Vanishing Acts (3 page)

There are many different ways to remove gum from the fur of a dog. Peanut butter or ice, for example, and a purple, stinky solution called “Gum-B-Gone.” Unfortunately none of them worked on Nofarm, the scrappy fifty-pound mutt I was trying to clean after school that day, so I had to resort to scissors.

Nofarm sat calmly for me as I snipped the strawberry-flavored, bubble-fun-encrusted fur off his back. Then I ran my fingers through his coat, doing my best to cover up the small pink bald spot. By the time I finished, you couldn't see the skin.

“Good thing you're so furry,” I said, giving him a quick pat before clipping on his leash. This was the third piece of gum I'd had to cut off him this month. And I don't even know whom to blame. Beckett, the mischievous toddler he lives with, or Beckett's moms, who clearly let him get away with too much.

Luckily, Nofarm doesn't seem to blame anyone. Or care. Or maybe he doesn't even notice.

We took a twenty-minute walk, he did his thing, and I brought him home. Easy-peasy. Or it would've been, if I were the type of girl to characterize things as easy-peasy, but I am not.

“One dog down, three to go. See you tomorrow, Nofarm,” I said, giving his neck a good scratch before closing and locking the door behind me.

Next I headed to Bean's place. I try not to play favorites among my clients—it seems wrong, unprofessional, somehow. But if I did, Bean would most definitely not be one.

When I got to his place, I found his owner, Cassie, kneeling in the living room, brushing Bean's fur. Bean looked lovely—her hair silky, smooth, and shiny white, as usual. Meanwhile, Cassie seemed frantic. More so than usual, I mean; maybe because her red hair sat atop her head like a particularly thorny tumbleweed.

“Hi!” I said. “No work today?”

“I had to stay home,” said Cassie. “Emergency.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked.

“Not really,” said Cassie. “But I'm glad you're here. Do you notice anything different about Bean?” She stared at me closely with wide blue eyes. “Does she seem . . . strange?”

I stared at Cassie's dog—a six-pound, fluffy Maltese. Her sparkly pink nails matched the ribbons in her hair. Her cardigan was pink and green striped—custommade to order and hand-knit, courtesy of Lucy, who'd just launched her new line of pet sweaters on Etsy. (She was making a killing on Bean's wardrobe alone.)

“She looks perfectly normal to me,” I said.

Cassie exhaled. “That is a huge relief. You'll never guess what happened this morning—Bean almost got egged!”

“At the park?” I asked. “Were you near the Ninth Street entrance?”

“You heard about it?” asked Cassie. “When I called the police and demanded that they warn everyone in Brooklyn, it sounded like they weren't taking me seriously. I guess they must've been laughing about something else.”

“I didn't hear about Bean's egging,” I said. “But the same thing happened to my friend Charlotte's dog. Well, she's not my friend, exactly. Just someone I go to school with who wants my help. She's an eighth grader, and kind of—”

“It was the scariest thing I've ever experienced in my entire short life,” said Cassie. “I'm talking major trauma. This is worse than when our shipment of Jimmy Choos came in the wrong color.”

“Your what?” I asked.

“They're shoes,” said Cassie. “We needed them for a big photo shoot. You know I'm a stylist, right?”

“I didn't, actually.”

“Anyway, that mistake cost three people their jobs. No big deal. But this? It's a much graver situation. I'm just so worried about poor Bean. She's got to be so traumatized, because you know how she is about keeping her fur perfectly clean and white. She cries whenever she steps in mud.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Well, I cry whenever she steps in mud,” Cassie said with a cough. “But only because I know that Bean is suffering in silence. Anyway, now I'm worried she's got PTSD.”

“And that is . . . what?”

“PTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens when people experience great trauma. Terrorist attacks, war, kidnappings—”

I shook my head. Even for Cassie, this seemed nuts. “Can dogs get PTSD?” I asked.

“Of course they can! Although I suppose you might call it PPTSD.
Pet
post-traumatic stress disorder.”

I considered Bean, currently sniffing a dust bunny in the corner. “You did say she
almost
got egged, correct?”

“They only missed her by an inch.” Cassie held up
her thumb and forefinger, in case I'd never seen a ruler before.

“They?” I asked.

“They, he, she, whoever.” Cassie shrugged. “I don't really know who did it.”

“Think, though,” I said. “Are there any details you can remember? I need to find whoever's responsible, and so far I don't have much to go on.”

Cassie handed Bean over to me, then sat cross-legged on the floor and closed her eyes. She sealed her lips together and breathed in and out through her nose. I supposed this was her concentration pose; I hoped she'd start talking soon, because it was getting late.

“I remember laughter,” she said, finally.

“Laughter?”

“Yes, laughter,” she repeated.

I pulled my notebook from my backpack and wrote this down. “Whose laughter?”

“No idea.”

“Do you know where it was coming from? Any clue? Any small detail could help.”

“I don't know about the egg, but as for the laughter—I think it came from above,” said Cassie. “At least it sounded that way.”

I added “From above” with a question mark to my notes.

“Please give me your honest, professional opinion about Bean,” Cassie said. “Do you think she'll ever recover?”

I raised Bean to my face so I could look her in the eye. Bean stared right back at me, letting out a low growl. I put her down gently. “I think she'll be back to herself in no time,” I replied as I took her yellow polkadotted leash out of the closet.

“The problem is, the symptoms can lay dormant for years,” said Cassie. “Don't worry, though. I'm doing what I can. I stayed home from work so I could bathe her. I've also called a pet therapist, who's coming at five thirty to begin counseling Bean through the trauma. And I've signed her up for Doga as well. I hear it's a great stress reliever.”

“Doga?” I asked.

“Dog-yoga,” Cassie replied, like it was obvious. Then she held up a tiny headband and a matching pair of Bean-size yoga pants. “Look what I got her. Cute, right? Our first class is tomorrow morning. It's supposed to do wonders for her flexibility, too.”

I knew better than to question it. “Um, should I still take her out, or do you think she's too . . . fragile right now?”

“No, please, take her for a walk!” said Cassie. “I don't want her regular routine interrupted. That's why
I decided to put her in bows, because it's Tuesday, and she always wears her fur up on Tuesdays.”

“Good thinking.” I struggled to keep a straight face. Dog eggings were serious, and seriously horrifying. But weekly hairstyles? Well, they were horrifying in a different sense.

“Please keep her away from Ninth Street. And could you put her in this, too?” Cassie handed me a yellow rain slicker. “You do have an umbrella, right?”

I glanced out the window. The wind had blown away all the clouds, leaving blue sky and a golden late-afternoon sunshine. “No, but I don't think it's going to rain.”

“The umbrella is to shield her from another attack,” said Cassie. “Because what if this wasn't some random act of violence? What if someone's after poor Bean?”

“I really don't think—”

“You can take mine. It's the pink one with puppies on it—by the front door.”

I grabbed the first umbrella I saw.

“No, the one on the left.”

I glanced at the umbrella in my hand. “This one has puppies on it,” I said.

“But it's magenta,” Cassie said. “I'm talking
true
pink.”

On our short walk, Bean acted uptight.

High-strung.

Nervous.

Hostile to other dogs.

And people.

Even birds.

Also? She snapped at a butterfly.

In short, Bean acted like herself. But we made it back without any major incidents. Something I reported to Cassie, who'd been anxiously waiting for me by the front door.

“That's a huge relief. Thank you, Maggie!” She gave me a squishy hug that left traces of fruity perfume on my fleece.

My next client lived right upstairs. Dog-Milo is a cute, sweet, mellow puggle.

Ironically, we ran right into boy-Milo as soon as we got outside.

My friend Milo is also cute, sweet, and mellow, just like his canine namesake. He's also tall and thin and quiet, with perfectly floppy brown hair. I used to admire Milo from afar, and now I admire him from a-near, because we hang out all the time.

I guess one could still say I have a secret crush on him. Except now Finn and Lucy and Sonya and Beatrix know about my feelings, so it's not exactly a secret. Also, Milo kind of knows, too. I think. But that's okay, because I have this sneaking suspicion that he's got a not-so-secret crush on me as well.

At least he acts that way. He smiles at me whenever I see him. And he's often hanging around, waiting for me to invite him places. Like right now. I know for a fact that Milo meets his chess tutor after school on Tuesdays, all the way on the other side of the neighborhood. Yet here he was, right in front of the building where two of my clients live. Just like he is almost every afternoon.

Not in a stalker way. More like an I'm-your-boyfriend-and-we-had-plans-to-meet-up way. Even though we never officially talked about it (the meeting up or the boyfriend thing).

“Hey,” he said, pretending to be surprised. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” I pointed to the puggle as if Milo hadn't met him ten times before. “You remember Milo the dog, right?”

“This is where he lives?” asked Milo, falling in step with me. “I keep forgetting.”

Milo is a good guy, but a bad liar. Not that I'd call him on it. “What are you up to?” I asked instead.

Milo shrugged. “Not much. Hanging out. I had chess today. And then my grandma needed something from the pharmacy around the corner. She doesn't like the one by our apartment, so I always have to walk up here. But her prescription wasn't ready, so I was just—”

I bit my bottom lip to keep from smiling too wide. Milo's so cute when he goes on and on about why he happened to be standing here—like, he makes so many elaborate and complicated excuses, it's obvious they're fake. Unless his grandma needs a new prescription every single day, which I suppose is possible, but highly unlikely. Today I cut him off before he got
too
carried away.

“Want to come to the park with me? Charlotte Ginsburg's dog got egged this morning and I'm on the case.”

“Her dog got egged?” asked Milo.

“Yup,” I said. “And it's worse than that. Mister Fru Fru isn't the only victim.”

“Charlotte's dog's name is ‘Mister Fru Fru'?” asked Milo.

“I know,” I replied. “Bean just narrowly escaped an egg attack this morning.”

“Who'd egg such a tiny, defenseless little dog?” Milo asked. Then, after thinking about it for a minute, he added, “Do you think it could be someone she's tried to attack?”

“Don't know,” I replied. “But I don't think so. Yes, Bean's got some personality issues, but Mister Fru Fru is a sweetheart.”

“You know him?” asked Milo.

“Nope. But that's what Charlotte's friends tell me.”

Milo smiled at me. “You did a background check on a dog?”

I pulled my notebook from my backpack and flipped to the page on Mister Fru Fru. “Not just any dog,” I replied. “A forty-seven-pound black Standard Poodle sporting a royal blue collar and a matching leash.”

“Impressive,” said Milo.

“I believe in being thorough.” I put my notebook away and readjusted my backpack. “Anyway, apparently there've been a bunch of egg attacks this weekend.”

“Like, how many?”

“I'm not sure. That's why we need to investigate.”

Yes, I said “we,” as in Milo and me. Like we were a couple, even though we are not. Yet. And I'm not saying it will definitely happen. But it could. I think. In fact, if things continued the way they were going, it probably would.

I think and hope so, anyway.

We walked in silence for a while, but not an awkward, agonizing silence. It was more like a we-are-so-used-to-this-and-cool-with-each-other-so-we-don't-have-to-speak-all-the-time silence.

Once we got closer to Ninth Street, I kicked into detective mode. “We need to talk to as many dog owners as possible,” I told him. “So let's split up.”