The Disappearing Dog Dilemma (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries)

by Christy Barritt

  The voice sounded like the lady I’d talked to a day and a half ago, but I wanted to make sure. “If you really are Mrs. Wrangley, who cleans your house and when?”

  I backed down the steps, keeping my eyes on the vagrant stroking Poco’s head.

  “Your mother does, on Wednesday mornings.”

  “One more question: What kind of dog treats does Pocococo get?”

  “None, because the vet has him on a diet.” Mrs. Wrangley sounded amused.

  My heartbeat started slowing down to normal. “Okay. I believe you.”

  Still, I stayed where I was, staring at the bum brother.

  “Amos is going to be staying at our house for a few days. We had no idea he might drop in when we left for the funeral. Things here are getting complicated, so I’m not sure when we’ll be home. But these things just seem to come in threes.” Now Mrs. Wrangley sounded exasperated.

  “And I am perfectly capable of taking care of the pets!” Amos shouted loudly enough for Mrs. Wrangley to hear.

  “Gabby, dear, put Amos on the phone.”

  I held the phone out by the tip of the small plastic antenna and reluctantly eased it toward him. No way was I going to let him snag my wrist again, even if he was some black-sheep relative of the Wrangleys. He jerked the phone from me, scowling.

  I got a good look at him then. He was wearing flip-flops, probably because the bulky bandage wrapped around his left foot, ankle, and calf wouldn’t permit him to wear shoes. Between the top of the bandage and his knee, a tattoo peeked out. All I could tell was that it seemed to be a frog’s head and the end of a trident, like the one I’d seen Neptune holding in mythology books.

  “I can take care of a stupid dog and a cat, for heaven’s sake. It’s not like I’m in a wheelchair.”

  His legs were way too tan for March and way too muscled for me to have outrun him, had he not had the foot thing going on. I caught a whiff of Ivory soap and Bengay—not exactly what I’d expect from a guy that slept in a cardboard box in an alley. With all the facial hair it was hard to tell, but on closer inspection I guessed he was in his late twenties.

  Poco, still trying to get down, was irritating the man. He shoved the dog into my hands and glared at me. “I don’t need some girl showing up unannounced at all hours of the day and night, barging into the house.”

  He reached around inside the door and produced Poco’s leash, which he held out. I took it, snapped the lead on, and let the dog down to take care of business in the front yard.

  First, he scared me half out of my mind, and now he’s getting me fired. It wasn’t fair!

  Amos held out the phone to me, so I took it, maintaining as much distance as possible between us.

  “Gabby, I’m so sorry this happened,” Mrs. Wrangley continued. “If we had had any idea, we would have let you know. I’m sure it was quite a shock to find a strange man in our house.”

  I wanted to fill her in on just how strange but wisely kept my mouth shut.

  “If you would just take Poco for his walk one last time, Amos will manage the rest until we get home. I do so appreciate your willingness to jump in when we were in a tight spot. Do tell your mom about Amos, but I hope we’ll be back before she cleans again. Unless we hit another speed bump. Thanks, Gabby.”

  “Uh, sure. Bye.” The phone clicked off, and I glared at Amos. “Thanks for losing me my job.”

  Amos glowered back at me, then turned, hobbled inside, and shut the door. I quickly removed the keys and took Pocococo on his farewell walk.

  CHAPTER 13

  “It’s just not fair, Mom,” I wailed as I flopped into a kitchen chair. Canned TV laughter came from the living room, where I supposed my father was sleeping on the couch.

  “Tootsie, there is no way any of us could have known. I know you are disappointed about the money, but look at the bright side. You’ll be able to sleep in tomorrow.” My mother was trying her best to be upbeat and cheerful as she mashed the potatoes.

  My mom was like that. No matter how dismal the situation, Mrs. Bobbi St. Claire could find something to be happy about. I guess that came in handy with a husband like my dad and a kid like me. Sometimes I wished that just once, my mom would admit that life sucked. Before she could Pollyanna the situation further, the phone rang.

  “I’ll get it!” I yelled, hoping maybe it was Pete calling to ask me out on a real, bona fide, no-doubt-about-it date.

  As I trotted off in the direction of the ringing, my mom called after me. “Don’t stay on too long. This is the one night this week we can sit down and eat as a family . . . on time. And don’t forget to put the phone back on the charger. You’ll run the battery down otherwise.”

  I sighed as I searched for the phone. I usually was the one who forgot to put it where it belonged. Having to frequently hunt for a lost phone was about the only advantage to living in such a small space. It didn’t help matters that one whole bedroom was off limits, being preserved as it was four years ago when my brother vanished.

  Unhappy thought; don’t go there.

  I found the phone under my unfolded laundry on the ninth ring.

  “Guess what, guess what, guess what?” To say Becca was excited was an understatement. “The police are having an auction of unclaimed bikes next week. Dad thinks you could get a pretty nice bike cheap. Then we could ride together.”

  “I can’t,” I snapped, mostly because of my disappointment that I’d lost my job and a teeny-weeny bit because it wasn’t Pete.

  “Of course you can. You’re gonna be rolling in the dough.”

  “No, I’m not.” I sighed.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I lost my job, therefore I am beyond broke.”

  “You got fired?” Becca’s enthusiasm ebbed away. “What happened?”

  One corner of my mouth turned up and my eyebrows knit together as I debated whether or not to point out that Becca, for once, had jumped to the conclusion I had been fired. I decided to let it go since I’d done enough jumping about Amos to make a trampoline dizzy.

  “Turns out the Wrangleys’ relative showed up, so they don’t need me. Lucky me.”

  “Bummer. But they’ll pay you for the dog walks you did do, won’t they?”

  “I guess. They better.” I added more firmly, “Especially after what happened.”

  “Dinner, Gabby. Tell her you’ll call back.” Mom’s voice floated upstairs.

  “Okay, Mom.” I reluctantly started back downstairs.

  “Get off the phone. Don’t keep your mother waiting,” my dad growled, probably more hungry than concerned about my mom’s feelings.

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Later, gator,” I muttered.

  “Soon, baboon.”

  I stomped a bit more than necessary on the rest of the stairs.

  Mom said grace and tried to get a conversation going. Dad rarely had more to say than “pass the pepper,” and I didn’t have anything to say to him. I’d barely gotten the food on my plate when the phone rang again.

  I jumped up to answer it, but my father pushed away from the table and barked, “I’ll put an end to these interruptions.”

  He marched off toward the ringing.

  I started to get up anyway, but my mom placed a gentle hand on mine. We both tensed when we heard him say, “We are having dinner,” in a gruff tone.

  I rolled my eyes and shoveled a forkful of hamburger and potatoes in my mouth. I was totally shocked when my father shuffled in and tossed the phone onto my lap. I gingerly picked it up while my mother looked expectantly at my dad, eyebrows raised.

  “Hello?” I mumbled around the mouthful of food.

  “You’re to come at 0600 and 1700, sharp. You can clean up the backyard, do the litter box, and walk Poco. I’ll feed and water them. You forgot to bring the trash bins in. Don’t let it happen again.”

  It was the infamous Amos ordering me around like he was Principal Black during a fire drill. I might have snapped just a tiny bit in reply.

&n
bsp; “What makes you think I ever want to set foot anywhere near you again?” I said, not caring he was an adult.

  Who did he think he was, bossing me around? My hackles must have risen visibly, because my mom signaled me to stop being so sassy. She held out her hand, and I gladly gave her the phone.

  “This is Mrs. St. Claire. Gabby is delighted to be of service.” She stared at me, eyebrows raised in that don’t-get-in-trouble look. “She’ll be there at six tomorrow morning.”

  I frowned, feeling even more aggravated than before.

  Why couldn’t anything go right in my life?

  CHAPTER 14

  “Gabby, you just have to keep the job.” Becca’s voice expressed her incredulousness. Even over the phone I could imagine my BFF’s brown eyes rolling. “This could be the start of your own business. You’d become an entrepreneur just like Mr. Cicorelli talked about in class at the beginning of the year.”

  I lay on the floor in my room, legs on my bed so I could do crunches while Becca played devil’s advocate. Only my BFF would remember what we covered during the first month of school. I proceeded to give my final but weakest argument against continuing as a professional pet sitter.

  “They won’t be back for another week, and I have to get up an hour earlier every day so I can walk the dog before I go to school. Do you have any idea how dark it is at 5:30 a.m.?”

  “Yes, I do. I routinely get up that early,” Becca said.

  I had been expecting that answer and was ready with my own comeback. “Then you know how badly it would suck. Plus, the crazy guy.” I couldn’t understand why a cop’s kid, of all people, would dismiss the whack factor so quickly. “He might be a serial killer or something.”

  Note to self: Stop saying “serial killer.” I was afraid that if I said it often enough, in some strange twist of fate I might actually meet one.

  “You have too much imagination, Gabby. If you take this job, you will make enough money to buy a decent bike. That means on future jobs you would not have to get up as early because you can get around more quickly. A bike would not only be a capital resource, it would provide recreational opportunities for both of us this summer.”

  I skipped over the capital resource thing, whatever that meant, and considered the summer possibilities. Bikes would certainly expand the number of places I could go, since at almost fourteen, I was not going to be driving anytime soon.

  “Tootsie, don’t forget the dishes,” my mom called as she walked by my bedroom door.

  “True,” I conceded while hauling myself upright and downstairs. “But unless Pete’s parents fixed or got him a bike, it’s not like I’d be hanging out with him more.”

  I cradled the phone between my ear and shoulder as I started filling the sink, thinking for the zillionth time it would be nice if we had a mechanical dishwasher like everyone else.

  “About this Pete thing,” Becca began.

  I cringed. I hated it when she sounded like a parent and even more when she turned out to be right. But I didn’t want to get in another argument with her, so I derailed her train of thought.

  “Yeah, even if the Pete thing fizzles out, the two of us would ride together,” I inserted quickly as I loaded dirty dishes into the hot, soapy water. The lemony smell was a welcome distraction from the usual stale cigarette odor that lingered on my dad’s coat after a night out with the guys. “Plus, I’d rather pet sit than help Mom clean this summer. Remember last time at the Diva’s? The sleepover and the notes in the trash?”

  My mom had suggested I spend part of my summer helping her clean houses, but after the disaster at Donabell Bullock’s a month ago, when I’d been publically humiliated in front of half the seventh grade, I had not been too keen on taking my mom up on the offer.

  “Gabby, Pete may just be using you as part of his cover-up. What better way to divert suspicion off of himself than to spend all this time, with a witness, looking for the lost dog?”

  “Pete wouldn’t do that!”

  “He has motive—his jealousy of Lana. He had means to get inside—credit card.”

  “Three dogs are missing.” I scrubbed the potato pot extra hard.

  “Maybe he let the other two dogs loose by accident.”

  “Pete couldn’t have done it,” I said with more conviction than I felt. “How could he be at Oceanside Boarding and be at Lana’s dance recital out of town?”

  Having said it, I felt my confidence in Pete’s innocence rise 100 percent.

  “Find out when they got home, when they went to pick up Fluffnstuff, and if there was enough time in between for him to get there from home and back.”

  Like I said, I hated it when Becca talked like this.

  Dear Watson,

  I have these ginormous decisions to make, facts to find, and pets to sit. Not that pet sitting is simple, because of this freaky guy who gives me the creeps. And I may have a boyfriend who wants to be a hero, but Becca thinks he might actually be a creep.

  So I have to figure out what really happened to the missing dogs in order to clear Pete, and then I can have my happily ever after.

  Right?

  CHAPTER 15

  Lunch Monday was almost as good as being on stage. The entire table was wide eyed at my dangerous pet-sitting encounter, especially when I got to the human handcuff part. When I got to the tattoo part, Brandon interrupted.

  “Navy SEAL,” he insisted. “The tattoo gives it away. Those guys are rad.”

  The admiration in his voice surprised me. I figured he missed the whole vagrant description, so I repeated it. “He looked like he lived in a cardboard box with his scraggly, long hair and beard. If he was navy, he’d have a buzz cut.”

  Living in an area with army, navy, and air stations, I’d seen enough military guys to know.

  “No, SEALs look like that on purpose, kind of a disguise like a cop going undercover wears. They do secret missions and everything. My dad said Navy SEALs jump out of planes at night, land in the ocean, swim ten, twenty miles to an enemy ship or outpost, and blow it up.”

  He was evidently impressed, but it sounded more like mythology to me.

  “I bet he looked buff, didn’t he?” Brandon asked.

  I had to think about it. I had pretty much focused on the bum leg, but I vaguely recalled the other one looking strong and muscly. I hadn’t seen him again, but I had heard noise upstairs that sounded like weights, big, heavy weights, thumping down on the floor.

  “You said he had a steely grip,” Becca reminded me.

  “There’s a movie coming out about SEALs,” Pete volunteered. He wore a T-shirt under a button-down long-sleeved shirt left deliberately unbuttoned halfway so the shirt showed. Just like Clark Kent when he morphed into Superman.

  Clever fashion statement.

  “We ought to catch it sometime.” He looked right at me when he said it.

  Is he asking me out?

  I needed a second opinion. I shot a quick glance at Becca, but she was staring at Brandon. Why? Because he was her crush, or because she was deliberately ignoring this whole exchange? How were we going to decipher it later if she didn’t pay attention to the details?

  I banged her knee under the table with mine.

  “Not this week,” Brandon said. “I have a dance competition soon and need to focus.”

  Pete nodded but was still looking at me. I choked down the peanut butter that seemed intent on sticking to my tongue.

  “Sounds like a plan,” I finally managed.

  Pete broke into a grin. Heat rose on my face, and I hoped it didn’t show like some neon sign advertising what a dorkina I was. I tapped Becca under the table with my foot, but she still pretended not to notice. I took a long swig from my juice box to hide my displeasure.

  Maybe all those teen magazines were right. Having a BF messes up all your other important relationships.

  CHAPTER 16

  In Civics and Economics, probably the most stupid, boring class ever, Mr. Cicorelli droned on and on about peo
ple making choices and these choices having costs. He probably could bore an insomniac to sleep with his dreary, nasal voice.

  “Opportunity cost is defined as the next-best alternative not chosen, or the alternative given up, when we make a decision,” he said.

  Had Pete said something about opportunity cost? I racked my brain to remember but came up empty. I decided I better tune in because, if Pete mentioned it, it might be important in our relationship.

  “There are opportunity costs in making decisions about which TV show you watch at a certain time, how to spend your allowance, or what to wear to school,” Mr. C. said. “I need a volunteer to tell us about a choice they made, what they gave up, and if they were happy with that choice. Who has an example?”

  I didn’t bother raising my hand because the Diva had raised hers, glancing around with frosty eyes, daring someone to be foolish enough to compete for the teacher’s attention.

  “Donabell, give us your example.” Mr. C. smiled encouragingly. Not that the Diva needed any.

  “Last time I had my hair done, I chose a demure highlight that would accentuate the natural beauty of my hair rather than some gaudy color that screamed ‘notice me!’”

  Orange Hair visibly sank lower into her seat. Her face flamed red, grotesquely clashing with her pumpkin-colored hair.

  “Great example, Donabell.” His praise made her preen like a peacock.

  He had no clue the Diva had used his question to put a new student in her place. It seemed like Orange Hair got the not-so-subtle message, because she cringed like a kicked puppy.

  “All economic questions and problems arise from scarcity,” he said. “Economics assumes people do not have the resources to satisfy all of their wants. Therefore, we must make choices about how to allocate those resources. We make decisions about how to spend our money and use our time.”

  I had no idea why seventh graders needed to know this stuff or the four functions of the Federal Reserve Bank. Most of us probably banked in Mason jars or sock drawers, or not at all.