The Missing Dog Is Spotted

by Jessica Scott Kerrin

  “I was wondering about something you told me,” Trevor said.

  “And what was that?” Mr. Fines said, slowly straightening up.

  “You used to go to the bookstore called A Likely Story.”

  “I did indeed,” Mr. Fines said. “I still go from time to time, but it isn’t the same as when Heimlich Fester owned it. The selection isn’t as good. Too much fiction. Not enough naval history. At least they kept the seniors’ discount.”

  “You mentioned that Mr. Fester had a dog that used to work with him at the bookstore,” Trevor said.

  “Yes. Buster.”

  “What did Buster look like?” Trevor asked.

  “Oh, I don’t recall, exactly. That was a few years ago. Quite a few years ago now.”

  “He had spots, right?” Trevor said, hoping to prompt Mr. Fines’ memory.

  Mr. Fines reached down to pat Poppy.

  “Yes, spots, short ears, medium-sized.” Mr. Fines thought some more. “And as I said, Buster loved movie scripts. Specifically, romantic comedies.”

  “Romantic comedies?” Trevor repeated dubiously.

  “That’s what Heimlich claimed,” Mr. Fines said. “Frankly, I think he was the one who loved that genre. Buster was a cover-up. If I were to hazard a guess, I dare say that Buster was more of an action or spy thriller kind of dog.”

  “Where did Buster hang out in the bookstore?” Trevor asked.

  “Buster had a bed in the window of the store, near the front door. He loved to watch the street traffic when he wasn’t napping or being read to.”

  “Did Buster have a favorite toy?”

  “A favorite toy? Like a chew toy or a bone?”

  “Yes, that kind of thing. Or something softer.”

  Trevor knew from all the mystery books he read that he was leading the witness.

  “Something softer?” Mr. Fines repeated.

  “Sure. Like a stuffed toy.”

  “A stuffed toy?”

  “Like a ladybug or something.”

  Trevor was starting to feel very foolish, and Poppy was beginning to pull at her leash, anxious to get on with their walk.

  “He may have. The dog had quite a collection of toys. Customers were always coming across them on the bookshelves. They’d bring whatever they found up to the cash register when they were making their purchases, and then Buster would grab the toy and hide it back on a shelf somewhere. It was a little game, something Heimlich’s wife especially enjoyed.”

  Mr. Fines paused. “I see that Heimlich’s house is up for sale.”

  Trevor nodded. “He’s gone to live at a seniors’ residence near his son.”

  “I’m glad to hear it,” Mr. Fines said. “I was starting to worry about him, especially after you told me he thinks Buster is lost. He became quite lonely after his wife died. And then he sold his bookstore. He even quit his long-standing volunteer organization.”

  “Which one was that?” Trevor asked.

  “The Twillingate Cemetery Brigade.”

  “With Mr. Creelman?” Trevor asked.

  “You know him?” Mr. Fines asked.

  “Not really,” Trevor said. “He came to my school’s mystery book club.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “He talked about reading clues on gravestones at Twillingate,” Trevor said. “Are you also a member of the Brigade?”

  “Good heavens, no,” Mr. Fines said. “I wouldn’t be caught dead spending all that time in a graveyard.” He smiled at his little joke.

  “Good one,” Trevor said, suddenly excited because Mr. Fines had given him a new lead. “Well, we’d better head out.”

  When Trevor arrived at the park fountain with his three dogs, he floated his new idea by Loyola.

  “I’ve been thinking. Instead of going around the park today, how about we walk the dogs somewhere else.”

  “Like where?” Loyola asked.

  “The cemetery.”

  “The cemetery? You mean Twillingate?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “Poppy’s owner, Mr. Fines, just told me that Mr. Fester used to volunteer for the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade, so Mr. Creelman might be able to confirm that there is no Buster.”

  “Maybe. But we’re talking about Mr. Creelman. We’re the reason he didn’t get any volunteers this year.”

  “I know. But he was also the one who suggested that we complete our community service duty at the animal shelter. I bet he likes dogs.”

  “This Buster thing is really bothering you, isn’t it?” Loyola said.

  Trevor nodded and looked away. In fact, he felt terrible.

  “I’ve never been inside the cemetery,” Loyola said. “Have you?”

  “No.”

  “Remember Mr. Creelman’s talk? All those stone carvings? All those creepy skulls and crossbones. They were really frightening.”

  “I thought they were for dead pirates,” Trevor admitted.

  “Me, too. Boy, did we get that wrong.”

  Loyola laughed, and then she instantly sobered.

  “What about the ghost?” she asked.

  “You’ve been talking to Miller,” Trevor said.

  “Not just Miller. Everyone knows about the dead husband who’s looking for his wife’s name.”

  “Actually, that’s a perfect excuse. Let’s see if we can find that grave marker, and while we’re there, we might run into Mr. Creelman.”

  Loyola studied her dogs, who were all having a drink at the fountain. She looked down at the clothes she was wearing. Lots of dark grays and deep greens. She’d blend into the cemetery perfectly.

  “Would we walk there together?” she asked quietly.

  Trevor frowned. The pact. He had almost forgotten about it. He thought some more. It wasn’t like they’d be walking together down the street alone. They’d still be walking the dogs. And if no one was saying anything about their heights in the park, they weren’t likely to say anything along Tulip Street, which would lead them to Twillingate.

  It was worth the risk.

  “We’ll have the dogs,” Trevor reminded her. He didn’t have to say anything more than that. He knew she’d know what he meant.

  She nodded.

  They gathered their dogs, but it wasn’t easy. Poppy was confused at the change of plans and kept trying to turn back to the park where there were birds. Scout kept a suspicious eye on them the whole time, while sniffing at the ground constantly, as if memorizing their new route in case they got lost. And Duncan had to be coaxed to move at all, probably thinking that he might end up walking longer than usual. He kept coming to a full stop every single time he got the chance. Trevor had to ply him with cookies from the box that Mr. Fester had given him, which he still had in his knapsack.

  So much for the diet.

  And then, just as they were closing in on the iron gate of the cemetery, a group of daycare children walked by. There were eight little ones all holding onto a rope while toddling along in a row with two daycare workers, one at the front leading the way and the other at the back, making sure there were no stragglers. They were singing “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” The children immediately broke rank when they came across the dogs.

  “Doggies! Doggies!”

  Trevor and Loyola patiently waited until everyone in the group had a turn patting their dog of choice.

  “Wrinkles! Wrinkles!” the little ones said, patting Duncan’s head.

  “Soft! Soft!” they said as they stroked Poppy’s long silky ears.

  “Little! Little!” they said, bending down to scratch MacPherson’s back.

  Scout seemed especially patient with them as they tugged at his giant bushy tail.

  “Okay, children,” the lead daycare worker declared. “Let’s get going. It’s almost snack time.
”

  “Cookies! Cookies!” the little ones chanted, which got the dogs excited all over again.

  They fell into line, taking their places along the rope, and they toddled off down Tulip Street.

  Trevor and Loyola gathered their dogs and walked the remaining half block to the front gate of the cemetery, which was open. They stood to read the ominous signs:

  Beware of Falling Gravestones

  Enter at Your Own Risk

  Closed at Sunset

  No Dogs Allowed

  “No Dogs Allowed,” Loyola said out loud.

  “Let’s tie them to the gate. We won’t be long and Scout will warn us with a bark if something’s wrong,” Trevor suggested.

  They tied the dogs. Ginger got a triple knot. Scout stood guard.

  “I don’t see Mr. Creelman,” Loyola said, scanning the cemetery.

  Rows upon rows of lichen-spotted grave markers faced them with their grim symbols of death. Some looked as if they were about to fall face first onto the damp grass, some already had, and some had epitaphs so badly eroded, the words were impossible to read.

  “I’m sure he’ll be along,” Trevor said. “Let’s see if we can find the double grave marker that’s blank on one side.”

  They walked along the entire first row by the fence, searching for the grave that Miller said haunted the cemetery. The names on the gravestones were unremarkable, and the descendants of many of them attended Queensview Elementary.

  McDougall, Lynch, Chisholm, Thomas, Stairs.

  “Here it is,” Trevor exclaimed. “Pettypiece.”

  They stood before a thin gray gravestone, which had two sets of angel heads and wings carved at the top. The man’s name, Enoch Pettypiece, and the dates of his birth and death were filled in on one side, but curiously, the other half remained blank, just like Miller had described. The grave marker also went on to read that Enoch had lived to be 33 years, 5 months and 8 days old, and that He was an affectionate husband, tender parent, lived respected and died lamented.

  “Look!” Loyola said, pointing to the word affectionate.

  It had a carved box around it, as if the word had been changed or reworked. Maybe Miller was on to something after all.

  “That’s odd,” Trevor said, bending down to take a closer look.

  But as he did, a shadow swept across the words, making it harder for him to read.

  “Can I help you?” a gravelly voice said from behind him.

  Loyola gasped and Trevor nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around and leaped back at the same time, almost knocking down the old grave marker.

  It was Mr. Creelman in his orange coveralls. He looked as stern as ever, despite his comical bushy white eyebrows. He carried a shovel.

  “Careful,” he warned.

  “Hello, Mr. Creelman,” Trevor said as soon as he recovered.

  “How do you know my name?” he demanded, narrowing his eyes.

  “You came to our school,” Trevor reminded him. “The Queensview Mystery Book Club.”

  “I lectured on symbols,” Mr. Creelman recalled.

  “That’s right,” Trevor said warily, saying nothing about the other time he had met Mr. Creelman at the public library.

  “Were you paying attention?” Mr. Creelman asked. It was more an accusation than a question.

  “I think so,” Trevor said doubtfully.

  He hoped Loyola would jump into the conversation, but she was doing her shrinking-into-the-background thing and was standing as still and as silent as the grave markers around her.

  “Then what does this mean?” Mr. Creelman demanded, pointing the tip of his shovel to the angel heads with wings on the top of Pettypiece’s gravestone.

  “They’re angels,” Trevor said, which he immediately regretted, for surely this was a trap, just like all the other questions Mr. Creelman had asked during his visit to the Queensview Mystery Book Club.

  “Wrong!” Mr. Creelman declared triumphantly. “Dead wrong! This is a soul effigy. It is the most common symbol found on Twillingate’s gravestones dating from the mid-eighteenth century to the mid- to late-nineteenth century. They began as variations of death heads — like the early skulls and crossbones — and evolved into something resembling angels. Angels were later replaced by the Greek revival symbols of the urn and willow.”

  “Oh,” Trevor said flatly, hoping this would not encourage an expanded lecture.

  “Scholars have written extensively on the reasons for the evolving artistic interpretations. Some think it is due to the shift from Puritan fire-and-brimstone ideas to a more worldly Age of Enlightenment perspective. The early death head warns visitors that they must live every moment in anticipation of death and transition to the afterlife, which would bring an eternity of either salvation or damnation. But the angel-type figures — soul effigies — herald the Romantic or Victorian times and a more optimistic outlook in terms of the hereafter. They are glorified souls, not grim reminders of inevitable death.”

  Trevor looked around and spied other soul effigies.

  “Some of them look happy,” he observed. “And some of them look mad.”

  “That’s because the carvers were uncertain about their own eternal fate,” Mr. Creelman said sourly. “I covered all this at Queensview.” He turned to Loyola. “Why are there six dogs tied to the gate?”

  “Those … those are ours,” Loyola stammered.

  “Yours? All six?” Mr. Creelman demanded, interrogation-style.

  “Well, not really,” Loyola said. “We’re dog walkers. And the sign at the gate said No Dogs Allowed.”

  “Oh, I see. You’re the two who didn’t want cemetery duty. I recognized you from the public library,” he said, glaring at Trevor.

  Trevor said nothing. His guilt spoke volumes. Loyola tried to shrink some more.

  “Then that must be Mrs. Ruggles’ bulldog,” Mr. Creelman said. “Looks like she’s still spoiling Duncan with too much food.”

  “She has him on a diet,” Trevor said, feeling the weight of the box of dog cookies in his knapsack.

  “And I see you must have Poppy. How is Mr. Fines?”

  This was just the invitation that Trevor was hoping for.

  “Mr. Fines isn’t good,” he said. “He’s worried about Mr. Fester.”

  “Heimlich Fester? We’ve all been worried about Heimlich for years now. He’s never gotten over the death of his wife. And selling his bookstore? Big mistake.”

  “He claims he’s lost his dog,” Trevor said.

  “Who? Buster?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a shame. I’ll keep a lookout. Buster likes to come in here from time to time.”

  “Wait! What? Isn’t Mr. Fester confused? Buster died a long time ago.”

  “Not the one he owns now,” Mr. Creelman said. “He’s still a pup.”

  Trevor stared at Mr. Creelman, struggling to take in the enormity of his words.

  “What do you mean? There really is a Buster?”

  “Of course there is. He took in a stray dog almost a year ago. Named him Buster after his first dog. Goes everywhere with him. That’s why he had to quit volunteering for the cemetery brigade. No dogs allowed.”

  “A stray dog?” Trevor repeated.

  “And cagey. The vet told him Buster must have been living on leftovers in garbage cans and compost bins for months. Took Fester ages to get the dog used to people.”

  “What does Buster look like?” Trevor dared to ask, even though he already knew the answer.

  Mr. Creelman didn’t hesitate.

  “He’s spotted, just like the first one,” he said, his words tossed out like shovelfuls of dirt, digging Trevor’s grave.

  Nine

  —

  Queensview Mystery

  Book Club

  TREVOR
AND LOYOLA gathered the dogs at the gate of the cemetery in silence and headed down Tulip Street without a word. It was only after they passed the stone public library with its stained-glass windows that Loyola finally spoke.

  “Do you think Mr. Creelman will catch Buster?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe he will. Him or someone else from the Twillingate Cemetery Brigade,” Trevor said. “But even if they do, Buster will still end up at the animal shelter. Mr. Fester won’t be able to keep his dog at the seniors’ residence now that he’s moved for good.”

  They walked the dogs past Queensview Elementary before speaking again. The only sounds were the occasional grunts from Duncan and the jingle of the medals of bravery dangling from Scout’s collar.

  “And soon you’ll be moving, too,” Loyola said, even more quietly than before.

  “Yes,” Trevor said.

  “Have you sold your house?”

  “We rent,” he said. “We move too much to own. Renting makes moving easier.”

  Loyola nodded. She didn’t look at Trevor.

  “I don’t mind moving. I’m used to it,” he said, guessing her thoughts.

  He knew how this conversation went. He had had it with classmates many times in the past. It seemed easier on them if they thought he was happy about moving. And when they thought he was happy about the move, they would change the subject to something else, something Trevor felt like discussing. It always worked like a charm.

  “And this time I get to leave something behind in a time capsule, although I don’t know what yet,” he added, a further attempt to cheer her up.

  He glanced at Loyola, but his words didn’t seem to have the effect he hoped for. Instead of changing to a new topic, she kept quiet. They didn’t speak another word until they returned to the animal shelter after dropping off the dogs to their homes.

  “There really is a Buster,” Trevor confessed to Isabelle Myers when he handed over his gear. “We ran into Mr. Creelman, and he told us that Mr. Fester took in a stray puppy about a year ago. He named it Buster after the dog that had kept him company all those years at the used bookstore.”

  “Oh dear,” she said. “Poor Mr. Fester.”

  Trevor and Loyola nodded glumly.

  “Well, if Buster turns up here, I’ll be sure to call Mr. Fester. I’ve kept his telephone number.”