Spotted Dog Last Seen (4 page)

“No,” I admitted, somehow feeling as if this was my fault.

Creelman's face fell as quickly as it had risen. He turned his attention to his cronies, and they nodded toward the iron gate.

I looked at my list. There must have been twenty-five numbers. This was going to take an eternity. Then I wondered how Merrilee was going to get out of it.

The Brigade marched out the gate without a backward glance.

“Well, boys,” Merrilee said brightly. “I believe I have a secret code to solve.”

With that she parked herself beside a nearby obelisk and opened
To Catch a Bicycle Thief
to a page where she pulled out her Queen of Spades bookmark.

Merrilee annoyed me, but I couldn't tell if it was because as sure as the sun rises in the east, she would somehow manage to get out of today's quiz, or that she was already chapters ahead in her book and seemed dead set on solving the mystery novel code before me or Pascal.

I looked at my list again. Maybe if I could cut my work in half, I could catch up to Merrilee in the reading. After all, I was a pretty fast reader myself. And lately, I had plenty of time to kill in the dead of night.

“Hey, Pascal. How about I do the first half of the list, and you do the second half. Then we'll share answers.”

“Deal,” Pascal said with relief, and off he went.

I gave Merrilee a smug look, but she was already lost in her book.

I spent the rest of the afternoon traipsing back and forth between the rows of gravestones and filling in the blanks. It was tedious and never-ending.

But thankfully, I did not come across the gravestone with the lamb.

The Brigade returned just before quitting time.

“Let's see your answers,” Creelman demanded.

Pascal and I handed over our clipboards to Wooster and Preeble. I kept an eye on Merrilee to see what she would do, having spent the entire afternoon reading and dead to the world.

Merrilee boldly handed over her clipboard to Creelman.

Then, amazingly, all three members of the Brigade began to mark our answers, Merrilee's included!

How had she done it? I was certain that she hadn't moved from that obelisk all afternoon!

Merrilee gave me a small smile as the Brigade handed back our tests.

Pascal and I each got four wrong, three of them from Pascal's section I might add.

Merrilee got a perfect score.

“Not bad,” Creelman said gruffly to her.

As soon as the Brigade left through the iron gate for the day and was out of earshot, I pounced on Merrilee.

“How'd you do it?” I demanded.

“Simple,” she said. “When I was in the library signing out copies of
To Catch a Bicycle Thief
, I found the answer sheet in the photocopy room. Creelman must have made copies for Wooster and Preeble, and he left the master list behind.”

“So all you had to do was copy out the answers,” Pascal said. “Awesome.”

“It's not awesome!” I snapped. “We're killing ourselves out here, and she keeps getting away with murder.”

“Come on,” Pascal said, looking at his quiz. “It beats getting four wrong. If I had seen that master list, I would have done the same thing.”

“Really?”
I said with sarcasm. “Is that your motto?”

“What do you mean?” Pascal asked.

“If I made you a t-shirt, would it read,
I'd have done the same thing
?”

Pascal grinned. “I'd love that!”

“And if you made a t-shirt for me, what would it say?” Merrilee asked.

I ignored her question. I was still mad at how she had gotten away with cheating.

“You know,” I warned. “You're not going to have a clue when it comes time to fixing gravestones.”

“Maybe not. But I've already solved the first clue in
To Catch a Bicycle Thief
.”

She dug out her copy and flipped it open.

“Check it out,” she said.

Pascal and I leaned in and read the word she was pointing to.

“The first word in this book's secret code is ‘tortoise.'” She slid her finger to the word that followed “tortoise.”

Pascal read that word out loud. “‘Trevor.'”

“Not many books would start with the name Trevor,” I said. “Why not do a quick library search on titles with Trevor in them. Then you could cheat the code, too.”

“Already tried it,” Merrilee said, ignoring my attempt at insulting her.

I looked at Merrilee with astonishment.

She shrugged. “When I ducked out to return the master list to the library, I did a quick search.”

I couldn't believe that I had not seen her leave the cemetery, especially in that red plastic bunnies-and-carrots jacket of hers! Had I just been too busy with the exercise to notice?

No. A more likely explanation was that I was too tired to see things clearly. I hadn't gotten a good night's sleep in ages on account of my nightmares.

“So, this code is not going to lead to another mystery book like the last ones?” Pascal asked.

“No,” Merrilee said.“This one's different.”

Four

_____

Cleaning Stones

I AM SITTING ON
the front steps eating a popsicle. There's a scab on my knee. The cement is warm beneath me, and the grass smells sweet. My dad is rolling his mower to the backyard. A screen door squeaks, and it is my neighbor, Dennis. I wave. He has an orange rubber ball.

I scarf down the rest of my popsicle and put the stick in my pocket. I am saving sticks to make a cowboy corral. I already have the plastic horses.

Dennis cuts across the newly mown grass. He kicks the ball to me. I try to kick it back, but I miss. He laughs. I laugh, too, as I scramble to get the ball. I kick it to him. He misses. We laugh. We go back and forth, back and forth. The sun is warm. The grass is sweet. The orange ball is tricky.

Back and forth, back and forth. We miss most of the kicks, and we are laughing. I can hear the lawnmower in the backyard. It is loud.

We are the only ones playing outside on our little street, with the young trees just planted and the houses brand-new. It is too hot for most people, and there is no shade. They stay indoors where it is cool and they can make ice cubes. We are the only ones outside, except for my dad, who is cutting the lawn in the backyard, and the car that is driving down our street.

I can hear my dad's lawnmower, but I do not hear the car. Dennis does not hear the car, either.

I kick the ball. Hard. Dennis misses. He chases after the orange ball. It bounces across the lawn and onto the street.

No! I slammed the garage door shut, but not before I sat bolt upright in my bed with my heart pounding and my sheets soaked in sweat.

I could hear my ragged breathing through my tight throat and chest. Deep breaths, I told myself. In, out. In, out.

I turned on my bed lamp. My alarm clock said it was 2:07 in the morning. I was wide awake.
To Catch a Bicycle Thief
was on my night table. I opened it to where I last left off. I was looking for the next word in the code. By 2:46 I had found it in chapter 9.

First word: Trevor.

Second word: Tower.

Trevor Tower.

Who was Trevor Tower?

I flipped to the end of my book. Only three more chapters to go. I turned my back to my alarm clock and forged ahead. I don't remember what time I finally got to sleep that night, but in the morning when I woke up, the first thing I did was put the sheet of paper where I had written the solved code into my knapsack.

For once, I couldn't wait for cemetery duty that afternoon so that I could share my results with Pascal and Merrilee.

“Hey,” I said as soon I got to the iron gate.

Pascal and Merrilee had already arrived.

“I solved the code,” I boasted.

“We did, too,” Merrilee said. “Trevor Tower keeps secrets, twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen.”

“Oh,” I said, a bit deflated.

“So what do you think it means?” Pascal asked. “We already know it's not the title of another mystery book.”

“The other codes. Did they have numbers?” I asked Merrilee.

“No,” she said. “They didn't.”

“And you don't know who Trevor Tower is?” I asked.

“No idea,” Merrilee said. “But he's not an author. I checked that out at the library, too. So this is definitely the last code to solve.”

“Trevor Tower keeps secrets,” I repeated. “Twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen.”

“Here comes the Brigade,” Merrilee reported.

We all turned to watch the trio navigate the crosswalk and plow through the gate. They carried clipboards and, for the first time, buckets.

“What do you think we'll be doing today?” Pascal asked dryly. “Surely not cleaning gravestones, even though that's what I thought we had signed up to do.”

“Good afternoon,” Creelman said when the Brigade had assembled in front of us. “Today's lesson: cleaning gravestones.”

“Really? That's great!” Pascal exclaimed. “But before we begin, do you know Trevor Tower?”

Creelman frowned. He set down his bucket and flipped through sheets of paper on his clipboard. Preeble and Wooster did the same.

“No,” Creelman said. “He's not listed as buried here. Why are you asking about Trevor Tower?” Creelman inquired reluctantly.

Merrilee shot Pascal a warning look.

“No reason,” Pascal said, but the way he kept bouncing from foot to foot told the entire Brigade otherwise.

Creelman scowled while he worked out whether to pursue his line of questions, move on to the lesson of the day or go for a cigarette.

“As I was saying,” Creelman finally continued, “today we're cleaning gravestones.”

Pascal and Merrilee fell into a silent line beside me.

“The first thing you must figure out is what type of material you need to clean off the gravestone.”

Creelman held up his hand and began to count down on his fingers.

“There are five common materials that plague markers. Soot. Dirt. Organics such as lichens and moss. Stains caused by metal or oil. And salt.”

Creelman picked up his bucket.

“Most of our cleaning will be to remove organics.”

This time, I dared to ask a question.

“Why are lichens and moss a problem for stone?”

“Moss stains, and its root system pries stone apart. Lichens hold water on the stone, delaying evaporation. This makes the stone prey to frost damage.”

I nodded. I had no idea moss and lichen could be so evil.

“In this cemetery, we use the least aggressive cleaning method along with good clear water. And we always clean from the bottom up. This avoids stains from streaking down on the area you've just cleaned. Now, grab your buckets.”

The Brigade handed the buckets to us.

“Each bucket has a set of rubber gloves, a sponge and a soft bristle brush. Put the gloves on and go fill your buckets from that spigot,” Creelman said, pointing his cane to a nearby tap that the groundskeepers used for water. “Then select a gravestone from these three rows. We'll come by with a cleaner, depending on the type of material you'll need to remove.”

We went to fill our buckets, then wandered among the rows to pick a gravestone. I chose a slate one that belonged to a man who died over two hundred years ago. He had a double grave marker for him and his wife, with two sets of angel heads and wings carved at the top. His name and dates were filled in on one side, but curiously, the other half remained blank.

When Creelman came by with my cleaner, I asked, “What do you think happened here?”

I pointed to the blank side of the stone.

“I guess his wife was dead set against being buried next to him,” Creelman said.

I started to laugh until I saw that Creelman continued to scowl, as if he hadn't said anything funny at all.

I sobered up pretty quickly.

“What's the cleaner you've added to my water?” I asked, getting back to business.

“You've got some organic growth there, so you'll be using a cleaner we like that is biodegradable, has no salt, no bleaches and only a touch of ammonia.”

I put on my gloves and picked up my sponge.

“Go easy on the stone. Remember to start at the bottom.”

“Right,” I said.

I got to work. And believe me, I started at the bottom.

As I cleaned the stone, I wondered about the man buried below. The grave marker told me very little. His name was Enoch Pettypiece. He lived to be 33 years, 5 months and 8 days old. His stone also read,
He was an affectionate husband, tender parent, lived respected and died lamented
.

If Enoch Pettypiece
had
been an affectionate husband, then Creelman had gotten it wrong. Maybe Enoch Pettypiece was killed, and his distraught wife was carried off by canoe to Quebec, to be later rescued by missionaries, but died of a strange ailment before she ever got a chance to return home. Very sad.

I reread the gravestone and noticed that the word
affectionate
had a carved box around it, as if the word had been changed or reworked by relatives after Enoch Pettypiece died. Maybe Creelman was on to something after all.

I tried to think what the original word might have read as I looked at the blank side of the double marker where the details about his wife should have been.

He was a
dastardly
husband?

He was a
penny-pinching
husband?

He was a
forgettable
husband?

If any of that was the case, then his wife would be having the last say for all eternity. Enoch's family could change the word all they wanted, but she was not going to be buried next to
him
.

Then again, maybe it was just a typo. Maybe Enoch Pettypiece was a school teacher who was forever correcting spelling mistakes on his students' homework. When he realized that there was a typo on his own gravestone, he haunted the stone carver until the carver returned to the burial site and corrected the spelling of
affectionate
so that Enoch could finally rest in peace.

I sat back on my heels, enjoying the different scenarios, any one of which could be true. I decided that if I were to make Enoch Pettypiece a t-shirt, it would read,
Dead men tell no stories
.

It was some time later, when I stood to stretch, that I noticed the Brigade had left for their coffee break. I walked over to where Pascal was working.

“How's it going?” I asked.

“Okay,” Pascal said. “At least we're finally doing some real work.”

Pascal paused from scrubbing.

“I was thinking about the code. Trevor Tower keeps secrets. Twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen. What could it mean?”

I shrugged. “The name sounds like someone around our age. Trevor is pretty modern. Not like Enoch.”

“Enoch?”

“That's my guy's name on the gravestone I'm working on.”

Pascal sat back on his heels.

“You're probably right. Trevor Tower keeps secrets. Twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen. Someone our age.”

“I said someone
around
our age. Trevor Tower could be in high school or even older, like Loyola Louden, for all we know. He might not even be a student. I just meant that he has a name you'd hear today. Not like Enoch.”

“What about the numbers?” Pascal asked. “Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen.”

“I guess we should ask ourselves what has three numbers,” I said.

“Telephone area codes,” Pascal suggested. “They have three numbers.”

“Except that area codes use numbers from zero to nine. These numbers are too big.”

“How about fertilizer? Fertilizer bags always have three numbers.”

“Fertilizer? Really, Pascal?”

“Sure. The numbers tell you how much nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium are in it. Those three things are needed to make plants grow.”

“How do you know that?”

“My mom showed me at the plant store.”

“I still think fertilizer is a stretch,” I said. Then I remembered buying some sunglasses with my dad. “Sunglasses always come with three numbers.”

“They do?” Pascal asked.

“On the inside of the arm of the left temple. The three numbers measure the length of the eye piece, the length of the bridge between the two eye pieces, and the length of the arm.”

“Well, I think sunglasses are just as much of a stretch as fertilizer,” Pascal said. “What could sunglasses have to do with someone named Trevor Tower who keeps secrets?”

He had a point.

“Fair enough,” I said.

We sat in silence for a while, pondering the possibilities.

Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen.

“Doesn't that sound like a combination lock to you?” Pascal said.

“Yes, actually, it does,” I admitted.

Good grief! Could Pascal be on to something?

“So whoever Trevor Tower is, maybe he has a locker,” Pascal continued. “And where do we find lockers?”

“Schools, mostly,” I said.

“Bingo,” Pascal said. “Trevor Tower
must
be a student.”

“Only he's quite a few years older than us because we haven't heard of him,” I said, confirming my earlier speculation.

“But if he's from around here, he might have gone to our school when he was younger. I think we should check it out,” Pascal said.

“Check what out?” Merrilee asked.

Somehow, she had sneaked up on us without a sound, vampire-like.

“What do you have there?” I asked, pointing to the bucket she was carrying in an attempt to distract her.

“Some kind of special detergent that's good for dirt,” she replied. “Check what out?”

I didn't want to tell Merrilee about our theory. She would probably poke all kinds of holes in it just for sport.

“Check out the gravestone I'm cleaning. It's blank.”

I shot Pascal a look that said, “Keep quiet.”

He did, but not without a confused tilt of his head.

“Blank?” Merrilee repeated, setting her bucket down.

“Come and see,” I said.

I led her and Pascal over to where I had been working on the double gravestone.

We stood in front of the blank side.

“Looks like Enoch didn't die happily ever after,” Merrilee said.

“Where is your wife, good sir?” Pascal asked Enoch.

No answer. Just birds singing in the trees.

“Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen,” Merrilee said. “Sounds like a combination lock to me.”

“That's what we were thinking!” Pascal exclaimed, wheeling around to face her.

I shot him a glare, but he was already too busy comparing notes with Merrilee.

“So we need to find out who Trevor Tower is and where he keeps his locker.”

“Agreed,” Merrilee said.

“Just a second now,” I interrupted. “Our plan is to find out who Trevor Tower is and then break into his locker?”