The Missing Dog Is Spotted (5 page)

“Buster?” he called out gleefully.

“No,” Trevor said. “That was Scout. We went all around the park, but Buster wasn't there.”

Mr. Fester's face fell. He was no longer wearing an apron. Instead, he was hugging a leather-bound photo album to his chest.

“My poor dog,” he said sadly.

Trevor felt a lump in his own throat. He was convinced that there was nothing worse than a sad old man who had lost his dog.

“Don't worry. We'll keep a lookout for Buster this week. As soon as we find him, we'll let you know,” Trevor assured him.

“Then I'll give you my telephone number,” Mr. Fester said. “Come inside.”

Loyola and Trevor stepped indoors, leaving the dogs tied to the railing and Scout guarding the whole pack, especially Ginger who was now tied with triple knots.

Mr. Fester disappeared into the kitchen. Between them and the kitchen were stacks and stacks of books crowding the hallway and all the way up one side of the stairs to the second floor. Mr. Fester returned and handed each of them a business card.

“A Likely Story Used Bookstore,”
Trevor read out loud. “Are you the owner?”

“I used to be,” Mr. Fester said. “Years ago. The cards are still good though, because my telephone number is the same.”

“
A Likely Story.
Is that the one on Tulip Street?” Loyola asked.

“Yes. It's right beside the florist, near the cemetery.”

“Twillingate Cemetery,” Trevor added, just for clarity.

“That's right,” Mr. Fester said. “Buster likes to run there, too.”

Trevor thought back to the sign posted at the cemetery gate.
No Dogs Allowed
.

“We'll keep a lookout,” he assured Mr. Fester all the same.

When they were returning their gear to the animal shelter at the end of their walk, Trevor and Loyola reported on their sad conversation with Mr. Fester.

“Well, if you don't spot Buster, there's a good chance someone else will bring him here,” Isabelle Myers reassured them. “If that happens, we'll take Buster home, don't you worry.”

Still, Trevor worried. The memory of Mr. Fester's stricken face kept urging him to keep a lookout after school and to take different routes home. That way he would pass the tennis courts, the melted outdoor skating rink and even the preschoolers' playground with the squeaky swings. He walked by every place he could think of where a dog might like to run.

No Buster.

When he reported to the animal shelter the following Wednesday, Loyola was already there wearing her usual blend-in attire. She turned to him as soon as he came through the door.

“No sign of Buster,” she reported sadly. “Not even here.”

“I've been chatting with Mr. Fester on the phone all week,” Isabelle Myers said. “Poor man. Perhaps you can swing by his house and reassure him.”

Trevor and Loyola nodded.

Once outside, Loyola said, “Let's pick up our dogs and meet at Mr. Fester's house. We'll talk to him together.”

Trevor easily agreed. He did not want to face Mr. Fester alone. It was just too sad.

He started down his side of the street and knocked on the door of his first house.

As soon as he did, barking erupted. It was Misty, fooling no one.

“Hello, Mrs. Tanelli. How's Misty today?”

“She's been a very good dog. We went to the beauty parlor this week, didn't we, Misty?”

Misty wore a pink bow in the poufy mound of snow-white fur on the top of her head.

“Now, where did I put your coat?”

Mrs. Tanelli wandered off to the kitchen. Misty sat down at Trevor's feet and looked up at him with a grin. Despite her ridiculous frilly accessory, Trevor smiled back and gave her a neck rubby. She smelled like lilacs.

“Here you go,” Mrs. Tanelli said. Only this time it wasn't the panda jacket. This one featured a leopard print.

Misty stood patiently as Mrs. Tanelli zipped her in, then handed Trevor the pink leash.

“All set?” Trevor asked Misty.

She wagged her tail, which ended in a silly pom-pom.

They set out for the next house.

“Hello, Mrs. Ruggles,” Trevor said when she answered the door.

Duncan was nowhere to be seen.

“Duncan!” Mrs. Ruggles called out gaily from behind her gigantic, thick glasses. “Walkies!”

After what seemed like forever, Duncan appeared from around the corner. He trundled up to Trevor and stood stoically at the door, waiting for his leash like a condemned prisoner.

Was he happy? Was he grumpy? Impossible to tell.

Trevor patted his wide, wrinkled head all the same. Duncan grunted.

Outside, Misty whined, eager for Duncan's company.

Mrs. Ruggles squeezed past Trevor and looked out the door at Misty. She adjusted her glasses, then clucked her tongue.

“Just look at that outfit. Hardly daytime attire,” she muttered. “And that's no way to get my Duncan's attention.”

Trevor looked down at Duncan, who was paying attention to no one at all.

Mrs. Ruggles clipped Duncan's leash to his collar with the anchor print.

“Good boy,” she said.

If Duncan took her praise to heart, he certainly didn't show it. Instead, he grunted and shifted his massive bulk to face the door.

“All set?” Trevor asked.

Nothing from Duncan.

“All right, then,” Trevor said, taking that as a yes, and they headed out.

Trevor tied both dogs to the railing of the third house. He rang the bell.

An explosion of barking erupted from somewhere deep inside the house and grew louder and louder until Trevor heard scratching and barking from right behind the door.

“Sit, Poppy! Sit! Sit! Sit, I say! Poppy! Poppy, sit!”

He looked back at his two dogs. Misty was prancing around Duncan. Duncan, unmoved, was staring at the back of his calves.

The door creaked open.

“Hello, Mr. Fines,” Trevor said.

“Do come in,” Mr. Fines said in his English accent while adjusting his bow tie.

Trevor stepped inside, and Poppy immediately jumped up on him, her mouth a wide smile, her stubby tail wagging a million miles an hour.

“Down, Poppy, down,” Mr. Fines ordered. “Mind your manners!”

Poppy reluctantly dropped to all fours, but her shiny brown eyes were pinned on Trevor. She shook her head in glee, long ears flapping above her like a helicopter, spittle flying everywhere. One ear landed inside out. Poppy didn't seem to mind. Trevor flipped it back to rights all the same.

Outside, Misty yipped and pranced by the porch. Poppy heard the sound and pushed past Trevor to look out the screen door. Her tail started wagging all over again. It was a blur.

“How many dogs do you walk?” Mr. Fines asked.

“Three, including Poppy,” Trevor said. “And my classmate, Loyola, also walks three. So we have six altogether.”

“Six dogs? However do you manage?”

“We do all right,” Trevor said proudly. And then, just to show off how responsible they were, he added, “We're also on the lookout for a lost dog.”

“You lost a dog?” Mr. Fines said, worry creeping into his voice.

“No, not us. The owner did. He reported it to the animal shelter.”

“Oh, how dreadful,” Mr. Fines said. “I can't imagine life without Poppy.”

“We'll find the dog,” Trevor assured him.

“How will you know you've found the right one?” Mr. Fines asked.

“We have a good description. It has brown spots all over,” Trevor said.

“I once knew a dog with spots,” Mr. Fines recalled.

“I guess there must be lots of dogs with spots,” Trevor said. He started to grow alarmed at his own realization. Finding Buster might be harder than he thought.

“Perhaps,” Mr. Fines said. “But the spotted dog I once knew was quite unique. Very excitable even though it was old. It spent its days at my favorite bookstore keeping the owner company. The owner would read to that dog for hours at a time. If I recall correctly, the spotted dog loved movie scripts the best.”

“That's funny,” Trevor said. “The owner of the missing dog used to run a bookstore.”

Mr. Fines, who had been stroking Poppy's ears, looked up.

“Are you talking about Heimlich Fester?”

“Yes, that's him,” Trevor said with surprise.

“Oh dear,” Mr. Fines said.

“What?” Trevor said.

“Heimlich sold his bookstore years ago.”

“That's right. He told us that. It was called A Likely Story Used Bookstore.”

Mr. Fines returned his attention to Poppy. He kept talking, but he no longer looked Trevor in the eye.

“Heimlich must be confused.”

“Confused? What do you mean?”

“There's no need to keep a lookout for his dog.”

“I don't understand,” Trevor said.

“Heimlich's dog was fifteen years old when he sold his bookstore. And that was years ago. His dog couldn't possibly be alive today.”

“Dogs don't live that long?” Trevor asked.

“I'm afraid not.”

“Are you sure?” Trevor said.

Mr. Fines said nothing.

“Do you remember its name?” Trevor persisted.

“Buster,” Mr. Fines said, handing Poppy's leash to Trevor. “The spotted dog's name was Buster.”

Five

—

Tattle

“TIME TO FLY,”
Trevor urged his dogs as soon as he was out of earshot of Mr. Fines, who waved them goodbye from his front porch.

Trevor was determined to catch up to Loyola before she reached Mr. Fester's house.

How sad that Mr. Fester was confused. And now they were going to have to tell him that there was no Buster after all. That meant the old man would be confused
and
sad. Trevor couldn't think of anything worse.

He spied Loyola up ahead almost as soon as he left Mr. Fines' house. She had gathered her three dogs and stopped to clean up after one of them. She dropped her unpleasant package in a nearby garbage can next to a mailbox.

“Loyola!” Trevor called. “Wait up!”

“Ginger's been a bad dog this week,” Loyola reported as soon as Trevor joined her. “She broke out of her backyard and ended up being captured by the neighbors. Apparently, she was digging up someone's prize rose garden.”

Trevor looked at Ginger, who smiled back and didn't look at all traumatized about her foiled escape. If anything, it looked as if she was planning her next runaway adventure.

“So I'm thinking,” Loyola continued, “that if an escape artist like Ginger can be caught, then there's a good chance someone
will
find Buster.”

“No, they won't,” Trevor said bluntly.

“Why not?” Loyola asked.

“There is no Buster.”

Loyola stopped in her tracks. “What do you mean?”

“I just learned that Buster has been dead for a long time. Mr. Fester is confused and thinks his dog is still around.”

“Are you sure?”

“Mr. Fester sold his used bookstore years ago, and Poppy's owner just told me that Buster was an old dog, even back then.”

“How awful,” Loyola said. “So what do we do now? Do we tell him?”

“I don't think I'd be very good at that,” he admitted.

“Me, either,” Loyola said as if confiding to a friend.

She looked as if she might cry. Trevor almost felt like giving her a hug.

“Tell you what. Let's talk to Mr. Fester together,” Trevor suggested.

“And what should we say?” Loyola asked, grateful for his company for once.

“We can remind him about how long ago he sold his bookstore. That might trigger his memory about Buster, and then he can piece it together himself.”

“It's still sad,” Loyola said.

Trevor nodded. He surveyed the six dogs. They were all looking in the direction of the park and fidgeting with excitement. Except Duncan. Duncan just stood, unfazed by the growing franticness surrounding him, perfectly content not to move for the rest of the day.

“Okay. Let's get this over with,” Loyola said at last.

Together, they headed to Mr. Fester's front porch, Duncan grunting along. Trevor and Loyola tied the dogs to the railing. Trevor looked at Loyola. She nodded. He rang the bell. After what felt like an eternity, Mr. Fester answered the door.

Trevor glanced inside. The piles of books were still stacked everywhere in the main entrance and on up the stairs.

“Hello, Mr. Fester,” Trevor said in a voice higher than normal.

“Oh, hello,” Mr. Fester replied, hope creeping into his voice. “Are you here about Buster?”

“We're here to learn
more
about Buster,” Trevor said, trying to trigger Mr. Fester's memories like they had planned. “Did Buster go with you to the bookstore when you owned it?”

“Yes, he did. I read to him every day. He was very good company. The customers loved him.”

“Would you describe Buster as a calm dog?”

“Calm? Goodness no. He's full of beans.”

“Is that why you used to read to him? To calm him down?”

“Yes.”

Trevor was steering the conversation exactly where it needed to go.

“What type of books did he like best?”

“Movie scripts. That's why I named him Buster. It's short for Blockbuster. Blockbuster movies.”

“That's a great name. When did you sell your used bookstore?”

“Nine years ago. The year after my wife passed away.”

That caught Trevor off guard. It was sad to hear that Mr. Fester's wife had died. It was also unsettling that he seemed to remember everything very well. He didn't appear to be confused at all. So why was he getting them to chase after Buster?

“Oh,” Trevor said. “I'm sorry about your wife.”

He paused for a respectable moment before continuing.

“So then, you live by yourself?”

“No,” Mr. Fester said crankily. “I have my books and I have Buster.”

Trevor looked at Loyola, who looked as baffled as he felt.

“You certainly have a lot of books,” Loyola interjected. “I'm going to be a librarian when I grow up. I love to shelve and categorize things.”

“You should see her locker!” Trevor said, attempting to lighten the mood and keep the conversation going.

“That's admirable,” Mr. Fester said. He paused and turned around to face the stacks of books behind him. “When I sold the bookstore, I took home quite a bit of the stock. I ran out of shelf space long ago, but I'm glad that didn't stop me.”

“Because books are good company?” Trevor guessed. He had heard Mr. Easton say that to the Queensview Mystery Book Club on plenty of occasions.

“There's that, but also my late wife insists on playing cards with me.”

Okay, so he
is
confused, thought Trevor. Dead wives can't play cards. And dead dogs can't be lost.

“You look alarmed,” Mr. Fester said. “I've seen that look on my son. Don't be.”

Mr. Fester fished something out of his shirt pocket. It was a playing card. The queen of spades. Only someone had drawn glasses on her face in red ink.

“See that?” Mr. Fester said, holding the card up for Trevor and Loyola to inspect.

“Queen of spades,” Trevor confirmed.

“That's right. My wife was quite a card player. Bridge, mostly.”

Trevor knew a little about bridge. He knew it was a complicated four-person game with many rules and many strategies. Partners played against partners, often in tournaments.

“You two liked to play bridge?”

“No, I wasn't a good partner. I'd rather be reading. But she and Arno Creelman won many championships.”

“Arno Creelman? Do you mean Mr. Creelman? The one who takes care of Twillingate Cemetery?” Trevor asked.

“That's him,” Mr. Fester said. “I still see him from time to time. Mostly at the grocery store. He was pretty mad when I sold the bookstore. He has quite a collection of his own books, especially about outer space and the solar system and such. He used to work at a planetarium.”

“He came to our school,” Loyola said. “To the Queensview Mystery Book Club. He read from a book of epitaphs called
Famous Last Words
.”

“From his cemetery-care collection,” Mr. Fester deduced. “Well, that's understandable. He lost his grandson to a car accident last summer. Terribly tragic.”

Once again, Trevor was caught off guard, because once again, Mr. Fester seemed to be very clear on his facts, even tragic ones. No confusion there.

“I don't understand about the queen of spades,” Trevor said.

Mr. Fester gently kissed his card before tucking it back into his left shirt pocket, the one over his heart.

“With all that bridge, I gave my wife a nickname. I called her the Queen. The Queen of Bridge. Before she died, she planted playing cards with queens all over the bookstore. Every once in a while, a customer would find one tucked into a random book. When you're in the second-hand book business, you find all kinds of things in books that people have used for markers. But I knew the playing cards were hers. She drew glasses on them. Red glasses. She had a pair herself.”

“Oh. So that's how she's playing cards with you,” Loyola said.

Mr. Fester nodded.

Trevor was baffled. He couldn't figure out Mr. Fester. Was he confused or not? Maybe there really was a Buster. Maybe Buster was just an incredibly old dog. Maybe Mr. Fines had it wrong.

“Well, time to fly,” Trevor said, anxious to talk over the case with Loyola. “The dogs need their walk, but we'll keep a lookout for Buster.”

“Please do,” Mr. Fester said. “I miss Buster terribly. He was a stray when I found him. I know he can take care of himself, but still. I need to know that he's safe and happy.”

Trevor and Loyola backed out the door and onto the porch. As they untied the dogs, Loyola spoke under her breath.

“What do you think?”

“Who knows.”

All the way around the park and back to the animal shelter, they speculated as to whether Buster was real or a memory. But by the end of their walk, they had seen no sign of Buster.

Not one.

With Trevor's family move getting closer, talk around the dinner table was about all the good things to look forward to at the new place. Yet Trevor was often distracted. He remained troubled throughout the week. There was something about Mr. Fester's story. There was something not quite right. Trevor couldn't put his finger on it. So he continued to take different routes home, still looking for Buster and picturing Mr. Fester's sad face.

When he arrived at the animal shelter the following Wednesday, he and Loyola decided to stop by Mr. Fester's house with their dogs to see how he was doing. Mr. Fester opened the door and surprised them with a stack of posters.

“I made bigger ones,” he said, after barely a hello.

He held up a poster for them to see. The words
REALLY
LOST
were featured in big bold letters at the top. A new full-color picture of Buster lying beneath a park bench took up most of the poster. That was followed by details of who to call.

“Can you put these up for me?” Mr. Fester asked.

“Sure,” Trevor said, feeling lost himself.

He and Loyola divided the stack in two and shoved them into their knapsacks.

That week Trevor put up all of his posters but wondered the whole time why he was even bothering. He chose lampposts around Mr. Fester's old bookstore, the children's playground and the melted outdoor skating rink.

And then it was May.

When the first Wednesday of that month rolled around, and Trevor and Loyola dropped by Mr. Fester's house, there was still no sign of Buster. There hadn't even been a single sighting. They weren't surprised. In fact, they were pretty sure there was no Buster. But it had become a habit to say hi and to chat with Mr. Fester, if only to keep him company for a little while. Even the dogs in their care knew the routine. All six of them would steer Trevor and Loyola to Mr. Fester's porch for a final stop before heading to the park for their Big Walk.

This time Mr. Fester handed them a box of dog treats.

“Put a few cookies under the benches around the park,” he said. “Buster loves sitting beneath them. He might be getting tired of foraging for food, and I don't want him to go hungry.”

Trevor took the box of dog treats and did as he was told.

“I don't know, Trevor,” Loyola said, as he deposited the cookies underneath the first bench they came to. “This seems hopeless to me.”

“It
is
hopeless,” Trevor said, trying not to dwell on what he was doing. “And we're running out of time.”

“What do you mean?” she stopped to ask.

“I'm moving at the end of the school year,” he explained.

“Are you going back to your hometown?” she asked.

“Hometown?” Trevor repeated. “I've moved so often, I can't say I have a hometown.”

“What's that like, moving so much?” Loyola asked.

“I'm used to it. I've gotten good at making friends no matter where I am.”

“But then you have to leave them behind.”

“I don't think about that as much,” Trevor admitted with a shrug. “I think about the new ones I haven't met yet.”

An awkward silence followed, so Trevor said what he always said to lighten the mood.

“Time to fly.”

“You say that a lot,” Loyola said.

The truth was, leaving classmates behind hadn't bothered him very much because he had never had time to get to know anyone all that well. It meant that goodbyes weren't nearly as hard. And he had concluded a long time ago that it was better this way.

But what if it wasn't really better at all? What if he had gotten things wrong? That was not a happy thought.

It must have showed, because Loyola said, as if to cheer him up, “I think you're very brave.”

Her praise worked. Trevor sat down on the bench and Loyola sat beside him. Then he gave a cookie to each of their six dogs, with an extra cookie for Duncan.

They went on to talk about other things during their walk around the park — their speculations about starting junior high in the fall, the strange ideas their parents had, their favorite foods, their favorite books, their favorite games to play.

Loyola even told him a hilarious story about her jokester great-grandmother who broke her hip and recovered in a hospital run by nuns. She went up and down the hallways with her walker wearing a hairband with red devil ears.

And Trevor told her the incredible story about how his parents unknowingly bought the exact same print by a local artist for each other to celebrate their recent anniversary. Both prints now hung side by side in their bedroom next to his framed poem about airplane vapor trails.

The only thing they didn't talk about was their different heights. That topic was still taboo, and they both knew it without having to say a word.

“So what do you really think is going on with Mr. Fester?” Loyola asked as they stopped at the water fountain so that the dogs could take a final drink before heading back.

“I don't think there is a Buster,” Trevor admitted. And then he added, “I'm worried about Mr. Fester.”