The Pet-Sitting Peril (8 page)

He hadn't meant to say that. He didn't know if any of the gas had been poured on the cardboard before the fire started or not; certainly he didn't remember smelling gasoline at the time, and the firemen were trained to notice things like that.

Mr. Howard's eyes narrowed and he stood with his hands in his pants pockets. “There's a can of gas in the closet in the Hillsdale Apartments?”

“Well, there was earlier in the week. I found it when I was looking for Eloise—a cat—and it was a red can and smelled of gasoline. Only it wasn't there when I looked again. I'd told Mr. Haggard about it, because Dad always said it wasn't safe to store things like that in a place where anything could catch fire. I suppose he
told Mr. Griesner, and the can was moved to a better place.”

Nick could tell by the expression on the man's face that he intended to pursue this matter further. He was sorry he'd mentioned it, because it might seem as if Nick were only trying to throw blame elsewhere to shift it away from himself.

“I'll ask the manager about it,” Mr. Howard said. “Well, thank you for talking to me. I'll probably be around for a few days. I'll see you again, Nick.”

Nick devoutly hoped that would not be the case, at least not if the authorities thought he was guilty of anything. When Mr. Howard turned to retrace his steps, Nick and Rudy sped down the alley, as if they could run away from whatever problems remained.

At the yard where Rudy had somehow been imprisoned the night before, a man came through the gate into the alley, and picked up a big metal garbage can. He put it down again and looked around, then glanced at Nick.

“You see an extra lid anywhere? Mine's missing.”

“No, sir. I didn't notice one,” Nick said, slowing to a walk.

“Darned garbage men, they're always losing the lids instead of putting them back where they belong,” the man grumbled. He dropped a plastic sack into the can and went back inside the fence, latching the gate behind him.

Nick looked thoughtfully at the can beside the fence. If the lid had been on it last night, Rudy could easily have leaped onto the garbage can, then over the fence. And since there was nothing for the dog to climb on inside the fence, Rudy wouldn't have been able to get back out. He wished the Airedale could tell him what had happened. Had Rudy chased the person who started the fire? Or had he just run along because someone was running and Rudy loved to run?

He found the lid several houses away, as if it had rolled there, or been thrown, wedged between two more garbage cans that each had its proper cover. Nick picked it up and carried it along to see if it fit the open can.

It did, but not as well as it ought to. Because although it was a relatively new can—the
bottom part had no dents in it at all—the lid was dented as if something heavy had damaged it. It would no longer stay tight on the can.

Not Rudy, Nick thought. Rudy wasn't heavy enough to have pushed it out of shape that way. He didn't think his own weight would bend it. But a heavier person might have done so. An adult.

Had someone run down the alley in the dark while Nick and Sam were acting upon the emergency of the fire? Someone who climbed on the garbage can and jumped over the fence, while Rudy chased after him?

It could have happened, Nick decided. Would the fire department investigator believe him if he saw the dented can lid and told him about Rudy being trapped inside the yard?

Or would the man think Nick had jumped on the lid until he dented it himself, and made up the entire story? Certainly there was no proof of anything, only Nick's suspicions.

For a moment, before he moved on, Nick stared at the house inside the fence. If someone had fled the scene of the fire and vaulted the fence (possibly to escape Rudy), he must
either have entered the house or gone through the yard and out into the street beyond. And he'd had very good luck to find the garbage can in the darkness.

Or, Nick suddenly realized, he could have scouted it out ahead of time, known where it was, even marked it in some way.

Rudy was running by this time, ears blowing back, and Nick ran with him, wondering if his old shoes would hold out for the rest of the summer with this kind of activity every day. Nick liked to run; it was one of the few athletic things he was good at—better than Barney, who could beat him at almost everything else—and usually he enjoyed it.

Today, though, it was hard to enjoy anything, though the sun was bright and the air was warm and he could run for an hour. Because Nick couldn't help thinking about the way Mr. Howard had acted as if he still suspected Nick and Sam of starting that fire.

Nick knew they hadn't, of course, and that started his thoughts on another train that wasn't any easier to deal with. Because if Nick and Sam hadn't started it, someone else had,
and if it had been deliberate, that other person, or persons, hadn't cared if the house burned down and all the tenants and pets along with it.

And that, Nick thought, chilled, would have been not only arson but murder.

He couldn't get the matter out of his mind. All the time he was feeding Fred and Maynard, and taking Maynard for
his
outing, Nick kept thinking about it.

He was still trying to figure out what had really happened when he came down the stairs and ran into Mrs. Sylvan.

“I'm glad I caught you,” she said. “Even though it's the weekend, I'll be gone this afternoon and early this evening, and again tomorrow, so will you take care of Eloise just as you have been doing?”

Nick gave a sigh and agreed. He sure hoped Eloise would be better soon. Even the towel trick didn't help as much as it once had. Eloise was a pain. The only thing that kept him at it was the money.

He went back to Mr. Haggard's apartment and made sure Rudy had food and water. Rudy looked at the dish and then back at Nick, waiting.

“Well? What's the matter with you? Eat it,” Nick said.

Still Rudy waited, giving his stubby tail a tentative twitch.

And then Nick remembered. Vitamins. Mr. Haggard had said Rudy wouldn't eat the food without the vitamins.

He found the bottle and measured out the amount it said for a dog Rudy's size. And sure enough, as soon as he'd done that, the big Airedale began to eat enthusiastically, crunching the hard bits as if they were bones being ground up by ogre teeth.

Nick watched him. Rudy could really run. If he'd chased anybody, could even a grown man have gotten completely away from him?

Nick didn't think so. Unless, of course, the man had a good head start. That might have happened.

If Rudy had closed those teeth on anybody, there surely would have been some noise Nick
and Sam would have heard. Anybody would yell if a dog bit into his leg or his behind, wouldn't he?

He didn't know for sure that Rudy would have bitten anybody he chased. Rudy had been gentle as a lamb, as far as Nick had seen.

A stranger wouldn't know Rudy was running for fun, and might have been scared enough to do anything to get away. Still thinking it all over, Nick let himself out of Mr. Haggard's apartment and went to check the mailbox, in case the old man's pension check was there. He knew how elderly people had to be careful about those.

There were six boxes, and they had numbers on them made by the same crayon as had been used to mark the doors inside, but they were so smudged Nick couldn't really make them out. There was an official-looking envelope protruding from one of the boxes, so Nick pulled it out and looked at it.

It was a check, all right; it showed through the window envelope. But it wasn't Mr. Haggard's pension, it was addressed to Clyde Foster, and it was from an insurance company.
Nick dropped it back into the metal box and tried the next one.

There, that was Mr. Haggard's mail. No check, only two bills. Nick took them inside and put them on the table by the chair where the old man usually sat, anchoring them with a book so they wouldn't get knocked off.

“No, I'm not taking you out again,” he told Rudy, who seemed as overjoyed at his appearance as he had been at the two earlier visits. “I'll be back later, though.”

He opened the door into the hall and heard voices; it was the hippies, Clyde and Roy, coming in.

“Hey, they finally paid for that stuff we lost,” Clyde said in a pleased tone. “Now maybe we can get us some furniture. Like a table and a couple of real chairs. And I need some more canvas to paint on.”

“Wheels, man,” Roy replied. “We need a set of wheels.”

They closed the door behind them, not noticing Nick in the doorway of apartment one. They were talking about Roy's gig, which Nick decided meant a session of playing his guitar
somewhere, and how it was about time the insurance company paid off.

Rudy nudged Nick's hand, and Nick scratched behind the animal's ears, eliciting a whimper.

“That feel good? Or are you already lonesome, because Mr. Haggard's gone to the hospital?” Nick looked at the Airedale in mild concern. He supposed pets were the same as people, in some ways; they didn't like being left alone, and there was no way to explain to them what had happened.

Overhead, the music came on as Clyde and Roy reached their apartment. Nick flinched. It was a good thing most of the residents in the house were either away or moderately deaf, he thought.

“Don't worry, I'll be back late this afternoon,” he promised, and left Rudy whining behind the brown door. He wished he knew the truth about that fire in the alley; it would make a difference in what he decided to do, and right now he had the uneasy conviction that he ought to be here, taking care of the pets on the premises. During the day there
was only Mr. Griesner—who didn't think much of pets—and sometimes Clyde and Roy at home, and at night Mrs. Sylvan. Mrs. Sylvan would get Eloise out if there was any need to do so; Nick wasn't so sure she'd consider saving Rudy and Maynard and Fred. And, of course, she didn't have keys to those apartments, anyway. He wasn't sure if Mr. Griesner did or not.

He ran on home, forgetting everything else as he sped along the quiet street. He loved to run; he forgot he was small for his age when he was running, and that Barney was a pest he had to share a room with, and all the other problems that cropped up when he allowed himself to think about them. Charles said if he kept in practice, they'd probably let him be on the track team by the time he got into high school. He thought it would feel good to run in competition with other kids from other schools, and maybe to win. Next year he planned to be one of the best runners in the seventh grade.

By the time he reached home, he imagined plunging across the finish line and having the prize awarded to him. Only the illusion was
somewhat spoiled when he felt a seam give on his shoes. Ruefully, Nick surveyed the damage. He'd break his neck if he didn't get that stitched back together before he tried running again. He wondered if he'd have to pay for the repair out of the 25 percent left from his earnings, or if Dad would consider shoe repair a family expense.

He found his father on the ladder around back, where he usually was when he wasn't at the hospital, carefully spreading yellow paint with a wide brush. Barney, eating a baloney sandwich, stood watching. Barney rolled his eyes at Nick.

“The rate he's going, he'll still be on the back part of the house at Christmas,” he said.

“I hope not. How's Grandma?”

Mr. Reed heard his voice and turned to wave with the brush, sending a few drops of paint onto Nick's face. “Hi, Nick. Your mother went over to spend a few hours with her. It's amazing how fast people come around these days. With that steel pin in her hip, they're getting her up already. But she likes to have your Mom there.”

“Will she be able to walk again all right?” Barney asked.

“They think so. It will take months of physical therapy, probably, before she gets anywhere near normal. Listen, boys, how about getting into some old clothes and giving me a hand? You could do that area beneath the windows, there.”

“I didn't have much breakfast,” Nick pointed out. “Go ahead, Barney, I'll join you in a few minutes.”

Painting wasn't what he wanted to be doing, but Barney had a point. Their father was so meticulous and so bad at doing anything with his hands that he was very slow; if they didn't pitch in and help a little, there wouldn't be time to go to Disneyland or anywhere else before school started.

Actually, he didn't mind painting, once he got started. It was sort of fun to see how nice it looked after he'd run the brush along one of the boards, leaving a smooth, clean surface. And it didn't take much concentration; there was plenty of time to think about other things.

The worst part of it was working next to
Barney. Barney never shut up. And he didn't like the way Nick painted any more than he liked the way Nick kept his half of their room or anything else Nick did.

“You're dripping it on your shoes, idiot,” Barney said.

“They're pretty well shot, anyway.” Nick remembered then, and raised his voice. “Hey, Dad, should I get my running shoes repaired over at Hubble's? A seam broke.”

“Fixing them's cheaper than new ones. Take a couple of dollars out of my wallet; it's on the dresser in my bedroom,” Mr. Reed offered. He climbed down to move the ladder, and as long as he was within earshot, Barney kept still, but only until Mr. Reed disappeared around the corner.

“Be more careful around the windows, Nick. You're such a slob, you're getting it on the white part.”

“That's going to be repainted, too. It's going to be white. So what hurt does it do if I get a little yellow there? I can go faster if I don't try to be so fussy.”

“You're not too fussy, you don't have to
worry about that,” Barney said in obvious disgust. “Boy, Nick, you're a real pig.”

For a moment Nick contemplated reaching out with a brushful of paint and slapping it right across his brother's mouth. The urge was so strong that it must have been written on his face, because Barney suddenly grinned.