for veterans. “Only one old guy keeps interrupting. He wants to guess who's guilty before everyone else. Every time he shouts out a name, they all get into a great debate. I can hardly get a word in edgewise.”

“You think you have it rough?” Miller said. “Try my job. I'm down at the used clothing depot sorting donated socks. Millions of socks. Why do people want their socks to match, anyway? Why can't we wear different socks on each foot?”

“You're just lazy,” Craig said, still clogged up with allergies. “You'd never hack it at my job.”

Craig delivered groceries to people who were stuck at home, or
shut-ins
, to use Craig's words.

“Who've you been delivering groceries to?” Trevor asked.

“Mostly people getting better from surgeries. My program is called Meals to Heal.”

“Why is delivering groceries so hard?” Miller asked. “I run errands for my mom all the time.”

“We're not talking about a dozen eggs or a bag of sugar, Miller. Shut-ins have to place one order to last them all week, so their grocery bags are really heavy and full of cans. Plus they all seem to live in third-floor apartments with no elevators.”

“Well, I hate to break it to everyone, but I love my job,” Bertram said.

The boys turned to Bertram, who volunteered at the soup kitchen.

“I get to write poems on the chalkboard about what's being served for dinner. Just yesterday I was able to come up with a great one for sausage.”

“How did it go?” everyone asked, including Trevor.

“I wrote,
We'll hold your taste buds hostage with our sweet Italian sausage
.”

“That's excellent,” Trevor said. It was his turn. “I really like the animal shelter, too. Especially the dogs,” he added, skillfully steering the conversation away from anyone mentioning Loyola.

“How many dogs do you walk?” Miller asked.

“Six altogether. But it's not the dogs that are hard to manage. I'm having a problem with one of the seniors.”

“A problem?” Noah asked.

“He thinks his dog is lost, but he doesn't have a dog,” Trevor said.

“I know what that is,” Noah said. “It's called dementia. Elderly people sometimes get it.”

“Not everyone gets dementia, though,” Craig said. “My grandparents are fine.”

“Mine, too,” Miller added.

Bertram cut in.

“My grandmother had it. Her dementia got worse over time. That's why she moved to a seniors' residence.”

“What's it like for the seniors who live there?” Trevor asked Bertram.

“They get excellent care,” Bertram said. “And relatives can visit. Sometimes the residents with dementia know who their family members are. But sometimes they don't.”

“They don't recognize their own family?” Trevor asked.

“Not always. That's why they can't live alone.”

Trevor thought about Mr. Fester. Sad Mr. Fester with just his books for company and no dog. Trevor did not like the sound of dementia one little bit. The sooner Mr. Fester got help, the better.

Six

—

Sighting

IT WAS
now the end of May. Four more weeks of grade six. Four more weeks of community service duty. Four more weeks of walking the dogs with Loyola. And so far, not a single unpleasant comment about their heights had been made.

As Trevor headed to the animal shelter, it dawned on him that he might miss walking the dogs every Wednesday afternoon. He might miss Poppy with her insistence on pointing out every single bird they came across in the park. He might miss Misty with her ridiculous outfits. And for sure he'd miss Duncan with his trundling ways.

“What happens to the dogs when school's over?” he asked Isabelle Myers when he arrived.

“We're going to suspend the program over the summer. The seniors told us that they'd like to get out with their dogs themselves when the weather is warm.”

“That makes sense,” Trevor admitted. And then he realized he was getting worked up over nothing. His family was moving right after graduation, so he'd have to say goodbye to the dogs no matter what.

He'd have to say goodbye to his classmates, too. And to Loyola. That thought caught him off guard. Loyola? The giant? How things had changed. He didn't think of her as the giant anymore. He didn't even see her height. All he saw was the girl who sat with him at the park, told him funny stories about her family and wanted to be a librarian when she grew up.

But that was only when they walked the dogs. Back at school, Trevor and Loyola still kept a safe distance from each other. They both knew that if they were caught standing side by side with no dogs for distraction, the tired old comments would fly in their direction without fail.

Pipsqueak.

Half pint.

Munchkin.

Shrimp.

Squirt.

And all versions with the word
short
.

Shortstop.

Short stack.

Short stuff.

Shortcakes.

Shorty pants.

And for Loyola? Her labels were not much better.

Stretch.

Beanpole.

Giraffe.

Big Bird.

Palm tree.

Skyscraper.

And once, one that made her really cringe — Shorty pants.

Neither of them wanted to be targets if they could help it. And they could help it by staying away from each other.

After Loyola arrived at the animal shelter and they were putting on their safety vests, Isabelle Myers said, “Oh, I almost forgot!”

She pulled open the top drawer of her desk and took out a small red plush toy. It had black spots. She held it up for them to see. A ladybug. She squeezed it. It squeaked.

“Mr. Fester sent this,” she said. “It was Buster's favorite toy. Mr. Fester wants you to carry it with you, if you could. He says that the toy still carries Buster's scent, and that Buster has a very good sense of smell.”

“But Buster's dead,” Trevor said, reaching for the toy just the same. “Were you able to talk to his son?”

“No, but his son must be taking care of things.”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. Fester stopped calling three days ago. But during his last call, he told me that his son had found a place for him at a seniors' residence near his son's house. He was moving in that day.”

“What about all his stuff here?” Loyola asked. “His house? His books?”

“His son is putting the house up for sale. I guess he'll also arrange to move the rest of Mr. Fester's belongings.”

“So that's it then. Mr. Fester is taken care of,” Trevor said.

He should have felt relief. Instead, he felt uneasy. Something still wasn't quite right. Something was still niggling at him.

But what?

“Can I have that?” Loyola asked, pointing to the ladybug that Trevor was absentmindedly tossing back and forth between his hands. “I'm presenting my science project this week. It's about ways to get rid of pests in the garden without chemicals. Ladybugs get rid of them naturally.”

“Sure,” Trevor said, passing the toy to her.

She tucked it into her knapsack and they headed out.

Trevor pushed away all thoughts about Mr. Fester as he collected Misty, Duncan and Poppy. But when he came to Mr. Fester's house, he paused.

There was a big
For Sale
sign planted in the front yard.

The dogs automatically pulled in the direction of the walkway that led to Mr. Fester's front porch. They knew the routine.

“No,” Trevor said to the dogs. “We don't go there anymore. Let's meet Loyola at the water fountain.”

The three dogs looked at him with soulful eyes, and then they continued to the park with Duncan grumbling along the way.

Loyola was already there with her dogs.

“Did you see the
For Sale
sign?” she asked quietly.

“Couldn't miss it,” Trevor said. He hesitated. He couldn't shake his sadness. “It's for the best, right?” he asked.

“I guess so,” she said, but Trevor could tell she wasn't sure, either. She was just saying that to boost his spirits.

The way friends did.

And that did make him feel a bit better.

Lost in their own thoughts, they watched the dogs drinking fountain water.

“Ah! The children from the Queensview Mystery Book Club. We meet again.”

Trevor and Loyola turned to see who was calling out to them. It was Edward Pond, the mystery writer who had once visited their club and who took walks in the park whenever he was stuck on his latest manuscript. He joined them at the fountain to watch the dogs.

“Are you stuck again?” Trevor asked.

“I'm afraid so,” Edward Pond said. “My character can't decide what to do next. Should he board the express train and track down the art thief himself, or should he step aside and let the police botch the case yet again.”

“Does your character own a gallery?” Loyola asked.

“No, my character is an artist. His paintings keep getting stolen from whichever gallery displays his work.”

“Why?” Trevor and Loyola asked together.

“Ah,” Edward Pond said knowingly. “The plot thickens.”

Trevor and Loyola stared at him for further explanation.

“I still have to figure that out,” he admitted, turning his attention back to the dogs.

“So you need to figure out the art thief's motivation,” Loyola said with authority.

“Motivation? That's exactly right,” Edward Pond said. “Good for you.”

“We've spent a lot of time discussing motivation at our mystery book club,” Loyola said.

“Motivation is key,” Edward Pond confirmed. “And there are many types to choose from. Greed. Jealousy. Anger. Guilt.”

“Guilt?” Trevor repeated. “Guilt is a motivation?”

“Oh, sure,” Edward Pond said. “A very powerful motivation at that.”

Trevor gulped. He knew he was feeling guilty about Mr. Fester. Loyola, too. Could their uneasiness be because the guilt they were feeling was motivating them to do something?

Maybe.

But Trevor had no idea what they should do. Mr. Fester was gone and so was Buster. And soon he would be gone.

“Does guilt go away on its own?” Trevor asked, glancing at Loyola and fearing the worst.

“Never,” Edward Pond confirmed. “If anything, it only grows stronger. And it follows you everywhere. That's why it's such a powerful motivator.”

Trevor instantly knew that Edward Pond was right. His guilt
was
becoming larger than life, especially with that
For Sale
sign planted in Mr. Fester's front lawn. Trevor felt a wave of panic. Suddenly, he was antsy to get a move on.

“Well,” he declared in a falsely happy tone, “time to fly.”

But he didn't need to prompt Loyola. She was already gathering up her dogs in her own guilty haste.

“See you again,” Edward Pond said jovially as the two of them scrambled away with the dogs.

Trevor and Loyola marched down the path without a word, their guilt clinging to them like dark shadows. They said nothing during two poop breaks for Duncan and Scout. It was only when they rounded the third leg of the walk, past the bandstand with the domed copper roof and curling trellis for walls, that Trevor came to a full stop and broke the silence. He sat down on one of the green park benches that surrounded the bandstand. Misty and Poppy sat at his feet while Duncan practically collapsed on his side, his massive pink tongue hanging out, almost touching the ground.

“I feel terrible about Mr. Fester,” Trevor confessed.

“I know. Me, too.”

Loyola sat down beside him with her dogs.

“What should we do?”

“What
can
we do?”

“I have no idea.”

“I'll tell you this,” Loyola said, shifting the straps of her knapsack on her shoulders. “That little ladybug on my back just adds to my guilt. It weighs a
ton
.”

MacPherson erupted into nonstop barking. They looked to see what was troubling him. Two teenagers were tossing a Frisbee on the other side of the bandstand. Each time the Frisbee soared in the air, MacPherson went nuts.

“Time to fly,” Trevor said, “before MacPherson has a fit.”

The rest of the walk was a glum affair all the way back to the animal shelter.

Trevor could not let go of thoughts about Mr. Fester.

“Did Mr. Fester sound okay?” he asked Isabelle Myers as they turned in their gear.

“Yes,” she said. “He told me that he's very happy to be nearer to his son and his granddaughters. And he's already making new friends at the seniors' residence, including a widow named Laverne Bridge. The only thing is, he's still terribly upset about his dog.”

“But there is no dog,” Trevor insisted.

“Mr. Fester will be all right,” Isabelle Myers said. “The dog is something he'll have to work out with the help of his son.”

She pushed through the swinging doors behind her desk to put the safety vests away. The dogs in the backroom barked excitedly when they saw her. She came back and the barking stopped.

Trevor knew exactly how they felt.

Hopeful.

And then not hopeful.

Like Mr. Fester.

That week, stacks of flattened packing boxes and rolls of bubble wrap arrived at Trevor's house. With their checklists and tape guns and four label makers, moving had become a science for Trevor's family. They even had a fancy word for it. They
orchestrated
the move. And slowly, day by day, hour by hour, the things that Trevor loved the most — his toys from around the world, musical instruments and collection of globes — were packed into plain cardboard boxes or wrapped up in plastic.

“Great news!” Miller exclaimed during lunch on Friday. “My mom's booked the indoor go-cart track for my birthday party and you're all invited. The whole class!”

“The indoor go-cart track? That's awesome!” Noah practically shouted, for once at a loss for unusually big words.

“What's that they say on their commercials?” Craig asked, stuffed up as always.

“Get fast or get passed,” Bertram rhymed off. “The course is supposed to have hairpins, tight corners and rapid straights.”

“And don't worry about their height restrictions,” Miller eagerly said to Trevor. “We checked and you'll be fine.”

Trevor was both pleased and a little embarrassed, but he quickly pushed his feelings of embarrassment away. It was the indoor go-cart track, after all!

“I hear they post the fastest speed of the day, and whoever is the fastest gets a free pass for another visit,” Trevor said. He could practically hear the roaring sound of the engines and smell the rubber tires. “When's the party?” he asked.

“July 10th,” Miller said.

Trevor frowned. July 10th. He'd be long gone by then, unpacking in a house he'd never seen, halfway across the country, in a city he'd never been to. On to the next Big Adventure.

“What's wrong? July 10th is only six weeks away. I counted on the calendar this morning. It will go by in no time,” Miller assured Trevor.

“I won't be here,” Trevor explained matter-of-factly.

“Oh. Right,” Miller said. He started to say something else, but changed his mind. Instead, he dug into his second chocolate pudding.

Bertram stepped in.

“We can send you pictures,” he offered.

Trevor had heard promises like that before. How many times had former classmates told him they'd send letters and photographs? Only one or two of them ever followed through, and even that didn't last very long.

“I know it won't be the same thing,” Bertram continued. There were awkward looks among the circle of boys.

They glumly dug into their food.

Trevor put them out of their misery.

“You know what they say,” he said magnanimously. “Time to fly. New challenges and all that. Who wants some trail mix?”

He held open a plastic bag of his mom's homemade blend of pumpkin seeds, granola and dried apricots. All hands eagerly dug in.

“Hey, did you hear this morning's announcements?” Craig asked, picking a happier topic.

“The one about the time-capsule program?” Noah guessed.

Craig, Bertram and Miller nodded.

“What's the time-capsule program?” Trevor asked.

“The time-capsule program at Queensview is a very big deal,” Noah explained. “Every seven years, someone in grade six is picked. At the end of the year, they get to fill their locker with whatever they want, and then that locker is sealed and a plaque is added.”

“What types of things get put into the locker?”

“Anything they want. Stuff they made at school. Yearbooks. Sports equipment. You name it.”

“I was in preschool when the last grade-six student was chosen. You were there, too, Miller,” said Craig. “Remember?”

“A girl was picked, right?” Miller said.

“Yes, and she put in a giant water gun, an empty fish bowl and her snorkeling equipment.”