Kazu Jones and the Denver Dognappers

by Shauna Holyoak

  CHAPTER FIVE

  I cleared a spot in the middle of my bedroom and spread my free newspaper on the floor like wrapping paper. Genki nosed at me while I tried to concentrate, so I scrunched his face between my hands, rubbed his nose with mine, and said, “How’s my puppy?” After a good scratching behind the ears, he lay next to me, stretching out so that his side nuzzled my leg.

  My fingers, still black with ink from the route, shook a little as I smoothed out the front page. The headline read DENVER’S DOGNAPPING RING EMBOLDENED: THREE DOGS REPORTED MISSING IN ONE DAY. Three pictures hung beneath the headline and above the fold. Barkley was in the middle, looking royal as she sat at attention. On the far right, CindeeRae Lemmings’s dog, Lobster, lay in the grass.

  The words blurred on the page. The thought of Barkley bounding out of sight swelled in my mind, taking up all the space. I stood and searched my room for the Sleuth Chronicle, knocking down book towers and scattering clothing piles as I scrambled to find my notebook. Genki followed me, sniffing each place I searched.

  The corner of my notebook peeked from beneath the bed, and I snatched it up and returned to the newspaper. Genki sat for a second, cocking his head to the side as if trying to decide whether he wanted to risk cozying up to me again. Instead, he jumped on my bed and pawed at my covers, making a doggie nest.

  I scratched down important facts:

  · One of the dogs was grabbed from its yard at night, and two were taken during the day.

  · And of the two, only one was on a leash: Barkley.

  Only that was a lie, because I couldn’t stand to tell the Tanners it was my fault Barkley went missing. Mr. Tanner had come over the night before to ask more questions before reporting Barkley as a missing dog. I told him she had pulled loose, yanking the leash from my hands because the blacksmith had startled her. There had to be some curse I would experience for telling the same lie three times in one day.

  The article went on to say there were no leads, except for the one I hadn’t shared: A dirty van was taking the dogs away. I wrote that piece of information upside down and backward in case someone snooped through my notebook.

  Last week the police had shut down an illegal puppy mill on the outskirts of town where four dogs that had disappeared over the summer were found; they had been used as breeders, caged inside an abandoned apartment complex with dozens of other dogs, some of them malnourished. All of them dirty and sad. The National Mill Dog Rescue had taken sixty-three puppies to distribute to no-kill shelters across the state. Apparently illegal puppy mills like tiny dogs because they can cram more of them into tight spaces: Chihuahuas, Yorkies, terriers, miniature poodles, and pinschers. While some of the missing dogs were being sold to puppy mills, others, they suspected, were going to breeders, dogfighting rings, or laboratories conducting scientific experiments.

  I tried shrugging off the chills that rounded my back, but they lingered at my shoulder blades. Where would Barkley go?

  A darkness settled in my stomach like a stone.

  I ripped the front page from the paper, folded it carefully, and stuck it in the pages of my Sleuth Chronicle.

  From downstairs, I could hear Mom call, “Kazuko!”

  My name was Japanese and meant child of harmony. Mom was second-generation Japanese, which meant that while her parents were born in Japan, she was born in America. Raised in Seattle by my Ba-chan and Ji-chan, she could speak Japanese but felt more comfortable with English. My grandparents named her Yumi, but by the time she was in second grade, she was going by Rachel. After I was born, Mom became a born-again Nihonjin for a few years, and I learned what little Japanese I knew then. But now, aside from eating the occasional traditional dish and repeating a few phrases I knew, I wasn’t much of a cultural expert.

  Hearing Mom, Genki sat up and wagged his tail. My alarm clock read 7:55. The bus would come in ten minutes. I changed clothes, pulling them from a crumpled pile on my floor, and then dashed down the stairs.

  “Hustle!” Mom yelled, watching me from the front door. “You’re going to miss the bus.”

  I slipped my shoes on. Mom’s mouth gaped when she noticed the holes in the knees of my jeans—the same ones I had worn yesterday.

  “Kazuko Jones!” she snapped. “School started two weeks ago. You have plenty of new clothes to wear before resorting to old holey jeans.”

  I picked at the hem of my shirt. “Aren’t you glad your daughter isn’t worried about phony things like name brands and unholey jeans?” I met her eyes. “I’m a humble person, Mom.”

  “If you have to tell someone you’re humble, chances are you’re really not. But nice try.”

  She stepped back to look at me, clicking her tongue and shaking her head. I knew the dilemma: Her daughter was late and wearing damaged clothing. She could make me change, but then I’d miss the bus and she would have to drive me to school, and getting driven to school didn’t build character.

  She shooed me out the door while blocking Genki from following me and waved good-bye.

  That morning at school we had a safety assembly first thing. As my class walked to the auditorium I heard muffled conversations about kidnapper clowns, twisty hair tutorials, and missing dogs.

  I watched as CindeeRae walked into the auditorium ahead of me, her head bowed so low that her red ringlets hid her face like a veil. Before Lobster disappeared, CindeeRae had been the chattiest person in the fifth grade with the least friends. Maybe it was because she wouldn’t let anyone forget about her lead performance in Annie, which I guessed she’d probably won more with her hair than her acting. But now that CindeeRae’s dog had vanished, I felt bad for giving her the stink-eye every time she gushed about the theater.

  The room echoed with laughter as students elbowed past one another, jockeying for seats next to friends while Mrs. Thomas and the reading aide guided them with loopy gestures. Ahead of me Sky Mendelson and Finn Clayson shot spitballs from red straws, hitting friends rows ahead before turning on each other. I kept my distance, wondering if Lobster had met Barkley yet, and if they could be friends, wherever they were sent.

  Principal Smith stood at the front of the room, folding her arms like a proper example of respectable behavior. One policeman stood on the stage, his arms stiff at his sides. I searched for March in the class behind mine and found him looking wildly about the room. When he saw me, he smiled wide before flashing our secret hand signal—Taco Monster in sign language. I returned the gesture, making a hard taco shell with one hand and filling it with the fingers of the other before bringing both hands up in monster claws. Then I sat down, squaring my notebook on my lap and looking straight ahead.

  Mr. Grobin, the school counselor, walked onto the middle of the stage in front of the microphone stand. He was tall and thin, and everything about him was ironed and tucked in. His white hair stuck to his scalp like a swim cap.

  “Good morning, students,” he said.

  A handful of kids greeted him in return. “Good morning.”

  He stood quietly until the room settled.

  “We’re here to talk about safety.”

  Mr. Grobin waited again as students leaned into their neighbors, whispering. He rubbed his hands together like they were cold. “We want you to know that your well-being is our first priority. I’m sure you’ve heard that some beloved local pets have gone missing, some of them pets of your own.” Down the aisle, CindeeRae bent over her knees like she needed to hurl. And sure enough, with a disgusting retching sound, she did.

  Mrs. Thomas shuffled toward her from the side of the auditorium while Sky and Carl made barf faces at each other. The smell of puke floated out like a green fog, and I covered my nose to stop my stomach from heaving. As the boys clutched their guts and rolled in their chairs, Mrs. Thomas ushered CindeeRae from the room, and even from behind I could tell she was crying again. Custodian Clark appeared like a magician, covering the mess with sawdust and disappearing before the sweet smell of cleaner could mix with the urpy smell of CindeeRae’
s sadness.

  While the stench spread across the auditorium almost as quickly as the story, Mr. Grobin tapped the microphone and said, “Listen up.”

  When the chatting continued, he yelled, “Settle down,” and around me students hushed and turned to the front.

  The room quieted, except for the noise of kids shifting in their seats.

  Mr. Grobin basked in the silence for a few seconds. “We want to remind you of some safety rules. This is Officer Maxwell, and he’s going to instruct you how to respond in the event you see a dognapping.”

  Mr. Grobin stepped back and gestured to Officer Maxwell, who took the microphone off its stand and paced the stage. He talked about being extra-observant and not getting involved if we witnessed a dognapping, because we didn’t know how dangerous these people might be.

  I leaned back and looked at the ceiling, taking deep breaths and counting slowly in my mind. I saw Barkley launch ahead of me on the shady path and disappear. It was my fault she was missing. And it was my responsibility to save her.

  Suddenly, the image in my mind darkened, and it wasn’t Barkley but Genki disappearing into the dirty van at six in the morning, the wheels on my baby-blue Schwinn cruiser spinning, and unbound newspapers fanning out in the street as I chased after it. My head snapped up. My heart was beating so fast, I was certain my neighbors could hear it, and when I turned to check, my pulse echoed in my ears.

  The Sleuth Chronicle fell from my lap with a thud.

  CHAPTER SIX

  My parents talked about Mom’s new exhibit for the museum while we ate dinner. The Perception Center was a long-term interactive display that had been at the Denver Exploration Museum for Kids three years now, and it was Mom’s job to design something to replace it. Something sensational.

  “What do you think about a baking center?” she asked me and Dad. “Hands-on with measuring cups and lessons on fractions.” Mom brainstormed ideas aloud. “Play markets are big these days, or maybe a water study with one of those gigantic bubble rings you can stand inside of?”

  “That last one sounds promising.” Dad placed his chopsticks across the middle of his bowl of udon, still full of the thick noodles swimming in dark broth. He looked at me for a response, and I shrugged. Mom was just getting started and needed to burn through the boring ideas before she got to the good stuff.

  “Why so quiet, Bug?” he asked.

  “I’m not.”

  My parents exchanged looks, and I knew they were thinking about Barkley.

  “Can we have pizza casserole for dinner tomorrow night?” Talking about dinner seemed safer than talking about missing pets. I needled the bowl with my chopsticks, trying to avoid the blob of nattō nesting in the middle of my noodles.

  “We don’t eat Japanese food that often,” Mom said. “Besides, this is a perfectly healthy dinner, with less preservatives.”

  “But nattō smells funny.” Nattō was fermented soybeans that were probably healthy because all the toxins in your body evacuated as soon as you ate it.

  “It’s an acquired taste. Plus, it’s good for you,” Mom said.

  I sat back in my seat and pushed my hands into my pockets, not even pretending to eat. Deep in the corner on the left side was the sheet music for “We’re Going to Be Friends,” crumpled and frayed. I pulled it out and smoothed the edges on the tabletop.

  Mom studied the paper and smiled. “Is that your extra credit for music class?”

  Before I could answer, Dad snatched the paper and began to sing the words, his deep baritone voice rumbling across the table and making Genki howl from where he lay beneath my chair.

  “I have to sing it with Madeleine Brown,” I said.

  “The unicorn princess?” Mom asked. Back in those days I told Mom everything, and she still remembered all of it. Now I mostly shared stuff with March, even though Mom displayed sharp detecting abilities in the questions she drilled me with every day after school. Evading her questions required as much skill as asking them, I had discovered.

  “Yes.” I used my chopsticks to pick up the napkin next to my bowl and dab my cheeks with it. “She’s still as mean as ever. Only now with soccer cleats.”

  “Well,” Dad said, “this is one of my favorite White Stripes songs. I expect a solo performance once your extra credit is complete.”

  I didn’t answer and continued to poke at my noodles with the chopsticks.

  “Kazu?” Mom leaned over to trap my gaze. “Are you still upset about Barkley?”

  I set my chopsticks on the edge of my bowl. “The Tanners think I’m the worst.”

  “They’re just upset Barkley’s gone,” Dad said. “That’s not your fault, Bug.”

  I thought of Barkley’s leash in the garbage can next to the museum parking lot. It was my fault. “I would hate me if I lost Genki.”

  “No one’s losing Genki,” Mom said.

  Hearing his name, Genki startled from under the table, knocking his head on the crossbeam of my chair. I swung my leg until I found his belly and rubbed at him with my foot. “CindeeRae from my class lost her dog, too. His name is Lobster, and they took him from her backyard in the middle of the night.”

  Mom reached over and put her hand on mine. “They’ll catch the dognapper, Kazu.”

  She was being too gushy, and I fidgeted in my seat. Mom grabbed Mrs. Hewitt’s sheet music and folded it, her fingers flying like she was casting a spell. She dropped it back in its place, only this time it was a dog with triangle ears and a tail that curved around its body like a question mark. It looked a little like Barkley.

  “Do you think I’m a weirdo?” I asked as I cradled the dog in my palm.

  Dad chuckled. “Aren’t we all?”

  Detective Mom set her chopsticks down and studied me. “What makes you ask?”

  “Sometimes kids make fun of my investigations.”

  “Kazuko Jones,” Dad said, leaning over his elbows and showing horrible table manners. “I expect you to be a spectacular weirdo.”

  Mom and I both looked at him, waiting for the punch line.

  “Ordinary is boring,” he explained. “If you didn’t stand out for something, I would worry about you.”

  “But,” Mom interrupted, “balance is important, too. You’ve become a little too obsessed with this detective business, and it’s getting you into trouble.”

  Gah! Why couldn’t adults just answer a simple question without getting so preachy? “I know,” I said, because it meant I understood, but it didn’t mean I agreed.

  “I, for one,” Dad said, “will stand out amongst my family by eating this nattō in one bite.”

  “Carl!” Mom scowled as Dad pinched the giant dollop of nattō with his chopsticks and dropped it into his mouth.

  I scrunched my nose.

  Dad winked at Mom before turning back to me, talking with his mouth full. “Nattō is great!” Bits of beans clung to the top of his tongue.

  “Stop talking with your mouth full,” Mom said. When Dad swallowed and showed her his clean tongue, she added, “You’re disgusting.”

  He leaned over and kissed her right on the mouth.

  “See?” Dad said. “Nattō level, unlocked.”

  I said, “Now I’ve definitely lost my appetite. Can I be excused?” Usually I couldn’t leave the table until my dinner was gone, and I’d hardly eaten three full bites of the udon and none of the nattō.

  “I guess,” Mom said. “But do you mind if I tag along on the route tomorrow? It’s starting to get chilly out.”

  Since I was nine years old I had done the paper route by myself from spring until late fall, when it either snowed or the temperature dropped below zero. Then, because death was a possibility, Mom drove me. But with Barkley becoming Denver’s seventeenth missing dog, she may have started to see Genki as dognapping bait.

  Dad reached over and squeezed Mom’s hand.

  “I guess,” I answered, trying to hide my relief at her offer. Balancing my bowl in one hand and Origami Barkley in the ot
her, I pushed away from the table and left the room. Genki, triggered by the sound of my chair scraping the floor, emerged from under the table and followed me.

  “Kazuko! Wake up!” Mom yelled from the bottom of the stairs.

  “Coming!” I rolled onto the floor and patted around me for the pink jacket I set out every night before going to sleep. Genki unwound from his spot at the foot of my bed and nosed my face like he did every morning. I couldn’t tell if he was upset I had woken him up or anxious to get to work.

  “I love you too, pup pup.” I held his ears and pressed my forehead against his. He pushed his nose into my ear, sniffing like he’d found treasure. “Okay, okay. Let’s go.”

  My room was dark and cold, and the numbers on my clock flashed 12:00. That usually meant the electricity had gone out sometime in the middle of the night, which explained why my alarm hadn’t gone off.

  “Hurry, Kazuko!” Mom banged her hand on the wall.

  “Sheesh,” I muttered under my breath.

  I pulled on my jacket and trudged down the stairs, Genki tumbling down ahead of me. Mom waited by the door in her nightshirt, her robe pulled tight at her waist. I was still in my PJs, too. No one dressed up for the paper route.

  I slid my shoes on and followed Mom out the door to our driveway, where a bundle of newspapers sat by the curb. Genki trotted behind me as I carried the bundle to the car and set it on the console, ripping off the yellow plastic strap that held them together. While Mom started the car, I rolled papers with rubber bands and lined them on the dash. I punched the cab light so I could still work while Mom drove.

  Mom turned the radio on low, some nineties station that always played her favorite band, Smashing Pumpkins. She began the figure-eight loop that we followed to cover the three different streets on my route, her fingers playing the steering wheel like a piano even though the song was all about electric guitars. Genki paced in the backseat as she drove.

  “All right, all right,” Mom hollered at Genki in the backseat as she slowed for the first house. “I’ll roll down the windows, but no chasing squirrels.”