The Runaway. Alison Hart

sighed. “That’s the eighth neighbor we’ve talked to, but no one has seen Scooter. He couldn’t just vanish.”

      “Casper the Fwiendly Ghost can vanish,” Mikey declared. He loved the television show about the little cartoon ghost.

      Shivers ran up Maryellen’s arms, and she clutched her brother’s hand tightly. She knew there was no such thing as ghost dogs, but Scooter had definitely disappeared. Finally they reached the corner and met up with the others.

      “Any luck?” Maryellen asked hopefully.

      Mrs. Larkin shook her head.

      “I’m getting tired,” Beverly whined. She and Tom had worn roller skates, and had zipped up and down the sidewalks until their faces were red.

      “One more block, please?” Maryellen said.

      “I’ve never seen Scooter cross the road,” Mrs. Larkin replied, but when Maryellen gave her a pleading look, she added, “Okay, one more block, but then I need to get home and fix dinner.”

      This time, the group stayed closer together, Maryellen, Mikey, and Beverly taking one house while Mrs. Larkin and Tom took another on the same side of the street.

      “Do you know who lives here?” Beverly asked as they hurried up a sidewalk to the stoop in front of a pink stucco house.

       “No, but there’s an old dog toy in the yard. Maybe Scooter came up to play with this family’s dog.” Maryellen knocked on the door. A man puffing on a pipe opened it; beside him, a boy about Tom’s age peered from under a coonskin cap. “Hi, we’re looking for our lost dog,” Maryellen said, holding out the photo.

      The man studied Scooter’s photo. “If you find him, see if he’s with our missing Dalmatian. We moved to the neighborhood a month ago, and Spots disappeared two weeks later.”

      “Do you think he ran off?” Maryellen asked.

      The man shook his head. “He’s never run off before. We thought he might have gotten lost because he was new to this area. We called the police, but they hadn’t received any reports about a stray Dalmatian.”

      “He’s white with black spots all over,” the boy said. “That’s why we named him Spots.”

      “Hey, I have spots, too,” said Mikey, whose chicken pox spots were still healing.

       “Our dog’s name is Scooter,” called Beverly, who was gliding back and forth behind them on her skates. “He’s a dachshund.”

      Maryellen introduced herself. The man said his name was Mr. Bates, and the boy with the coonskin cap was his son, Louis. Mr. Bates and Maryellen exchanged phone numbers and promised to keep in touch.

      Four more houses later, Maryellen was ready to give up. Beverly’s crown was lopsided, and Mikey wouldn’t stop scratching. When they met up with their mom, Maryellen told them about the Bateses’ missing Dalmatian.

      “I think we should call the police, too,” Maryellen added.

      “Good idea,” Mrs. Larkin agreed. “Now we really do need to get home.”

      “Last one to the corner is a rotten egg,” Beverly called as she skated off, with Tom in hot pursuit.

      Maryellen started to run after them. “No fair! You two have wheels!” She was running past a telephone pole when a paper flapping in the wind caught her attention. On the pole was a poster with a crayon drawing of a tan dog with floppy ears. The print under the drawing had faded in the sun and rain, but Maryellen could still make out what it said: “Have You Seen Misty?”

      “Mom!” Maryellen waved at her mother to hurry. “Look, there’s a third missing dog! Right here in our neighborhood.”

      Mrs. Larkin frowned. “It does seem odd that three dogs would run away.”

      “I wonder if something happened to them?” Maryellen’s eyes widened.

      “Like what?” asked Mrs. Larkin.

      Maryellen couldn’t think of any answer. She’d heard of bank robbers, but never dog robbers. “I can’t read the phone number. I wonder if Misty is still missing.” Maryellen felt tears well in her eyes. It was obvious that the poster had been on the pole for a while. Had the family ever found Misty? And the Bateses’ dog had been gone for two weeks. What if Scooter was gone that long? What if they never found him?

      It was too sad to imagine.

      Mikey wrapped his arms around her waist. “Don’t cwy, Mawyellen.”

      Just then the ice cream truck drove around the corner, bell ringing, and parked along the curb. Mr. Brad the ice cream man jumped out, tipped his cap to the Larkins, and opened up the side window. “Who would like a tasty treat?” he called.

      “Me. Me!” Mikey pulled away from Maryellen, and Beverly and Tom came speed-skating back.

      Maryellen’s mouth watered. She was as tired and thirsty as the others, and an ice cream bar sounded heavenly. Mom had a “no treats before dinner” rule, but she said, “You four have worked hard looking for Scooter, so just this one time…”

      As the truck’s bell rang, more children ran up. Maryellen showed everyone Scooter’s photograph, but no one had seen him. Her mom gave her a nickel, and she told Mr. Brad her order: “A fudge bar, please.” As she handed him the coin, she remembered that the vendor must know Scooter because he and his truck had parked in the Larkins’ driveway and sold treats for Maryellen’s birthday.

      “Mr. Brad, you drive around the neighborhood. Have you seen our dog?”

      He looked at the photo she held out. “Sure. Sometimes I see him when I park near your house.” Mr. Brad reached into the truck to find her ice cream bar, and Maryellen stifled a gasp. There were reddish-brown dog hairs just like Scooter’s on his white uniform.

      “Mr. Brad, do you have a dog?” she asked quickly.

      “I do. A Westie. That’s a West Highland Terrier.” He handed her the bar. “But I love all dogs.”

      “What does your Westie look like?”

      “He’s little, with wiry white fur.”

       “You have brown hairs on your sleeve,” Maryellen pointed out. “Do you have another dog?”

      Mr. Brad’s cheeks flushed red as he brushed the hairs off his sleeve. “Um. Uh. Well, like I said, I love all dogs.”

      Enough to steal one? As she unwrapped her ice cream, Maryellen realized that what she was thinking seemed too silly to say out loud. Or was it? Mr. Brad traveled around The Palms development, so he probably knew every dog. He admitted he knew Scooter, the best dog in the world, and if he wanted to take the dachshund or another dog, he could easily sneak it into his truck. His Westie had white hair, which didn’t explain the many reddish-brown hairs on his uniform.

      Could there be a dog stashed in the ice cream truck right now? Could Scooter be hidden there?

      Maryellen’s pulse began to race. Taking a bite from the corner of her ice cream bar, she sidled to the front of the truck. There was no door, just a metal step leading straight up to the cab. Keeping one eye on Mr. Brad, who was busy handing out ice cream, she peeked inside. There was no place a dog could be hidden in the small cab, but there was a box of Chow-Chow treats on the floor.

      To lure dogs into his truck? Is that what happened to Spots, Misty, and Scooter? Or were they simply treats for his own dog? Frustrated, Maryellen bit hard into her chocolate bar, immediately getting a cold headache. Gosh, she couldn’t just blurt out, Are you stealing dogs from the neighborhood? Did you take Scooter?

      She needed to do a lot more sleuthing to find some answers.

      “Mom, can Beverly and I ride bikes before dinner?” Maryellen asked her mother when they started home. “We want to look one