By the time we got to the shed, it had sunk enough that the front was only about four inches above the ground—not nearly enough space for Pixie to crawl out, even if she wanted to. The shed leaned to one side more than the other. Only the mop head was visible. The handle was completely buried.
Thunder rumbled in the distance, which I hoped meant the storm was blowing over. It might slow the sinking of my personal Titanic. I realized then that the rain was dropping rather than pounding on us.
We had a chance. We had to have a chance.
Amos jammed his cane under the shed and tried to lever it up. The cane snapped in two.
I dropped to the ground and tried to locate Pixie. Something moved under the shed, and I heard whining. Then she thrust her nose into my hands. Her front paws were next. Her head could only make it partway, confirming that she was too big to fit through the space left.
She had realized the danger too late. It was too late to crawl out. We were all just too late. Unless . . .
Unless all that iron pumping had given someone steel muscles. Unless adrenaline really could give you the strength to lift a car or a shed.
Amos squatted and grabbed the edge of the shed.
“I’m going to lift up. You pull.”
I nodded. The shed started to rise, but his feet, especially the bad one, slid out from under him, and he tumbled to one knee with a grunt.
“Try again; this time brace my foot with yours,” he commanded, pointing to the mud adjacent to his bad leg.
I did.
He grabbed and tried a second time. I concentrated on not letting my foot slip. It was no use. His good foot slid out from under him this time. Pixie yelped as the shed sank deeper into the mud.
“I need something to stand on, something with traction,” he said through gritted teeth.
I nodded and made a beeline to the house, nearly flattening Pete as he came through the side gate. Our bodies collided, and we both fell.
I was on my feet in a heartbeat, but Pete just stared, stunned by the collision, my appearance, or probably both. The front of his beige rain jacket was now smeared with mud.
I grabbed his hand and helped haul him to his feet.
“Towels and the doormat.” I whirled and yanked the door open.
Pete’s feet squishing in the puddles behind me calmed me a fraction. I grabbed the towels out of Pixie’s whelping bed and pointed to the doormat. Pete grabbed it and followed me.
“Who?” both guys said at the exact same time.
“Later,” I yelled.
Amos snatched the towels and doormat from us and placed them under his feet. Pete took in the scene, his face a mixture of confusion and hopelessness. Pixie clawed at the mud, desperately trying to get out. I dropped down to pat her, then joined her efforts, scooping as much mud as I could from beneath the sinking shed.
“Stop! That will just make it worse. You!” Amos barked at Pete. “Stand here.”
Pete complied.
“Brace my foot with yours, like this.” Amos demonstrated with his good leg, and then took a wider stance. “You!” He looked at me. “On the other side.”
I scrambled to obey. Pixie’s muzzle popped out right next to my foot. She must be sensing we were doing everything we could to save her.
But could we? Would we?
“On three, we all lift. Just a few inches. Just enough for her to crawl out. But we have to hold it until she’s out.”
We nodded. The sky had cleared enough to make Pixie’s predicament plain. It was now or never.
“One, two, three!” Amos shouted.
We strained.
My fingernails dug into something soft and squishy on the underside of the shed, but I didn’t care. My feet were trying to slide, but I refused to let them. The blankets provided just enough traction for my feet to stay put.
The shed seemed to shift imperceptibly. Maybe a millimeter at the most. Pixie moved. I felt her nose by my foot. Then the shed moved up another notch. I heard both of the others grunting and wondered if I was too.
Another millimeter and a sucking noise. The dog’s head pressed against my foot as she clawed her way by digging into my ruined boots. The shed shifted up, but the boards underneath my hands started crumbling apart. I was losing my hold. Pixie’s shoulder or flank passed my trembling leg.
My back strained. My arms shook. I tried to hold on, but the rotten wood was disintegrating. It was slipping from my grasp.
Then I felt rather than saw that Pixie was out.
The three of us let go, and I fell back, butt landing in a squishy piece of churned, sloppy ground. I didn’t care. We’d done it. We’d saved Pixie!
She stood like a clay-covered statue, the sky sprinkling her enough to cause rivulets of dirty water to run off of her head, back, and tail.
Both Pete and Amos reached down to haul me up. The rain had turned to a fine mist that was gently washing the mud from the shivering dog’s form. She was okay.
But could her puppies still be under there?
I hadn’t realized I had said it aloud.
“No way,” answered Amos. “A mother dog would have carried one out with her if there had been any, plus she’d be digging at the mud to get back there after the rest.”
“Good to know,” I mumbled.
He turned to Pete. “Good thing you showed up when you did.” Amos clapped Pete on his back. “Without you, this mission would have failed.”
Pixie gave an excited bark, and all three of us turned to see Mrs. Baker and Hannah, travel bags in hand, gaping at us in shock.
CHAPTER 33
“Amos Harper?” Mrs. Baker whispered.
“Cordelia Baker?” Amos looked dumbfounded.
Whoa! Mrs. Baker and Amos knew each other?
As their little reunion began in the sopping wet yard, Pixie in the center of their little circle, Pete and I looked at each other.
“Cordelia?” Pete whispered. His jacket and the Spiderman shirt underneath it were soaked. His pants were splattered with mud, shoes covered with glop. He glanced behind me as a car pulled to a stop. “I gotta go. My aunt’s waiting.”
I grabbed his hand and made him face me. “Pete, thanks for coming. Spiderman couldn’t have saved the day any better than you did.”
Pete looked at me, and then glanced quickly at his feet as he swiped a foot across a puddle. “The SEAL guy did all the lifting.” He shrugged and pointed to Amos as he disappeared inside the house with Hannah and Mrs. Baker.
“Pete, you saved the day.” I waited until he looked up. “We tried and failed before you got here. Amos has a bad leg. If you hadn’t come when you did and braced his foot with yours, we’d have failed again and again until it was too late. You made all the difference.”
He tapped the puddle a few times with his glop-coated tennies, then looked back up directly into my eyes. “Do you really think so?”
His face looked so very vulnerable I almost felt like crying. What I thought mattered, mattered in a most desperate sort of way. Never before had my opinion meant so much. I broke into a grin and grabbed his other hand.
“I know so.” I wanted to hug him, make him feel my sincerity, wash away all the doubt and evict bad feelings that resided in his heart. The ones his parents had put there without meaning to.
Before I could reach for him, Pete had pulled me into an embrace. It started soft and tentative, then fierce. The next thing I knew, he’d pushed me away just enough so that his mouth could cover mine.
I forgot the rain, the cold, the mud covering both of us, and kissed him back.
This time I didn’t worry about if I was doing it right. This time I meant it with all my heart. My whole body felt like it was submerged in warmth, like the sun was brushing me with its golden rays both inside and out.
We walked hand in hand to his aunt’s car. I was relieved to see it wasn’t brand new or anything. He got in but didn’t close the door.
“Call me tonight, okay?” Pete said, looking at me
intently. He was sitting tall and proud, smiling, not caring that he dripped gunk and looked like a pig farmer.
“Absolutely.” I waved until the car turned the corner and disappeared out of sight. I was still feeling tingly warm and happy and brave and in control.
Then it hit me.
His aunt’s gray car looked just like the car we’d chased yesterday.
CHAPTER 34
“What happened to you?” My dad looked confused and irritated as he stared at me.
I was covered in mud from hair to sock feet. I’d dumped my jacket and boots on the porch, trying to minimize the mess. Apparently I had failed, because dark rings spread out from my feet and soaked the welcome mat.
I launched into the story, but Dad waved me off and lumbered toward the TV room before I’d even gotten to the part where Pixie disappeared under the shed.
I hope Pete’s parents are more appreciative.
Pete. My heart skipped a beat, and I grinned. But only for a second.
The gray car. My heart thudded into a pit swirling with questions, regret, and fear. Nausea crawled out of the pit and into my stomach.
All this ick is making me sick. I need to shower. I’ll see this more clearly when I’m clean.
After tossing everything into the washer and scrubbing in the shower, I pulled out Dr. Watson to try to sort through my conflicting thoughts.
I made columns, labeling them Pete, Raff, Paws and Furballs, and Pollack Labs.
Under Pete I wrote: blond hair, gray car, wants to be a hero, jealous of Lana, knew about dogs being boarded, new bike, money for movie, knew about ruby bracelet.
I hated the fact his list was so long. But Dr. Watson was insisting I write down the facts, and all of them.
Under Raff I wrote: new watch, history of criminal activity, knew about ruby bracelet (probably), pit bull, near gray car.
Under Paws and Furballs I wrote: needs money and wants publicity.
Under Pollack Labs I wrote: Hannah’s papers, needs animals, truck at Animal Control.
I reviewed what I wrote, and my heart sank. Pete’s list was still the longest.
I needed to confront him and get it over with. Ask about the gray car. Even though I’d seen someone else in a black sweatshirt get inside, that didn’t mean that Pete couldn’t be somehow involved.
I hunted for the phone. It wasn’t on the charger or in my room or anywhere I usually left it. I finally tried the TV room. Dad was focused on the Hawaiian Surfing Championships flickering across the screen. The plastic antenna of the phone was peeking out from under the couch.
“Your mother and I went to these.” My dad nodded toward the screen. “Right after we got married. A honeymoon business trip. I made it to the semifinals before the grandfather of all mondo waves wiped me out.”
A smile played on his lips as he remembered his glory days, but I’d heard this story too many times to let it interrupt my pressing investigation.
I scooted the phone out and clicked “talk.” Nothing happened. The battery was dead. I groaned inwardly. Since the phone was old and usually took hours to recharge when it was this dead, I’d have to call Pete in the morning.
***
Sunday morning I’d been home a solid hour after pet sitting Poco, wondering if 7:30 was too early to call Pete. I didn’t know if Pete’s family went to church or not. If they did, they might be up, but still be home.
My family didn’t go to church anymore. Mom, Timmy, and I had a couple of times to some cathedral thing for Easter services and at Christmas before his disappearance. Right after Timmy vanished, people held a candlelight prayer service at the beachfront. Even strangers had prayed for my brother’s return. It didn’t happen. I figured if there was a God, He was too busy to notice common people like us. He was probably too overloaded with wars and third world starvation to be concerned about one lost kid.
As I picked up the phone, it rang.
“Gabby, this is Paulette. From school. A policeman brought Puddles home last night.”
My eyes widened with surprise. “That’s great.”
“She even had her collar on, and Daddy was really, really surprised about that. We’re getting her a plain one today.”
“Good idea. I’m really happy for you and Puddles.” I felt guilty I hadn’t done more to help her.
“I have to go. See you Monday.” She hung up before I could say goodbye.
I glanced at the clock: 7:45 a.m. I dialed Pete’s number and hoped he’d understand about the phone being dead last night. I didn’t want him to think I’d stood him up.
A young voice I didn’t recognize answered.
“Can I talk to Pete?” I asked sweetly.
In the background I heard a male whisper, “Who is it?”
“Who is this?” the voice I guessed belonged to Suzy asked obediently.
“Gabby.” I almost added, “Pete’s girlfriend,” but stopped myself.
“Gabby!” the little voice called.
The faint male voice answered, “Not here.”
“He’s not here. Bye.” Click.
I sucked in my breath, a numb hand dropping the phone. The voice was faint, but I was 99.9 percent sure my boyfriend had just told his sister to lie to me.
A thousand reasons zoomed inside my head, each vying for attention. They whizzed around like crazed bumblebees, making me feel dizzy and unable to focus on just one. I wanted to run away from it all, but my body was immobilized by the crushing realization that after everything—the movie, saving Pixie, the kisses—my boyfriend didn’t want to talk to me.
The last thing I wanted to do was hang around the house, wondering where I had blown this whole BF-GF thing. I needed to take my mind elsewhere.
Watson suggested checking out the pawnshop where I’d seen Raff.
Who was I to disagree with a talking diary?
CHAPTER 35
The street was even less lively on a Sunday morning than on a weekday afternoon. I guessed it was one of those creepy places that came alive after dark, the kind where people who lingered too long never returned home or were never heard from again. I had to hunt for a place to lock up my bike. There was no way I was leaving it unlocked in a place like this.
The inside of Paradise Pawn surprised me. I figured it would be a jumble of junk, kind of like the non-chain thrift stores were. Instead, it was well lit and well organized, and the man waiting on a customer at the jewelry counter could have passed for a salesman at the mall.
“As you can see, a diamond easily cuts glass. Most diamonds of less than gem quality wind up in manufacturing to cut metals and other hard substances. But fine diamonds like this belong in the light.”
I wandered closer and caught sight of the sales guy scratching a piece of glass with a gemstone bracelet. I edged closer.
“So I can tell if a diamond is real or not by seeing if it will scratch glass?” asked the customer.
“Yes and no,” answered Sales Guy. “Cubic zirconia, a synthetic gem often substituted for diamonds, is hard enough to scratch glass and most metals. You’d have to be a pro like me to tell the difference. But if it’s rhinestones, the other substitute for the real deal, you could tell. They’re soft and don’t cut glass.”
I edged even closer. Sales Guy smiled at me and held the bracelet so I had an unobstructed view.
“An interesting tidbit of history here: Georges Frederic Strass invented the rhinestone in 1724, and his work was so admired that even King Louis XV of France ordered paste copies of his crown jewels. Back then they referred to rhinestones as paste jewels because they were made from a mixture of glass and lead.”
A woman wearing a leopard-print dress and a ton of bling came from behind the stereo stuff to join us. “I think I saw a story on TV once about a lady who thought she’d lost an expensive bracelet she borrowed and bought a replacement only to find out years later, after she went broke paying for it, that she’d only lost a paste copy,” she said.
“Yes, it was a necklace, th
ough.” Sales Guy was turning the charm up as his audience grew. “The show you saw must have been based on a short story called ‘The Necklace.’ But you are right about the rest. Rich people often have paste fakes made to wear in public so that if they ever got robbed, they really didn’t.”
Leopard Print smacked her gum and asked in a nasally voice, “If I brought in a picture of something one of the stars wore to the Oscars, could you make a rhinestone copy for me?”
“I can’t, but I can arrange for it with guys who do it all the time. In fact, they can do next-day service for a few dollars more.”
It hit me so suddenly I got goose bumps. Someone could have dropped off the collar to get a paste copy made. That would let them sell the real one and put a paste version on Puddles, and no one would be the wiser.
It was a real possibility.
“Can rubies cut glass?” I asked.
“Yes. They are almost as hard as diamonds. Funny you should ask, since someone was in here not long ago asking about paste rubies.”
Bingo!
“For a dog collar?” I asked.
Sales Guy looked at me over the rim of his frameless glasses. All the friendliness had drained from his eyes, but the smile stayed on his face like toast crumbs that should be brushed away.
“No,” he said a bit too firmly, like he was trying to convince me. He deliberately turned away and began a sales pitch to Leopard Print. “Let me show you the earrings that match this bracelet.”
I didn’t care. I was about to break this case wide open.
CHAPTER 36
As I pedaled home, I had it all figured out. Black Hoodie dropped off the collar to Sales Guy, who passed it on to the counterfeiters. They probably had a dingy underground lair where they manufactured the fakes. Raff was in on it, serving as a lookout when stolen jewels were brought in. And he stole the pit bull so he could sic him on anyone trying to rob the robbers.
I realized the last part sound pretty far fetched, but it was the only way I could tie in the other missing dogs. Plus, running scenarios through my head took my mind off Pete having his sister lie to me on the phone.
The Disappearing Dog Dilemma (The Gabby St. Claire Diaries) Page 10