Vanishing Acts (18 page)

The next morning I woke up at six, showered, got dressed, and printed out a new copy of my report on Cindy Singer. (Turns out Finn had not only read my original copy, he'd also gotten chocolate fingerprints all over it.) Then I packed my backpack and headed out.

Prospect Park has off-leash hours every morning until nine. That meant any dog with any cred is out sniffing and running, fetching balls and sticks and Frisbees, picking fights, roaming in the grass, rolling in the dirt, and barking at everyone who walks by.

By seven o'clock I'd already spied bulldogs, pinschers, whippets, pugs, Labs, poodles, Shih Tzus, sheepdogs, rat terriers, beagles, hound dogs, and everything in between. The scene was complete and total Dogapalooza.

I explored the area near the Ninth Street entrance in search of Cindy Singer's house of straw. But all I found
was a gigantic nest that had to belong to the monk parakeets. I could tell because it had lots of green feathers underneath.

I wondered if maybe I was wrong. Maybe Cindy considered this real house of straw—the one made by the actual birds that inspired her—to be a part of her exhibit. It kind of made sense. And it still jived with her numbers and fairy-tale themes. But why didn't she include it on the tour? I didn't know, and I was out of time. After taking a few pictures, I headed to school, disappointed that my big break was actually not so big. Or, for that matter, any kind of break.

When I was still a few blocks away, I noticed two people holding hands. They seemed to be about my age, which wasn't a big deal at all. But I couldn't help but stare, because from the back the guy looked kind of like my brother. He was tall and skinny, with Finn's same dark shaggy hair and the same backpack, too. Also, he walked like Finn, kind of slow and relaxed like he didn't have to be anywhere anytime soon.

And weirder than that, the girl looked a lot like Lulu, with long, dark, wavy hair pulled back in a Tuesday-violin-lesson single braid. She even had on Lulu's new brown boots. And she carried a violin case. And come to think of it, her walk seemed familiar, too.

But it couldn't be them, because, as I said, these
kids were holding hands, and that would mean . . . well, that would mean something I didn't want to think about.

Still, I couldn't help but speed up—just to rule out the possibility.

So I did. And that's when I realized it
was
Lulu and Finn, and they were, in fact, holding hands.

I could not believe it.

No, wait a second. I could totally believe it. Suddenly, so much made sense.

Lulu hanging out with my brother and giggling at everything he said.

Lulu asking Finn to be an extra on Seth Ryan's movie. And Finn saying yes!

Lulu not being around when I needed her.

Lulu being Lulu, instead of Lucy.

I ran to catch up to them, jumped into the street so I could pass by them, and then turned around. “Hey!” I said, surprising them both.

They dropped their hands, as if it wasn't too late. And we stared at one another, no one saying a word.

I was the first to break the silence when I shouted, “You guys are busted!”

“I'm sorry you had to find out this way,” Lulu whispered to me a few hours later. We sat next to each other in English. Obviously, because that's what best friends do—sit by each other and tell each other everything, including stuff about crushes and actual relationships and, wait a second . . .

“Please don't be mad,” she continued. “You're my best friend, and I can't stand that you're mad at me.”

I didn't want to pout in silence, but I couldn't figure out what to say. “I'm not mad,” I insisted finally.

“Then why did you refuse to speak to us when you saw us on the street? Why did you run away?”

“Shock.”

“So how come your nostrils were flaring?”

“Allergies?” I tried.

Lulu gave me a look that told me she didn't believe me.

“Look, I'm sorry, but I just don't understand why you didn't tell me about you and Finn. You're my best friend. He's my brother.”

“And that's exactly why it's so complicated. Anyway, I did try to tell you.”

“You did not!” I cried. “Okay, fine. Maybe I am mad. But only because I tell you everything. You were the first person to know I liked Milo, and I've asked you a gazillion times if you had a crush on anyone and you always said no.”

“I've been wanting to tell you since this summer, but there was never a good time.”

“You've liked my brother since the summer?”

“Yes,” said Lulu.

“Have you guys been together that long?”

“No, it's still new. Our first kiss was just—”

“Aack!” I put my hands over my ears. “I don't want to hear it. Please don't ever talk about kissing my brother!”

“See,” said Lulu, “that's exactly why I couldn't tell you anything before. It's too awkward.”

I could see that she might have a point. I dropped my hands down to my sides and gave her a weak grin. “Okay, sorry about that. I'll try not to act so horrified, but please keep those kinds of details to yourself. And you keep saying you tried to tell me, but what I don't get is, why didn't you try harder? All you had to do was say it. We talk every day. Sometimes we talk six times a day.”

Lulu huffed out a small breath as she rebraided her hair. “Every time Finn came up, you changed the subject. It's like you had this mental block. You didn't want to know.”

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I insisted.

Lulu looked at me. “Are you sure?”

I never got the chance to answer her, because class started. Not that I could focus or anything. Because the more I thought about it, the more I realized Lulu was right. This had been going on for a long time, and there were plenty of clues. I'd just chosen to ignore them.

Looking back, I now see that it all started with the scarf way back in September. Lulu knit one for Finn. But what she gave him was so much more than a scarf. What she did was tell him,
I don't want your neck to get cold this winter. And I care about your neck so much I'm going to spend hours knitting this for you. And I'm going to make it green and white striped—your favorite colors, even though they're Celtics colors and you're a fan of the Knicks. Yes, yarn is expensive, and I had to special-order the green and now I have all this extra and no other use for it, but that's okay. You're worth it.

Lulu had been trying to tell me about Finn this whole time. Not with words, but with tiny gestures I should've picked up on.

It shook me, how I'd missed the obvious, even though
I'm supposed to be this super-observant detective. It made me wonder what else I was missing.

With Seth's disappearance and the dog-eggings, I mean. The house of straw had turned out to be a bust, but where else could I look? The egger had to be hiding somewhere. Was there a second straw house I hadn't noticed? And how come the egger stopped attacking dogs so suddenly after Seth disappeared? Was it merely because the neighborhood was crawling with cops and detectives? Or was there more to it?

And that's when this image popped into my brain: Jones Reynaldo. Or, more specifically, Jones Reynaldo's hair, and the random pieces of straw I noticed sticking out of it that first time I saw him.

Jenna Beasely had told me that Jones wanted a permit to shut down the park so he could keep the neighborhood dogs away from his shoot, and his permit had been rejected. But was Jones the type of guy to just give up? I didn't think so.

Knowing Jones, he probably tried to get rid of the dogs in some different way.

Which made me wonder: what if that straw in his hair wasn't so random after all?

Whenever I tried to puzzle out the egger mystery, part of my brain kept telling me I should be focusing on Seth Ryan's disappearance. And when I tried to solve
that
mystery, another part of my brain reminded me of what Charlotte had said. There are a gazillion people looking for Seth Ryan, but no one but me looking out for the neighborhood dogs. Figuring out what to focus on seemed impossible. One thing I knew for sure, though, was that my clients needed to be walked. So that's what I did after school—as quickly as possible.

When I dropped off Preston that afternoon, Isabel was home and still packing.

“Did you find your other pink flamingo?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. It was in my storage space, right smackdab in the middle of my collection of miniature tin soldiers. But I decided it would be a silly thing to bring to Paris,” said Isabel as she tried—without much
luck—to stuff a heavy-looking metal boxy thing into her pink leopard-print duffel bag. “There's only so much I can take, and I need to save space for the essentials.”

“I see,” I replied. “And, um, what is that you're packing now?”

“My espresso machine. I drink three cups a day, minimum, just to function. Didn't you know that? I thought everyone knew that about me.”

“Aren't they famous for espresso in Paris?”

“That's cappuccino,” said Isabel.

“Maybe you should drink that instead. You know—when in Rome.”

“Rome is not in Paris, dear.” Isabel stood and dusted her hands off on her zebra-striped bell-bottoms. “My goodness, what do they teach you in school these days? Not that I should talk. I went to a performing-arts school. My geography isn't so hot, either. But at least I learned to sing and dance.”

To prove her point, she did a quick tap dance routine around her living room—shuffle, ball change, shuffle, ball change, finishing it off with some jazz hands and the tipping of an imaginary hat. “Ta-dah!” she shouted, and then waited for applause, except I wasn't in the mood. Her mention of geography had reminded me of Seth Ryan and made me feel bad that I hadn't yet tracked him down.

“I'm just using the expression ‘when in Rome,' “I
clarified. “I realize you are not going to Rome, which is in Italy.”

Isabel turned back to her suitcase. “Are you okay, dear? You seem a smidgen upset.”

“I am, and more than a smidgen,” I replied. “I thought I'd solved the dog-egger mystery this morning, but it turns out I was wrong. And if I can't track down one lousy egger, how am I supposed to find Seth Ryan?”

“Oh, you mean that young actor? I read about his disappearance in
The New York Times
this morning. Shame, it is. Poor boy. But why are you searching for him? The neighborhood is already crawling with private investigators. Is there some kind of reward involved?”

“No,” I said. “It's just—well, I'm one of the last people to see him, and . . .”

“And you have a crush.” Isabel clapped her hands together, delighted by the idea.

“No, that's not it,” I replied emphatically. I didn't have a crush. Not on Seth Ryan, anyway . . .

“Maybe I can help,” said Isabel.

I laughed, figuring she was joking, since Isabel needs help finding her glasses three times a day—except she seemed to be serious.

“I've read about your Seth Ryan. I haven't seen any of his films, but I know the type.”

“And what type is that?” I asked, skeptical because
Seth wasn't a type. He was a boy, a beautiful, talented boy who could be in great danger this very moment. I doubted Isabel could help, and I didn't have time to waste. But I couldn't just say that. Not after Isabel plonked down on her overstuffed armchair with a small grunt.

“Let's see,” she said. “He was discovered as a baby and grew up in the Hollywood system, and he's always been a star, correct?”

I nodded.

“Child actors have a strange existence. We expect them to act like regular kids on camera, but once the cameras stop rolling they must behave professionally, like adults. Turning it on and off like that can be confusing. Seth must have had an extremely unusual childhood. On the one hand, he got to see so much, but on the other hand, he had to sacrifice a lot, too—his regular freedoms, his normal childhood. These are things to keep in mind during your investigation.”