Vanishing Acts

by Leslie Margolis

  “Pizza Den,” I said.

  “Right. Maybe I got too worked up. You just never know with people. Someone was crazy enough to kidnap Seth. My—” She didn’t finish her sentence. She seemed too upset to speak.

  Suddenly, tears streamed down her face. I could tell she was the type of person who didn’t often break down in public. That’s probably why she rushed into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

  I sat there thinking, worried that Seth was in danger, frustrated at what seemed like such a hopeless situation.

  When Fiona didn’t return after a few minutes, I went to the door and heard muffled sobs over the rush of water. She must’ve turned on the sink to cover the anguished sounds, but it didn’t work. I heard everything.

  I knocked softly. “Are you okay, Fiona?”

  “Fine,” she sniffed through the door. “I mean, I’ll be fine—eventually. Please just go. I’m sorry I can’t help you. I just hope someone finds Seth before it’s too late.”

  “I’ll let you know if I hear anything,” I promised.

  Back at our table, I grabbed my backpack, and accidentally tripped over Fiona’s bag. It was one of those fancy purses—shiny and oversize, and when it tipped over, half the contents spilled out.

  I crouched down to pick them up and put her makeup and wallet and keys back in the bag. That’s when I noticed the letter. I went to put it away, too, with the rest of her junk, but stopped once I noticed to whom it was addressed. Seth Ryan. And the return address? Bill Ryan, in Buffalo, New York.

  I stood slowly as I stared at the letter. Something was written in the corner, faint pencil tracings I had to squint to read properly. The number sixty-seven. What did it mean?

  I glanced at the closed bathroom door.

  Fiona had just gone out of her way to tell me that Bill refused to speak to Seth. Does someone who refuses to speak to his son send a letter? A letter, I realized—glancing at the postmark—that was sent days before he disappeared?

  I don’t think so.

  I quickly put the letter in my backpack, then righted Fiona’s purse and headed out the door.

  As I rushed home, my mind buzzed with a familiar feeling. Somehow I knew that I was on the brink of a major discovery.

  No, I still didn’t know where Seth was, and Fiona didn’t, either.

  She hadn’t kidnapped him—that much seemed obvious.

  But so was this: she sure was guilty of something.

  Chapter 20

  When I got home, I sat down at my desk with the letter in front of me. My first instinct was to tear it open and read it to search for clues that could lead me to Seth.

  I ran my fingers along the edge of the seal, then placed my pointer finger under the corner, but I couldn’t go any further due to one simple fact: the letter was addressed to Seth. That meant the contents were private. This wasn’t for my eyes, and I had to respect that.

  Once I found Seth, I’d give it to him. And find him I would.

  Since I didn’t have any more actual leads, I decided to do some research online. I read more about the court case, and found that while Fiona hadn’t bluffed, she’d only told me one side of the story.

  While she’d claimed that Bill didn’t know how to manage Seth’s career, Bill had accused Fiona of working Seth too hard.

  They also had differing accounts of how Seth broke his arm snowboarding. Bill claimed that Fiona pressured Seth into doing his own stunts. Fiona claimed it was Bill who forced him into it. I looked for Seth’s account, but couldn’t find it anywhere. The entire battle seemed to take place around him, as if Seth never had his own opinion—or, at least, none that got recorded.

  Next I checked out the local newspaper in Buffalo. It seemed like the only place I hadn’t looked.

  Right away I saw an advertisement for Bill’s of Buffalo. It looked like Seth’s dad had started up his old business again.

  SUVs were on sale. Prices like you’ve never seen before.

  I did a Google search on Bill’s of Buffalo and Bill Ryan.

  And that’s when a random link at the bottom of the page caught my eye. I clicked on it, and it led me to the local birth announcements. “Congratulations, Bill Ryan, on the birth of twin boys!” It was dated five weeks ago. Bill and someone I presumed to be his wife were standing in a parking lot with two blue bundles and gigantic smiles.

  Bill Ryan was Seth’s dad. And now, apparently, he was also dad to two new boys. That means Seth had two half brothers!

  Of course, Seth had been estranged from his father a long time. I wondered if he’d ever get to meet them. I wondered if he even knew they existed.

  One glance at Bill’s picture told me he did not kidnap his oldest son. His eyes were squinty from smiling so much, and I could see the joy on his face. Exhaustion, too. Even if he were the kind of guy who’d kidnap his own son, he certainly wouldn’t be able to do it in the weeks following the birth of twins, I didn’t think. He’d be too busy. So I crossed him off my list.

  Still, I wondered what he’d written to Seth. Was Bill angry with Seth? Did he miss him? Was he sorry? Worried? Still confused? Did he simply write to give him the news? What did the number in the corner mean? Was it some sort of secret code? Would Seth know?

  And why did Fiona hold on to the letter? I thought about her hands trembling when I asked her about Bill, and I realized she wasn’t simply worried—she was terrified. But why?

  Chapter 21

  Charlotte was waiting for me at my locker when I got to school on Monday. “How’s the investigation going?” she asked, instead of saying hello. That was her thing, I now knew. No “hi” or “bye” or “how are you?” or any other pretense. She was completely direct: this is why I’m talking to you, and this is what I want. Once I got used to it, I found her honesty refreshing.

  “Oh, hey, Charlotte. Not great,” I told her, deciding to be perfectly honest about my completely imperfect investigation. “I’ve found plenty of other victims. Six or seven dogs last week, all attacked at around the same spot; but no one I’ve talked to has seen the egger’s face. Meanwhile, I’ve staked out the park on three different occasions, but I’ve never witnessed an attack, and I’m not sure of where to look next. Of course, there haven’t been any new reports all weekend. And I’ve been a bit distracted these days.”

  “I’m sure,” said Charlotte. “You’re probably too worried about your boyfriend.”

  “My boyfriend?” I asked.

  “It’s okay.” She leaned in close and lowered her voice. “You can tell me the truth.”

  Truth was, Milo would hardly speak to me these days. He’s the closest thing I’ve ever had to a boyfriend, and he’s currently further from being my boyfriend than he’s ever been. Even before we’d ever spoken, I could imagine some future time when we would hang out and get to know each other and be friends before one thing would lead to another and we’d be a couple. But now? Not a chance. Which isn’t anything I felt like sharing with Charlotte.

  Nor could I understand why she would care.

  Or how she would know.

  In response to my blank stare, she pulled a copy of the New York Post out of her messenger bag and opened it to Page Six. There in the middle of the gossip section was a gigantic close-up of Seth Ryan and me.

  “That is you, correct?” Charlotte asked.

  “Um, yeah,” I replied, taking the paper so I could get a closer look.

  The picture was from when we shared a table at the Pizza Den. I mean, obviously, since that’s the only time I’d been within five feet of him (without getting assaulted by his security guard, I mean).

  It was certainly the only time we’d actually shared a real conversation. It’s funny that it was documented.

  On the other hand, I’d seen pictures of Seth riding a bike, eating apples, and tying his shoes. Pretty much his whole entire life was captured on film and then published for the entire world to see; why not this random encounter?

  Of course, once I read the headli
ne, I realized the New York Post thought our encounter was anything but random: Seth and His New Mystery Girlfriend Share a Slice.

  The picture was taken from over my shoulder. Seth’s entire face was visible, but only the back of my head. From that angle, it looked as if Seth was hunched over the table, staring into my eyes intensely. If it were anyone else but me in the shot, I’d probably assume Seth was on a date, too.

  It all struck me as odd, because I didn’t remember seeing any photographers or hearing any camera clicks. That someone had done this in secret—it was kind of creepy. And at the same time, almost cool. I’d made the news. Or at least “Mystery Girlfriend” had. People thought that Seth and I were an item. How hilarious! How bizarre! How exciting!

  “I can’t believe this,” I said.

  Charlotte took her newspaper back. “So, what’s he really like?” she asked. “And how did you guys meet? How long have you been together? Have you been to Hollywood? Does his house really have an arcade with a bowling alley and a Whac-a-Mole made out of gold?”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I remained silent. It wasn’t just shock—it was also wonder. I’d never heard about Seth’s gold Whac-a-Mole table. I wondered if it was true, and where he’d even get something like that.

  “I’m sorry,” said Charlotte. “I’m being insensitive. It stinks about your boyfriend. It must be agonizing for you. I hope he’s okay.”

  “Yeah, me, too,” I replied. “But Seth isn’t my boyfriend. I hardly know him.”

  Charlotte smiled. “Let me guess. You can’t let anyone know because you may be in danger, too, right? Whoever’s got Seth might want to kidnap you next. I get it.”

  That thought had never occurred to me before. Maybe Charlotte had a point. I looked over my shoulder, wondering if maybe I should be more careful. No, wait a second. This was crazy. “Really, he’s not my boyfriend.”

  “Right,” said Charlotte, clearly not buying this. “I just hope you can still track down Mister Fru Fru’s egger. I understand that you have a lot on your mind. Boyfriend missing, possibly kidnapped—it’s rough. But Seth isn’t the only one who needs you now. Anyway, he’s got a gazillion people searching for him. But think about all the dogs in Prospect Park. All they have is you.”

  “Honestly, we’ve never even been on a date.”

  Charlotte smiled. “There’s photographic evidence to prove it, but fine, stick with that story.”

  Before I could explain, she turned around and left.

  No good-bye, of course.

  On my way to homeroom, eight random people I didn’t even know said hello to me. And before I got to class, a sixth grader named Tracy with short dark hair, glasses, and freckles cornered me and asked for my autograph.

  “Are you kidding?” I asked. “I’m not famous.”

  “But your boyfriend is.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I insisted.

  She nodded. “I heard you had to say that, but don’t worry. I won’t tell.”

  I wanted to explain, but at the same time, it was so much easier to sign her notebook and go to class. At least that’s what I thought before four of Tracy’s friends saw me and insisted on autographs as well.

  By lunchtime, my hand ached from signing so much. And my head ached from trying to figure out who kidnapped Seth and who the egger could possibly be. I couldn’t wait to see my friends and have some normalcy.

  But when I showed up at my regular table, Beatrix and Sonya were both wearing Sherlock Holmes–style detective hats. Sonya carried a magnifying glass in her shirt pocket and Beatrix chewed on a fake pipe.

  “Can you believe these two?” asked Lucy, who was already halfway done with her spaghetti.

  “I take it you guys spoke to Brandon?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. We cornered him last night after we were done with our scenes. It was awesome,” said Sonya.

  “He’s totally guilty,” said Beatrix. “It was all over his face. I mean, not literally. But I could tell.”

  Sonya shook her head. “Don’t listen to her, Maggie. He’s completely innocent. I’m sure of it.”

  “No, he’s just acting that way so we don’t suspect him,” Beatrix insisted.

  “How about you tell me what happened,” I said.

  “Good idea.” Beatrix took her pipe out of her mouth. “We’ll let the facts speak for themselves.”

  “Where did you get that thing, anyway?” I asked.

  “My grandpa used to smoke it,” said Beatrix. “I found it in a box with his old dentures.”

  “Ew!” the rest of us yelled.

  “Well, I washed it first, obviously,” said Beatrix.

  “Let me start,” said Sonya, consulting her notes. “We launched our investigation at seventeen hundred hours. That’s five o’clock in the evening, military time.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  “We approached the subject—that’s Brandon—at Craft Services.” She paused to look at me. “‘Craft services’ is what they call the catered food at any movie or TV set. They have to feed people because of union regulations. Anyway, Brandon had just taken a mediumsize bite of a turkey and cheese sandwich.”

  “Swiss cheese,” said Beatrix. “And it had mustard on it, too. Which I know because some of it fell out of his sandwich and landed on his shirt by his collar.”

  “I see,” I said. “And that relates to Seth’s disappearance how?”

  “In no way, shape, or form,” said Sonya. “We just wanted to let you know that we were paying attention.” She held up her notebook, the page filled with her careful handwriting. “And we’ve taken lots of notes.”

  “So what did Brandon say?”

  “It was awesome. Beatrix went undercover. Meaning she pretended like she was a huge fan of his work.”

  Beatrix nodded excitedly. “And Sonya pretended to be British.”

  “Wait, what?” I asked.

  “I pretended to be British,” said Sonya, switching to an exaggerated British accent. “It was easy because my cousins from London were just visiting. So everything was spot-on, as they say.”

  “But how will pretending to be British help us track down Seth?” I wondered, baffled.

  “Isn’t it obvious?” asked Sonya. “All the great detectives are British. Sherlock Holmes. Agatha Christie’s Miss Marple. Sherlock—wait, I already said him, right?”

  Beatrix nodded. Sonya turned back to me. “It just felt right that way.”

  “Okay, fine. So what happened?”

  “I swooned and asked for his autograph,” Beatrix said. “And I told him how much I’d always wanted to meet him. He was thrilled, and went back into his dressing room to get me a headshot so he could sign that instead of the paper I offered him.”

  “He gave me a signed one, too,” said Sonya. “Even though I didn’t ask for it.”

  “It’s true,” said Beatrix. “And he thanked us both and said that usually people don’t even recognize him. Especially when he’s working with Seth. And I said, ‘That must be annoying,’ and he said, ‘You have no idea’ . . .”

  “And then what?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?” asked Beatrix.

  “Um, what happened next?”

  “I said ‘Thank you’ and he said ‘See you later.’ And he headed back to his trailer.”

  “Didn’t you ask him about Seth’s disappearance?” I asked.

  “We didn’t want to seem obvious,” said Beatrix. “I figured we’d catch him by surprise.”

  “That’s why we did surveillance,” said Sonya. “That means we camped out across the street and watched his trailer for suspicious activity.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I know.”

  “Right. I’m forgetting you’ve been a detective for weeks now. It’s still kind of new to us, but we’re learning,” said Sonya. “And check out my new binoculars. Pretty cool, huh?”

  They were small and gray and lightweight. “These are nice.” I raised them to my line of vision and aimed them at M
ilo, who sat on the other side of the cafeteria. He ate a burrito while bent over a book, alone. Not in an I-have-no-friends way; usually he ate with Finn’s crowd. More like an I’m-too-busy-today-and-I’m-cool-enough-to-do-that way.

  I wondered if he’d heard the rumor about Seth and me. Everyone at school seemed to think we were a couple. But Milo was there when I met him. He knew the truth. So why was he still acting so distant? In science this morning I asked him if he had a hard time with the homework, and he shrugged and said, “Not really,” without even turning around.

  “Maggie?” asked Sonya.

  “Sorry.” I returned the binoculars. “These are great. Very powerful. So, um, what did you see?”

  “Nothing,” said Sonya. “We watched his trailer for over an hour. He never came out. And then we had to go home and do our homework.”

  “You know our report on Cindy Singer is due tomorrow,” Beatrix said.

  “It’s not due until Tuesday,” I said.

  “Right—and today is Monday,” Sonya replied.

  I cringed. “Yikes, I haven’t even started.”

  “Then it’s a good thing we solved the mystery,” said Beatrix.

  “We did?” I asked. “I think we’re kind of missing some evidence.”

  “We don’t need any more evidence,” said Beatrix. “I told you—Brandon is obviously jealous of Seth’s career and he’s tired of always playing the sidekick and the best friend and the other, unnamed guy. It’s been driving him insane. I just know it.”

  “Okay, that may be true, but it doesn’t mean he’d kidnap him,” I said.

  “It doesn’t mean he didn’t,” Beatrix replied.

  “I guess you have a point. But how do we know the mail carrier isn’t guilty? Maybe she’s jealous of Seth’s career, too.”

  Sonya nodded and added “mail carrier” to her notes, followed by three gigantic question marks.

  “I don’t really think the . . . never mind. Look, even if Brandon is guilty, we’re still not done. We still need to figure out where Seth is. And, you know—rescue him.”