Dognapped!

by Karen King

  The drainpipe wobbled and clanged. I was terrified that it would either come off and hurl me crashing to the ground or someone would hear the noise and come out to see what was going on. I wasn’t sure which was the worst scenario. Either way, my life wouldn’t be worth living.

  I was halfway up when I heard someone come out of the house next door to Max’s. Looking down I saw an old lady, tall and sparrow-thin, carrying a black refuse sack over to the green bin near the back gate. She must be one of the Arnold sisters that Max had told me about. I wondered how good her eyesight was because if she turned around, there was no way she could miss me dangling from her neighbour’s drainpipe, unless she was half-blind. I didn’t dare climb back down, out of sight, in case the drainpipe clanged and gave me away. So I kept still, hardly daring to breath, hoping she wouldn’t turn around and see me.

  ‘Ethel!’

  Just my luck! The other sister had come out now. She was like a puffed out version of the first one; same features, just rounder. ‘Ethel’ turned around to face her sister.

  Don’t look over here, I begged silently. Please don’t look over here!

  ‘Hurry up Ethel, your tea is getting cold,’ ‘round’ sister said.

  Ethel dumped the sack into the bin and hobbled back into the house.

  Phew! I climbed up to the open window as quick as I could and scrambled through, almost knocking over a statue of a woman holding a parasol. I moved the figure along the sill a bit and stepped down into a rather old-fashioned bedroom with huge oak wardrobes and a massive wooden bed covered with a floral quilt. That was a close call. Now to find Fluffy and get out of here before Mrs Brewson gets back.

  I opened the bedroom door and headed across the landing, listening carefully for any sound that would alert me to where Fluffy was being kept. I noticed a faint doggy-like whimpering downstairs and the pad of pawsteps along the hall.

  ‘Fluffy!’ I called, hurrying to the stairs.

  ‘Woof! Woof!’

  Hang on, that bark was a bit loud for Fluffy.

  ‘GRRR!’ A huge, brown, very unfriendly looking pit bull terrier, that definitely wasn’t Fluffy, bounded up the stairs towards me, growling and snarling. I turned around and bolted back to the bedroom, the dog snapping at my heels. How I managed to get inside and slam the door shut before it took a chunk out of me, I’ll never know. I leant against the closed door, my heart pounding as the dog hurled itself at it, trying to open it with brute force. Boy, that was close!

  Then three shrill whistles pierced the air.

  Oh no, Max was warning me that Mrs Brewson was on her way back. I had to get out of here! I ran over to the window and looked out, dropping to my knees when I saw the Arnold sisters in their back garden again. To my horror, I heard the front door open as Mrs Brewson came in. The dog careered down the stairs to greet her. I was trapped!

  Think, Amy, think. I told myself. What would Vince Bronson do? He always told Mac that there was a way out of every situation.

  I quickly poked my head up to look out of the window again. Although the Arnold sisters were there, they weren’t facing this way. Dare I risk it?

  I saw Max running along the path at the back of the houses, probably coming to check that I’d got out in time. I stood up and pointed down to the Arnold sisters. He was quick on the uptake, I’ll give him that, because he immediately knocked on their back gate and called to them. ‘Round Sister’ opened the gate, ‘Sparrow Sister’ was close behind her.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you,’ I heard Max say loudly, ‘but I wonder if you’ve heard that Auntie Sue’s dog, Fluffy, has gone missing.’

  ‘What? That lovely little white thing?’ Sparrow Sister gasped.

  Max nodded and started telling them all about it. I just hoped he could keep them talking long enough for me to make my escape. I scrambled out, forgetting about the statue. I caught it with my foot and sent it flying out of the window. Luckily, Max saw what had happened and started coughing loudly to try to cover the SMASH as the figure hit the ground below and broke into pieces. I shinned down the drainpipe, jumping off as I came to the wobbly part that clanged. My landing was softened by a bushy plant, but I still came down on my backside with a bump. I’d just got to my feet when the back door opened and the pit bull came charging out. It rounded on me, barking menacingly, determined not to let me get away this time. My instincts were screaming at me to run, but I knew that was asking for trouble, so I stood very still and said loudly but firmly, ‘NO!’ I’d seen Vince do that in a movie once, and the dog had immediately stopped barking.

  This dog carried on barking.

  ‘Stop it, Buster!’ Mrs Brewson came out, stared at me in astonishment and grabbed the dog’s collar. ‘What are you doing here?’ she demanded.

  ‘Oh, hello, Mrs Brewson. I was just about to knock on your back door.’ The dog looked like it wanted to tear me into little shreds and was pulling so hard it nearly yanked Mrs Brewson off her feet.

  Kittikins got up from the bush, strolled past Buster, tail in the air, and into the house. And this was the cat little Fluffy was supposed to terrorise?

  ‘Buster! In!’ Mrs Brewson opened the back door wide, pushed the dog inside and closed it again. Then she turned to me. ‘What are you doing in my back garden? Why didn’t you come around to the front if you wanted to speak to me?’

  I pointed to the broken statue. ‘You left your window open and the wind blew this off the windowsill, so I came to tell you about it.’

  Vince would have been proud of me. Talk about cool and calm in a crisis.

  Mrs Brewson looked up at the window. ‘How careless of me. No wonder Buster was barking upstairs when I came in. He must have heard the crash and thought someone had broken in.’

  ‘I didn’t know you had a dog,’ Max piped up, peering over the gate.

  ‘He’s my sister’s dog. I’m looking after him while she’s on holiday,’ Mrs Brewson replied. ‘Now, thank you for coming to tell me about the statue, but next time, can you please come to the front door? I don’t want to risk Buster escaping like your Gran’s dog.’

  So we were no nearer to finding Fluffy, I thought, as I went out of the gate – Mrs Brewson bolted it firmly after me. Although, as Vince says, the trick to solving a crime is to class everyone as a suspect, then eliminate them one by one. At least I could tick Mrs Brewson off the list.

  Or could I? Just because she wasn’t hiding Fluffy didn’t mean she hadn’t let her escape. After an eventful few hours of investigating, we still didn’t know whether Fluffy was lost or dognapped!

  Chapter 6

  A Sighting

  The next day, the local newspaper published an article about Fluffy’s disappearance. It was on the fourth page, under the headline: ‘Prize-winning show dog disappears’. There was a picture of Fluffy and brief details of how she’d gone missing from the back garden, with an appeal to phone the local police station with any news of her whereabouts. It also mentioned a reward of one hundred pounds for her safe return.

  Apparently, the ‘someone’ Gran and Mr Winkleberry had been talking to when I brought back the shopping yesterday, was a reporter. I was a bit annoyed at missing out on the chance of speaking to a reporter, just to get chased by an angry pit bull and nearly break my neck climbing drainpipes. Gran was upset that the story hadn’t made the first page, and Mr Winkleberry was angry that they hadn’t mentioned his name, simply referring to him as a guest.

  ‘We’re having some flyers printed too,’ Gran told me. ‘David … Mr Winkleberry suggested it. Fluffy’s insured so the insurance company will pay for advertisements and contribute towards the reward.’

  ‘That’s a good idea, the more publicity we get, the more chance we’ve got of finding Fluffy,’ I agreed. ‘I’ll help you give out the flyers, Gran. I’m sure we’ll find Fluffy before the show next Sunday.’

  ‘I hope so, Amy. The flyers will be ready to pick up after two, so could you collect them and distribute them for me? See if any of the local shops wil
l put one in their window.’

  Just then the telephone rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ I said. I pressed the button. ‘Hello, Beachview,’ I answered politely. ‘Can I help you?’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mrs Carter, please. My name is Mr Mudlark.’

  Mr Mudlark. Gran’s competitor.

  ‘Who is it, Amy?’

  ‘Er … sorry … it’s Mr Mudlark.’ I passed Gran the phone and busied myself with my cellphone, pretending that I wasn’t listening, but from what I could gather from Gran’s end of the conversation, Mr Mudlark was offering his sympathy and saying he hoped Fluffy was found in time for the show.

  ‘How kind of Mr Mudlark to phone me,’ Gran said when she’d finished the call. ‘He’s a bit worried that some organised gang has taken Fluffy and that his dogs might be a target too. I’ve promised to let him know as soon as we hear anything.’

  ‘I thought you two were rivals,’ I said.

  ‘We are I suppose, which just makes his phone call even kinder.’

  Even more suspicious, I thought. It could be just a cover up, to see if anyone was on to him yet. ‘Does he live near here?’

  ‘About half an hour away, in Frimplea.’ Gran stared at me. ‘Why all the questions, Amy?’

  Half an hour. Near enough to drive over here and let Fluffy loose to scupper her chances in the show next week. Or even to kidnap her. I didn’t say this to Gran, though; a good detective like me keeps things to herself. ‘No reason,’ I shrugged. But I decided that, as soon as I could, I’d take a trip over and stake out Mr Mudlark’s place.

  After lunch I slipped my micro-recorder into my jacket pocket and set off for the printers. I was hoping to bump into some of the neighbours so I could question them about Fluffy. People tend to get cagey when I whip out a notepad and pen as I talk to them. By taping the conversations instead, I could play back what people had said, listen to their tone of voice and pick up clues.

  Gran lent me Grandad’s old bike. It looked like it had come out of the ark, but got me around quicker than walking, and there was a basket on the back where I could put the flyers. I was just glad that none of my friends from back home could see me riding it. Especially Rory. He’d be doubled up.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Max yelled, leaning out of his bedroom window.

  For once I was pleased to see him. I could do with some help posting flyers. ‘To the printer to pick up some flyers about Fluffy. Then I’ve got to hand them out to stores and stuff. Want to come?’

  ‘You bet! Hang on while I get my bike.’

  He appeared at the back gate a couple of minutes later, with a blue bike that was a lot cooler than my sad effort. He glanced sympathetically at my bike.

  ‘It was Grandad’s,’ I told him. ‘You should see the bike I’ve got at home, a silver lowrider with chrome and alloy wheel trims, the lot.’

  Max didn’t seem impressed by this information. ‘You can borrow my sister’s bike if you like, she hardly uses it,’ he offered.

  ‘No thanks, this’ll be fine.’

  On the way, we saw a woman across the road, weeding her front garden. Max told me it was Mrs Crystal, Gran’s rival B&B owner.

  ‘I’m going to ask her some leading questions and tape her answers, so leave the talking to me,’ I told Max. I slipped my hand into my jacket pocket to switch on the micro-recorder, then started talking to Mrs Crystal about Fluffy. She was friendly, but said she hadn’t seen or heard anything suspicious. Not that she had the chance to say much, with Max’s constant chattering. I felt like gagging him.

  ‘I said to button it and leave the talking to me,’ I snapped as we rode off. ‘I don’t want the tape full of you talking nonsense.’

  ‘But you don’t know everyone, so why would they want to talk to you?’ Max argued. ‘Besides, I might have some important questions to ask too.’

  He had a point. I guess it was best if he approached people first, as he knew them. ‘Ok, well you can start off talking to them, then leave it to me unless you think of something really, really important. Right?’

  The printer was quite chatty, and told me that he thought Fluffy had been kidnapped by an organised gang. ‘They find out who’s got valuable dogs and target them,’ he said. I pointed out that the gang wouldn’t know Fluffy was in the garden by herself, but he said they’d lie in wait and watch for days. ‘There’s big money to be made selling pedigree dogs on the black market,’ he said.

  I wasn’t sure I agreed with him, but I recorded the conversation anyway.

  We spent the next couple of hours distributing the flyers. Some of the local stores agreed to put them in their windows, while others stuck them on the wall inside. We left a couple in the library, and posted others through mailboxes. A lot of people stopped to talk and give us their theories on Fluffy’s disappearance. I couldn’t wait to get home and play back all the conversations to see if anything struck me as suspicious. It had been hard to think clearly with Max’s endless interruptions.

  As I approached Beachview, I could see Mr Winkleberry sitting in his car, engine running, and Gran about to get into the passenger seat.

  ‘Someone’s just phoned … they think they’ve just seen Fluffy by the harbour,’ Gran shouted to me.

  ‘Can I come?’ I asked. ‘I feel real bad about losing Fluffy; I want to be there when she’s found.’

  ‘And me,’ begged Max.

  ‘Get in then, quick, but not you Max, you’d best go straight home, your mother’s already been looking for you.’

  Max went to protest, but his mother came out and ordered him in. I put my bike in the front garden, got into the back of the car and we set off. But when we got to the harbour, there was no sign of Fluffy, or any other dog for that matter.

  ‘She must have wandered off somewhere,’ Gran said. ‘Oh, if only that woman had picked her up and brought her home.’

  Gran had brought Fluffy’s favourite squeaky toy with her and kept squeaking it so Fluffy would hear it and come running – but she didn’t.

  We looked around for hours. Finally, we went home, tired and exhausted.

  ‘I’m dying to put my feet up and have a cup of tea,’ Gran said, taking out her keys. As she opened the front door, we saw a white envelope lying on the mat. The words ‘Mrs Carter’ were written on it in big black capital letters.

  ‘Now who’s sent me a note at this time of night,’ Gran said, picking it up. She opened it up and pulled out a sheet of paper.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped, her face white. ‘It says that if I want Fluffy back safe, I’ll have to pay £2,000.’

  Chapter 7

  Dead or Alive!

  ‘We’ll call the police immediately,’ Mr Winkleberry exclaimed. ‘I’m not letting them hold you to ransom like this!’

  ‘I can’t. It says that if I tell the police I’ll never see Fluffy alive again. Look.’ Gran held out the letter, her hand trembling.

  ‘Let me see, Gran.’ I said quickly. This was the first real piece of physical evidence we’d seen so far, so I wanted to study it carefully. I certainly didn’t want Gran and Mr Winkleberry making any rash decisions about calling the police or otherwise, until I’d had a chance to work out whether this was the work of Fluffy’s captor, or just someone trying to make some money out of Gran while she is desperate and vulnerable.

  I cleared my mind, took a deep breath and started reading:

  ‘Well, whoever it is, they don’t live very far from here. Or they’ve got an accomplice nearby,’ I said.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘The letter’s been hand-delivered, Gran. Probably by the same person who sent us out on that wild goose chase down to the harbour.’

  ‘You mean someone just wanted to get us out of the way, so they could deliver the letter?’ Gran looked really upset. ‘How awful to think that someone local has kidnapped my precious little princess. They could be watching the house now, waiting to see what I’ll do.’

  ‘Well I think the letter is a fake and we s
hould inform the police immediately,’ Mr Winkleberry said, snatching the note back from me. ‘And the less we handle it the better, they might want to check it for fingerprints.’

  Gran was reluctant to get the police involved, not wanting to put Fluffy’s life in danger, but she eventually agreed to call them first thing in the morning. She put the note in the top drawer of the dresser in the private lounge, where she kept all her important papers.

  I wanted another look at the note before the police took it away. Gran usually got up at 7.00 am to cook breakfast, so I set the alarm on my phone for 6.30 am the next morning, and crept downstairs. As I went through the kitchen, I was surprised to find the back door slightly open. Gran always made sure that all the doors were locked before she went to bed at night. Then, I heard someone talking quietly. I peered out of the crack in the door and saw Mrs McFarlane talking on her cellphone.

  ‘With Fluffy out of the picture, Maisy-May is bound to win the show, John, then all your worries will be over,’ she said.

  Maisy-May. Wasn’t that Mr Mudlark’s dog? Was Mrs McFarlane speaking to Mr Mudlark? I strained my ears, but Mrs McFarlane had walked further down the garden and I couldn’t hear anymore. A few minutes later, she ended the call and started to head back towards the house. I hurried into the private lounge and closed the door, trying to digest this new information:

  Mrs McFarlane knew Mr Mudlark.

  She had got out of bed early so she could phone Mr Mudlark without anyone – even her husband – knowing. She had said that now Fluffy was out of the way, Maisy-May would win.

  Were Mrs McFarlane and Mr Mudlark in this together, so that Maisy-May would win the show? But why would that solve all Mr Mudlark’s worries? I thought the winners just got a cup or rosette. Did they get money too?

  I opened the dresser drawer, took out the note and read it again. It could be important evidence that I might need to refer to later. I took a photo of it with my cellphone, made a new folder called ‘Fluffy File’ and saved it to that, then put it back in the drawer. I was on my way upstairs when the front door opened and Emily walked in. She looked very surprised to see me.