CHAPTER 25
O’Malley’s visit upset everyone, Uncle Tony most of all. He thought everyone was conspiring against him, and he went into a downward spiral. He refused to come out of his room, even to take Gabriel for a walk—Louanne had to do it. It seemed like the life had been sucked out of him, and two days later Aunt Michele had to call Vinnie and the ambulance. Uncle Tony was restrained and carried off to the state hospital again—only three weeks after his last hospitalization.
Vinnie the butcher, Aunt Michelle, and Mrs. Dodd made their familiar trek to Utica, and Louanne came over to stay with us. She threw her stuff on my bed, and I made her and Maggie lunch.
“Why did you make us soup?” Maggie complained, fanning herself with her napkin. “It’s so hot today.”
“If it’s so hot, why did you wear a sweater?” Lou asked. “I like vegetable soup. It’s good.”
“It’s a light sweater, and it goes with my shirt,” Maggie said. “Can I just have watermelon?”
We were finishing our lunch when Doc walked in carrying his lucky sport coat and a racing form. He took an ashtray from the dish drainer, sat down at the table, and lit up a Camel.
“Louanne,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “It’s a shame about your uncle going back to the hospital.” Doc set his cigarette in the ashtray and went on. “Did Michelle and your grandmother go out to Utica too?”
Louanne nodded. “Yes. Vinnie drove—he’s keeping Gabriel until they get back.” She wiped her mouth off with her napkin.
“Well, I’m glad you’re staying with us,” Doc said, smiling.
“Doc,” Louanne said, leaning her elbows on the table. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure, honey,” he answered in a serious voice. “What is it?”
“Do you think O’Malley’s the reason my uncle got sick again?” Louanne said, raising her chin and looking straight at Doc. “O’Malley told him that the next time he came over, he was going to arrest him.”
“Uncle Tony was really upset,” I said, remembering the moaning sound that he’d made after O’Malley left the house. It sounded a lot like the cow in Mr. Hogan’s barn when it knew it was going to be slaughtered.
“It could be,” Doc said, stubbing out his cigarette. “O’Malley’s visit must’ve weighed heavily on your uncle, and the poor fish couldn’t take it.” He reached across the table and covered Louanne’s small hand with his big one. “O’Malley is feeling a lot of pressure from the mayor to make an arrest.”
“From the newspaper too,” Maggie said. “There was that story the day after the hotel fire that said if the arsonist isn’t caught, more buildings will burn down—and somebody could get hurt.”
“Tony is O’Malley’s only suspect, but that doesn’t mean he did it. O’Malley needs evidence to arrest him.”
Doc glanced at his watch and stood up. “I’ve got to run if I want to make the Daily Double, but I’ll be back about six.” He picked up his things and looked at us. “Would going to the drive-in tonight bring smiles to your faces? Creature from the Black Lagoon is playing.”
“Yes! Want to?” I asked, looking at Maggie and Louanne.
“That’s supposed to be a really scary movie, Doc,” Maggie said, pushing her sleeves up and fanning her face with both hands. “Are you sure you want to go?”
“If you girls are up for it, I can handle it,” Doc said, staring at Maggie’s arm. “What happened, Maggie? That’s quite a bruise.”
Maggie quickly pulled her sleeve down and folded her arms across her chest. “I bumped it on the door.”
Doc raised his eyebrows and looked at her.
“It’s okay,” Maggie said with a nervous laugh. “Doesn’t even hurt.”
“Looks like it hurt when it happened,” Doc said, shaking his head. “I’ve got to get going, or I’ll never make the first race.”
We followed Doc outside and climbed up the ladder into the tree house. I’d brought a cookie for Earl the squirrel, but he was nowhere to be seen, so I ate it. Denny and Jimmy were playing catch in the front yard, and except for their voices, everything was still.
Doc tooted the horn when he pulled his Dodge away from the curb. The heat bounced off Hudson Avenue in waves; some of the tar had even melted into puddles. A stray dog wandered aimlessly down the street. He stopped in front of our fence and whined.
“Don’t go near him, Denny,” I said, warning him. “He might be sick.”
Denny yelled back. “He’s not sick. He wants a drink.”
“Stay away from him anyway,” I yelled, standing up. “Listen to me.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” Denny said, picking up the ball and throwing it at the tree house.
“Am too,” I said, jumping down from the tree house. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him. “Don’t ever throw anything at me again, or you’ll be sorry.”
Denny pulled away. “Can you be nice, and can we please give the dog a drink?”
The dog’s mouth was open, his tongue was hanging out, and he was panting. Denny was right—if anybody ever needed a drink, it was this dog. I filled an old pail with water from the hose.
“Give the pail to me, Grace,” Denny said impatiently. “The dog likes me; I can tell.”
“Okay, okay,” I said, handing him the pail. Denny loved animals—all kinds. “Just set it down on the ground, Denny. Don’t pet him; he might bite.”
The dog gave a grateful bark and lapped up the water.
“Denny, come on,” Jimmy yelled, picking up his bike. “Let’s go over to my house to play.”
“See, Grace, he likes me,” Denny said, patting the dog on the head. “Good dog. Good boy.”
Denny and Jimmy got on their bikes and rode down the street with the dog trotting after them. When I got back to the tree house, Maggie was lying on her stomach almost asleep, and Louanne was thumbing through a new movie magazine.
“Louanne,” I said. “Let’s go back to your grandmother’s and check Uncle Tony’s room.”
“Why?” Louanne’s eyes darted from her magazine to me. “What for?”
“Maybe there’s something in there that proves he didn’t set the fires.”
“I’m not sure about going through his stuff, Grace,” Louanne said. “He wouldn’t like it.”
“We’re not going to go through his stuff,” I said. “We’re just looking for evidence that helps him.”
“You really think we might find something?” Louanne asked, setting the magazine down.
Maggie yawned and rolled over. “Don’t get your hopes up.”
“Hope is a good thing,” Louanne said, already halfway down the ladder.
Maggie jumped out of the tree house and landed on her feet in the grass. “I’m hoping it’s Gary.”
“It could be Mr. Howe,” I said, following them out of the yard. “He fits the profile.”
Louanne unlocked the front door when we got to her grandmother’s house, and we hurried upstairs to Uncle Tony’s room. He’d added a new message to his door—right under the big “Stay Out” warning: “Never Trust the Police!!!”
“Well,” Maggie said, clearing her throat. “Obviously that means O’Malley.”
“O’Malley is out to get Uncle Tony,” Louanne said. “That’s for sure.”
“That’s why we’re here,” I said, writing down the new message in my notebook. “To see if we can help. Read me the dates, Lou,” I said, flipping over to that page. “I’ll double-check them.”
“Uh-huh,” she said. “Nothing’s changed though; Uncle Tony just added the hotel fire to the bottom of the list.”
“Thanks,” I said, sticking my pencil and notebook in my back pocket. “August 2, 1956.”
“I feel really bad about going in here,” Louanne said, opening Uncle Tony’s bedroom door. “I don’t want him to know we snooped.”
“Me either,” I said, following her into the room. The blinds were closed, the curtains were drawn, and the room smelled like stale smoke. Uncle Tony’s bed was made, and ther
e was a water glass on his nightstand next to some books and magazines. There was a Bible open on his bed, and I picked it up. The verse Romans 12:19 was underlined: “Beloved, never avenge yourselves, but leave it to the wrath of God, for it is written, ‘Vengeance is mine. I will repay, says the Lord.’”
I handed the Bible to Louanne, and she read the verse out loud. “Vengeance. Maybe that means he’s going to let the Lord take care of O’Malley,” she said.
One of the books on the nightstand was Fahrenheit 451, a novel by Ray Bradbury. The book jacket said it was about a future American society where books are outlawed and “firemen” burn any that are found. I turned the book over and read the blurb on the back: “The system was simple. Everyone understood it. Books were for burning, along with the houses in which they were hidden. Guy Montag was a fireman…”
“Lou,” I said. “You’ve got to see this.”
“Holy shit.”
“I know,” I said, shaking my head. “This scares me.”
Maggie grabbed the book from Louanne. “What does this mean?”
“It’s just a book,” Louanne said in a low voice. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
I turned out the light, and we walked downstairs in a daze. The book had sucked the life out of our investigation; we were unsure what to do next.
“Do we still check the dates at the library?” Maggie asked as Louanne locked the front door.
“That was our plan,” Louanne answered, pulling on the door handle to make sure it was locked. “We can’t quit now.”
The library was across the street, catty-corner from the Dodds, a one-room clapboard cabin, rundown and plain. It was an eyesore among the stately homes and businesses on Hudson Avenue. Once painted bright yellow, the library had faded to a shade of dirty white, and the wide-plank porch sagged in the middle. There wasn’t much paint left on the porch steps, and they creaked as we walked up to the front door. A clay pot filled with red geraniums sat beside the door, giving the place a splash of color, and the mat in front of the door said “We come” instead of “Welcome.”
The librarian, Doris Fitch, was an unpaid volunteer, but she took her position seriously and kept regular hours. Every morning at nine, she unlocked the front door and turned on the porch light—the signal that the library was open for business. Doc said you could set your watch by her.
“Oh, girls,” Miss Doris said when we walked in. “I was just leaving for lunch; I hate to keep Mrs. Teaford waiting.” Mrs. Teaford was an Abyssinian cat, and Miss Doris loved her more than anything in the world—even books. She pushed her oversized glasses up on her head, smoothed down some strands of thin gray hair, and started to get up.
“Can we keep the library open while you’re away?” Louanne asked, knowing the answer would be yes.
“Of course, dear,” Miss Doris said, heading for the door. Before she opened it, she turned around and gestured to the metal file box on her desk. “But when you arrange the cards in alphabetical order—remember, it’s the last name, not the first.”
“I will,” Louanne said, blushing bright red. “Sorry I goofed the last time.” She walked behind the desk and sat down. “Do I look official?”
Miss Doris smiled. “Yes, you do, Librarian Louanne. I’ll be back after Mrs. Teaford and I have lunch.”
“Louanne the Librarian,” I said as Miss Doris left. “Neat.”
“Knock it off. Not funny.”
Maggie wandered over to the novels, but Louanne and I went straight to the rack with the newspapers to find the articles about the fires. Since the beginning of summer, there had been three fires; the old hotel fire was just a couple of days before on August 2.
“The dates check out. Whenever there was a fire, Uncle Tony was home,” I said, looking at Louanne.
Maggie said, “Check them again; maybe you made a mistake.”
“I did,” I said, looking at my notes. “They match.”
Louanne sighed and walked over to the window. She pressed her forehead against the pane and stared across the street at the ruins of the old hotel.
“I’m sorry,” Maggie said. “Honest.”
“The Pratt fire was on a Wednesday night in May, the Nelsons’ was on a Friday, the Baileys’ was on Saturday, and the hotel fire was on Thursday,” I said.
“There’s no pattern,” Maggie said, wiping sweat off of her forehead with her hand. “I remember the Nelsons’ barn, and the hotel was Thursday afternoon. Where were the other two?”
“There was a fire in May at the Pratts’, then the Nelsons’, then at the Bailey farm…remember Mrs. Bailey? She makes the muffins for the school on First Fridays.”
“They don’t seem connected,” Louanne said. “But still, the fires were around Stillwater.”
“Uncle Tony, Gary Cannon, and Mr. Howe live in Stillwater,” I said. “It would be easy for any of them to set them.”
Louanne wandered over to the bookshelves and trailed her fingers across the spines of the books. “Did you ever read From Here to Eternity?”
“Not me,” I said, shaking my head.
She sat down and dangled her white sandal off her big toe. “We don’t have much to go on.”
“We have a list of people who smoke Pall Malls, as well as the three prime suspects.”
“Grace,” Maggie said, resting her hand on her hip. “Half the town smokes Pall Malls.”
“I know,” I said, reading some names. “Vinnie the butcher, my mother, Miss Doris, and even Father Flanagan.”
“The priest makes a great suspect,” Maggie said, folding her hands like she was praying. “If he did it, does he hear his own confession?”
“Bad joke,” Lou said.
“Uncle Tony’s on the Pall Mall list,” I said. “Sulley too, but he wouldn’t burn down the place where he works. Doc smokes Camels, but we know O’Malley smokes Pall Malls—and Mr. Howe.”
“Uncle Tony might set the fires because he’s sick,” Maggie said, “but why would Gary or Mr. Howe do it? We need a motive.”
“You get away from there,” Miss Doris shouted from the library parking lot. “Are you the person who’s been putting trash in my book bin? Shame on you.”
We rushed over to the window to see what was going on. Gary Cannon stood beside his bike glaring at Miss Doris. A cigarette was sticking out of the corner of his mouth, and he was holding a crumpled-up trash bag. A pack of Pall Malls stuck out of his shirt pocket.
“I’m surprised at you, Mr. Cannon,” Miss Doris continued. She snatched the bag of trash, held it up by her fingertips, and peeked inside. “Fish heads and entrails? Empty cigarette packs? Good books would have been ruined if you had had your way. You take this trash and go. Your mother will hear about this, young man. And about your smoking too.”
Gary threw his cigarette on the ground, crushed it in the dirt with the toe of his shoe, and ignored Miss Doris.
She held the bag out and shook it. “Do I need to call Policeman O’Malley?”
“Crazy bitch,” Gary said, but he grabbed the bag and rode away.
CHAPTER 26
The siren sounded in the middle of the night on Wednesday, August 15. I glanced at my alarm clock—almost midnight. Uncle Tony had only been home from the hospital three days, and already there was another fire.
I jumped out of bed, tripped over my slippers, and got to the window just in time to see the fire truck roar by with O’Malley right on its tail. The street was quiet and dark; no lights were on in the houses.
My bedroom door flew open, and Denny burst in, dragging his pillow. Whenever he had a nightmare, he’d run into my room.
“The siren scared me, Grace,” he said, grabbing my arm. “Can I sleep with you?”
“Shhh. Don’t talk so loud; you’ll wake up Mom,” I said, climbing back into bed and patting the space beside me. I pushed the sheet down to the bottom of the bed.
Denny brushed his pillow off and settled back. “Grace,” he said, sliding closer to me. “Who sets the fires? Jimmy said
it’s Uncle Tony.”
“Nobody knows,” I whispered, wishing Jimmy would just shut up.
“Doc’s old, almost a hundred,” Denny went on. “If somebody set our house on fire, he’s too old to save us.”
“Doc’s not that old,” I said, sighing. “He’d save us, but nobody is going to set our house on fire.”
“I wish Daddy didn’t die.”
“Me too,” I said, turning my head to look out the window. “Dad watches over us though, kind of like our own dad guardian angel.”
“That’s funny,” Denny said. “Dad guardian angel.”
“Sometimes I pretend he’s here.”
Denny buried his head in my shoulder and said in a muffled voice, “You do? I don’t remember him. Tell me about him; Mom never does.”
“He was the best father in the whole wide world,” I said, putting my arm around him.
My father smelled like Old Spice; I loved that smell. After he died, I took his bottle of Old Spice from the medicine cabinet and hid it in my top dresser drawer. At night I’d sprinkle a few drops on my pillow, and it smelled like he was right there with me.
“What else, Grace?” Denny’s voice broke into my thoughts. “What did he do?”
“Don’t you remember anything?” I said, feeling sorry for Denny. “He tickled us with his whiskers before he shaved; he’d rub his scratchy chin on your fat belly. You’d giggle, and then he’d tickle you even more.”
“I was a funny baby,” Denny said, bouncing a little in the bed. “Mom told me that. What else?”
“Daddy read us stories at night. You wore blue pajamas with feetsies, and he would throw you up in the air so high you’d almost touch the ceiling.”
“I did?”
“Yep, and Dad would be singing ‘Bye baby bunting, Daddy’s gone a hunting to get a little rabbit skin to wrap his baby Denny in.’” I sighed—it all seemed so long ago.
Denny pulled my face so close our noses touched. “What else did he sing, Grace?”
“‘Rock-a-bye baby in the tree top. When the wind blows, the cradle will rock. When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall, and down will come Denny, cradle and all.’ Then he’d kiss you a hundred million times and put you back in your crib.”
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