Spotted Dog Last Seen (6 page)

“I throw up. My popsicle is all over my shirt. It sticks to me. She cleans me up, and I tell her that I'm cold. She wraps me in a blanket and lays me down on the couch.

“‘I'm here,' she tells me again and again, but she is crying.”

“Two meat loaves,” our waitress chirped, sliding identical plates of meat with gravy, mashed potatoes and peas in front of Creelman and me.

My living room dissolved and I was back in the cafe.

Creelman and I ate in silence. When his plate was almost empty, he took a big gulp of coffee, then asked, “Did you go to the funeral?”

I nodded with my mouth full. I don't remember much about what happened in the days that followed the accident. But I can still smell the flowers, I can hear the choir music, and I can touch a lamb carved out of stone. In my mind, the stone is always cold, even in the summer.

I finished my meat loaf and set down my fork. I placed my hands on my lap and was surprised by how steady they were. Normally, I would be shaking or sweating or both, having told the story to the very end. I folded my napkin and glanced at Creelman.

Creelman had abandoned his meal and was staring intently out the window toward the cemetery, as if he had forgotten that I was even there. He slowly drummed his fingers on the table, balling up a napkin in his other hand.

“Need a top-up?” the waitress asked when she came by with a pot of coffee.

Creelman didn't seem to hear her. He continued to stare in the direction of the cemetery, lost in his own thoughts.

She hesitated, glanced at me, then filled his cup.

“Give him a minute,” she said softly to me. “He always comes back.”

Where does he go, I wanted to ask.

It was then that I was certain he had a secret, too.

We sat for several more minutes like that, him staring out the window at the cemetery, me wondering if I would ever get a good night's sleep again.

“Do you recall anything else?” Creelman finally asked when the waitress came by with the bill.

I thought back and quietly poked around my mind's garage, its door still wide open to passersby. Were there any details left to discover? Then it came to me.

“I remember going to bed early the night of the accident. It was still light out. I could hear police officers talking to my parents in the living room, but I couldn't make out their words. The fan in my room blew hot sticky air as I tossed and tossed. And then I woke up in the middle of the night. I crept out of my bedroom and unlocked the front door. It was eerie dark, but still warm. And quiet. I walked across our front yard to the street. Then I walked up and down the street under the burning lampposts that collected moths and hummed.”

“Why do you think you did that?” Creelman asked.

“I was looking for my friend. I walked and walked and only stopped when I came across the exact spot where he was hit.”

“How did you know?”

“The bloodstain.”

Creelman rubbed his face and took another drink of coffee.

I thought back some more.

“It rained hard the next day, but the bloodstain never went away. Every time I came out of our house, I spotted it, and it froze me in my tracks. I finally said something to my mom, but she told me that she couldn't see anything. I led her by the hand to the spot. I knelt right beside the stain and pointed. ‘Look,' I said. ‘It's right here.'”

“She just sadly shook her head.

“‘You'll be okay' was all she would say every time I brought it up. After a while, I didn't talk about the stain, but I wouldn't go out the front door anymore. I would only go in and out of the house through the back door and down the alley. I never played in the front yard again.”

“And then what happened?” Creelman asked.

“We moved away,” I said. “We moved here for a fresh start.”

Creelman set down his mug. He took his time with his next question.

“Derek. If you went back there now, to the street where the accident happened, what do you think you'd see?”

“The bloodstain. It's still there. I'm sure of it.”

Six

_____

Rubbings

WHEN I MET PASCAL
and Merrilee the next week at the cemetery, I decided that I wouldn't mention my lunch with Creelman. They would be full of questions, and because Creelman and I talked mostly about the accident, there wasn't much to report other than that. Besides, my nightmares had become a regular event, and I was really tired of thinking about it.

“I've asked everyone I know about Trevor Tower,” Pascal said as soon as I arrived. “Nobody's heard of him.”

“It's all very strange,” Merrilee agreed, crossing her arms in her red plastic bunnies-and-carrots jacket.

“A dead end,” I added, enjoying saying it at the cemetery gate.

“You wish!” Merrilee snapped.

She had no sense of humor whatsoever, despite the bunnies jacket.

“Then what's our next move?” I asked, still not convinced that tracking down a complete stranger and rummaging through his locker filled with secrets — if that's what the codes in the mystery books meant us to do — was even remotely a good idea.

Merrilee scanned the cemetery, as if looking for an answer among the silent gravestones.

“We already know he's not buried here,” Pascal said.

“I know that,” Merrilee replied, fixing her gaze in the direction of the new section of the cemetery.

I looked at Pascal and he looked at me. Is this when Merrilee would finally transform into a zombie or something?

But no. Merrilee stayed Merrilee.

“What's wrong?” Pascal pressed, eyeing her suspiciously and taking a step closer to me.

“Nothing,” Merrilee said, still staring at the new section with the precisely lined-up granite markers. “Just a feeling.” Her voice trailed off.

Again, Pascal looked at me and I looked at Pascal. Then I gave him a quick nod, urging him to go ahead and ask.

“Okay, Merrilee. What's with all the spooky talk?” he demanded, taking my cue.

I faced her, too, glad that one of us had finally spoken up.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Spooky talk,” Pascal repeated. He held his hands up and waved them in the air like a hovering ghost.

“And you actually
like
being in a cemetery,” I added.

“You two find me spooky?” she asked, pushing her glasses up on her nose.

Awkward silence.

“Do you?”

“Kind of,” we each muttered, me scuffing at the lumpy ground.

“Well good. That's what I was going for,” she said brightly.

Merrilee set her knapsack down and calmly unzipped it.

I held my breath, expecting a colony of vampire bats to fly out, but no. She took out a library book instead and sat down with her back against the iron gate, dismissing both of us.

But I wasn't about to be dismissed so easily. Not again.

“What are you reading now?” I asked.

“Another mystery book.”

“I thought we'd solved the last mystery book code,” I said, interrupting her some more.

“We did. But I've discovered that I like mystery novels, with or without a code.”

She paused.

“Does that also make me spooky?”

“No,” I admitted, realizing that I wouldn't mind reading another mystery, just for the challenge of solving it. “Hey. Maybe I should make you a t-shirt that says,
If reading's no fun, you're doing it wrong
.

“Good one,” she said flatly.

She opened to where she had inserted her bookmark — the playing card with the Queen of Spades wearing a hand-drawn pair of glasses.

“Where'd you get the card?” Pascal said, joining me in my game to keep her from her book.

“I found it in a paperback I bought at a used book store. It's one of my favorite discoveries. I've been using it ever since.” She didn't look up from her book as she spoke, but her attempts to ignore us were futile.

“Did you draw on the glasses?” I asked pleasantly.

“No,” she said, pushing up her own pair on her nose. “Someone else did. That's why I like it so much. It speaks to me.”

Pascal mouthed the word
spooky
to me while she turned a page.

“Aren't you worried that you'll forget to take it out when you return the book to the library?” I asked.

“I might. But I know exactly where it would end up,” she said, refusing to take her eyes off her book.

“Are you telling us that you can see into the future?” Pascal asked, elbowing me.

“Sadly, no.”

“But you just said ...”

Merrilee cut Pascal off with a heavy sigh. She gave each of us a withering look.

“It would end up on Loyola's bulletin board at the library. Haven't you seen it?”

Pascal and I shook our heads.

“She collects things that people have left tucked in library books and has a display of them behind her desk.”

“What kind of things?” I asked.

“You'd be surprised what people will use as bookmarks. Lottery tickets, love letters, greeting cards, travel tickets, old photographs, sketches, grocery lists, newspaper clippings, unpublished poetry, pressed four-leaf clovers.”

“I just fold the corner of the page to mark where I am,” Pascal admitted.

“Pascal!” I said. “What if everyone did that?”

“No problem,” he said. “They'd just have to remember to unfold the corner when they're done. Like I do.”

I gave up and turned to Merrilee.

“What's the most interesting item Loyola has found?” I asked.

Merrilee sighed again and closed her book. “Her favorite bookmark is a supply list for an expedition to a monastery in India. It's written with a fountain pen on a type of paper that's no longer made.”

“Here comes the Brigade,” Pascal announced.

Merrilee got to her feet, and we watched as Creelman, flanked by Wooster and Preeble, crossed the street. They made their way directly to the cemetery gate. This time each of them carried a plastic blue bin. They set the lidded bins down in front of us.

“Good afternoon,” Creelman said. “Today's lesson: rubbings.”

“Rubbings,” Pascal predictably repeated before the Brigade could catch their breath. “What's that?”

Wooster and Preeble crossed their arms and took a step back.

“Ever put a leaf or a penny underneath a piece of paper and rub a crayon on top of the paper so that you get an image? That's a rubbing,” Creelman explained.

“I did that once, only I drew a picture in crayon, covered it in black paint, then scratched out a drawing so that the colors underneath showed through.”

“Not the same thing,” said Creelman, turning away from Pascal. “Now, inside each of these bins you'll find a package of jumbo crayons, scissors, masking tape and nonfusible interfacing fabric.”

Pascal took a few steps so that he planted himself directly in front of Creelman again.

“Reusable what?” he asked.

“
Nonfusible
interfacing fabric. You buy it at fabric stores to stiffen collars and buttonholes and cuffs. But that's not important. We use it here because it doesn't tear as easily as paper.”

Pascal was about to ask another question, but Creelman gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

“Now, open your bins.”

We did. Inside my bin was a roll of white fabric and all the other items Creelman had listed. Except mine also had one more item — Creelman's book of epitaphs called
Famous Last Words
.

I glanced up at Creelman, but he didn't look my way.

“What you're going to do is select a gravestone that you like. Just make sure that the stone you select is in good shape, that it isn't cracking or weakened in any way. Then you need to cut off a piece of interfacing that is larger than the stone you want to rub.”

“So we can pick any stone we want? Any stone at all?” Pascal asked, with a sweep of his hand that covered the entire cemetery.

“No,” Creelman replied. He turned to me. “Derek, which stones are good for rubbing?”

“Ones that are not cracked or weakened in any way.”

Creelman nodded curtly. I could see that he was going to treat me as if he still didn't know much about me or my past. I was so relieved that I didn't mind being singled out for questions.

“Got it,” Pascal said, undaunted as usual.

He began to wander off with his bin in search of a gravestone.

“Wait!” Creelman barked. “I'm not done.”

Pascal trailed back to us, clumsily dropping his bin to the ground.

“As I was saying, pick a stone, a stone that is not cracked or weakened, and cut a piece of interfacing larger than the stone. Tape the interfacing dead center over the area you want to rub. Pick a color of crayon you like and peel off the paper covering the crayon. Then rub with the side of the crayon — not the tip! — against the interfacing, and watch the image appear. If you do this correctly, your rubbing will be an exact replica of the stone. When you get home, use an iron to set the crayon into the fabric. Then you'll have an artifact that is suitable for framing.”

I glanced at Merrilee, who was listening intently to Creelman's every word. This kind of project was right up her alley.

“When you say
iron
,” Merrilee probed, “how exactly do you do that?”

“Place your rubbing face-up on your ironing board with an old towel over it. Then with a hot iron, press down on the towel. This will melt the rubbing beneath it into the interfacing fabric so that you have a permanent image.”

Merrilee nodded along with Creelman's instructions. I had never seen her look so fascinated, so eager. I was certain that her bedroom walls would soon be covered in spooky rubbings of every type of skull and crossbones imaginable.

I wished she'd turn into a vampire and get it over with. What was she waiting for?

Creelman seemed to pick up on Merrilee's enthusiasm.

“If you ever want to do a rubbing at another cemetery, be sure to get permission first,” he added. “Not all cemeteries allow it.”

We nodded.

“That's it for now,” Creelman said. “Pick your gravestone and begin. And be careful. We don't want to see any crayon wax on any gravestone. We'll be back later to check your work.”

The Brigade left without a backward glance, leaving us behind with our blue bins.

I turned to face Pascal and Merrilee, but Merrilee was already off like a shot.

“So much to choose from,” Pascal said. “What do you think you'll pick? One with an hourglass? An angel? A weeping willow?”

“I think I'm going to look for one with an interesting epitaph,” I said, thinking back to my conversation with Creelman. “There's bound to be something I like that's been written in stone.”

“Okay. Well, good luck,” Pascal said, and he wandered away with his bin.

I picked up mine and headed in the opposite direction. I slowly made my way up and down the rows, reading the gravestones one by one.

Rest in peace.

Rest in peace.

Rest in peace.

The oldest ones were more of the same, so I made my way over to the north section, past the marbles. There I read some interesting epitaphs with more modern phrases. Then I came across a great one carved underneath the person's date of birth and death. It read,
Writer. End of Story
.

I set my bin down and opened the lid. I took my time and followed Creelman's instructions exactly. I didn't want to mess up, especially because he had lent me his book without a word.

I carefully rubbed across the epitaph with a blue crayon and the letters came through boldly. The sun was warm on my back, the ground was drying out, and the grass was soft and bright green — signs of spring. When I was almost done, I stood to see where Merrilee and Pascal were working.

Merrilee had remained in the oldest part of the cemetery, near poor Enoch's plot where there were plenty of skulls and crossbones to choose from. No surprise there.

Pascal had moved to the marble section of the cemetery, just before the first hedgerow.

Except for an older couple who were visiting a gravestone a few rows ahead of me, I had the granite section to myself.

I was just finishing up when the couple came over to see what I was doing. They looked to be the same age as my grandparents and were dressed as if they had just come from church.

“What do you have there?” the woman asked kindly.

“I'm taking a rubbing of this gravestone.”

“Did you know this person?”

“No, but I like the epitaph.”

“
Writer. End of story
. Oh, that is clever. Lenore was always very funny.”

I reread the name on the gravestone.
Lenore Swinimer
.

“You knew her?” I asked.

“We knew of her,” the man said. “She wrote a column for a coastal magazine that we liked to read. Do you go to school around here?”

The woman quickly turned to him.

“Stop your questions. You're retired now, remember!”

“Once a school superintendent, always a school superintendent,” he said with a shrug, but then he fixed a stare on me, still expecting an answer.

I was pretty sure that school superintendents kept records of attendance and dealt with kids who skipped class.

“I go to Queensview Elementary,” I explained quickly. “The grade sixes do community work on Wednesday afternoons for the last three months of the school year. I ended up with cemetery duty.”

“How wonderful! We were just visiting Mother,” the woman said, nodding toward the row they had just come from. I could see that they had left flowers on top of one of the gravestones.

“Oh,” I said. I was at a dead loss about what more to say. This was the first time I had talked to people who actually knew someone buried in the cemetery.

“I'm sorry,” I added hesitantly.