Spotted Dog Last Seen (5 page)

The two stared at me.

“Doesn't that sound a little crazy to you? I mean, first of all, breaking into someone's locker must be illegal or something. And even if we do, what are we hoping to find?”

“Who knows,” Pascal said with a shrug. “That's what we need to find out.”

“There could be anything in a locker,” I argued. “Stolen property. Rotting lunches. His wife's skeleton,” I said, pointing to Enoch's grave marker. “Anything!”

“What's your point?” Pascal asked.

“
That's
my point!” I said. I looked to Merrilee for support, but she was studying Enoch's inscription.

“Merrilee,” I said. “You're not serious about tracking down Trevor Tower or his locker, are you?”

“Do you think this was because of a typo?” she asked, running her fingertips over the carved box around
affectionate
.

“Forget about Enoch,” I demanded. “We should think about what we're doing here.”

“Cleaning grave markers?” she asked with a smirk.

“You know what I mean! Following a secret code that might lead us to someone's locker. It could be dangerous.”

“True,” she said, straightening up. “Let's just take it one step at a time. We'll figure out who Trevor Tower is first. And we won't open any locker until we're sure about what we're doing.”

“Famous last words,” I muttered.

“Well, you don't have to help. Pascal and I can continue on our own.”

That got me. I wasn't keen on getting into trouble, but I didn't want to be left out, either.

“So you're saying that you're not worried. Not in the least?” I asked.

“Curious, yes. Worried, no.”

She returned her attention to Enoch.

“Pascal,” I said, turning to face him. “Think about it. Someone, and we don't even know who, has been writing secret codes in the margins of mystery books in the library. We've stumbled across the codes, solved the last one, and now we think we should figure out who Trevor Tower is. But maybe the codes weren't meant for us to discover. Maybe the codes were supposed to be for someone else, and all we're going to do is get in the way. Or worse!”

“Say! Do you think the Brigade has anything to do with the codes?” Pascal asked, clearly unfazed by my dire warning.

“Who, Creelman? Preeble? Wooster?” I asked. “Why would you think that?”

“I can't figure out why they're dead set on maintaining this graveyard,” Pascal said. “Year after year, they accept students for cemetery duty, and the work is endless. Maybe this cemetery thing is a sham. Maybe the Brigade really spend their time watching students solve secret codes they've set up. In fact,” Pascal said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “maybe they're watching us right now.”

He and I scanned the gate and the surroundings while Merrilee rolled her eyes. Although there were plenty of people walking along the sidewalk past the cemetery, and a few going in and out of the library across the street, members of the Brigade were nowhere to be seen.

I thought back to the rainy day we first met Creelman, with his ancient yellowed notes and noisy table pounding. He didn't seem the type to be writing secret codes. And as for Preeble and Wooster, I had barely heard them utter a peep. It was next to impossible to imagine them communicating by any means, including secret codes.

Merrilee cut in.

“None of the Brigade have anything to do with the codes,” she said matter-of-factly.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“I've compared samples of their writing with the codes. There's no match.”

“Samples of their writing,” I repeated. “Where did you get those from?”

“Their clipboards,” she replied. “Their letter
a
'
s look nothing like the letter
a
in the codes.”

Pascal whistled softly.

“Impressive,” he said.

But I didn't think it was impressive at all. Merrilee's quiet sleuthing abilities kept me on edge. And Pascal's bull-in-a-china-shop approach to everything kept me cringing.

I changed my mind. If I were to make a t-shirt for Pascal, it would read,
I do all my own stunts
. As for Merrilee, hers would read,
Ask me about my evil plot
.

“So, you're dead set on finding out who Trevor Tower is?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“That's the plan,” said the bull in the china shop.

The quiet sleuth didn't answer. She stared intently at the blank side of Enoch's grave marker. I took her stony silence to mean “yes.”

“Fine,” I said reluctantly, but only because I thought I could steer them to a safe place, at least for now. “Let's start by asking around our school.”

Five

_____

Sacred Grounds Cafe

I WAS WALKING ALONG
Tulip Street, scouting out potential ideas for Mother's Day, when I spotted Creelman leaving the medical clinic where I had gone for my pink eye. I recognized the trench coat he was wearing from the first day we had met him in the library. His pockets were probably still stuffed with crinkled yellowed notes.

I stopped in my tracks and then stepped behind a florist's sidewalk display to watch where he would head.

Creelman did not look left or right. Instead, he made a beeline to a nearby trash can and pitched something into it. Then he marched down Tulip Street toward the library and cemetery.

I followed.

When I walked by the trash can, I peered inside. An opened package of cigarettes lay on top of the garbage, its health warning printed in ugly black letters.

So, Creelman was still trying to quit. I wondered if that was why he was grumpy all the time.

We both kept walking along Tulip Street, me trailing about a block and a half behind him and his cane. I don't know why I was so interested in his whereabouts. Boredom, maybe.

Creelman stopped only a few times along the way — once to tie his shoe, once to look into a storefront window that displayed used books, and once to stand aside to let three kids fly by on their skateboards.

Each time he stopped, I crouched, first behind a mailbox, then a lamppost and then a bicycle rack. And even from the spots where I hid, I could tell he was scowling, his cotton-ball eyebrows a dead giveaway.

At last, he came to the coffee shop near the cemetery. The sign of the shop read,
Sacred Grounds Cafe
. But he didn't duck inside like I expected.

Instead, he heaved the door open, spun around to face me and called out, “Are you coming, or what?”

I stayed put and attempted to turn invisible. Maybe he wasn't talking to me.

“Derek,” he growled. “I haven't got all day.”

He held the door open.

I slowly stood up from behind the bicycle rack. Good grief!

“Hello,” I muttered when I was in earshot.

Creelman waved me into the cafe.

“Over there,” he said, pointing to a booth in the corner next to the window. “I like the view outside.”

I turned to look at the view. It was Twillingate Cemetery.

I slid into the booth while trying to decide if what I was feeling was embarrassment, terror, fascination or a mix of all three.

A waitress came by with the menus.

“And how's my favorite customer?” she asked, giving Creelman a wink.

“Hungry,” he replied. “How's the meat loaf?”

“The same,” she said. “Why don't you try something new? A nice bowl of lamb stew? A three-cheese omelet? Lasagna?”

“Meat loaf will do,” Creelman said, handing back the menu without even looking at it.

“One meat loaf,” the waitress repeated. She did not bother to write down his order.

“And you?” she said, turning to me with a hopeful smile. “What would you like?”

The only money I had with me was for a gift for Mother's Day.

“Just water for me,” I said.

“I'm paying,” Creelman cut in. “Have something to eat. Apparently, the lamb stew is good. Also the omelet and the lasagna.”

It did smell good in the cafe. And it had been a long time since breakfast.

“Meat loaf, please,” I said, handing back the menu to the waitress.

Did Creelman just smile? It was fleeting, but I think he did.

“Two orders of meat loaf. Honestly!” she said, shaking her head. “And to drink?”

“Coffee,” Creelman said.

“Chocolate milk, please,” I ordered.

“Aren't you polite,” the waitress said, and she turned to Creelman. “Is this your grandson?”

“He's a volunteer at Twillingate Cemetery,” Creelman explained.

“Really?” the waitress said. “But this isn't Wednesday afternoon.”

“In between shifts, Derek's a spy,” Creelman said.

Embarrassment. I was definitely feeling embarrassment.

“Oh, my,” the waitress said, lowering her voice. “Well, I'll be sure not to blow your cover.”

She left to take our orders to the kitchen.

“I wasn't spying,” I said.

“Not very well, that's for sure,” Creelman said.

“I was shopping for a gift for Mother's Day,” I insisted.

“So you do have a mother?” Creelman said.

“Yes. That's who I was shopping for.”

“I thought you were an orphan.”

“An orphan?”

“Orphans like cemeteries. They spend a lot of time searching for their pasts.”

“And you think I like cemeteries?”

“You signed up for cemetery duty, didn't you?”

I thought it was best just to shrug. It seemed mean to tell him that cemetery duty was all that was left on account of my pink eye.

“What's with your t-shirt?” Creelman asked, an eyebrow raised.

I looked down at the one I was wearing. It read,
I'm unique. Just like everyone else
.

“I collect sayings,” I explained, more sheepishly than I wanted, “and make my own t-shirts.”

“Why?”

“I don't know. It's just a hobby, I guess.”

“Do you want to be a writer when you grow up or something?”

“Well, I like designing words with pictures, like posters or book covers and whatnot.”

“A graphic designer, then?”

“Maybe.”

“Have you read any good epitaphs?”

“Epitaphs?”

“Epitaphs. A phrase or a poem about the deceased, carved in stone.”

“At the cemetery? No. Not yet.”

“I have a book at home. It's a collection of epitaphs called
Famous Last Words.
”

I couldn't imagine reading a book like that. How would it go?
Rest in peace. Rest in peace. Rest in peace. Gone but not forgotten. Rest in peace
.

Boring. And nothing I could use for t-shirts, that's for sure.

“Some are pretty funny,” said Creelman.

“Funny?” I repeated doubtfully. “Really?”

“My favorite is
I told you I was sick
.”

“On a gravestone?” I laughed. “That would make a good t-shirt to wear if you've got the measles or something.”

“Some aren't as funny,” Creelman continued, instantly sobering.

“No,” I said, trying to keep pace with his changing moods. “I bet they aren't.”

He cleared his throat to recite.

“Stranger stop and cast an eye. As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, so you will be. Remember Death and follow me.”

“Yikes,” I said, shifting in my vinyl seat. It made a grumbling sound.

“Did I show you the epitaph at the cemetery with all the letters carved upside down?”

“No,” I said. “Not yet. What happened?”

“Many early carvers couldn't read. They just carved whatever was written out for them. That's why symbols were important. Everyone could read symbols.”

“Oh. So the stone carver copied out the words with the paper upside down and didn't notice,” I said.

Creelman nodded. Then he stopped nodding.

“
This wasn't my idea
,” he said.

“Pardon me?” I asked.

“That's another funny epitaph in the book. It reads,
This wasn't my idea.
”

“That is funny.
Famous Last Words
sounds like a good book,” I admitted.

“There's a copy in the library,” Creelman said.

“Maybe I'll sign it out,” I said, and I meant it.

“Or you can borrow mine,” Creelman offered. His scowl softened.

That caught me off guard. Was Creelman being nice?

“Why are you yawning?” he demanded, scowl returning full-force.

“Am I?” I said, yawning. “I guess I'm tired.”

“I'm tired, too,” Creelman said. “That's because I'm old. What's the matter with you?”

“I didn't get a good sleep last night.”

“Why not?”

I shifted in my seat again. More grumbling sounds. I didn't like where this conversation was headed.

“I had a nightmare,” I admitted.

Where was the waitress with our food?

“A nightmare? What about?”

“A cemetery.”

“A
cemetery!
” Creelman scoffed. “Don't tell me you think there are ghosts, etcetera, at the cemetery!”

“No! It's not like that at all,” I insisted.

“Good. Because there are no ghosts, just so you know.”

“I know that,” I said. I could feel my cheeks burning.

“No ghosts. No vampires. No zombies.”

“Yes, I know.”

“No phantoms. No ghouls. No werewolves.”

“Right,” I said, but I wondered if he might change his mind after spending more time with Merrilee.

Creelman scowled at me for a full minute while I stared at the swinging doors to the kitchen, willing the waitress to reappear.

No luck. I looked back at Creelman.

“Still. People can be haunted,” he admitted, his face softening again.

“What do you mean? You just said there are no ghosts.”

“People can be troubled by past events. They're haunted because of things not resolved.”

“Things not resolved?” I repeated.

“Here we are,” the waitress said, doors swinging in her wake. She set down our beverages, then moved to the next table.

I took a long drink of chocolate milk through my straw.

Creelman was wrong. Sure, what happened to Dennis bothered me. It bothered me practically every night. But there was nothing to resolve. I knew perfectly well how that terrible story ended.

Creelman stirred a big dollop of cream into his coffee and poured in the sugar. He set his spoon down.

“So, what's haunting you?” he asked, raising his mug to his mouth.

I don't know if it was because of the friendly waitress, or the tasty smells in the cafe, or the fact that I had been caught spying on Creelman, but I felt a confession welling from deep inside. My garage door started to roll open, letting a shaft of sunlight stretch across the unswept cement floor.

In an unexpected rush of words, I blurted, “There was an accident.”

“When?” Creelman asked.

“I was only little,” I answered.

“What happened?”

“We were playing. Me and a friend.”

“Playing?” Creelman repeated.

“My friend had an orange rubber ball.”

“I see,” Creelman said. He took a slow sip of coffee.

And then Creelman disappeared, because in my mind's eye, I heaved my garage door wide open and light shone into all four corners. Then I found myself back in Ferndale on the lawn at our house with the new trees, a fresh popsicle stick in my pocket and the lawnmower whining in the backyard. I described the scene.

“It's hot out. Everyone else is inside. The ball is fun. My friend kicks it to me. I miss. I keep missing. So does he. The ball is going everywhere. It's tricky.”

“Where are your parents?” came a voice.

“Dad's cutting the lawn in the backyard. The mower is noisy. Mom is inside lying on the couch. Her head hurts because of the heat. She has a bag of ice cubes around her neck.

“But I have my friend to play with. I like him. He has a big collection of trucks and tractors in his backyard sandbox. They can dig and scoop. Once he let me take his dump truck home to play with, and I filled it with my whole marble collection.

“Right now, we have the orange rubber ball. I miss again. It rolls under a bush by our front steps. When I crawl underneath to get it, I bump the scab on my knee and it starts bleeding. When I stand, bits of freshly cut grass are sticking to my legs. I pat down my pocket to make sure I still have the popsicle stick. I think about my plastic horses and the corral I am going to build.

“‘You missed!' my friend calls out between laughs. ‘You missed! You missed!'

“‘I can't see,' I yell back. ‘The sun's in the way.'

“It is so hot out. There is no shade. The sun is coming down, and it is right in my face whenever I look over to where my friend is.

“‘Kick it,' he yells. ‘Kick it. It's my turn.'

“I put the orange ball down in front of me. The grass smells sweet. I stand back. Then I take a run at the ball and kick it as hard as I can.

“Bam! Perfect hit! It soars over my lawn and my friend's lawn, too. It soars over the sidewalk. It soars onto the street.

“‘I'll get it!' he yells. He's laughing.

“I look for him, but the sun is still in the way. He turns to chase the ball, and now the sun is in his way, too. And because of the lawnmower, he doesn't hear the car.

“My friend runs.

“Brakes squeal.

“He flies backwards into the air, his arms reaching out to the car that has just hit him, his legs dangling. He crumples to the ground.

“I hear sounds of a car door opening.

“Cries for help.

“The lawnmower stops.

“Screen doors creak open along both sides of my street.

“What is happening?

“I make myself walk toward the empty car. My legs do not work well. My friend is lying near the curb. His eyes are open, but he is not moving. His head is in a puddle of blood. The puddle spreads. So much blood.

“Someone pushes me aside as she rushes by.

“His mom.

“Then my dad.

“Now a crowd surrounds my friend.

“A man I do not know sits all alone on our lawn. He groans as he rocks back and forth, his head in his hands.

“I hear sirens.

“‘Derek!'

“It is my mom.

“‘I'm here. I'm here. I'm here.'

“She keeps saying this and she hugs me hard. I cannot move. I cannot breathe. She carries me inside.