Girl's Best Friend

by Leslie Margolis

  “How does a suspicious footprint distinguish itself from a regular old print?” asked Ivy.

  “Um … ” I couldn’t really answer.

  Ivy grew impatient. “Well, there are a gazillion footprints here.”

  I hated to admit it, but she was right. It was beautiful out and everyone was in the park. Which meant there was no way of knowing which footprints belonged to the dognapper. No evidence for us to gather and nothing left to do.

  “Are you sure we can’t go to the police?” I asked.

  “And do what?” said Ivy. “Tell them I taped a hundred dollars to a park bench and someone took it? What kind of crime is that?”

  “If you show them the note—”

  “I can’t do that.” Ivy turned around and headed toward the park exit.

  “Wait!” I called, following her.

  Ivy looked over her shoulder. “Forget it. It’s over. Kermit is gone.”

  “Maybe they’ll get in touch with you again.” I ran to catch up with her. “Kermit has tags with your phone number, right?”

  Ivy nodded.

  “So maybe they’ll call and ask for more money.”

  “I don’t have any more money.”

  “Well, I do. And I’ll give them whatever they want, as long as they bring Kermit back safe.”

  “Thanks.” Ivy frowned but not in an angry way. More like she was thinking. Sort of like the Ivy I used to know. And I could tell she appreciated my offer. At least for a second. But then she shifted back to her snappish self. The new Ivy. The one I didn’t know and didn’t love. “I can’t believe the dognapper got away when you were busy blabbing to Plain Jane.”

  I stopped short and grabbed Ivy’s arm. “Wait, you mean Jane the dog walker? You know her?”

  “Duh,” said Ivy. “She used to walk Kermit.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “Used to?”

  “Yeah, until my parents had to fire her.”

  “When was that?”

  “About a month ago.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “What didn’t happen?” Ivy replied. “She was totally incompetent. First she lost our keys. Then she forgot to lock the door behind her, and then she made the ultimate mistake: she mixed up Kermit with some other dog and we came home one night to some strange-looking mutt chewing up our living room couch.”

  “Wow, she really is a lousy dog walker.”

  “No kidding. We’re lucky we got Kermit back in one piece,” said Ivy.

  “Maybe,” I said carefully. “Or maybe you guys were unlucky to hire Jane in the first place. Way unlucky.”

  Ivy stopped in her tracks. “Wait, you think Jane stole Kermit?”

  “It’s just a theory … ”

  “But she was talking to you when the money was taken. It couldn’t have been her.”

  “Unless she wasn’t acting alone.”

  “You think?”

  I shrugged. “Who knows? I’m going to call Parminder.”

  “Who?”

  “Parminder Patel. Our old teacher. I walk her dog, Milo, and this other dog in her building, Bean. Jane used to walk them both and that’s how I met her in the first place. She got mad and accused me of stealing her clients.”

  “Did you?” asked Ivy.

  “Of course not. Parminder hired me out of the blue. I’d never even heard of Jane until I ran into her last week. And Parminder must have had a good reason for firing her. Maybe if I knew what it was, we could figure this out.”

  “But why would Jane steal Kermit?”

  “Maybe for revenge?” I guessed. “She’s pretty hostile. Maybe she’s trying to teach your family a lesson. Or perhaps she just found a creative way to make back the money she wasn’t earning, now that her client list is shrinking.”

  “That’s so evil!”

  “No kidding.”

  We were out of the park and walking down Third Street when I noticed something taped to a nearby streetlamp. A yellow flyer with a picture of a dog on it.

  HAVE YOU SEEN LASSIE? it read in bold black type.

  The description was printed below it in slightly smaller letters:

  Sixty-pound female collie, white and brown, missing since Sunday. Last seen in Prospect Park, near the dog beach. If found, please call (718) 555-7436. Reward.

  The sight of it made me queasy.

  Ivy noticed me staring and asked, “You don’t think Jane took that dog, too?”

  “Don’t know. It’s a weird coincidence.” I unzipped my backpack, pulled out a pen, and copied down the number in my notebook.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m going to call them. See if they know Jane or someone else at Dial-A-Walker.”

  “But this dog disappeared.”

  “Actually, we don’t know that. The sign only says she’s missing.”

  “Why wouldn’t they just say dognapped?” asked Ivy.

  I shrugged. “Dunno. Maybe they don’t want to make the dognapper angry? But I think they’re on to something. We should make signs for Kermit—plaster the neighborhood. Someone must’ve seen something. Kermit is gigantic. Distinctive looking, too.”

  “We can’t do that,” said Ivy.

  “Why not?”

  “First of all, my grandmother might see.”

  “But she hasn’t even noticed he’s missing.”

  “And I don’t want to advertise the fact!” said Ivy. “Plus, Kermit’s not missing. He’s been dognapped. And we’ve already upset whoever is behind this. I don’t want to make him or her mad all over again. Who knows what they’ll do to the poor guy?”

  “Okay, that’s a good point,” I said, and then I shivered as something even creepier occurred to me. Something I didn’t want to mention to Ivy because it was too upsetting to say out loud.

  If Jane had kidnapped Kermit, were Milo and Bean next?

  Chapter 14

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  I didn’t want to jump to any conclusions or accuse an innocent person. But I definitely needed to investigate things further. And Jane was my only lead. Luckily I knew of two people who might have information on her.

  So after Ivy and I parted ways, I ran home and called Parminder. No one answered so I left a message.

  When I tried Cassie I got her voicemail, too. “Bean and I are off on a hike. Leave a message for us after the beep!” was recorded in a chipper voice, with Bean barking in the background. As tempted as I was to ask how many people called to speak with her dog, I refrained and merely requested that she call me back.

  And since I had the phone in my hand, I also called the number from the “Missing Lassie” flyer. It rang and rang without ever going to voicemail.

  Next I went to my laptop and Googled “Dial-A-Walker, Brooklyn.” Nothing came up. I tried “Brooklyn Dog Walker” and found tons of companies: City Dog Sitters, Mobile Mutts, Tails on the Town, Fetch Your Pet, and others. None of the companies was called Dial-A-Walker. It wasn’t listed when I called information, either.

  I wondered if the place where Jane worked even existed. She could’ve made it up. But her sweatshirt had the company name embroidered on it. Why would she go to the trouble?

  Maybe the company was just starting out and didn’t yet have a Web site. Perhaps Jane was the only employee.

  But what if dog walking was merely her cover? And Jane’s true motivation revolved around gaining access to neighborhood dogs so she could steal them?

  What if that sweatshirt was part of her brilliant disguise?

  My insides fluttered with panic just thinking about the possibilities.

  I pulled out a notebook to write down clues, but before I even found a pen, my mom poked her head into my room. “Finn left for art class ten minutes ago. Shouldn’t you be going, too?” she asked.

  “Oh yeah. Sorry, I totally spaced.” I slipped my notebook under my pillow.

  “Dad and I are heading to IKEA to look for a new living room couch later on. Want to come?” she asked.

  “Um, no tha
nks. But can you bring back some Swedish meatballs for dinner?”

  “They’re already on the list.”

  “Cool.” I gathered my things and then hurried to the museum.

  I walked in five minutes late. Finn and the other students were already working. This month we were focused on still lifes and today we had to paint a bunch of plump red grapes, shiny red apples, and green pears in a large wooden bowl.

  There is nothing more frustrating than being stuck inside painting a bowl of fruit when you are trying to track down a missing dog.

  The two-hour class felt more like a ten-hour session in boredom and pointlessness. As soon as we were dismissed, I bolted home and called Ivy. “Any word from the dognapper?” I asked as soon as she answered. Instead of hello, even.

  “Nope,” she replied.

  “And you’re sure Kermit’s tags have your home number?”

  “Of course,” said Ivy.

  “Not your mom’s or dad’s cell phones?”

  “Trust me—if my parents heard from the dognapper, they’d be on the first plane home and I’d know about it.”

  “Okay, good point.”

  “Not that the dognapper is even going to call,” said Ivy.

  “Don’t say that. You’ve gotta stay positive.”

  “Kind of hard, since Kermit’s been missing for four days now. Did you talk to Ms. Patel or that other lady?”

  “You mean Cassie? They’re not home but I left them both messages. Has your grandma noticed that Kermit is missing?”

  “Not yet,” said Ivy.

  “Well, that’s a good thing,” I said. “And don’t worry. The dognapper will get in touch.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  I wasn’t sure. I was hopeful—two very different things. But I didn’t say so. “We’re going to find Kermit,” I promised before hanging up.

  Finn had gone to Otto’s right from the museum and my parents were still out furniture shopping, which meant the house was quiet. Too quiet—it made me antsy.

  I could’ve gone to Lucy’s. I saw that she’d called while I was out. But I’d promised Ivy I wouldn’t say a word about Kermit’s dognapping, and the best way to keep secrets from anyone was to avoid them. This I knew.

  So I pulled out my notebook and tried, once more, to write down clues. Unfortunately, nothing came to me.

  I stared at my phone for a while, willing it to ring, and guess what? That didn’t work, either.

  Next I stood up and paced from one end of my room to the other. I do that sometimes when I’m trying to figure out stuff. We have this wood parquet floor and counting the squares as I walk helps me concentrate. It’s twenty steps from one end of the room to the other, if I don’t skip any tiles. And after a few times across the room, something occurred to me.

  Not a suspect, though. Just a new place to look for answers: Nancy Drew.

  Obviously, Ivy had been teasing when she called me Nancy Drew earlier. But she’d raised a good point. Nancy was the most famous detective I’d ever heard of. Yes, she’s a fictional character, but it’s not like I had any real-life detectives to talk to.

  Nancy Drew was the next best thing. And to her, I had access.

  That’s how I found myself in the basement of our building five minutes later, with the keys to our storage locker in my hand.

  The space is unfinished, which means the floors are concrete and the walls are old splintered beams of wood. A thick layer of dust coated everything in the room, which was lit by a single bare bulb that hung from a cord in the middle of the ceiling. Kind of spooky. At least it would be if I were the type of person to get nervous in these situations, but luckily I am not.

  Our storage locker is in the back corner of the room. When I opened the large metal door it creaked. I climbed over four bicycles, pushed past boxes of ski clothes, and scooted under my grandma’s old dining room table (something my parents have held on to for when we move into a bigger place, which if you ask me will be never). And that’s when I found my old box of books.

  I opened it and pulled out the Nancy Drews from the bottom of the pile. My mom bought a dozen at a stoop sale a few years ago. Why? They were classics, she’d explained. Ones she’d adored as a child and assumed that I would, too. But here’s my secret confession: I never made it beyond the beginning of book one. Nancy seemed too perfect. Her whole life was about helping people, which was nice and all, but not very realistic in my opinion. She didn’t even go to school or have a job. And another thing? She and her friends never fought, and the entire town knew and adored her.

  Nancy’s whole world was one gigantic lovefest, but real life is messier. It’s filled with clueless twin brothers and best friends who turn evil and mysterious dognappers and crushes who hardly know you exist and who won’t even take out both earbuds to listen to what you have to say.

  In short, I couldn’t relate to Nancy or to her whole River Heights world. But I put all that aside because I wasn’t looking for a great read. I was looking to solve a mystery. And Nancy seemed like a great place to start.

  I didn’t even head back upstairs. I just flopped down on one of Isabel’s old velvet couches—ignoring the puff of dust that floated up—and cracked open book one, The Secret of the Old Clock.

  The pages were yellow and brittle with age. They had to be turned carefully, and turn them I did. Pretty soon I couldn’t stop. The story was much more exciting than I’d remembered—filled with snobby socialites, struggling heirs, an orphan, car chases, flat tires, widows, and false wills.

  Nancy was as old-fashioned as I’d remembered, but she was way gutsy, too.

  I got so into the story, I made it halfway through the book before I realized I was shivering. Not because I was scared or anything—just because it was drafty down in the basement, something that made no sense since it was warm outside. There wasn’t a window in sight, so the underground room should’ve felt stuffy.

  Yet I felt a breeze on the back of my neck. The door at the top of the stairs was still open, but if wind had blown in from there, I’d have felt it on my face.

  I looked over my shoulder and noticed a quilt nailed to the wall behind me. Faded paisley patches of blue and burgundy rippled in the wind.

  I walked closer and pulled it back, expecting to find a crack in the wall. Instead I found what looked like a handle. Then the whole blanket crumpled to the floor, revealing an entire door. Except it was tiny—no more than three feet high, like the entrance to a giant doll’s house or maybe a troll’s lair.

  It reminded me of the crawl space in my bedroom. Each apartment had one, but they were no longer usable, just as Isabel had said—most emphatically—to Chloe the other day. Finn and I had tried to pry ours open a few times and the door never budged—at least not from the outside.

  Of course, this door didn’t look sealed shut at all. I slowly reached for the handle, but before I opened it I heard a scuffle.

  And that’s when I remembered Chloe’s complaint: mice, which did freak me out. In a really big way.

  I took a step back, right into a tall umbrella stand that crashed to the ground and made me scream.

  “Hello?” The voice came from the top of the stairs.

  “Isabel?” I called, hoping I’d heard my landlady’s voice and not that of some giant talking rodent.

  “Who’s down there?” she asked.

  “Just me.” I picked up the quilt and reattached it to the wall.

  “Maggie? What are you doing?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Is everything okay?” she asked.

  I grabbed a bunch of Nancy Drews, locked our storage locker, and made my way upstairs.

  “I just had to get something from the basement,” I said, showing Isabel the books.

  She raised her reading glasses to her eyes and squinted at the title. “The Secret of the Old Clock. How wonderful!”

  “You know it?” I asked.

  “Know it?” replied Isabel. “They begged me to play Nancy Drew
in one of the original movies.”

  “But you turned it down?”

  “Of course!” said Isabel, looking surprised and pleased. “How did you know?”

  I smiled. “Lucky guess.”

  Chapter 15

  ♦ ♦ ♦

  It’s not like I ever expected Ivy to be my best friend again just because I was helping her find Kermit. I didn’t want that. But I didn’t think she’d ignore me, either. Yet that’s exactly what happened at school on Monday. She didn’t even say hi to me in English (the only class we share), and whenever we passed each other in the hall, she averted her gaze. Like I wasn’t even there.

  So I was completely surprised to find her sitting on my front stoop later that afternoon.

  “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “We need to talk about Kermit.” She said it like it was obvious.

  “You couldn’t have asked me at school?”

  “That would’ve looked weird. I didn’t want my friends asking a million questions. Plus, you didn’t talk to me, either.”

  She had a point, actually. A few good ones, but I didn’t say so. “Have you heard from the dognapper?”

  “Nope. I was hoping you came up with something.”

  “Not yet.” I shifted my bag from one shoulder to the other.

  “It’s weird being at home without him.” Ivy rested her chin in her hands and stared off into space. “He used to sleep by my bed every night, then jump into it at, like, six thirty in the morning. I never even needed an alarm clock. Today I slept late and missed first period.” She bit her bottom lip and glanced up at me for a quick second. “I could buy a clock, I guess, but that’d feel like giving up.”

  “It stinks. I know that,” I said gently. “But don’t give up. I’ll find him.”

  Suddenly she glared at me and sat up straight. “You’d better find him, or else.”

  “Or else what?” I wondered what she could possibly threaten me with. She already acted like a total jerk most of the time and she’d ditched me for no good reason.

  “Or else I’ll tell Milo that you like him,” she said, grinning mischievously.

  “But that’s—I don’t like him.” My voice came out squeaky with panic.