Spotted Dog Last Seen

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  My heart started to pound.

  “How old was Creelman’s grandson when he died?” I asked Pascal.

  Pascal shrugged. “I didn’t ask that.”

  “Where is his grandson buried?” I asked.

  “I didn’t ask that, either.”

  “Come on, Pascal. Think!”

  “I don’t know. Some nearby town, I guess. Ferndale? That’s it. His daughter had to drive in for Creelman’s service. That’s all I know.”

  I turned to Merrilee.

  “Do you remember the grandson’s name?” I demanded, panic rising in my throat.

  “No. I didn’t memorize the obituary. What’s going on?”

  I couldn’t answer. The swirling pieces of my recurring nightmare were starting to connect in ways that would change everything.

  I tore out of the cemetery as fast as I could and headed straight to the church, four blocks away, where Creelman’s funeral had been held.

  “Wait!” Pascal shouted. “Where are you going?”

  I didn’t slow down.

  “Derek!” Merrilee joined in.

  “Wait!” Pascal repeated.

  I didn’t stop until I reached the church. I flew up the granite steps and yanked on the enormous oak doors.

  Locked.

  I collapsed on the steps, out of breath.

  Merrilee and Pascal caught up. Merrilee sat beside me, while Pascal stood blocking my escape.

  “What’s happening?” Merrilee asked.

  “I need to get a copy of Creelman’s program,” I said.

  “Why?”

  “I need to read it. I need to read the whole thing. I need to read the part about his grandson.”

  “Hang on,” Merrilee said. She reached into her jacket pocket. “I think I still might have a copy.”

  She fished out a harmonica and a folded piece of paper. She unfolded it. It was Creelman’s program with the thistle wreath and the photograph of him when he was younger.

  “Here,” she said, handing it to me.

  I pushed the program back to her.

  “No. You read it, “ I insisted, still out of breath. “Tell me the name of Creelman’s grandson, the one who died.”

  Merrilee opened the program and read the obituary to herself. When she finished, she refolded the program and stuffed it back in her pocket along with the harmonica.

  “Dennis,” she said. “His grandson’s name was Dennis.”

  Ten

  _____

  Yearbook

  MERRILEE WAS NOT a vampire or a werewolf or some other form of the undead, and there were no ghosts in the cemetery. I was certain of all that. So when I learned that Creelman’s grandson was Dennis — my friend Dennis — I didn’t for a second think that Creelman was haunting me. I knew his visits were all in my head.

  The facts were the facts, and I explained them to Merrilee and Pascal as plainly as I could.

  “I once had a friend named Dennis,” I said. “He was hit by a car when we were little.”

  “And you think your friend was Creelman’s grandson?” Merrilee asked.

  “Yes.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “I’m from Ferndale. So was Dennis. That’s where he was buried.”

  Merrilee fell silent.

  Pascal sat down beside me.

  “Did Creelman know you knew Dennis?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said. “I told him about my nightmare.”

  “What nightmare?”

  “I have this recurring nightmare about Dennis. About the accident.”

  “What did Creelman say when you told him?”

  I thought back to our lunch with the meat loaves. I thought about how he stared out the window, distant, after I told him about Dennis. Even the waitress could not get his attention when she came by with a second cup of coffee.

  It all made sense now.

  “He didn’t say much,” I reported. “But he did tell me that people can be troubled by past events. They can be haunted because of things not resolved.”

  “Was he talking about you, or was he talking about himself?”

  “Me, I thought. But now I don’t know.”

  I stopped short of reporting that Creelman was now visiting me in my nightmares, desperately trying to tell me something. Perhaps Creelman had been talking about himself back at the cafe.

  Or perhaps I was slowly going crazy because of lack of sleep. I had already sneaked Murray Easton’s novel out of the time capsule. Who knew what I was capable of doing next?

  It was a scary thought.

  “What a strange coincidence,” I said, probably a bit too jovially for the situation. I stood to let them know that the discussion was over.

  “Yes,” Pascal said, looking at Merrilee with doubt. “It is.”

  “I’m sorry about your friend Dennis,” Merrilee added haltingly. “And I’m sorry that Creelman lost his grandson.”

  “Thanks,” I said, and left it at that.

  “So, are we all on for Wednesday at the library?” Merrilee asked, getting up from the steps. “Loyola showed me the boxes of books that Creelman donated.”

  “I’ll be there,” I said.

  “Me, too,” Pascal said. “But you know what? And I never thought I’d say this. It won’t be nearly as interesting as cemetery duty.”

  He was right.

  When I arrived at the public library on Wednesday, Pascal and Merrilee were already there. They were sitting at the large oak tables in the research area, past all the stacks, just like before. I half expected the Brigade to appear, and I let that thought linger before I told myself I was being foolish.

  “Hi, everyone,” Loyola said, almost as soon as I sat down.

  She had appeared from a row of stacks and was wheeling a squeaky trolley of books to be re-shelved.

  “Thanks so much for helping out. As you can see, Creelman had a large collection.”

  I twisted in my chair to see at least twenty cardboard boxes stacked neatly to the side.

  “Good grief!” I said.

  Loyola continued. “Apparently, he was in the process of packing up his books to donate to the library, because he and his wife were getting ready to sell their house. They wanted to downsize into something they could manage more easily.”

  “Downsize?” repeated Pascal.

  “Move to a smaller house,” Loyola explained. “What I’d like you to do is go through the boxes and sort the books into three piles according to our collections policy.”

  Loyola pulled out a file from her trolley and removed several sheets of paper.

  “This table will be for approvals,” she said, laying a sheet of paper with Approvals written in black felt marker on one table. “This table will be for sales.” She laid a sheet with Sales written down on the next table. “This table will be for recycling.” She laid a final sheet of paper with the word Recycling on the third table.

  I glanced up at the stained-glass windows that surrounded us. The sun beamed down in spectacular colors. I could see why the Brigade took the time to restore them.

  “The first thing you need to understand is that accepting books is very costly.”

  “Costly? Creelman donated these books. Donate means free, right?” Pascal asked.

  “The books may be free, but it costs a lot of staff time to process and catalogue the books, and then provide the shelf space to house them. So, we’re very picky when it comes to what we will actually accept.”

  I must have looked alarmed, because Loyola quickly added, “We make sure that we tell all our donors. Creelman knew this, too.”

  “How do you decide?” Merrilee asked.

  Loyola went to one of the boxes, opened it and took out a book. She held it up.

  “Easy. Here’s
what you need to ask. Is the book in excellent condition?” She looked at the book’s cover and flipped through the pages. She even smelled it. “If the answer is no, then you send the book right to recycling. The library does not accept books that are yellowed, water damaged or moldy.”

  “Who donates moldy books?” Pascal asked.

  “You’d be surprised,” Loyola said. “We also get a lot of books that smell like cigarette smoke. Those get recycled, too.”

  “Creelman smoked,” I said quietly.

  “He did,” Loyola replied. “But his wife told us that he never smoked inside his house where the books were kept.”

  “Plus he was trying to quit,” I added, feeling as if I should defend Creelman in some small way.

  Both Merrilee and Pascal nodded in agreement, while Loyola handed lengthy stapled-together lists to each of us that she took from the file on her trolley.

  “Say the book is in excellent condition,” Loyola continued, “like this one. You then need to ask if the book fills a gap in the library’s collection. Generally, there are two types of gaps — new bestsellers and books with subjects that are currently popular. Time travel. Vampires. The Titanic. These are a few examples from the list of popular book subjects I’ve just handed you. We’re interested in these books because they have longer wait lists and there is a high demand for them. That means there’s a gap.”

  She turned to the cover of the book again and read it out loud. “Projector Troubleshooting and Repair: A Diagnostic Guide for the Apollo Viewlux, the Nova III and the Observa-Dome.”

  She looked at us.

  “I think we can all agree that this one is neither a bestseller nor a book of popular interest.”

  Without another word, Loyola slid the condemned book onto the sales table.

  “What happens to books on the sales table?” I asked.

  “We have a volunteer group who organize a book sale each year. The profits go back to the library to help buy new books and equipment that we really need. Creelman’s donation will help make a big difference.”

  “So, ending up on the sales table is better than being recycled,” I muttered, glancing at sad Table Number Three.

  “Any questions?” Loyola asked.

  “What if we come across rare books?” Merrilee asked. “Shouldn’t you make a table for those?”

  Pascal weighed in. “Rare? As in undercooked?”

  “I think Merrilee means rare as in uncommon,” Loyola said. “A rare book would be an old first edition. Or maybe a book signed by a deceased author. Or maybe a book privately printed by someone famous. Or even a beautiful book with a leather cover, printed on exotic paper or containing hand-drawn illustrations.”

  She turned to Merrilee.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll review the piles you sort before anything further is done to the books.” Loyola turned to me. “Nice t-shirt.”

  I looked down at my shirt. It read, Careful, or you’ll star in my next novel. I specifically chose it that morning because of library duty. I was glad she noticed.

  With that, Loyola pushed her squeaky trolley back up the main aisle, past all the stacks to the front desk, and we were left facing twenty or so bulging boxes.

  “I was right. Cemetery duty was way better,” Pascal said glumly.

  “It’s just for today,” I said. “And then we’re done.”

  “That’s right,” Pascal said, instantly cheering up. “I thought that our three-month assignment for community service was going to last forever. But now we have less than a week left before summer holidays!”

  “Time flies,” I said, thinking back to the gravestones at Twillingate that featured an hourglass tipped on its side with wings.

  We each grabbed a box and started to sort the books. Books about cemetery art. Books about poetry. Books about astronomy and starry heavens. Books about lunar missions. Books about how to make a telescope. Books of science fiction.

  We checked the poetry books for author signatures. We checked the astronomy books for beautiful illustrations. We checked the science fiction for first editions.

  In the end, most of them went straight to sales, except for two. Merrilee placed a book about our solar system on the recycling table because it still referred to Pluto as a planet. Pascal placed a book about rockets on the recycling table because the cover was marked up with crayons, and some of the pictures had been cut out with crooked scissor strokes.

  That book made me think of Dennis with his grandfather. I slammed my mind’s garage door shut by keeping busy.

  “Want to take a break?” Merrilee asked, about an hour into our task.

  She nodded slyly toward the balcony, the archives.

  I remembered the yearbooks. Pascal and I nodded eagerly.

  We followed her upstairs, where the church choir used to sit. She led us to one of the stacks, then bent down on her knees.

  “Here’s the collection from Queensview,” she advised.

  “Okay. We’re looking for the one that was published seven years ago,” I said, joining her on my knees, “when Trevor Tower was a student in grade six, and he was selected for the time-capsule program.”

  She ran her fingers over the spines, mouthing the years to herself. She stopped and pulled one out.

  “This is it.”

  We stood. Pascal and I peered over her shoulder as she opened the yearbook and turned the pages, pausing as she hit the classroom photographs. She read the grades and teachers’ names out loud.

  “Grade one: Ms. Henderson. Grade two: Mr. Nickelson. Grade three: Mr. Battersby. Grade four: Ms. Chow. Hey, that’s Ms. Chow. I had her in grade four.”

  “We all did,” I said. “Keep going.”

  “Grade five: Ms. Matthews. Had her, too, last year. She looks old even back then!”

  “She gave me an A on my science fair project,” Pascal said. “It was the first one I ever got.”

  “Really?” I said. “Is this what we want to do? Talk about our marks and whatnot? Give me that.”

  I grabbed the yearbook from Merrilee to get on with it. I turned the page.

  “Grade six: Mr. Easton.”

  Merrilee and Pascal gasped. No one noticed that I wasn’t surprised.

  We leaned in for a better look.

  Like all the other teachers, Mr. Easton stood to the left of his class. He was wearing a suit jacket and runners. He had thick wavy hair. He was smiling, the kind of smile that happens after a really big laugh. And he reminded me of the main character in The Spotted Dog Last Seen.

  “He looks sad,” Merrilee remarked.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “I can see it in his eyes,” she said quietly.

  Merrilee scanned the list of students’ names below the photograph. We already knew who two of them would be.

  “Look. Loyola Louden.”

  We peered at a much younger Loyola who was grinning from ear to ear in the middle of the back row. She was super tall, even back then.

  “And look. Trevor Tower.”

  She pointed to a skinny boy with his arms crossed, looking away from the camera from where he sat at the far end of the front row.

  “Does Mr. Easton show up anywhere else?” Pascal asked, taking the yearbook from me.

  “Try the school club section,” I suggested, thinking back to who Murray Easton had dedicated his book to — the Queensview Mystery Book Club.

  Pascal flipped through those pages. Chess Club. Science Club. Debating Club. Mystery Book Club.

  “Stop,” Merrilee said. “Stop.”

  “There he is again,” Pascal said in awe.

  Mr. Easton was pictured with a group of students sitting in a circle outside on the soccer field. Only there wasn’t a soccer ball in sight. Instead, they were all busy reading. My guess was that they were reading mystery bo
oks, just like in his novel.

  “This still doesn’t explain how Murray Easton’s book got into Trevor’s locker,” Merrilee said. “His book was published after the time capsule was sealed, so he couldn’t have added it while he was teaching at Queensview. Besides, by the time his book was published, he had moved to Ferndale. Remember the biography in his book?”

  “You’re right,” I said. “And Loyola told us that Trevor Tower also moved away right after grade six.”

  “Ms. Albright told us that, too,” Merrilee said. “So we know that neither Murray Easton nor Trevor Tower could have put the book inside.”

  Merrilee paused in thought. Then she continued.

  “Mr. Easton obviously loved mystery books, but we also know that he wasn’t behind writing the secret codes because we compared penmanship. The handwriting we found in his own novel and the penciled lists in the margins of the other mystery books in the library do not match.”

  “So who then? Who’s been writing the codes? And who put Murray Easton’s book into Trevor’s locker?” Pascal asked.

  Merrilee grabbed the yearbook back from Pascal and began to read the names of the students in the mystery book club out loud.

  “‘Pictured clockwise are Noah Tupper, Trevor Tower, Jennifer Bates...’” Merrilee paused and gulped. “‘Loyola Louden.’”

  “Loyola Louden!” Pascal repeated, a bit too loudly.

  “Shhhhh!” she said.

  Without another word, the three of us crept over to the edge of the balcony and had a look below. Loyola was seated at the front desk helping some teenagers sign out books. We pulled back before she looked up.

  Merrilee shut the yearbook and returned it to the shelf. When she stood, she looked at the two of us with a frown.

  “There can only be one person who’s been writing secret codes in the mystery books at this library. And I am betting it’s the same person who put Murray Easton’s novel into Trevor Tower’s locker.”

  I was sure I knew the answer.

  Loyola Louden.