Free Spotted Dog Last Seen by Jessica Scott Kerrin Page A

Loyola’s bulletin board at the library. Haven’t you seen it?”
    Pascal and I shook our heads.
    â€œShe collects things that people have left tucked in library books and has a display of them behind her desk.”
    â€œWhat kind of things?” I asked.
    â€œYou’d be surprised what people will use as bookmarks. Lottery tickets, love letters, greeting cards, travel tickets, old photographs, sketches, grocery lists, newspaper clippings, unpublished poetry, pressed four-leaf clovers.”
    â€œI just fold the corner of the page to mark where I am,” Pascal admitted.
    â€œPascal!” I said. “What if everyone did that?”
    â€œNo problem,” he said. “They’d just have to remember to unfold the corner when they’re done. Like I do.”
    I gave up and turned to Merrilee.
    â€œWhat’s the most interesting item Loyola has found?” I asked.
    Merrilee sighed again and closed her book. “Her favorite bookmark is a supply list for an expedition to a monastery in India. It’s written with a fountain pen on a type of paper that’s no longer made.”
    â€œHere comes the Brigade,” Pascal announced.
    Merrilee got to her feet, and we watched as Creelman, flanked by Wooster and Preeble, crossed the street. They made their way directly to the cemetery gate. This time each of them carried a plastic blue bin. They set the lidded bins down in front of us.
    â€œGood afternoon,” Creelman said. “Today’s lesson: rubbings.”
    â€œRubbings,” Pascal predictably repeated before the Brigade could catch their breath. “What’s that?”
    Wooster and Preeble crossed their arms and took a step back.
    â€œEver put a leaf or a penny underneath a piece of paper and rub a crayon on top of the paper so that you get an image? That’s a rubbing,” Creelman explained.
    â€œI did that once, only I drew a picture in crayon, covered it in black paint, then scratched out a drawing so that the colors underneath showed through.”
    â€œNot the same thing,” said Creelman, turning away from Pascal. “Now, inside each of these bins you’ll find a package of jumbo crayons, scissors, masking tape and nonfusible interfacing fabric.”
    Pascal took a few steps so that he planted himself directly in front of Creelman again.
    â€œReusable what?” he asked.
    â€œ Nonfusible interfacing fabric. You buy it at fabric stores to stiffen collars and buttonholes and cuffs. But that’s not important. We use it here because it doesn’t tear as easily as paper.”
    Pascal was about to ask another question, but Creelman gave a dismissive wave of his hand.
    â€œNow, open your bins.”
    We did. Inside my bin was a roll of white fabric and all the other items Creelman had listed. Except mine also had one more item — Creelman’s book of epitaphs called Famous Last Words .
    I glanced up at Creelman, but he didn’t look my way.
    â€œWhat you’re going to do is select a gravestone that you like. Just make sure that the stone you select is in good shape, that it isn’t cracking or weakened in any way. Then you need to cut off a piece of interfacing that is larger than the stone you want to rub.”
    â€œSo we can pick any stone we want? Any stone at all?” Pascal asked, with a sweep of his hand that covered the entire cemetery.
    â€œNo,” Creelman replied. He turned to me. “Derek, which stones are good for rubbing?”
    â€œOnes that are not cracked or weakened in any way.”
    Creelman nodded curtly. I could see that he was going to treat me as if he still didn’t know much about me or my past. I was so relieved that I didn’t mind being singled out for questions.
    â€œGot it,” Pascal said, undaunted as usual.
    He began to wander off with his bin in search of a gravestone.
    â€œWait!” Creelman barked. “I’m not done.”
    Pascal