The Missing Dog Is Spotted (8 page)

But their pact was about to be broken for good. Later that day at lunch, while chasing after a stray soccer ball, Trevor saw the dog with spots. This time there was absolutely no mistake. It was sitting alongside the school fence, watching the game.

Trevor froze, forgetting the ball, which rolled right past the dog.

“Buster?” he called tentatively.

The dog cocked its head to one side.

“Is that your name?” Trevor asked, trying hard to keep his voice even.

The dog thumped its tail on the ground. Twice.

The only thing that separated Trevor and the dog was the long fence. He knew that there was no way he could climb over that fence without frightening the dog away.

But if he couldn't get to the dog, he could at least get to a witness.

Loyola.

“Stay,” he said to the dog as calmly and as firmly as he could.

Trevor slowly backed away, then turned and tore across the soccer field as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Trevor, get the ball!” a few players called out in confusion.

Trevor ignored them. He rushed inside the school in search of Loyola.

She wasn't in the library with Ms. Wentzell, or in the lunchroom with the chatties, and she definitely was not in the gym with the basketball players.

“Have you seen Loyola?” he kept asking everyone he came across.

All he got were shaking heads or shrugged shoulders.

He ran into Mr. Easton near the teachers' lunchroom.

“Have you seen Loyola?” he asked, almost completely out of breath.

“She's waiting for her mom on the front steps of the school,” he said. “She forgot her lunch.”

“Thanks,” Trevor said, and he was off.

He rushed down the hallway and yanked open the front door. Startled, Loyola looked up from her step, a mystery book open on her lap.

“Loyola,” he said. “You need to come see this.”

“See what?” she asked nervously, while others eyed them curiously as they slowly passed by.

“A spotted dog,” he said, ignoring everyone except Loyola.

“A spotted dog?” she repeated softly, closing her book.

“I think it's Buster.”

“You think it's Buster?” she repeated, eyes widening.

“I'm pretty sure,” he said.

Loyola gulped.

“Where?” she asked.

“By the fence on the soccer field.”

“Are you certain?”

“Come and see.”

“I can't go now. My mom's coming with my lunch.”

“When?”

“Any minute.”

Trevor looked up and down the street. There was no sign of Loyola's mom.

“Tell you what. You go check out the fence line. I'll stay here and keep a lookout for your mom.”

“You mean it?” she asked.

“Yes, but hurry. The dog might not stay there for long.”

Loyola nodded and ducked into the school, the quickest way through to the back door and the soccer field.

Trevor stood on the steps anxiously waiting for Loyola's return.

Would she also see Buster or would she be too late? And if she did see Buster, then what? Should they catch the dog and return it to Mr. Fester? No, that wouldn't work. Mr. Fester had moved to a seniors' residence. Trevor was pretty sure that seniors' residences did not allow dogs. And he couldn't take the dog. His family moved too much.

What about Loyola? Could she take the dog?

A woman on a bicycle pulled up to the front of the school. She locked it to the bicycle rack, then headed to the steps. She was carrying a blue camouflage-patterned lunch bag. It was the same blue as the tables in the school's cafeteria. Loyola's need to blend into the background knew no bounds!

“Are you Loyola's mom?” Trevor asked her.

“Yes, I am,” she said, pausing on the steps.

“I'm Trevor. She wanted me to take her lunch for her.”

“Trevor from the animal shelter?”

“Yes.”

“How nice to meet you! Loyola has been telling us all about her adventures with you and the dogs.”

“She has?”

“Oh, sure. Let's see. You have Misty and Duncan and Poppy. She has Scout and Ginger and …”

Loyola's mom tapped her helmet, trying to remember the name of the last dog.

“MacPherson,” Trevor said.

“That's right. MacPherson, who hates Frisbees. She tells us that your favorite dog is Duncan.”

“I like Duncan,” Trevor admitted. “He's a good bulldog, but not much of a walker.”

“I can imagine. So where's Loyola?”

Trevor hesitated. Should he tell her about his Buster sighting? Loyola's mom had mentioned every other dog but that one. Perhaps Loyola had been keeping just as quiet at home as Trevor had been about Mr. Fester and his lost dog. If that was the case, he wasn't about to break the news to Loyola's mom now. Friends didn't tattle on each other. He knew that much.

“Loyola's on the soccer field,” he said, which was true enough.

“The soccer field?” her mom said. “That's unusual. She's not much into sports.”

“What about equestrian?” Trevor said, and he smiled despite his worry about Buster.

“Ah, you've heard her standard joke,” Loyola's mom said. “I like that one, too.”

She studied Trevor, and he shifted his feet. Was Loyola's mom about to tell him that
he'd
make a much better jockey, joining the long list of others who had something to say about his height?

She held up Loyola's camouflaged lunch bag.

“Would you please be sure she gets this? I need to get back to work.”

“I will,” Trevor said, and he happily took the lunch bag from her.

Loyola's mom was all right.

“Do you have a dog?” he blurted just before she turned away.

“No, we don't. Our condominium board won't allow it.”

“Oh,” Trevor said, disappointed at having to rule out Loyola's family as a potential home for Buster if they ever caught him.

He stood watching as Loyola's mom unlocked her bike, then pedaled down the street after giving him a friendly wave goodbye.

Moments later, Loyola pushed through the door of the school and stood staring at him. It was hard to read her face. Was she confused? Shocked? Horrified?

“So?” he demanded.

“I didn't see it,” she said simply.

“You're kidding,” Trevor said incredulously. “It was right there by the fence.”

“I didn't see it,” she repeated, taking her lunch bag from him.

“Did you look all up and down the fence line?” he challenged.

“Yes. It wasn't there.”

This was infuriating. Trevor knew what he had seen. He was sure of it this time.

“Well, it certainly
was
there. I saw it. It had spots and everything. Exactly how Mr. Fester described.”

“I went as fast as I could,” Loyola said apologetically.

“Oh. So you believe me, then?”

“Of course I do.”

Trevor nodded with relief.

“What now?” Loyola asked quietly.

“I have no idea,” he admitted.

Loyola sat down on the steps and opened her lunch bag. She pulled out a sandwich and unwrapped it — plain cheese, same as Trevor's favorite, but this was not the time to mention that happy coincidence.

Between bites, Loyola said, “I'm sure you saw a spotted dog. What we need to do now is make sure that the spotted dog you saw is actually Buster.”

Her observation hit him like setting off the metal detector at an airport security gate.

“That's brilliant!” Trevor exclaimed. “There must be hundreds of spotted dogs in the world. I'm getting worked up about nothing.”

Loyola's theory made perfect sense. Mr. Fester's dog couldn't possibly be alive after all these years. Mr. Fines said so. Isabelle Myers, too.

“Tell you what,” she said, wiping her mouth. “I still have Buster's favorite toy, remember?”

“The stuffed ladybug?”

“Yes. The science fair is over. I'll grab the toy from my locker after school and drop it over the fence where you last saw the spotted dog. If the toy goes missing, or better still, if you see the spotted dog again and it's carrying Buster's toy, then we'll know for sure.”

It was a good plan.

A smart plan.

A simple plan.

“I like your plan,” Trevor said. “I like your plan a lot.”

The plan was so perfect, he was comforted by it.

Two days later, after the boys ate their lunch, they rushed to the soccer field for a quick game. Trevor was chasing the soccer ball when it bounced off the fence. And there, behind the fence, watching the game, sat a spotted dog. The ball startled the dog, and it turned to bolt down the alley.

But not before it grabbed the stuffed ladybug that was lying between its front paws.

Eight

—

No Dogs Allowed

“IT
IS
BUSTER,”
Trevor said to Loyola as soon as she entered the animal shelter that afternoon.

“Why? Is the ladybug missing?” Loyola asked, rushing her words.

“Yes, and the spotted dog has it,” Trevor confirmed. “I saw it again at lunch, and this time it took the toy.”

They both stopped talking and turned to Isabelle Myers.

Isabelle Myers had been on the telephone ever since Trevor arrived for duty. She was still on the phone, talking to someone about the animal shelter's adoption program.

They turned back to each other.

“Do we tell her?” Loyola said under her breath.

“I think we have to,” Trevor said. “Mr. Fester was her client. And, well, he deserves to know.”

Loyola nodded sadly. They waited anxiously until Isabelle Myers hung up the phone.

“Good to see you both,” she said cheerfully, getting up from her desk.

She was about to retreat to the back room to get their safety vests when Trevor stopped her.

“I think we've seen Mr. Fester's missing dog,” he blurted.

“Who, Buster?” she asked.

Both Trevor and Loyola nodded.

“Where?”

“By the school. Behind the soccer-field fence,” Trevor said. “Three times this past week.”

“And why do you think it's Buster?”

“It looks exactly like how Mr. Fester described his dog. And it has Buster's ladybug. We left it out by the fence, and now that dog is carrying it around.”

Puzzled, Isabelle Myers slowly sat back down at her desk. She opened a drawer, fished around and pulled out a calculator. She punched in some numbers.

“Okay, look,” she said. “Mr. Fester said that he took Buster with him to work each day at the used bookstore he owned.”

“That's right,” Trevor said.

“How old was Buster then?”

Trevor thought back to what Mr. Fines had told him.

“Fifteen years,” he reported.

“And I remember the year that Mr. Fester sold his bookstore. In fact, he donated dozens of animal-care books to us when he sold it. So, if we take this year, minus the year he sold the bookstore, plus the age of Buster at the time the bookstore was sold, it equals …”

She held the calculator out for Trevor and Loyola to have a look.

“Twenty-four,” Loyola said.

Both Trevor and Loyola grew quiet.

“Here's what I'm thinking,” Isabelle Myers continued in a gentle voice. “Sure, you saw a spotted dog, and sure, that dog took the toy. But it just can't be Buster. The average lifespan of a dog that size is only thirteen to fifteen years.”

“So you're saying there's a stray dog out there who looks and acts exactly like Buster?” Trevor said.

“Yes, that's my theory,” Isabelle Myers said, putting away her calculator. “Sadly, there's no shortage of stray and abandoned dogs.”

Trevor nodded. He knew that Isabelle Myers was trying to make him feel better, but he couldn't shake his niggling feeling that there was something not quite right about her theory.

Trevor pictured the dog by the fence. Okay, it had spots. Lots of dogs had spots. Okay, it grabbed the ladybug. Lots of dogs liked stuffed toys. Trevor thought some more. He gulped. He remembered calling out Buster's name. What did the dog do then?

Thumped its tail.

Twice.

As if it had just heard its name
.

Barking erupted and Trevor looked up to watch Isabelle Myers disappear through the swinging door to the back room. The barking stopped when she returned with the safety vests.

Lonely, desperate barking.

“All set?” she asked brightly, handing them the safety vests and the walkie-talkies.

“The bags,” Loyola quietly reminded her.

“Oh, that's right,” she said, grabbing a handful of plastic bags from her desk and dividing them between Trevor and Loyola.

Once outside, but before they went their separate ways to pick up their dogs, Trevor said, “I can't explain it, but I'm sure about what I saw. I'm positive it was Buster.”

Loyola nodded sadly.

“Let's talk when we get to the park,” she said, and she strode to her side of the street before Trevor could argue.

That disappointed him. After all these weeks, they still weren't comfortable walking together, not without the dogs for distraction.

“Hello, Mrs. Tanelli,” Trevor said when she answered her door.

Misty sat politely beside her, a big grin on her face.

Trevor bent to give her an ear rubby while Mrs. Tanelli retrieved her jacket and pink leash.

“Come here, you,” she said to her dog.

Misty obediently pulled away from Trevor and stood for her jacket. This time the print on the jacket featured the Eiffel Tower, French bread, black berets, bricks of cheese, a bottle of wine and two glasses crossed at the stems, croissants, fancy high-heeled shoes, snails, a painter's palette, and a French poodle that had been trimmed so that it had pom-poms on its ears and ankles and one on its tail. The jacket also had the words
Oh-la-la
and
I love Paris
on it.

“My sister sent this back to me from France,” Mrs. Tanelli explained, buttoning Misty. “She spends her springs there.”

“It's nice,” Trevor said, which was true. It certainly beat the panda bear and leopard outfits Misty had been wearing.

“Have a lovely walk,” Mrs. Tanelli said.
“Au revoir
!
”

Trevor took the pink leash and walked down the street to Duncan's house.

“Let's go see Duncan,” he teased Misty. “You remember him, don't you?”

Misty grinned like a maniac as she pranced along beside him.

“Hello, Mrs. Ruggles,” Trevor said when she answered her door.

“Come in, Trevor,” she said.

He stepped inside.

Mrs. Ruggles adjusted her gigantic, thick glasses and studied Misty through the glass door. She made a
tut-tut
sound.

“Duncan won't be impressed by that European designer outfit,” she said. “He's a home-grown boy who doesn't go for fancy world travelers and showy airs.”

Trevor doubted that Duncan would be impressed by anything.

“Where is Duncan?” he asked.

“Duncan! Walkies!” she called out gaily.

Somewhere deep inside the house they heard a
hurrumph
.

“Duncan hasn't been himself today. The vet has made me put him on a diet. You don't think he's too fat, do you?”

“No,” Trevor said politely.

But he wasn't sure. Duncan was as wide as he was long, and with all the wrinkles and his enormous head, it was hard to tell what was muscle, what was fat and what was just plain bulldog.

“Duncan! Come!” Mrs. Tanelli called again.

Duncan rounded the corner, pink tongue hanging to the side. He plowed up to Trevor and stood for his leash, looking defeated.

Or maybe not defeated. Again, it was hard to tell.

Misty paced anxiously outside.

“All set?” Trevor asked Duncan.

Duncan did not look up.

“Excellent,” Trevor said. “Me, too.”

They headed out.

Misty tried her level best to get Duncan's attention as they made their way to Poppy's house.

Duncan, as usual, devoted all his mental powers to the task of looking straight ahead and walking at his unhurried pace.

“Hello, Mr. Fines,” Trevor said at Poppy's door, shouting above Poppy's hysterical barking.

“Poppy, sit! Poppy, sit! Sit! Sit!”

Poppy finally composed herself, but not without the occasional whimper of happy anticipation.

“I'll go fetch her leash,” Mr. Fines said once she had settled down somewhat.

Poppy shook her head in excitement. Her ears helicoptered above her.

“Seen any interesting birds?” Trevor asked her as bits of spittle flew against the hallway wall.

Poppy scooted over to Trevor and sat down on top of his feet. She looked straight up at him with moist brown eyes and a joyful grin, her stubby tail wagging against the polished wood floor.

Mr. Fines came back to attach her leash, bending down stiffly to do so.

“I was wondering about something you told me,” Trevor said.

“And what was that?” Mr. Fines said, slowly straightening up.

“You used to go to the bookstore called A Likely Story.”

“I did indeed,” Mr. Fines said. “I still go from time to time, but it isn't the same as when Heimlich Fester owned it. The selection isn't as good. Too much fiction. Not enough naval history. At least they kept the seniors' discount.”

“You mentioned that Mr. Fester had a dog that used to work with him at the bookstore,” Trevor said.

“Yes. Buster.”

“What did Buster look like?” Trevor asked.

“Oh, I don't recall, exactly. That was a few years ago. Quite a few years ago now.”

“He had spots, right?” Trevor said, hoping to prompt Mr. Fines' memory.

Mr. Fines reached down to pat Poppy.

“Yes, spots, short ears, medium-sized.” Mr. Fines thought some more. “And as I said, Buster loved movie scripts. Specifically, romantic comedies.”

“Romantic comedies?” Trevor repeated dubiously.

“That's what Heimlich claimed,” Mr. Fines said. “Frankly, I think he was the one who loved that genre. Buster was a cover-up. If I were to hazard a guess, I dare say that Buster was more of an action or spy thriller kind of dog.”

“Where did Buster hang out in the bookstore?” Trevor asked.

“Buster had a bed in the window of the store, near the front door. He loved to watch the street traffic when he wasn't napping or being read to.”

“Did Buster have a favorite toy?”

“A favorite toy? Like a chew toy or a bone?”

“Yes, that kind of thing. Or something softer.”

Trevor knew from all the mystery books he read that he was leading the witness.

“Something softer?” Mr. Fines repeated.

“Sure. Like a stuffed toy.”

“A stuffed toy?”

“Like a ladybug or something.”

Trevor was starting to feel very foolish, and Poppy was beginning to pull at her leash, anxious to get on with their walk.

“He may have. The dog had quite a collection of toys. Customers were always coming across them on the bookshelves. They'd bring whatever they found up to the cash register when they were making their purchases, and then Buster would grab the toy and hide it back on a shelf somewhere. It was a little game, something Heimlich's wife especially enjoyed.”

Mr. Fines paused. “I see that Heimlich's house is up for sale.”

Trevor nodded. “He's gone to live at a seniors' residence near his son.”

“I'm glad to hear it,” Mr. Fines said. “I was starting to worry about him, especially after you told me he thinks Buster is lost. He became quite lonely after his wife died. And then he sold his bookstore. He even quit his long-standing volunteer organization.”

“Which one was that?” Trevor asked.

“The Twillingate Cemetery Brigade.”

“With Mr. Creelman?” Trevor asked.

“You know him?” Mr. Fines asked.

“Not really,” Trevor said. “He came to my school's mystery book club.”

“Whatever for?”

“He talked about reading clues on gravestones at Twillingate,” Trevor said. “Are you also a member of the Brigade?”

“Good heavens, no,” Mr. Fines said. “I wouldn't be caught dead spending all that time in a graveyard.” He smiled at his little joke.

“Good one,” Trevor said, suddenly excited because Mr. Fines had given him a new lead. “Well, we'd better head out.”

When Trevor arrived at the park fountain with his three dogs, he floated his new idea by Loyola.

“I've been thinking. Instead of going around the park today, how about we walk the dogs somewhere else.”

“Like where?” Loyola asked.

“The cemetery.”

“The cemetery? You mean Twillingate?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Poppy's owner, Mr. Fines, just told me that Mr. Fester used to volunteer for the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade, so Mr. Creelman might be able to confirm that there is no Buster.”

“Maybe. But we're talking about Mr. Creelman. We're the reason he didn't get any volunteers this year.”

“I know. But he was also the one who suggested that we complete our community service duty at the animal shelter. I bet he likes dogs.”

“This Buster thing is really bothering you, isn't it?” Loyola said.

Trevor nodded and looked away. In fact, he felt terrible.

“I've never been inside the cemetery,” Loyola said. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Remember Mr. Creelman's talk? All those stone carvings? All those creepy skulls and crossbones. They were really frightening.”

“I thought they were for dead pirates,” Trevor admitted.

“Me, too. Boy, did we get
that
wrong.”

Loyola laughed, and then she instantly sobered.

“What about the ghost?” she asked.

“You've been talking to Miller,” Trevor said.

“Not just Miller. Everyone knows about the dead husband who's looking for his wife's name.”

“Actually, that's a perfect excuse. Let's see if we can find that grave marker, and while we're there, we might run into Mr. Creelman.”

Loyola studied her dogs, who were all having a drink at the fountain. She looked down at the clothes she was wearing. Lots of dark grays and deep greens. She'd blend into the cemetery perfectly.

“Would we walk there together?” she asked quietly.

Trevor frowned. The pact. He had almost forgotten about it. He thought some more. It wasn't like they'd be walking together down the street alone. They'd still be walking the dogs. And if no one was saying anything about their heights in the park, they weren't likely to say anything along Tulip Street, which would lead them to Twillingate.