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he can get his revenge?”
    Ping chuckled. “And you’re that someone?” she said, not believing, not understanding.
    Cassidy burned with embarrassment. “I saw something out by that tree. An animal. It was big.”
    “You’re serious,” said Ping, dropping her smile. “How could you have been responsible for what happened to Joey’s dog?”
    Cassidy sighed. The girls sat on the nearby curb. Then she told Ping the story, her version of it.
    When Cassidy had finished, Ping said simply, “You were only trying to do something good.”
    “Yeah, but something bad happened because of it.”
    “Doesn’t matter. Ghost dogs don’t seek revenge on people who don’t deserve it.” Ping smiled, as if her statement were a well-known fact. “And you don’t deserve it.”
    “Joey thinks I do.”
    “Then Joey’s an idiot. And you can hang out with me this summer instead.”
    Cassidy smiled in spite of herself.
    A commotion arose from the crowd. The girls stood and backed away from the gravel driveway. They watched as a large man barreled toward the street from the Dumpster. His belly bounced over the hem of his green plaid pants. Rivulets of sweat dripped down his bald head. Under his arm, he clutched what looked like a fuzzy red fox. The animal’s face was serene, frozen, but it looked like it might turn and bite him. If the man dropped the fox and if it ran, it might attack. Cassidy stumbled. Ping caught her. As the man came closer, the fox remained still — its feet were attached to a wooden plank.
    “It’s dead,” Ping whispered. “Stuffed.”
    “Stuffed with what?” Cassidy asked.
    “Sawdust. Haven’t you ever seen taxidermy before?”
    Cassidy had not. “That man’s taking Ursula’s things?”
    “Mr. Chase. Yeah. That’s why everyone’s standing out here, I guess, hoping to catch a glimpse of some treasure.” Ping held out her hands to indicate the crowd. “It’s all going to the dump anyhow.”
    “But he’s taking it home?” said Cassidy. “I wouldn’t want any of that old stuff in my house.”
    “That’s what her family thought too. Supposedly, they’re all overseas. Ireland, I think. They’re the ones who hired the cleaning crew. They also sold the house back to Mr. Chase, the man who built this whole neighborhood. He’s the Chase in Chase Estates.” Ping whispered this next part. “My mom says he’s super rich. Thinks he owns this town. I heard he wants to fix up the farmhouse. Turn it into an ultra-modern mini-mansion or something. So I guess we’ll be getting new neighbors sometime soon. Wonder if anyone will tell them who lived here before they moved in.”
    The man in the plaid pants, Mr. Chase himself, nearly ran the girls over as he crossed into the cul-de-sac. “Watch it,” he said, wheezing in the heat with the weight of the fox under his arm. Then he called out, Cassidy assumed, to someone he knew standing amongst the crowd. “Found another one! These will pull in a pretty penny at the Hudson Auction next month. This Ursula lady was one weird old miser. Lucky for us, eh?” As he said the words, a cold gust of wind blew through the trees, shaking loose some high, dead branches that were stretched out over the street. One of them crashed to the ground, hitting the asphalt where Mr. Chase had just passed. The branch seemed to explode into several dozen brittle pieces and the crowd collectively gasped. Mr. Chase jumped and turned around. After a moment, he laughed, holding the fox above his head, as if showing it to Ursula’s old house. “Mine now, sweetheart!” he bellowed. “You snooze, you lose!”
    Cassidy and Ping glanced uneasily at each other. That was no way to speak to the dead.

L ATER, AFTER THE SUN was low in the sky, Ping’s mother called for her to come inside and clean up for dinner. The girls said good-bye with the hope of seeing each other again soon, and Cassidy made her way back to the Tremonts’ house. Dennis’s BMW was parked in the driveway and