Vanishing Acts Read Free Page B

I said, giving his neck a good scratch before closing and locking the door behind me.
    Next I headed to Bean’s place. I try not to play favorites among my clients—it seems wrong, unprofessional, somehow. But if I did, Bean would most definitely not be one.
    When I got to his place, I found his owner, Cassie, kneeling in the living room, brushing Bean’s fur. Bean looked lovely—her hair silky, smooth, and shiny white, as usual. Meanwhile, Cassie seemed frantic. More so than usual, I mean; maybe because her red hair sat atop her head like a particularly thorny tumbleweed.
    â€œHi!” I said. “No work today?”
    â€œI had to stay home,” said Cassie. “Emergency.”
    â€œIs everything okay?” I asked.
    â€œNot really,” said Cassie. “But I’m glad you’re here. Do you notice anything different about Bean?” She stared at me closely with wide blue eyes. “Does she seem . . . strange?”
    I stared at Cassie’s dog—a six-pound, fluffy Maltese. Her sparkly pink nails matched the ribbons in her hair. Her cardigan was pink and green striped—custommade to order and hand-knit, courtesy of Lucy, who’d just launched her new line of pet sweaters on Etsy. (She was making a killing on Bean’s wardrobe alone.)
    â€œShe looks perfectly normal to me,” I said.
    Cassie exhaled. “That is a huge relief. You’ll never guess what happened this morning—Bean almost got egged!”
    â€œAt the park?” I asked. “Were you near the Ninth Street entrance?”
    â€œYou heard about it?” asked Cassie. “When I called the police and demanded that they warn everyone in Brooklyn, it sounded like they weren’t taking me seriously. I guess they must’ve been laughing about something else.”
    â€œI didn’t hear about Bean’s egging,” I said. “But the same thing happened to my friend Charlotte’s dog. Well, she’s not my friend, exactly. Just someone I go to school with who wants my help. She’s an eighth grader, and kind of—”
    â€œIt was the scariest thing I’ve ever experienced in my entire short life,” said Cassie. “I’m talking major trauma. This is worse than when our shipment of Jimmy Choos came in the wrong color.”
    â€œYour what?” I asked.
    â€œThey’re shoes,” said Cassie. “We needed them for a big photo shoot. You know I’m a stylist, right?”
    â€œI didn’t, actually.”
    â€œAnyway, that mistake cost three people their jobs. No big deal. But this? It’s a much graver situation. I’m just so worried about poor Bean. She’s got to be so traumatized, because you know how she is about keeping her fur perfectly clean and white. She cries whenever she steps in mud.”
    â€œReally?” I asked.
    â€œWell, I cry whenever she steps in mud,” Cassie said with a cough. “But only because I know that Bean is suffering in silence. Anyway, now I’m worried she’s got PTSD.”
    â€œAnd that is . . . what?”
    â€œPTSD stands for post-traumatic stress disorder. It happens when people experience great trauma. Terrorist attacks, war, kidnappings—”
    I shook my head. Even for Cassie, this seemed nuts. “Can dogs get PTSD?” I asked.
    â€œOf course they can! Although I suppose you might call it PPTSD.
Pet
post-traumatic stress disorder.”
    I considered Bean, currently sniffing a dust bunny in the corner. “You did say she
almost
got egged, correct?”
    â€œThey only missed her by an inch.” Cassie held upher thumb and forefinger, in case I’d never seen a ruler before.
    â€œThey?” I asked.
    â€œThey, he, she, whoever.” Cassie shrugged. “I don’t really know who did it.”
    â€œThink, though,” I said. “Are there any details you can remember? I need to find whoever’s responsible, and