The Missing Dog Is Spotted (9 page)

It was worth the risk.

“We'll have the dogs,” Trevor reminded her. He didn't have to say anything more than that. He knew she'd know what he meant.

She nodded.

They gathered their dogs, but it wasn't easy. Poppy was confused at the change of plans and kept trying to turn back to the park where there were birds. Scout kept a suspicious eye on them the whole time, while sniffing at the ground constantly, as if memorizing their new route in case they got lost. And Duncan had to be coaxed to move at all, probably thinking that he might end up walking longer than usual. He kept coming to a full stop every single time he got the chance. Trevor had to ply him with cookies from the box that Mr. Fester had given him, which he still had in his knapsack.

So much for the diet.

And then, just as they were closing in on the iron gate of the cemetery, a group of daycare children walked by. There were eight little ones all holding onto a rope while toddling along in a row with two daycare workers, one at the front leading the way and the other at the back, making sure there were no stragglers. They were singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” The children immediately broke rank when they came across the dogs.

“Doggies! Doggies!”

Trevor and Loyola patiently waited until everyone in the group had a turn patting their dog of choice.

“Wrinkles! Wrinkles!” the little ones said, patting Duncan's head.

“Soft! Soft!” they said as they stroked Poppy's long silky ears.

“Little! Little!” they said, bending down to scratch MacPherson's back.

Scout seemed especially patient with them as they tugged at his giant bushy tail.

“Okay, children,” the lead daycare worker declared. “Let's get going. It's almost snack time.”

“Cookies! Cookies!” the little ones chanted, which got the dogs excited all over again.

They fell into line, taking their places along the rope, and they toddled off down Tulip Street.

Trevor and Loyola gathered their dogs and walked the remaining half block to the front gate of the cemetery, which was open. They stood to read the ominous signs:

Beware of Falling Gravestones

Enter at Your Own Risk

Closed at Sunset

No Dogs Allowed

“No Dogs Allowed
,
”
Loyola said out loud.

“Let's tie them to the gate. We won't be long and Scout will warn us with a bark if something's wrong,” Trevor suggested.

They tied the dogs. Ginger got a triple knot. Scout stood guard.

“I don't see Mr. Creelman,” Loyola said, scanning the cemetery.

Rows upon rows of lichen-spotted grave markers faced them with their grim symbols of death. Some looked as if they were about to fall face first onto the damp grass, some already had, and some had epitaphs so badly eroded, the words were impossible to read.

“I'm sure he'll be along,” Trevor said. “Let's see if we can find the double grave marker that's blank on one side.”

They walked along the entire first row by the fence, searching for the grave that Miller said haunted the cemetery. The names on the gravestones were unremarkable, and the descendants of many of them attended Queensview Elementary.

McDougall, Lynch, Chisholm, Thomas, Stairs
.

“Here it is,” Trevor exclaimed.
“Pettypiece.”

They stood before a thin gray gravestone, which had two sets of angel heads and wings carved at the top. The man's name, Enoch Pettypiece, and the dates of his birth and death were filled in on one side, but curiously, the other half remained blank, just like Miller had described. The grave marker also went on to read that Enoch had lived to be 33 years, 5 months and 8 days old, and that
He was an affectionate husband, tender parent, lived respected and died lamented
.

“Look!” Loyola said, pointing to the word
affectionate.

It had a carved box around it, as if the word had been changed or reworked. Maybe Miller was on to something after all.

“That's odd,” Trevor said, bending down to take a closer look.

But as he did, a shadow swept across the words, making it harder for him to read.

“Can I help you?” a gravelly voice said from behind him.

Loyola gasped and Trevor nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and leaped back at the same time, almost knocking down the old grave marker.

It was Mr. Creelman in his orange coveralls. He looked as stern as ever, despite his comical bushy white eyebrows. He carried a shovel.

“Careful,” he warned.

“Hello, Mr. Creelman,” Trevor said as soon as he recovered.

“How do you know my name?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

“You came to our school,” Trevor reminded him. “The Queensview Mystery Book Club.”

“I lectured on symbols,” Mr. Creelman recalled.

“That's right,” Trevor said warily, saying nothing about the other time he had met Mr. Creelman at the public library.

“Were you paying attention?” Mr. Creelman asked. It was more an accusation than a question.

“I think so,” Trevor said doubtfully.

He hoped Loyola would jump into the conversation, but she was doing her shrinking-into-the-background thing and was standing as still and as silent as the grave markers around her.

“Then what does this mean?” Mr. Creelman demanded, pointing the tip of his shovel to the angel heads with wings on the top of Pettypiece's gravestone.

“They're angels,” Trevor said, which he immediately regretted, for surely this was a trap, just like all the other questions Mr. Creelman had asked during his visit to the Queensview Mystery Book Club.

“Wrong!” Mr. Creelman declared triumphantly. “Dead wrong! This is a soul effigy. It is the most common symbol found on Twillingate's gravestones dating from the mid-eighteenth century to the mid- to late-nineteenth century. They began as variations of death heads — like the early skulls and crossbones — and evolved into something resembling angels. Angels were later replaced by the Greek revival symbols of the urn and willow.”

“Oh,” Trevor said flatly, hoping this would not encourage an expanded lecture.

“Scholars have written extensively on the reasons for the evolving artistic interpretations. Some think it is due to the shift from Puritan fire-and-brimstone ideas to a more worldly Age of Enlightenment perspective. The early death head warns visitors that they must live every moment in anticipation of death and transition to the afterlife, which would bring an eternity of either salvation or damnation. But the angel-type figures — soul effigies — herald the Romantic or Victorian times and a more optimistic outlook in terms of the hereafter. They are glorified souls, not grim reminders of inevitable death.”

Trevor looked around and spied other soul effigies.

“Some of them look happy,” he observed. “And some of them look mad.”

“That's because the carvers were uncertain about their own eternal fate,” Mr. Creelman said sourly. “I covered all this at Queensview.” He turned to Loyola. “Why are there six dogs tied to the gate?”

“Those … those are ours,” Loyola stammered.

“Yours? All six?” Mr. Creelman demanded, interrogation-style.

“Well, not really,” Loyola said. “We're dog walkers. And the sign at the gate said
No Dogs Allowed
.”

“Oh, I see. You're the two who didn't want cemetery duty. I recognized
you
from the public library,” he said, glaring at Trevor.

Trevor said nothing. His guilt spoke volumes. Loyola tried to shrink some more.

“Then that must be Mrs. Ruggles' bulldog,” Mr. Creelman said. “Looks like she's still spoiling Duncan with too much food.”

“She has him on a diet,” Trevor said, feeling the weight of the box of dog cookies in his knapsack.

“And I see you must have Poppy. How is Mr. Fines?”

This was just the invitation that Trevor was hoping for.

“Mr. Fines isn't good,” he said. “He's worried about Mr. Fester.”

“Heimlich Fester? We've all been worried about Heimlich for years now. He's never gotten over the death of his wife. And selling his bookstore? Big mistake.”

“He claims he's lost his dog,” Trevor said.

“Who? Buster?”

“Yes.”

“That's a shame. I'll keep a lookout. Buster likes to come in here from time to time.”

“Wait! What? Isn't Mr. Fester confused? Buster died a long time ago.”

“Not the one he owns now,” Mr. Creelman said. “He's still a pup.”

Trevor stared at Mr. Creelman, struggling to take in the enormity of his words.

“What do you mean? There really
is
a Buster?”

“Of course there is. He took in a stray dog almost a year ago. Named him Buster after his first dog. Goes everywhere with him. That's why he had to quit volunteering for the cemetery brigade. No dogs allowed.”

“A stray dog?” Trevor repeated.

“And cagey. The vet told him Buster must have been living on leftovers in garbage cans and compost bins for months. Took Fester ages to get the dog used to people.”

“What does Buster look like?” Trevor dared to ask, even though he already knew the answer.

Mr. Creelman didn't hesitate.

“He's spotted, just like the first one,” he said, his words tossed out like shovelfuls of dirt, digging Trevor's grave.

Nine

—

Queensview Mystery
Book Club

TREVOR AND LOYOLA
gathered the dogs at the gate of the cemetery in silence and headed down Tulip Street without a word. It was only after they passed the stone public library with its stained-glass windows that Loyola finally spoke.

“Do you think Mr. Creelman will catch Buster?” she asked.

“I don't know. Maybe he will. Him or someone else from the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade,” Trevor said. “But even if they do, Buster will still end up at the animal shelter. Mr. Fester won't be able to keep his dog at the seniors' residence now that he's moved for good.”

They walked the dogs past Queensview Elementary before speaking again. The only sounds were the occasional grunts from Duncan and the jingle of the medals of bravery dangling from Scout's collar.

“And soon you'll be moving, too,” Loyola said, even more quietly than before.

“Yes,” Trevor said.

“Have you sold your house?”

“We rent,” he said. “We move too much to own. Renting makes moving easier.”

Loyola nodded. She didn't look at Trevor.

“I don't mind moving. I'm used to it,” he said, guessing her thoughts.

He knew how this conversation went. He had had it with classmates many times in the past. It seemed easier on them if they thought he was happy about moving. And when they thought he was happy about the move, they would change the subject to something else, something Trevor felt like discussing. It always worked like a charm.

“And this time I get to leave something behind in a time capsule, although I don't know what yet,” he added, a further attempt to cheer her up.

He glanced at Loyola, but his words didn't seem to have the effect he hoped for. Instead of changing to a new topic, she kept quiet. They didn't speak another word until they returned to the animal shelter after dropping off the dogs to their homes.

“There really
is
a Buster,” Trevor confessed to Isabelle Myers when he handed over his gear. “We ran into Mr. Creelman, and he told us that Mr. Fester took in a stray puppy about a year ago. He named it Buster after the dog that had kept him company all those years at the used bookstore.”

“Oh dear,” she said. “Poor Mr. Fester.”

Trevor and Loyola nodded glumly.

“Well, if Buster turns up here, I'll be sure to call Mr. Fester. I've kept his telephone number.”

“But Mr. Fester won't be able to keep Buster at the seniors' residence,” Loyola said.

“No, but at least he'll know that Buster is safe. And we'll work hard to find his dog a good home. I can promise him that,” she said.

Trevor could tell that she had said the standard line about finding a good home many times, just like he said his standard line about time to fly. They were both trying to reassure others.

Only sometimes their lines didn't work.

“See you next week,” he barely replied.

“It's a beautiful day,” Mr. Easton announced that Friday at the beginning of their language arts class. “How about we take our books outside to the soccer field to read?”

The students whooped, Trevor included. Everyone headed outdoors.

The class scattered across the field, each student choosing a spot on the soft new grass. They cracked open their books and read by the sunlight, which burned warm on their backs. Other than birds singing and the occasional squeaking clothesline, there were no interruptions for the next half hour. Then Mr. Easton gathered the class near the goalpost to read another chapter of
The Science Fair Incident.
It was the part where a backyard rocket launch goes terribly wrong.

Trevor leaned back on his elbows, his legs outstretched and his eyes half-closed, listening to the story. Mr. Easton was an excellent reader. He would change his voice when he spoke the dialogue from different characters, and he knew exactly when to pause, making the story extra suspenseful.

Mr. Easton read until almost the end of class, and when he closed his book, he said, “Looks like we have an extra student today.”

Trevor opened his eyes and sat up to see what Mr. Easton was talking about.

All eyes in the class were turned to the fence beside the soccer field. Trevor followed their gaze.

Buster was sitting on the other side of the fence listening to the story, his head tilted, the stuffed ladybug at his feet. When he noticed that the reading had ended and that all the students were now staring at him, he grabbed his toy and bolted down the alley.

Trevor gulped. He looked over at Loyola. She sadly shook her head.

The same thing happened the following Tuesday morning when Mr. Easton offered to hold his class outside again. It was another blue-sky day with not a single cloud. The softest breeze occasionally fluttered the bright white pages of their books as the students read.

This time Trevor kept a lookout for Buster, and across the soccer field, in another spot, Loyola was doing the same thing. Neither of them got much reading done. But when Mr. Easton gathered the students by the goalpost to read out loud the latest installment of
The Science Fair Incident
, Trevor fell into a pleasant trance, eyes half-closed, taking in all the details of the story as he floated against the blue sky. It was only when Mr. Easton closed his book at the end of class that Trevor came back to earth and spotted Buster.

Once again, Buster sat by the fence with his toy listening to every word as if he enjoyed Mr. Easton's company just as much as the students.

When the reading ended, Buster disappeared on cue, but not before Mr. Easton noticed him in the audience.

Trevor lingered on the field to see if Buster would reappear as the rest of the class went back inside the school. He waited until he and Mr. Easton were the last ones to leave.

“Your family must be getting ready for the move,” Mr. Easton said to Trevor as they headed in.

It was just like Mr. Easton to care about what was going on with each of his students.

“Yes. Pretty much everything is in boxes,” Trevor said. “My parents are very efficient.”

“I could use some packing tips,” Mr. Easton said. “I'll be moving, too.”

“What? Where?” Trevor asked.

“My hometown. Ferndale.”

“But you just got here,” Trevor said, who remembered that Mr. Easton had arrived at Queensview at the start of the school year, the same as he had.

“I know. And I'll miss this school very much, especially the students. But Ferndale's my hometown. And there's someone back there whom I hope to marry.”

“Oh,” said Trevor, at a loss for words.

He was surprised at how sad he felt, more sad than he really should be. After all, he was leaving Queensview Elementary, too. What difference would it make if Mr. Easton remained there or not?

Then Trevor realized something. He had always liked to comfort himself with the thought that whenever he moved, he could always go back to the school and that it would be exactly the same, including the people he had left behind.

With Mr. Easton moving, that comforting thought was gone. Queensview Elementary would never be the same, not without Mr. Easton. It made Trevor's move feel much more permanent.

“I wonder who that dog belongs to,” Mr. Easton said as they neared the back door of the school.

“The dog with spots by the fence?” Trevor asked guiltily.

“Yes. I've seen it hanging around school lately.”

“You have?” Trevor asked, slowing his pace.

Mr. Easton nodded. “When we read outside, and other times, too. I sometimes see it when I stand at the classroom window.” He held open the door for Trevor and added, “I don't think it's a stray.”

“Why not?”

“It wears a collar. It also carts around a toy. I think it's lost.”

“Lost?” Trevor repeated, his heart thumping in his chest, making it difficult to hear.

“Maybe you should mention it at the animal shelter the next time you report for duty,” Mr. Easton suggested as they headed up the stairs to the second floor. “See if that dog's owner has reported it missing.”

“Good idea,” Trevor managed to say, his guilt stopping him from spilling Buster's miserable story to Mr. Easton.

Just before they got to the door of the classroom, Mr. Easton turned to Trevor.

“Please don't mention my move,” he said. “I'll make that announcement to the class at the end of the day.”

“They're going to be sad,” Trevor said.

“I know. But I've got a wonderful last assignment for them, and you can help.”

“How?”

“Have you thought about your time capsule? About what you'd like to put in it?” Mr. Easton asked.

“No, not really,” Trevor admitted.

Trevor surprised himself. When he was first chosen, he had been so excited by the idea of leaving something of himself behind at Queensview besides appearing in a few photographs for the yearbook. But with all his worries over Mr. Fester and Buster, he had mostly forgotten about the time capsule.

“Well, I have an idea. Can you lend me some space in your locker?”

“Sure,” Trevor said. He smiled at the honor. “What for?”

“I'll give you the details at the end of the day.”

Trevor nodded happily. The sting of Mr. Easton's move had been lessened. He took his seat in the front row. But before Mr. Easton sat at
his
desk, he paused at the classroom window and scanned the fence line.

“Do you always eat the same thing for lunch?” Bertram asked Trevor as they sat at a table and unwrapped their sandwiches.

Everyone except Miller. As usual, he started in reverse order by first peeling back the lid of his chocolate pudding and digging in.

Trevor studied his plain cheese sandwich and shrugged.

“My life's a constant change,” he said. “So I like to know I can depend on lunch.”

“How's the move going?” Craig asked through his stuffed nose. His allergies were getting worse, now that they were well into spring.

“The same as all the other moves,” Trevor said. “Time to fly,” he added automatically. He took a bite of his sandwich and chewed.

He was still thinking about what Mr. Easton had in store for his locker, so the next bit of conversation caught him completely off guard.

“I saw the strangest thing in the cemetery as I was walking by this morning,” Bertram said. He leaned in as if he were about to tell a ghost story around a campfire. The only things missing were a starry night and him holding a flashlight up to his face.

And the campfire.

The other boys stopped eating their lunches to listen.

“Where? Twillingate?” Trevor asked, catching up to the conversation.

“Of course it was Twillingate,” Bertram said. “This town has only one cemetery.”

“Oh. That's why it's so big,” Trevor said.

“Was it the ghost?” Miller jumped in. “The one from the double gravestone with the missing words?”

“Epitaph,” Noah corrected.

“Sure. Epitaph. Was the ghost wandering around?” Miller asked eagerly.

“No. It wasn't a ghost. It was Mr. Creelman,” Bertram said.

“Mr. Creelman? So what? He's a volunteer groundskeeper there,” Craig said. “Along with all those other old guys. The Twillingate Cemetery Brigade.”

“I know that,” Bertram said. “But he was by himself, and he was behaving very strangely.”

“How do you mean?” Miller said.

“Well, he was crouching behind gravestones and darting between them. Kind of like he was spying on something. Something up ahead.”

“Spying? What would he be spying on?” Craig asked.

“A ghost!” Miller announced. “I'm telling you! There's a ghost in that cemetery. Everyone says so.”

“I didn't see a ghost,” Bertram insisted. “But I think something else was there. Only it was small. Smaller than the gravestones, anyway, because I couldn't see it from where I stood on the sidewalk.”

Trevor forced himself to ask.

“Was it a dog?”

“A dog? Maybe. But why would he be sneaking up on a dog?”

“There are no dogs allowed in the cemetery,” Craig said. “There's a big sign posted at the gate.”

“Well, maybe that dog couldn't read,” Noah said, smiling at his own joke.

“I'm telling you. It was the ghost,” Miller insisted. He turned to Bertram. “Then what happened?”

“I came to school.”

“That's it?!” Miller asked.

“What do you mean, ‘that's it?' Mr. Creelman was sneaking around the cemetery. That's very strange, don't you think?”

Miller polished off his chocolate pudding looking very disappointed about no ghost.

Trevor could hardly take another bite of his sandwich. Mr. Creelman had spotted Buster. He was certain of it. He was trying to catch the dog. But then later that morning, Trevor had seen Buster by the school fence. So Mr. Creelman had been unsuccessful.

Would Buster ever be caught? Would he ever find another home? Or would Trevor be forced to move away without knowing the fate of the spotted dog? That thought was unbearable.

Trevor had to act. He had to do something to help Mr. Creelman catch Buster.

But what?

Then he remembered Buster by the school fence, sitting and patiently listening until Mr. Easton finished reading out loud. Just like the first Buster, this dog seemed to like being read to. If Mr. Creelman knew that, maybe he could read in the cemetery and lure Buster to him.

“Excuse me,” he said to the others, and he went back to his classroom early, most of his lunch uneaten.

Trevor dug out a clean sheet of paper from his desk and wrote a note to Mr. Creelman in his best handwriting. His plan was to tuck the note into the gate of the cemetery after school on his way home. Mr. Creelman would be sure to find it the next time he entered the cemetery with the rest of the Brigade on one of his missions.