Hannah West: Sleuth on the Trail (Nancy Pearl's Book Crush Rediscoveries)

by Linda Johns

  I looked over to the window. That same guy with Scooter the shaggy dog was outside studying the yellow flyer. The bell on the door clattered as my canine charge and I hurried outside. I don’t know why, but it felt like such a relief to be out of there.

  “Hey! Wait up!” I called out to Shaggy-Dog Guy, who had started walking down the street.

  “What were you doing outside The Perfect Pet just now?” I demanded once I caught up with him.

  “Scooter was getting water. Is that a crime?” I could tell from his voice that he was just joking.

  Scooter sniffed me, and I scratched him behind his ears. “No, of course not. I just wondered why you were so interested in those signs. I thought maybe you had a lead on locating Boris.”

  “I was kind of hoping that Boris had been found already,” he said. “See this poster for Boris? I noticed that it’s different than the one that was up before. But I guess I’ll keep looking.”

  “Are you hoping to get the reward money for Boris?” I asked.

  “I wouldn’t turn it down,” he said. “But mostly I just want to help Boris. Do you know him?”

  “Actually, no. Not yet, anyway. My mom and I met his owner. I helped him redo the poster. That one’s mine, too,” I said, pointing to the green one.

  “That’s cool.”

  “I’m Hannah, by the way. And I guess you already know Elvis.”

  “I’m Benito. But most people call me Ben,” he said.

  “You live around here?” I asked. I know that sounds totally corny, but I was in my detective mode of gathering information. “I thought you had to be in your twenties or thirties to live in Fremont.”

  “You live here. And you’re not that old,” he said. Crafty. He not only wasn’t answering my question, he was turning it around. I decided to play along.

  “I don’t really live here. I just work here. You know, walking dogs and taking care of other things,” I said.

  “Do you go to Jefferson Middle School?”

  “No. I go to Chavez.” If I’d really lived in Fremont, I probably would be going to Jefferson. Elvis whined. He was done sniffing Scooter, and he wanted to get moving. “Apparently Elvis here wants to go up that hill.”

  “Scooter and I are going up to Market Time. I need a Snickers,” he said.

  Snickers! Any doubts I had about this guy immediately vanished with that one magic word.

  “Are you kidding? Is there a place around here to buy real candy? I thought it would all be made of tofu and wheat germ or something,” I said. The prospect of all that chewy nougat and caramel goodness covered in milk chocolate had me pretty excited.

  “Haven’t you been to Market Time yet?” he asked. I shook my head no. “I’ll show you where it is. It’s a big walk up the hill, but it’s worth it. The owners are cool.”

  On the way up the street, Ben told me about the owners of Market Time. “They used to be hippies,” he said, “but they’re both total chocoholics. They can totally appreciate the need for a real candy bar.”

  When we reached the store, Ben and I took turns going inside so that one person was always outside with the dogs. Ben said he leaves Scooter outside all the time, and he thought it was perfectly safe. Still, I didn’t want to take any chances. Especially since I was trying to get my new business off the ground.

  It seemed like everyone in Fremont knew Ben, Scooter, or Elvis—or all three. But I got a few strange looks. I guess people were wondering what a stranger was doing with Piper’s dog. Fremont is the kind of neighborhood where people look out for one another. Clearly that included looking out for dogs, especially since one had disappeared recently. People were curious about me, and even more curious once they found out that I was a legitimate dog walker taking care of Elvis. It actually turned out to be good for business. Having been hired by Piper was a great recommendation. But getting Ben’s endorsement seemed like the best advertising of all.

  “Are you the one who has the signs posted about dog-walking and pet-sitting?” a woman with a small wheat-colored dog asked.

  I handed her my business card.

  “Elvis is in good hands with Hannah,” Ben said.

  “I’ll give you a call. I’d like to talk with your parents, too,” the woman said.

  And you can bet my mom is going to want to talk with you, too, I thought. And with everyone else who calls.

  “I’ll usually have Elvis with me, so I can walk your dog after school if your dog gets along with Elvis,” I said again and again, handing out my business cards.

  “How come you know so many people?” I asked.

  “Everyone knows my grandfather around here, so they kind of end up knowing me, too.”

  We kept heading downhill, handing out business cards to anyone who showed any interest in my business. Some people who didn’t even have dogs took one, telling me they were going to pass it along to a friend.

  When we got back near the canal, I noticed Mack, across the street, talking animatedly with Ted, Boris’s owner. They shook hands and then Mack tipped his hat. It seemed to be his trademark. Ted walked away, and Mack spotted us and waved from across the street. I waved back.

  “Do you know Mack?” I asked Ben. “I see him everywhere.”

  Ben laughed just as my cell phone rang. No doubt it was my mom calling to remind me to get home and do homework. “Well,” I told Ben, “Elvis got a longer walk than he expected. Now my mom—and my homework—are calling.”

  “See you later,” he said. As I answered my phone, he crossed the street to talk to Mack in front of Costas Opa, the Greek restaurant on the corner of Thirty-fourth and Fremont.

  CHAPTER 11

  DID I SAY business was booming? I should have said business could potentially be booming. Although I had a bunch of calls about my availability as a dog walker, the Maggie West Inquiry System was holding me up. My mom wanted to talk to everyone first, and then she wanted to make arrangements for both of us to meet the canines and their owners. To further complicate it, I had ultimate Frisbee practice two days a week after school. Our school gets out superearly, so even with a two-hour practice and two buses, I could be home shortly after five o’clock.

  We spent several days talking with dog owners and setting up times to meet that next weekend.

  I was working on a new sketch of Elvis on Thursday night. He’s a great model—a master at staying still. I had almost as many sketches of him as I had of Izzie. But I never got tired of sketching either of them. I get kind of lost when I’m drawing. My sixth-grade art teacher told us it was “flow.” She said it was this state of concentration when you have all this positive energy because you’re enjoying yourself and you’re totally absorbed in what you’re doing. I’m not sure if I was totally lost in my drawing or in flow or what, but I seriously jumped when my cell phone rang and interrupted me. I didn’t recognize the number, but the businesswoman in me decided to answer anyway.

  “Hello, is this the number for the dog walker? I saw a flyer at Fremont Place Books,” a woman said.

  “Yes! That’s me. I mean, I’m the dog walker. My name is Hannah West, and I’m extremely responsible. I’ve walked all kinds and all sizes of dogs, and I know a lot about dogs. I have references you can contact, if you’d like. Is there something I can help you with?” I was talking about a million miles a minute.

  “Well, I normally walk Archie three times a day, but lately I’ve been getting home from work late, and I really think Archie would like some human interaction earlier than that. I’m actually looking for someone who could take him out in the mid-to late afternoon,” she said.

  “That’s me! I mean, I can easily do that. I get out of school at two-fifteen, and I think I’ll be home by three thirty or so. Would that work?”

  “Oh, you’re a student? Where do you go to school?” she asked. I figured this was a polite way of getting the information she really wanted to know: my age.

  “I’m in seventh grade at Cesar Chavez Middle School. I walk dogs as an afters
chool and weekend job,” I explained.

  “I guess that might work. Could I check all this out with one of your parents?” she asked. I passed my phone to Mom, who talked waaaay too long with my new client. At last she handed the phone back to me.

  “I didn’t know you were staying in Piper’s apartment,” the woman, whose name was Nikki, said. “Elvis and Archie are great friends. I worked some things out with Maggie, and, if you’re up for it, you could bring Elvis over here and pick up Archie and take them both for a walk after school. Everyone around here knows Elvis and Archie, so people will be looking out for you.”

  I completely forgot to ask what kind of dog Archie was. I’d be meeting him soon enough, because Nikki, my newest client, lived in the apartment building across the alley from us. Mom was taking me (and I was taking Elvis) over right away to meet Nikki and Archie, and to get a key and instructions.

  I am happy to report that Archie is the sweetest bulldog that has ever walked on this planet. He and Elvis were excited to see each other. At least I think they were excited. If you know anything about bulldogs and bassets, you know that they don’t show a lot of emotion in their wrinkly faces.

  When we got back to our apartment, Mom pulled out some paper and started mapping out a calendar. I’d agreed to walk Archie every day. Even the late walks on Tuesday and Thursday turned out to be okay with Nikki, who said they would allow her to stay downtown and take a yoga class before heading home. I’d walk him right after school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, starting the next day, Friday. Then I’d meet all the other dogs and set up their schedules over the weekend.

  I put Archie’s apartment key on my key ring and into my messenger bag. Then I got everything ready for school the next day. I’m not the most organized person in the world, but I like to have things in order before I go to sleep. I crawled into bed with my sketchpad, quickly drawing Archie. I wasn’t exactly in that flow zone my art teacher had talked about, but I was feeling pretty good. It turns out Archie was the missing link in my Studio Series for my drawing class. I had five dogs in a whole series of expressions and stances that I felt pretty happy about. I hoped Mr. Van Vleck would be happy about it. It’s nice to be an artist, but it’s even better to be an artist with good grades.

  CHAPTER 12

  “DO YOU ACTUALLY know all those dogs?” Jordan asked. We were showing each other our plans for the Studio Series. “Or did you just check out a dog book and start drawing?”

  “Yeah, I know them. I’ve taken care of almost all of them,” I said, pointing out Izzie, Ruff, Mango, Elvis, and Archie. Okay, I hadn’t actually taken care of Archie yet, but he was one of my clients. And helping Ted with the flyers for Boris was kind of like taking care of him.

  “Do you actually know all those staplers?” I asked. For some reason, Jordan had chosen office supplies as her theme. You heard me: ordinary office supplies. Paper clips, a tape dispenser, a pencil cup, and more than a few staplers. I had to admit it was a rather brilliant idea. If I didn’t like the way my dog series was shaping up, I’d wish I’d thought of something as commonplace as office supplies.

  “All of my ideas led to dead ends. Then last night I was looking for a pencil sharpener in my dad’s den. It took me a while to find it, but it was like he could open a stapler museum. Every drawer I opened had a stapler in it. It seemed kind of funny to me at the time. It’s not as funny today,” she said.

  “I think it works,” I said. “It’s … different.”

  She snorted.

  “Different is good,” I added.

  “Riiiiight,” Jordan said, stretching out the one syllable so it lasted about five extra beats. Lily and I had thoroughly analyzed Jordan over the past few months. She wasn’t exactly the kind of girl who would think different was good, unless she was differentiated from the popular girls as being the most popular girl.

  Mr. Van Vleck called us up one by one for quick conferences about our projects. He gave me eight out of eight points and told me to keep going. He spent longer with Jordan. She came back to the table looking relaxed and happy.

  “What are you doing this weekend?” she asked, as we gathered our supplies at the end of the period. “You’ve got a game, right?”

  “We have a game tomorrow morning. Then I’m spending some time with my dogs,” I said. “How about you? Where’s your game?”

  “It’s over at McKinley,” she said. “Then I’m going to spend some time getting to know my staplers.”

  Was it possible that Jordan and I were becoming friends? I wondered.

  Nah. We were just talking, finding common ground in our shared interest in art and sports—volleyball for her and ultimate Frisbee for me.

  I kept thinking ahead the rest of the school day, anxious to get home to take Archie out for a walk.

  And finally, at 3:33, I was back in Fremont. I dutifully called my mom when I got off the bus, when I got into the apartment (she insisted that I stay on the line while I got Elvis and his leash and left the apartment), when I got to Archie’s apartment, and when I—finally—headed out with my two canine clients. All this calling is excessive, if you ask me.

  For a short guy, Elvis was pretty strong. He practically pulled me across the alley and up the stairs to Archie’s apartment. It was as if the two dogs hadn’t seen (or sniffed) each other in ages.

  It must have been pretty entertaining to see a bulldog and a basset walking down the street, because we got lots of attention. More attention than I like to get. I reminded myself it was the dogs, not me, that people were ogling.

  I walked past the scene of the crime—Joe’s Special. The bright yellow flyer for Boris and the green flyer for my business were still in the window. I wondered if that meant Boris hadn’t come home in the time I’d been at school.

  A noise startled me. Meredith was inside The Perfect Pet, rapping on the glass. She beckoned me in.

  “This bulldog certainly looks familiar,” she said in a singsong voice. “How are you, Arnold?”

  “You’re great, aren’t you, Archie?” I said, cleverly correcting her about his name without embarrassing her. Or so I hoped.

  “Oh! I called you the wrong name, didn’t I, little guy?” she gushed. Meredith was kind of hyper again. And she seemed a little too interested in Archie. It made me a little uncomfortable.

  “Any news about Boris?” I asked, hoping to take the focus off Archie. When she didn’t respond, I added, “The missing bichon frise?”

  “Hmm? No. No news today. Did you know we do cat grooming here, too? We have special hours just for cats so they won’t be stressed by being around dogs.”

  She kept prattling on. I had no idea why she was talking about cats or why she was talking so much in the first place. I find that sometimes it’s best not to try making sense of what adults do when they act strange. I remembered what Arlene said about Meredith being better with animals than people. Maybe this is what she was referring to.

  “Sorry. What?” I realized Meredith had finally stopped talking and was looking at me, as if waiting for an answer. Her eyes shifted, and I followed her gaze outside.

  “I hope that missing dog is found soon,” she mumbled in a sudden mood change. I had no idea what made her personality change so quickly. I looked outside again. Mack was in front of The Perfect Pet. He tipped his hat as if to say hello, and then wandered off.

  CHAPTER 13

  “IT’S PAYDAY!” Mom said, swinging the door open and interrupting my thoughts. Elvis immediately jumped down from the couch and went to the door for a belly rub. “Let’s go to Blue C Sushi.”

  She didn’t need to say anything else. Blue C was my absolute favorite restaurant, and living in Fremont meant it was just steps away. I pulled a hooded sweatshirt over my head and grabbed my sketchbook.

  “Back soon,” I said to Elvis.

  Blue C Sushi means instant gratification. There’s no wait to order or to get food. You sit at a counter and a conveyor belt a few inches above the counter carries littl
e plates of sushi around the restaurant. If you see something you like, you grab it and put it on your tabletop. There’s room for about forty people around the conveyor belt. I hoped we were early enough so we could get two spots together right away.

  “Two of you?” the man at the door asked. Mom nodded, and he started to lead us to the counter. He stopped and said to her, “Does she need the green chopsticks?”

  “No, she doesn’t,” I said, replying for my mom. Geesh. I hate it when adults don’t speak directly to kids. They talk to your parent as if you’re not even there. And I must say I was greatly offended that he thought I, of all people, would need the chopsticks that they give little kids (they’re supposed to be easier to handle). I’ve been a chopstick master since I was four years old, and it’s not just because I’m Chinese.

  “Hey, listen, I’m sorry I did that,” the guy said, this time speaking directly to me. “I hate it when people don’t speak directly to kids.”

  This guy wasn’t so bad after all, especially since he just said what was in my head.

  “Now, remember we like green and yellow best. Especially green,” Mom said, once we were seated.

  I knew exactly what she meant. At conveyor belt sushi places, they figure out how much you owe for your food by counting your plates at the end of the meal. The plates are color coded for price. At Blue C Sushi, the yellow and green plates are the cheapest. If you avoided the dark blue plates, you could eat supercheap here. It was easy for me, because most of my favorites were also the least expensive. I went for the kappa-maki (rice and cucumber rolled inside seaweed; green plate) and spicy noodles (yellow plate). With tea, my dinner was less than five dollars.

  “Doesn’t that boy over there look familiar?” Mom asked.

  I looked up from my sketch pad. He sure did. I knew the guy in the next seat, too. It was Ben and Mack. Were they together? I didn’t think so. Ben looked like he was doing homework, and Mack was talking to one of the sushi chefs. I looked at the person on the other side of Ben. It was a man about my mom’s age, who I assumed was Ben’s dad.