Vanishing Acts

by Leslie Margolis

  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?

  Chapter 25

  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.”

  I thought about Seth’s T-shirt. How wearing it inside out and backward wasn’t a fashion statement. He simply didn’t know how to dress himself, because he usually had a stylist or a team of stylists or Fiona picking out his clothes.

  Maybe Isabel did know what she was talking about. I pushed a pile of sweaters out of the way and sat down on her sofa. “That makes a lot of sense.”

  “How many films has this Seth Ryan been in?” she asked. “There’s so much wonderful cinema out there; I have a hard time keeping track.”

  “I’m not sure. Probably about a dozen.”

  “Make a list and watch them,” Isabel said, very matter-of-factly, like she was filling a prescription. As if watching Seth’s movies would solve everything. As if watching Seth’s movies would solve anything.

  All my hope faded fast. “I’m sure it would be fun to have a Seth Ryan movie marathon, but I don’t really have time for that right now. I fear that the longer he’s gone, the less likely he is to be found, ever, and the more danger he could—never mind. I don’t even want to go there. He’s going to be found—he has to be. I’m just scared that if it doesn’t happen soon, then—”

  “Calm down, dear,” said Isabel. “What I mean is, you should watch Seth’s movies and search for clues within them. They’re his whole life and everything he’s ever known. Plus, life imitates art far more often than art imitates life. Do you know who said that?”

  “Besides you?” I asked.

  “Oscar Wilde,” said Isabel. “The wonderful Irish writer and poet. Did I tell you about the time I was in The Importance of Being Earnest?”

  “I think so,” I said.

  “It was in London, in 1974. A fine year. I had moved there to star in a different West End play, one that never went up. I was sitting at a café, and who should walk by but—”

  “Know what,” I said, standing and heading for the door. “That makes sense. I think I’m going to take your suggestion and hit that video store now.”

  “Good,” said Isabel. “And good luck.”

  “You, too,” I replied. “And, seriously—leave the espresso machine at home. I’m sure they have fine coffee in Paris.”

  “You might be on to something,” said Isabel. “I’m going to miss you, Maggie.”

  The video store had only three of Seth’s movies: Vampire’s Retreat, Meet Me at Sunrise, and an old one I’d never he
ard of called Going Going Gone. I rented them all. (Which also involved paying an extra ten bucks in late fees, thanks to Finn.)

  Back at home I studied the list of credits. Brandon Wilson was in all three. In Vampire’s Retreat, he played Seth’s kid brother. In Meet Me at Sunrise, he played his best friend, and in Going Going Gone, his rival.

  Since I’d just seen Vampire’s Retreat last month, I turned on Meet Me at Sunrise and got comfortable. During one scene about halfway through the movie, I noticed Brandon in the background; he appeared to be sneering. Yet in the movie, he was supposed to be playing Seth’s loyal best friend. I’m surprised no one noticed and had him reshoot the scene. But more importantly, I wondered if Beatrix was right. Brandon probably was jealous of Seth’s career. But did that give him motivation to make Seth disappear? And if so, what did he do with him? And how would I find him?

  “What are you watching?” Finn asked when he came into the living room an hour later.

  “Meet Me at Sunrise,” I said. “But it just ended.”

  “So Milo’s right. You are obsessed with Seth Ryan.”

  “Am not.” I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. “When did Milo say that?”

  Finn shrugged. “I don’t know. Yesterday, maybe?” He picked up the stack of DVDs and flipped through them. “So what’s up with the Seth Ryan marathon? Are you missing Mister Lover Boy?”

  “Do not sit there and make fun of me for having a crush on Seth Ryan, which I do not, while you’ve been going out with Lulu for who knows how long!”

  “Okay, let’s not talk about that,” said Finn, turning red.

  “Good idea,” I replied. “And don’t make fun of Seth. He’s still missing, and I’m only trying to help.”

  “By sitting around watching a bunch of movies?”

  “I’m looking for clues. And don’t question my methods. How many dogs have you rescued?”

  “Know how I always tell you you’re being too modest?” asked Finn.

  “Yup,” I said.

  “This is not one of those times.”

  “Have anything else helpful to add?” I asked.

  “Nope.” Finn flopped down on the couch and kicked off his shoes. “What’s next? How about Going Going Gone? I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Me, neither. It’s pretty old.”

  I turned on the movie, but only after making Finn promise to keep his mouth shut. Which he did—but maybe only because he fell asleep ten minutes into it. Which is too bad, because the movie was good. And weird.

  And also? Strangely relevant.

  Going Going Gone was about a child-genius computer programmer named Joe who was wanted by some international evildoers.

  Early on in the story, he got kidnapped. His best friend, Riley, found a ransom note, and here’s what it said: We have the boy. Don’t bother looking. You’ll never find him.

  Yup, that’s right. The ransom note in the movie matched Seth’s ransom note in real life.

  And suddenly, I had a feeling I knew exactly who wrote it.

  Chapter 26

  School seemed to last forever on Wednesday, like everyone was moving underwater, or in slow motion, or underwater and in slow motion. All I wanted to do was get through the day, walk my dogs, and figure out where Seth was hiding himself. Yup, that’s right. Seth kidnapped himself. I was sure of it. It’s the only thing that made sense, since the note was quoted verbatim.

  Also, from different news accounts, I’d learned that when Seth was kidnapped, there was no sign of a struggle.

  And thinking back to our conversation at the Pizza Den, he seemed like a guy who’d been wanting to disappear for a while. He’d practically said as much when he asked me if I ever wanted to walk away from my life.

  That Seth Ryan had chosen to go into hiding was the only plausible theory. All I had to do was prove it. Oh, and find the guy.

  The problem was, I didn’t know where to look. After swearing my friends to secrecy, I told them about my theory, but no one had any great ideas. Lulu was too busy hanging out with Finn. Beatrix remained convinced Brandon was the bad guy, and Sonya began designing a line of Seth Ryan–inspired rescue wear practically before I finished explaining everything.

  So I was on my own. When school ended, I raced around the neighborhood walking all of my dogs, saving Bean for last. When I took her outside, I found Milo sitting on the front stoop.

  Boy-Milo.

  Bean stopped to growl at his shoelaces and I remained silent, because what was there to say to the guy who’d been doing such an amazing job of ignoring me for so long?

  “I like Bean’s new sweater,” Milo said after a minute of awkward silence. “Did Lucy make it?”

  I shook my head and walked away because I couldn’t just pretend like everything was still cool between us.

  Milo scrambled to his feet and followed us. “She didn’t?” he asked.

  “No, not that. Yes—Lucy made the sweater, but we’re not doing this. We can’t pretend like everything is okay and that you haven’t been acting totally weird all week.”

  “You think I’ve been acting weird? You’re the one who’s obsessed with Seth Ryan.”

  “I’m not obsessed. I’m just trying to find him because it’s a mystery and that’s what I do. You know that! But even if I were obsessed with Seth, what’s wrong with that?”

  Milo kicked a rock into the gutter. “You say that like we’re not even together.”

  “We’re not,” I said, glancing at him.

  Milo looked away, but not before I saw the disappointed look on his face.

  “Are we?” I asked.

  “I thought we were,” he said finally.

  “Oh.” I paused. Not sure of what to say next, I kept walking.

  Milo did, too—both of us moving fast, our strides in sync.

  “We never really talked about it,” I said. “So I didn’t know.”

  “Well, what did you think? I just happened to be hanging around here after school every day? My chess tutor lives twelve blocks away.”

  “But your grandma had all those prescriptions.”

  “Her pharmacy delivers,” Milo said. “Plus, it’s nowhere near here.”

  “Well, why didn’t you just tell me you were coming by to see me? Why did you always act like it was some crazy coincidence?”

  “I thought you’d figure it out,” said Milo. “It’s like you said—you’re the detective.”

  “You could’ve just told me you liked me.”

  “And you could’ve told me. But you didn’t—and you never even called me when I asked you to.”

  This was true. But how could I tell him about my doubts? My whole fear of turning into Jasper Michaelson seemed even more ridiculous now. “You’re right. I should’ve called. And you shouldn’t have pretended you were accidentally always around.”

  “So how are the investigations?” he asked.

  “Terrible. I’ve got no idea where Seth is, although I’m pretty sure I know what happened to him. And as for the egger, I think he’s been hanging out in one of Cindy Singer’s tree houses, but I can’t find it.”

  “I thought those weren’t open to the public,” said Milo.

  “The two we saw aren’t, but I think she built a third one.”

  “Because she’s always doing things in threes?” asked Milo.

  “You knew about that, too?” I asked.

  Milo nodded. “Ms. Murphy kind of hinted about it, and then when I was working on my report, it came up.”

  “I figured that out, too. And I got so excited when I thought I’d found the third house, the one made out of straw, except it was actually just the monk parakeets’ nest.”

  Suddenly Milo stopped walking. “Where did you see a monk parakeet’s nest?”

  “In the park—over by the Ninth Street entrance.”

  “But that’s impossible. The monk parakeets don’t live in Prospect Park.”

  “Sure they do,” I said.

  “Have you ever see
n one?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied carefully, trying to puzzle this all out. “But Cindy said so. I mean, I think she did, right? That’s her whole inspiration.” Even as I said the words, something seemed weird. “She did say they lived in Prospect Park, right?”

  “Nope. She wouldn’t have, because they don’t,” said Milo. “I know for a fact that the only monk parakeets in Brooklyn live in the Green-Wood Cemetery.”

  “Then who’s using that nest by Ninth Street?” I asked.

  And before I even finished the question, I realized I had my answer.

  Chapter 27

  “I’ve gotta go, okay? Here.” I handed Milo Bean’s leash, then thought better of it. Who knows what Cassie would do if I left her precious pup in the hands of someone else? Something told me she wouldn’t be so understanding. “Never mind. I’ll call you later—promise!” I took the leash back and raced Bean home.

  Then I sprinted for the park. Back to the monk parakeets’ nest, which obviously wasn’t what it appeared to be, like so many things lately . . .

  I entered at Ninth Street, and it didn’t take long to find the “nest” again. Looking at it now, it certainly seemed big enough to hide in. And there wasn’t a parrot in sight, only the same feathers from yesterday. Feathers Cindy probably put there so no one would find her tree house.

  I circled the tree a few times, trying to figure out how to get up. The lower branches were thick and spaced far apart. Climbing them wouldn’t be easy, but I had no choice. If Jones Reynaldo could do it, I could, too.

  Grabbing on to the lowest branch, I hoisted myself up. Or tried to, anyway. On my first two tries, I didn’t make it. And once I did, I got stuck on my stomach, but only for a moment. “Oof!” I grunted, trying to maintain my balance as I swung one leg over the branch.

  Once I was steady, I dusted my hands off on my jeans and looked around. A thick branch was just overhead, and I grabbed it with both hands and pulled again. Now that I was standing on the lowest branch, I found plenty more within reach. I climbed higher and higher until I finally made it to the structure. Close up, I could see it was merely a house made of wood and covered with a thick layer of straw. Luckily, there was a trap door at the bottom, which I opened pretty easily. Then, after some struggle, I managed to pull myself up inside.