Minerva Clark Goes to the Dogs Page 9

  At that moment, Rodney clapped his big hands and asked everyone to please listen up. He had an announcement regarding the schedule.

  Tonio and Dusty stood up, dumped their paper plates. It was obviously time for me to take off.

  Tonio said, “You’ll let me know if you hear anything from Sylvia, won’t you?” Was it my imagination, or was there a new intensity in his voice?

  I lied. I said sure.

  I rode home, wondering all the way whether you could collapse from sweating. Somehow it escaped me that since riding to Chelsea’s house and then on to the skate park was all downhill, it would be all uphill on the return trip. I tied my hair in a knot on top of my head, but it was no use. The sweat ran down the sides of my face and into my eyes. It was now mid-afternoon, the hottest time of the day in Portland, which, as we learned in seventh-grade geography, is a northern city and thus gets its head-sweating heat later in the day than say, a city on the equator.

  I stood up on the pedals, struggled and puffed. Mark Clark was right. I needed more exercise. I needed to play tennis or soccer or run around the block in a jogging outfit, like some of the people in our neighborhood. I was perishing of thirst. I thought how rude Tonio was not to offer me water on a day like this.

  I avoided the street where the big, possum-eating hawk lived. I was sure he would register my red face, drenched T-shirt, and gasping for air as easy prey, pluck me off the bike, and claw my eyes out. I pedaled faster.

  I was never more happy to see Casa Clark, sitting big and Mexican restaurant–like on its hilly corner. As I coasted into the driveway Morgan staggered out of the garage hugging his sleeping bag and tent to his chest. He was going on a camping trip to Eastern Oregon. I dropped the bike in the driveway and lunged for the garden hose. Morgan dumped his stuff next to the picnic table.

  “Hey,” said Morgan, “easy on the bike.”

  I gulped down as much metallic-tasting hose water as I could possibly hold before wiping my mouth and turning off the spigot. “The thing doesn’t have a kickstand, Morgan, what do you expect me to do?”

  Morgan laughed. “It’s a mountain bike, they don’t have kickstands.”

  I ignored him. I had more important things to do, like call Chelsea. I popped my Bluetooth around my ear and voice dialed Chelsea’s number. She picked up on the first ring.

  “You’ve got to get over here, now,” I said. “Big developments. Remember that dude Tonio at Sylvia’s apartment? Her little brother? He’s in Rodney von Lager’s new movie. And he’s worried to death because his big sis hasn’t been home for a few days—since around the time she bought the ring. I went to—”

  Chelsea let out a big sigh, like air escaping from a balloon. “Minerva, I just can’t.”

  “Can’t what?”

  “Whatever it is you want. Come over, get together, rehash this diamond thing. I played eighteen holes with my dad today. Eighteen holes. I’m dead.”

  “I think we’re really close to figuring out who has the diamond.” Well, not really, but closer, anyway. We had a lot more clues and a lot more suspects, that was for sure.

  “My dad is going to try to have his insurance pay for it,” said Chelsea. “That’s what he told me today. So no worries.”

  “What do you mean? I thought because he was sneaking the diamond into the country there was no insurance on it?” I said.

  “I don’t know!” said Chelsea. “My dad’ll work it out! I’m so exhausted. Right now I’m going down to the club with Mom to sit in the Jacuzzi. So, take it easy, all right?”

  “Take it easy? What’s with you? Someone stole like a million-dollar diamond right out from under your nose and you don’t care?”

  “I care,” she said sleepily, “just not at this exact moment.”

  “That really sucks,” I said.

  “Oh Minerva, whatever.” And then just like that she hung up on me.

  We Clarks tend to be slow-burners. We don’t fly off the handle. This is because our ancestors come from England and other places where it never pays to scream and throw a fit. I dialed Reggie. We’d been best friends since we were fetuses. He could stop thinking about Amanda the Panda for three seconds and help me figure out what I had here.

  I expected it to go straight to voice mail, and nearly fainted with shock when he answered on the first ring.

  “I really don’t think you’re being fair,” said Reggie. His voice was so low I hardly recognized it.

  Huh? He obviously thought I was Amanda the Panda, or someone else, anyway.

  “Well, you know that life isn’t fair,” I said. “Your dad tells you that about every other day.”

  He was silent for a second. “Oh. Hi, Minerva.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” I asked.

  “What’s going on?” he said, changing the subject.

  “I need an IP. Meet me at the school in ten.” Our school was five blocks away from my house and five blocks away from his house, exactly, and whenever we needed to have a real discussion, as opposed to a random time-wasting IM discussion (yes, yes, even I know that IMing is pointless), we met at the playground.

  “Aw,” said Reggie. “I can’t. I’m kind of in the middle of something.”

  “I’ll come over to your house then,” I said.

  “No you won’t,” said Mark Clark, who’d appeared from inside the house. He was carrying a black plastic bag full of garbage, which he dumped in the big can beside the garage. “You haven’t done your chores from yesterday.”

  “I had basic electronics yesterday,” I said to Mark Clark as he disappeared back into the house.

  “You’re taking basic electronics?” asked Reggie. This perked him up a little.

  “Thank you, drive through please,” I said. This was our private brush-off line. It meant “see if I tell you,” or “I’m changing the subject,” or “get out.” We overused it, but it still cracked us up.

  “Electronics are awesome,” said Reggie. “You can blow stuff up.”

  I recounted the story of cranky Mr. Lawndale and the exploding capacitors, and for a good thirty seconds I had my friend’s undivided attention. “Could you meet me? Just for ten minutes?”

  He hesitated. “Maybe later, how about?”

  “It’s that stupid Amanda the Panda, isn’t it?” I said.

  “Just—look, you totally don’t get it, Minerva,” he said.

  “It?” I snapped. “What ‘it’ are you talking about? Being totally, stupidly obsessed with someone? Is that the ‘it’ you mean? Because if it is, I certainly do get it. So don’t be insulting.” My voice got loud and high. Morgan looked over from where he was fiddling with his tent.

  “Oh, you mean that tall guy you were drooling all over at the dance?” said Reggie.

  “I wasn’t drooling on him. We were talking,” I said.

  “Is that what they call it now?” said Reggie.

  “Why don’t you ask The Panda,” I said. “Since she runs your whole life these days.” Why were we snapping at each other?

  “Think I will. At least she’s not a total biatch.” Then he hung up on me.

  What was going on with my friends? Chelsea was the one who had called me, begging for help. Reggie, who was normally interested in all sorts of strange things, and would certainly have loved to help me track down a missing jewel, had suddenly turned into a complete dimwit. If this was what being in love did to you, then I was so so so totally glad that Kevin was not calling me from Montana, like he’d promised. I checked my messages one more time, just to make sure he hadn’t called—and he hadn’t—good! I didn’t want to become totally damaged like Reggie. I felt sorry for Reggie. And I felt sorry for myself, all of a sudden. Even though it was all working out for the best that Kevin was not my boyfriend, because he had not called me, I still wished he had, so that I could not return the call.

  I sat down heavily on the picnic table. How did anyone ever have a boyfriend without going totally mad?

  I wound up telling Morgan everyt
hing, not about Kevin, but about the missing red diamond. I didn’t mean to, but I was stressed. I am not a drama queen, not usually. He listened while he pulled his tent out of its carrying sack and examined the seams, counted the poles.

  I began not at the beginning, but with the de Guzmans’ big house with the pillars, their all-white kitchen, and Mrs. de Guzman, who seemed so lonely. I told about how they kept three champion corgis who had their own dog nanny, and how they traveled all over the world (the de Guzmans, not the corgis) for Mr. de Guzman’s jewelry business. I told how Mr. de Guzman just brought back a red diamond, small but rare, from London for Rodney von Lager.

  Morgan has most of Rodney von Lager’s movies on DVD. He was a fan before Rodney was famous, when he still worked in advertising and made his weird little black-and-white shorts in his free time. Morgan knew all about Rodney’s perfectionism, and had also heard the story about the time and money he spent to put the window in the closet that no one would ever see.

  Still, when I said that I thought Rodney von Lager stole the diamond, Morgan shook his head. “Nah,” he said, “I don’t think so.”

  “But he knew when Mr. de Guzman was bringing in the diamond. And a rare red diamond is worth a lot of money. It would save him money on his movie.”

  “True, but it doesn’t make sense. Rodney is richer than God. He’s been nominated for an Oscar, people pay him a lot. He doesn’t need to steal anything.”

  “Maybe he did it just for the fun of it, just to see if he could do it or something,” I said. Rodney was looking less guilty by the second.

  “Maybe,” said Morgan. He folded his tent back up and slid it into the carrying bag. “But how come the guy you said was playing Frodo didn’t have it? They were filming today. It wasn’t rehearsal. If he’d stolen the diamond, you would have seen it in the ring. They wouldn’t be using a fake.”

  I told him about how Rodney was now into the big fake stone and making an ironic statement about how we risk our lives for things that turn out to be worthless, blah blah blah.

  Morgan said, “That really proves the point. The red diamond was probably just sort of a whim. You know, Hollywood people are like that.”

  I sighed, sat down right there on the driveway, stuck my legs straight out in front of me. The concrete was cool beneath my thighs. Morgan had a point. Morgan always had a point. Morgan is possibly my most brilliant brother, even though he is the youngest and the quietest.

  “You know what the worst thing is?” I said. “I feel as if I’m all alone. Chelsea de Guzman wasn’t even my friend, but she called me all desperate begging me to help her. So I said sure, and I’m trying my best, and now she’s like, ‘I’m too tired because I went golfing’ and ‘no worries because my dad says his insurance is going to take care of it.’ Isn’t she, like, curious?”

  Morgan laughed a little. He took off his earflap hat and tossed it on the picnic table. I wasn’t used to seeing him without his hat, which he wore, he said, to keep as much hair on his head as possible. He was already going bald, Morgan was.

  “She’s probably just not curious, Min. I would say most people you’ll come across on this planet are not curious.”

  “Then why did she call me?”

  “Because her butt was in a sling with her dad. At least, in the beginning. Now you say he says he’s figured out a way to recoup his money. It’s not as compelling to her anymore.”

  “But I still care. I still want to find out what happened to the diamond. And why should I? It has nothing to do with me, but I still care!”

  Morgan sat down right next to me on the driveway. The sun had dropped behind the other side of the house. We sat in the cool shadow.

  “Do you know what my major is?” asked Morgan.

  “In college? You want to be either a lawyer like Dad or a spoken word poet, last I heard.”

  “My major is philosophy, though. The main purpose of being a philosophy major is to learn how to think and how to solve problems. But people laugh at me. They make the same ridiculous jokes about it all the time. ‘So, you going to get a job at IBM as a professional philosopher? Ho ho ho.’”

  I didn’t say anything. Morgan sometimes takes awhile to get to the point. “What that always says to me is that people no longer value thinking about things, or solving problems, if they ever did. But I like thinking about stuff. I like solving problems. I think it’s valuable and interesting, just because.”

  “Just because?” I said. “Is that like the quote I heard one time about why mountain climbers climb mountains? Just because they’re there?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “So maybe I want to solve this mystery because I’m just plain old curious?”

  “Yep. Except there’s nothing plain about genuine curiosity. It’s one of the rarest things around.”

  “As rare as a red diamond?” I asked

  “Yep.”

  We sat without saying anything for a long minute. It was seven o’clock. Through the kitchen window I could see Mark Clark moving, probably starting dinner. Suddenly, I was starving. I hoped dinner involved cheese and bread, my two favorite food groups.

  “And hey,” said Morgan. “I know you probably hear this from enough people, but be careful. Don’t do anything stupid, okay?”

  “I won’t,” I said. But I didn’t promise.

  9

  The next morning, Monday, I woke up depressed even though my room was bright with sun. Kevin hadn’t called and I knew somehow that he never would. Mark Clark and Quills were at work. Morgan had left that morning for Eastern Oregon, camping with some of his philosopher friends from college. Dad was on an airplane over North Dakota or in a New York City courtroom, somewhere or other. Mom was coming home on Sunday. She had big plans for togetherness: shopping, zucchini bread–baking, mother-daughter yoga. It seemed pretty unlikely that I would solve the mystery of the missing red diamond before the weekend.

  Morgan was right. If Rodney von Lager had begun filming his movie with a completely different stone, he probably hadn’t stolen the diamond. Tonio was still a suspect, but just barely. He didn’t know where his sister was, and my guess was that wherever she was, the diamond was with her. That left Shark, Sylvia’s security guard boyfriend, who, according to Tonio, volunteered at the humane society in order to pick up girls. Even though Tonio didn’t like him, I thought maybe he might know something, or spill a clue or two.

  I knew all about the Portland Humane Society. I’d never visited, but a lot of eighth graders at our school volunteered there. It sat on a long leg of industrial highway near the Columbia River, which forms the border between Oregon and Washington. Its neighbors are a steel-yard, a factory that makes truck parts, a heavy equipment rental place, and some plain low buildings that sell weird stuff like welding supplies, garage doors, and huge truck tires. On the corner is a greasy spoon named Patsy’s, which looks like somewhere you’d go if you wanted to get robbed in the ladies’ room.

  I took the bus. I was worried that the humane society would be as sad and desolate as everything else on this run-down boulevard, surrounded by a chain-link fence topped with razor wire that shone in the sun. “Desolate” was one of our seventh-grade spelling words, and here I was using it in my own head. I chewed my thumb cuticle. I imagined that a shelter for pets no one wanted would be a sad place, with rows of cages filled with lonely dogs and cats curled in their corners, depressed.

  My spirits lifted when the bus stopped near an almost brand-new building, cream-colored with teal blue trim and a red roof. Outside, it looked like a library. Inside, there were plenty of clean windows, a big clean lobby with a cool design on the gleaming linoleum, and a gift shop filled with fleece dog jackets, leopard-print cat beds, pink leather-studded dog collars, organic treats and fancy curry combs, doggie greeting cards and key chains, kitty cat posters and calendars.

  It was so cheery, I allowed myself to forget for a moment that I wasn’t there to visit the cats in their cat condos in Kitty Village, behind a
big glass window just off the lobby, or to pick out a puppy. The Help Desk was sleek and curved, made of some pale wood. A bunch of fat orange roses sat in a glass vase on one corner. No one was behind the desk. Two ladies in baggy shorts and white running shoes peered into Kitty Village, scratching the glass and cooing. They didn’t notice me at all.

  I wandered around, looked in the small pets section to see if they had any ferrets, read a wall plaque that talked about the history of the humane society. It’s the oldest one in the west. I kept waiting for Shark or somebody to show up at the front desk. I asked the man working in the gift shop, a grandpa type with half glasses on a chain around his neck, and he said they were probably tending to something in the Dog Pod. He nodded his head in the direction of a pair of glass double doors. On the wall behind the doors was a big banner that had a grinning beagle mix and the words: COME FIND YOUR NEW BEST FRIEND!

  That got to me. I needed a new best friend. Chelsea de Guzman only called because she was in trouble at that moment, and Reggie was too busy with Amanda the Panda. And Kevin? I won’t even go there.

  Now, I had Jupiter of course, whom I love as much as a human can love a ferret, but he didn’t feel like my best friend so much as a cool little kid I’d been hired to babysit, who was always getting into things. He never jumped into my arms the way Ned did that one day on the de Guzmans’ front lawn.

  I walked through the doors and into the first group of kennels, or pods, where I tried not to spend too much time bonding with Dory, the black and white Lab mix, or Buckwheat, the tricolor pit bull/chow chow mix, or Maury the blind-in-one-eye border collie. I wanted them all.