Framed, Page 3

  “What’s going on here?”

  A tall, birdlike woman pushed her way into the huddle and peered over her beak of a nose, panning from face to face. A notebook was shoved forward, pencil poised threateningly. “Who is responsible for setting that dog on this defenseless boy?” She placed a long, bony arm around Darren.

  Griffin’s heart sank. Of all the people who had to be at the football game to witness this — Celia White. He recognized her from the picture atop her weekly column in the Herald.

  And she recognized him. “Griffin Bing — is this your dog?”

  Savannah spoke up. “He’s mine. And he hasn’t done anything wrong.”

  The reporter produced a cell phone. “Why don’t I call animal control and get their opinion? If I’m not mistaken, the law says a dog that attacks people has to be put down.”

  Savannah turned deathly white and swayed dizzily for a moment.

  “Okay, okay,” the principal announced. “Let’s dial this back a notch. Nobody’s getting put down.” He looked daggers at Griffin. “Yet.”

  “What about my run?” demanded Darren, who was none the worse for wear except for a muddy jersey. “I was home free when the mutt pounced!”

  The referee supplied the answer. “The play never happened. It was whistled dead for an unauthorized person on the field.”

  “It wasn’t a person, it was a dog! And he owes me a touchdown!” Darren complained.

  “Don’t worry, young man,” Celia White promised. “Everyone will know what was done to you — on Monday, when my column comes out, and I describe this incident in detail!” She glared at Griffin and bird-walked back to her seat in the bleachers, writing furiously as she went.

  Dr. Egan reserved his anger for his students. “I want that dog and the three of you off my field now. And at school, if I see so much as a late slip from any of you, things are going to get ugly.”

  Griffin caught twin looks of dismay from his two friends. Things were already ugly.

  And getting worse.

  5

  By Monday morning, the doomsday clock had ticked down to six hours. If the missing retainer did not magically reappear by the time school ended, an expensive replacement would have to be ordered.

  “Otherwise, my teeth might start to get crooked again,” Griffin called up the stairs of the Drysdale home. “To be honest, I’d rather have crooked teeth than deal with my mother anymore.”

  Mom was out of the vocally disappointed phase. Now she just sighed. It was amazing how much that woman could say without using words.

  Griffin had stopped by Savannah’s on the way to school, hoping that Luthor had come through over the weekend. If the Doberman could target Darren’s mouth guard from twenty yards away, surely it was possible that he might stumble upon the real retainer.

  “Sorry, Griffin, we haven’t even had a chance to look.” Savannah descended the steps, Luthor at her side. Cleopatra, her monkey, slid down the banister and jumped onto the dog’s muscular neck. “The rat’s still here, and it’s a total nightmare. Lorenzo’s turned pink — that’s as red as you can get when you’re albino.” She swung her backpack over one shoulder.

  Suddenly, Luthor let out a woof that made the rafters ring. He approached her and began pulling at the canvas bag.

  “See how upset things are?” she pointed out to Griffin. “He’s used to me going to school, but ever since the rat, they’re all on edge. That’s enough, Luthor. I’ll be home soon.”

  The big Doberman began to whine. Cleopatra bounced and chattered in agitation. Their eyes never left Savannah’s backpack.

  Something about the bag was setting them off.

  All through the school day, Dr. Egan’s disapproving gaze seemed to follow Griffin wherever he went. He was relieved to get out of there — until he spied his mother in the car pool line. The doomsday clock had officially run out. It was time to order the new retainer.

  Ben found him later that afternoon. Griffin was in his yard, struggling to pick up a giant armload of leaves. He staggered over to the lawn bag and jammed them inside, sending a good 50 percent fluttering back to the grass.

  “You’re alive.” Ben stepped through the gate, Ferret Face poking out of his collar like a hood ornament.

  “That’s your opinion,” Griffin said with a grimace. “Grab the spare rake and give me a hand.”

  “Won’t your folks get mad if I do your punishment?”

  “It’s not punishment. It’s the first installment of paying them back. I should be in the clear by Christmas, two thousand twenty-nine. Easter, the latest.”

  Ben picked up the second rake and began to work on a new leaf pile. “How mad was your mom?”

  “Not bad. She’s been so ticked off the whole time that she didn’t have much anger left for today. She peaked early.”

  Ben deposited a rakeful in the open bag. “What about your dad?”

  Griffin shrugged. “He’s pretty distracted these days with the Vole-B-Gone.”

  Mr. Bing was the inventor of ultramodern fruit-harvesting equipment, like the SmartPickTM and the Rollo-BushelTM. His latest creation, the Vole-B-GoneTM, was an electronic trap designed to protect trees from orchard pests.

  “Your dad’s a genius and all,” Ben put in, “but after two great inventions, he was bound to come up with something that doesn’t work.”

  “It works perfectly,” Griffin countered. “Once the vole is in the cage, it triggers the sensor, and the door shuts in less than a tenth of a second.”

  “So what’s the problem?”

  “They won’t go in,” Griffin explained. “It’s almost like they know what it’s for. Dad’s tried everything to attract them, but it’s a no go. Who knew voles were so picky about where they hang out?”

  Ben set down his rake. “I don’t want to put you in an even worse mood, but the new Herald came today.” He pulled the tabloid-sized paper from his backpack and handed it to Griffin. The headline blazoned:

  VICIOUS DOG ATTACK ERASES WINNING TOUCHDOWN

  By Celia White, Staff Reporter

  The savage fury of the animal kingdom was unleashed upon an innocent middle school sporting event on Saturday….

  “Savannah isn’t going to like this,” Ben predicted mournfully.

  Griffin scanned the article. Most of it decried Luthor as a danger to public safety, but the journalist had saved a special zinger for Griffin and his friends:

  … While juvenile protection rules prevent this reporter from identifying the culprits, you can rest assured that the delinquents who trained the dog are the very same who have been responsible for local lawlessness in the past. Until we, the citizens of Cedarville, take a stand against this behavior, we can only expect more of it in the future.

  “My mother thinks everything Celia White writes comes straight from the great truth oracle of the universe,” Ben said glumly.

  The Man With The Plan believed that kids could and should stand up to the adult world. Yet a principal wielded absolute power in his school, and a reporter always had the last word.

  Something had to be done.

  But what?

  6

  Dark clouds loomed overhead when Griffin and Ben arrived at school the next day, but the threatening storm was mild compared to the thunderheads on Savannah’s brow.

  She was waiting for them outside the front entrance. “You won’t believe who came to my house yesterday!” she seethed. “Animal control! They read Celia White’s column! They think Luthor’s dangerous!”

  Griffin and Ben exchanged a pained expression. They agreed with animal control 1,000 percent, but they didn’t dare admit that to Savannah.

  Ben cleared his throat carefully. “Did they get a good look at him?”

  “Of course!” She was indignant. “And those so-called animal experts couldn’t see what a gentle creature he is. How could you gaze into those big, beautiful eyes and miss the kindness and compassion?”

  Griffin shrugged off a strangled look from Ben and
turned back to Savannah. “So what happens now?”

  “We’re allowed to keep him in the house and in the backyard so long as the gate is closed. But if he’s caught outside our property, except in a full harness and a muzzle, he can be impounded. That’s the word they used — impounded. Like he’s a shipment of bad bananas from South America.”

  “Look at the bright side,” Ben offered lamely as they entered the building.

  Savannah wheeled on him furiously. “How could there be a bright side? Luthor is a strong, free, vital creature who needs open space to roam and explore! For him, this will be like a prison sentence!”

  “Exactly,” Ben explained. “Every single thing has gone wrong this year.”

  Griffin raised an eyebrow. “And that’s the bright side?”

  “Well,” Ben reasoned, “you have to admit it would be pretty hard for life to get much worse.”

  A bloodcurdling shriek echoed throughout the building. All conversation halted in mid-word. Everyone froze. There was sudden silence except for the thump of a few textbooks hitting the floor. Ferret Face popped up from Ben’s collar, scanning his surroundings in alarm.

  Heads turned in the direction of the noise. Hundreds of pairs of anxious eyes peered down the corridor that led to the office. The cry had been pure primal agony. What was happening at their school?

  Ben turned white to the ears. “What was that?”

  “Come on!” Griffin led the charge through the halls, dodging shocked students. They pounded past the cafeteria and rounded the corner toward the front entrance.

  A crowd was already assembling at the main display case, pointing and speaking in urgent whispers. Mr. Clancy was there, holding back the swarm, perspiration trickling down to his blue and white headband.

  Dr. Egan burst from the office in a state of high agitation. “Out of my way!” bawled the principal in an echo of the original scream. He waded through the throng and began to work at the lock on the glass panel, trying key after key from a large ring.

  Griffin ran up. “What happened?” he asked a tall student who seemed to have a good vantage point on what was going on.

  It was Tony Bartholomew. “Somebody stole the Super Bowl ring,” the eighth grader replied angrily. “My Super Bowl ring!”

  “But how?” asked Ben, watching the distraught principal searching for the right key. “The case is locked up tight.”

  “Not my problem,” Tony said grimly. “All I know is somebody owes me one Super Bowl ring.”

  At last, the principal was able to open the lock. He slid the panel aside and reached his hand in. Griffin wiggled to the front for a better view.

  The view was clearer, but not better. It was true. Art Blankenship’s Super Bowl ring was indeed gone. In its place on the black velvet was a small object — pink plastic and shiny silver wire. It was —

  Griffin goggled. No. Impossible —

  Dr. Egan’s beefy hand closed on the item. He brought it out of the case and examined it. His wild eyes found Griffin in the crowd.

  Griffin was in a state of shock. He stared at the piece, unable to believe his eyes.

  “What is it?” whispered Ben, who was too short to see what the principal was holding.

  “A retainer,” said Griffin in a strangled voice. Engraved on the plastic palate were five letters:

  G. BING

  “I want that ring back,” the principal ordered. “Now.”

  “I don’t have it.” Griffin was barely able to conjure the breath to get any sound past his lips. “I didn’t take it.”

  “How do you explain the retainer, then?” Dr. Egan demanded. “Since the first day of school, every time you open your mouth, that thing falls out. Well, you should have kept your mouth shut while you were stealing the ring! Because now your retainer proves that you’re guilty.”

  “I’m not! The case was locked!”

  “That wouldn’t be a problem for an experienced burglar,” the principal accused. “Locks have never stopped you before, have they?”

  The Man With The Plan had been confronted with the unexpected many times. He’d been surprised, astonished, even blown away. But never had he been so completely and utterly blindsided to the point where he could not even find the words to defend himself. He stared at the retainer, incapable of believing his own eyes. He could barely work up any anger at Dr. Egan for putting the blame on him. With this kind of evidence against him, he almost blamed himself.

  “I lost my retainer a few days ago,” he managed finally. “Ask anybody. All my friends know.”

  “You mean your accomplices?” the principal challenged. “Not the most reliable witnesses.”

  “Somebody must have found it, and they did this to frame me!”

  “All I know,” Dr. Egan told him, “is that a major piece of sports history is missing, an item of jewelry worth tens of thousands of dollars. If you don’t hand it over, I’m going to have to take this to the next level.”

  All Griffin could say was, “It wasn’t me.”

  The principal addressed his students. “Everyone — back to your lockers. This doesn’t concern you.” His furious gaze fell on Ben and Savannah. Pitch, Melissa, and Logan inched forward to support their friend. “And I certainly hope it doesn’t concern any of you.”

  He marched Griffin into the office and slammed the door.

  “Lottie,” he said to his secretary, “call the police.”

  7

  It was not the first time that Detective Sergeant Vizzini had visited the Bing house. He had been there investigating the stolen Babe Ruth card and had also stopped by after the zoobreak incident.

  His dark eyes panned the familiar surroundings of the kitchen. “New curtains. I like the color,” he approved. “Brings out the wood stain of the cabinets.”

  “Thank you,” said Mrs. Bing anxiously. It was an automatic response. Curtains were the last thing on her mind. “Officer, I know Griffin has had issues in the past. But this time he’s telling the truth. His retainer has been gone a few days now — long before that ring disappeared.”

  Vizzini nodded. “I believe you.”

  Mr. Bing frowned. “Well, in that case, what are we doing here? Why is Griffin in trouble?”

  “Here’s the thing,” the cop told them. “I believe that’s what your son told you. Whether or not he told you the truth — well, that’s a different matter entirely.”

  “No, it isn’t!” Mr. Bing was triumphant. “We’ve ordered a replacement retainer. That’s hard evidence! Just call the orthodontist to check.”

  “Already done.” Vizzini flipped open a ring-bound pad. “The requisition left Dr. Torelli’s office with the overnight paperwork after closing yesterday — just about the same time the burglary at the school must have taken place.”

  Griffin spoke up for the first time. “You think I went straight from a break-in to the orthodontist?”

  “The office has late hours on Monday and Thursday,” the detective read from his notes. “Yesterday’s last patient didn’t leave until — let’s see — nine twenty-two p.m.”

  “That’s crazy!” Mr. Bing exclaimed. “You don’t order a four hundred–dollar dental appliance without taking some time to look for the old one first!”

  “Unless you’re trying to manufacture an alibi for the theft of something worth a lot more,” Vizzini countered.

  Mrs. Bing was bug eyed. “You’re not just accusing him of a burglary! You’re accusing him of using his own parents to cover it up!”

  The detective leaned back in his chair, looking suddenly tired. “One of the first things they teach you in the police academy — you’ve got to see the big picture. You can’t get locked into any one version of the crime.”

  “He’s a twelve-year-old kid, not Al Capone!” Griffin’s father exploded.

  “A twelve-year-old who’s already made a lot of so-called experts look like clowns. Me, for instance. Considering Griffin’s past pattern of behavior, can you honestly rule out the possibility t
hat he’s responsible?”

  The Bings hesitated.

  Griffin was in agony. His parents knew the retainer had been gone since last week!

  “I didn’t do it,” he said in a small voice.

  “Maybe,” the cop said evenly. “For one thing, I can’t explain how you got into that display case. The lock shows no sign of tampering, and Dr. Egan insists he was in control of all keys. Does that mean it couldn’t have been you? You’re a resourceful kid, Griffin Bing. I underestimate you at my peril. And believe me, that’s not a compliment.”

  “We stand by our son, Detective Vizzini,” Griffin’s mother said firmly.

  The cop sighed. “Here’s what happens now. We search your house for the missing ring. It should go pretty fast, since my men already know the place. In the meantime, Griffin has to stand before a judge —”

  Mr. Bing looked alarmed. “Aren’t you taking this a little too far?”

  “Taking things too far,” Vizzini replied, “is your son’s trademark. Anyway, it’s just a preliminary session to set a hearing date.”

  “That’s even worse!” Griffin blurted.

  Vizzini was unmoved. “Right from the beginning, a dozen different cops told you that one day your luck would run out. You think we were making it up? We’re not that creative.”

  They were, however, punctual. Within the hour, six uniformed officers were riffling through drawers, tapping walls, searching cupboards, and running metal detectors along baseboards while the family waited out on the lawn.

  “Well, Griffin, give us a heads-up,” Dad said wearily. “Any chance they’re going to find it?”

  “Of course not!” Griffin snapped. “I thought you trusted me!”

  “We do trust you,” Mom soothed. “It’s just that most parents don’t even go through this once. Our street is starting to look like the parking lot of the police station.”

  “It’s different this time,” Griffin insisted. “Whatever happened to that ring, I had nothing to do with it.”