We Find What Is Lost: A Novel of the Terribly Acronymed Detective Club (Book 1)

Chapter Twelve: Rachel, Summer, 1978

Mrs. Anderson was staring out the front window, which wasn't an odd thing in itself. Rachel often saw her there, admiring the view. It was a nice big picture window, and her front garden was pretty. Joe's dad helped her landscape it. He'd even built her a gazebo out of driftwood he'd scavenged from the shore of the Fraser River. They often had tea there after her piano lesson, which Rachel thought she was supposed to be having right now. They'd started right enough with finger exercises and scales, but then Mrs. Anderson walked by the window as she listened to Rachel's product, something caught her eye, and she just stopped and stared.

"Mrs. Anderson?" she asked.

"I don't hear you playing, Rachel."

"Is something wrong?"

"Nothing at all. Sit up straight, hands flat and loose."

Rachel sighed and continued. Mrs. Anderson still didn't sit back down. Rachel would never have admitted it to her, but she liked it when Mrs. Anderson sat next to her on the piano bench. Her padded hip was soft and warm, and she had a nice scent, like flowers. Rachel also liked sitting on her couch and watching TV with her in the evening, the only time it was ever on, while they waited for her dad to come home from a shift. They didn't have a TV at home, and she liked watching Little House on the Prairie, Mary Tyler Moore and Sha-Na-Na; those guys were kind of weird, but she liked their singing (Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo, good night sweetheart, well, it's time to go). She also liked her room full of dolls; when she was younger, it drove her crazy that Mrs. Anderson wouldn't let her play with them, but now she could appreciate the older woman's enthusiasm for preserving them in place.

After another minute, she looked back. Mrs. Anderson was still there. This time, she didn't say anything, just stood up and joined her at the window.

A man and a boy, probably his son, were taping a poster to a telephone pole. They moved on when they were done. All Rachel could see was a word, and it must have filled almost the entire poster for her to see it from here.

LOST

"Oh dear," Mrs. Anderson said. "They put those on another couple of poles. You don't think it was that dog from the other day, do you?"

"But didn't Animal Control take it away? Wouldn't they have called them?"

"Maybe, but sometimes bureaucracy is a slow machine; there might be a lag of a day or two between collecting the dog, searching through registry cards to find the owner, and calling the owner. Oh, it would be horrible if they owned that poor dog, and they didn't know it was dead yet."

"Well, the only way to know is to look at the poster and see if it's the same dog."

Mrs. Anderson turned to her. "You know what? You're right. Better to know now than to agonize about it."

Rachel felt proud that Mrs. Anderson had taken her advice. They left the house and went out the front gate. When they reached the telephone pole, they had a look at the poster.

LOST

"Scruffy"

Terrier mix

Escaped from home on Wood Street

If found, please call 555-6712

There was no photo, only a heartbreaking rendition of the dog through a child's loving eyes, in crayon. A brown thing with pointy ears.

"I don't think that's the dog," Mrs. Anderson said, sounding relieved. She wouldn't have to call and give them the bad news.