Abby and the Notorious Neighbor

by Ann M. Martin

  Kristy’s entry went on to tell about some sleuthing she did that same day, under pressure from me.

  “Come on, Kristy, please?” I begged. We were sitting in my room, on the window seat.

  “Don’t you know it’s a federal crime to tamper with somebody’s mail?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “I could end up in prison. Is that what you want?”

  I shook my head. “Of course not,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be tampering. You’d just be peeking. For one second. What’s the harm?”

  Kristy frowned. “He might come home,” she said.

  “I really don’t think he will. I’m starting to know his schedule. He hardly ever goes out, but when he does, he always stays away for a couple of hours.”

  I picked up the binoculars and went to the other window. “And I can tell that the mail is there,” I said. “Kristy, please? This is our big chance.”

  “Our big chance to find ourselves in big trouble. And all for what? To find out your neighbor’s name? There must be an easier way.”

  There wasn’t. Not that I could think of. I’d tried the phone book, but that hadn’t worked. All I was asking Kristy to do was to ride her bike around to the front of Mr. Finch’s house and crack open his mailbox, which stood at the end of his driveway. I could see it from my window. Earlier, the little red flag on it had been up, which was a signal to the letter carrier that there was mail inside waiting to be picked up. Now the flag was down, which meant that the letter carrier had stopped by. Mr. Finch had gone out about fifteen minutes earlier, and I hadn’t seen him check the mail as he drove away. That meant that this was our golden opportunity. If we (“we” meaning Kristy, since going outside would be sure to activate my allergies and keep me sneezing for hours) could just take one quick look at Mr. Finch’s mail, we could find out what that “O” stood for. And knowing the alias he was using would be an excellent next step. I had already told Kristy about my phone call with Amy Shapiro.

  “Okay, if you don’t want to do it, I can’t make you,” I said in a depressed tone. “If only I wasn’t too sick to go out. Maybe I should just risk it….”

  Kristy threw up her hands. “I’ll do it, I’ll do it,” she said. “But keep an eye on me with the binoculars, okay? And if you see his car coming, you’d better give me some kind of signal so I can make a clean getaway.”

  I nodded. This was more like it. “I’ll wave to you,” I said. “Will that work?”

  She shook her head. “I can’t watch you all the time.”

  I thought for a second, then remembered something. “Hold on,” I said. I went to Anna’s room and rummaged around in her desk. When I came back I was holding my dad’s harmonica. I stood near Kristy and blew through the instrument, hard. The sound that came out was not exactly “She’ll Be Comin’ Round the Mountain.”

  Kristy covered her ears and grimaced. “That ought to do it.”

  Five minutes later, I was watching through the binoculars as Kristy pulled her bike up to Mr. Finch’s mailbox. She looked each way to be sure nobody was coming, then glanced up at me and gave a tiny wave. I waved back.

  Then she reached forward and opened the mailbox. I could see through the binoculars that a piece of mail was sticking out. Kristy checked it, then looked toward my window and gave me the thumbs-up sign. She must have seen Mr. Finch’s first name. Yesss!

  I put down the binoculars, assuming Kristy was going to close the mailbox and pedal away. Instead, she reached a hand deeper into the box. I put the binoculars up to my eyes again. “Kristy,” I murmured, “what are you doing?”

  Kristy seemed to be tugging at something. Was she nuts? Now she was tampering.

  Suddenly, she stepped backward — and a whole pile of mail shot out of the box and landed on the ground. “Oh, no.” I groaned. I swept the binoculars each way, looking for an approaching car. My free hand tightened around the harmonica.

  But the street was empty, and Kristy acted fast, scooping up the letters and stuffing them quickly but carefully back into the box. Closing it, she looked up at me and grinned, swiping a hand across her forehead. I could almost hear her sigh with relief. Then she rode off.

  Moments later, I heard her thumping up the stairs. “Otto!” she was crying. “His name is Otto!”

  Otto Finch. Interesting.

  Kristy burst into my room and collapsed on my bed. “Whew!” she said. “Don’t ever make me do that again.”

  “Why did you pull everything out?” I asked.

  “I didn’t mean to,” she explained. “It just happened. I was trying to wedge out this one letter, to see the return address. But the whole pile flew out at me!”

  “So, did you see where the letter came from?” I asked, curious.

  She nodded. And suddenly she looked very serious. “Iowa,” she said. “It came from Des Moines, Iowa.”

  I looked at Kristy. “I’m going to call Amy Shapiro again.” I reached for the phone.

  Amy was very interested to hear that my neighbor was from Iowa. Then I asked her if Otto Finch was one of Maguire’s known aliases. She put me on hold while she checked. When she came back she told me that the name didn’t show up on his records. She sounded a little less excited.

  My excitement died down too. I’d thought we were on the brink of catching a criminal, but maybe not. Maybe the whole thing was in my head. At least it was in Kristy’s head now too. I had company.

  Mary Anne had stopped in at the police station downtown for an informal chat with a friend of the BSC, Sergeant Johnson. We’ve worked on more than one mystery with him, and he knows we’re good detectives. Mary Anne thought she’d mention my suspicions about Mr. Finch to him and see what he said.

  He didn’t seem too excited to hear about the criminal in our midst. “Mary Anne,” he said gently, shaking his head. “I have to tell you that shows like that one sometimes do more harm than good. I’ll be glad to run a check on your Mr. Finch, but I can almost guarantee you that he’ll come up clean.”

  Mary Anne nodded. “That’s what I think too,” she told him. “But it doesn’t hurt to check, does it?”

  He shook his head. “Not as long as the person doesn’t know you’re checking. Some people might not be too happy about being spied on, you know,” he said, giving her a Look.

  Mary Anne thanked him and told him she understood.

  Claudia and Stacey were pretty excited about their first experience with cyber-sleuthing. (Translation: playing detective with a computer.) After hearing Kristy’s update of the case at Friday’s BSC meeting (which I skipped because I was feeling too rotten), they cornered Janine and talked her into letting them use her computer — and her computer skills.

  Stacey had heard that you could look up anybody’s name on the Internet and find out where that person lives. Most people do it to find old college roommates or trace long-lost relatives, but Stacey figured you could catch a thief that way too. Why not look up Otto Finch and see what information was available on him?

  “That may be possible,” Janine said when they’d explained what they wanted to do. “I’m intrigued enough to help you try.” With a few taps on the keyboard, a squeal from the modem, and a few more taps, she’d entered the Internet. After searching around for a while, she found the correct site. She stood up to let Stacey and Claudia do the rest.

  “Just type in his name,” she told them, “and see what comes up.”

  Claudia started toward the keyboard, then stopped. “You’d better do it, Stace,” she said. “I’ll probably spell it wrong.”

  Stacey tapped in the letters: Otto Finch. The computer made some “thinking” noises while the girls waited eagerly. Finally, an answer came up. It showed an Otto Finch living at 2015 Kemp Ave. in Stoneybrook, Connecticut.

  Stacey and Claudia looked at each other. “Bummer,” said Claudia. “Looks like everything checks out.”

  “Wait, though,” Stacey said slowly, thinking. “What if that’s not really his name?”

  “You
mean —” Claudia began.

  “Let’s try something just for kicks,” said Stacey. “Is the mystery notebook in your room?”

  Claudia ran to find it.

  “What were those names?” asked Stacey. “The ones the Mystery Tracker intern gave Abby?”

  Claudia flipped the pages. “Let’s see,” she said. “Oh, here they are. Harry Bronson and Arthur Maguire.”

  Stacey entered one name and then the other. “Pay dirt!” she cried as the computer screen filled, first with information about Maguire and then with a page on Bronson.

  Janine leaned over her shoulder. “There’s even a Web site where you can download pictures,” she pointed out. She showed Stacey how to find it, and within ten minutes she and Claudia were holding two blurry pictures that Janine had helped them print out.

  “Hmm,” said Claudia.

  “Hmm,” said Stacey.

  Both of them were staring at the second picture that had popped out of the printer. The first one, which they’d glanced at and dismissed, was of Harry Bronson. He was a big, muscle-bound guy with a shaved head — hardly a match for Mr. Finch. But Arthur Maguire was a different story.

  “He’s definitely not identical,” said Stacey carefully. She and Claudia had seen Mr. Finch once or twice when they were visiting me.

  “No,” said Claudia. “But I think I can see what Abby’s talking about.” She squinted at the picture. “Maybe.”

  The day after she saw Sergeant Johnson, Mary Anne had a sitting job with the Rodowsky brothers: Shea, who’s nine; Jackie (the Walking Disaster, remember?), who’s seven; and Archie, who’s only four. All three boys are freckle-faced redheads.

  The Wednesday before, Kristy had been sitting for the boys when they first decided to form a team for the go-cart races. That day, they hadn’t had time to begin construction of their vehicle, but by the time Mary Anne arrived on Saturday, they were ready to start building.

  There was only one problem.

  None of them had a clue about what their go-cart should look like.

  When Mrs. Rodowsky showed her into the garage, Mary Anne found three downcast boys sitting in the middle of a carefully arranged pile of parts: wheels, axles, plywood, two-by-fours, nuts, and bolts. Shea was hunched over a magazine, looking puzzled.

  “You guys seem to be all set,” said Mary Anne. “Why haven’t you started building?”

  Shea shrugged. “We don’t know where to begin,” he said. He looked a little upset. “We have this article Mom found, but I can’t figure out what it’s talking about.”

  Suddenly, Mary Anne understood. Shea is dyslexic, and while he’s great at some things, like figures and measurements, he has a hard time reading and following directions. And Jackie and Archie, both younger, were probably looking to Shea for guidance.

  “Maybe you need to see a real go-cart,” Mary Anne said. “One that’s being built right now. Would that help?”

  “Definitely!” said Shea eagerly. “Can we go over to the Pikes’? I know the triplets are building one.”

  “We don’t have to go that far,” Mary Anne said. “There’s a team working right here in this neighborhood.”

  “There is?” asked Jackie. “Who?”

  “The Glory Girls,” said Mary Anne, remembering Stacey’s and Mal’s notes. “Charlotte, Vanessa, and Becca. They were working over at the Pikes’, but I think the garage there became a little too crowded for two teams. Anyway, I hear they’ve moved their operation to Charlotte’s house. Should I give them a call and see if we can go over?” Mary Anne knew that Jessi was sitting for Charlotte that afternoon, and that she’d probably brought Becca with her. “Or do you want to have lunch first?”

  Shea and Jackie glanced at each other. “Um, how about if we go after lunch?” Shea asked. “Are you going to make us some sandwiches?”

  “I was planning to,” said Mary Anne.

  “Good,” said Shea. “Let’s eat first, then.”

  Mary Anne shrugged and agreed. She headed for the kitchen to put lunch together, noticing that Shea started whispering to Jackie even before she’d left the garage. The Rodowsky boys were up to something, but Mary Anne couldn’t guess what it was. She didn’t even try. Instead, she just crossed her fingers and hoped that, whatever it was, Jackie wouldn’t break anything.

  Ten minutes later, as she was stacking sandwiches on a plate, the phone rang. It was Jessi. “What are those boys up to?” she demanded.

  “Shea and Jackie?” asked Mary Anne, realizing she hadn’t heard their voices in awhile.

  “And Archie,” answered Jessi. “They’re sneaking around, thinking we don’t see them. But we do! They think they’re being subtle, but it’s obvious what they’re up to.”

  Mary Anne laughed. “I bet they’re spying,” she said. “They want to know how to build a go-cart, but they’re too embarrassed to ask a bunch of girls.”

  Jessi giggled. “That’s silly,” she said. “Charlotte and Vanessa and Becca would be glad to help them.”

  “They’re already helping them,” said Mary Anne. “If the boys have had even a glimpse of their go-cart, they’ll probably be full of ideas.”

  Mary Anne hung up and finished making lunch. Then she put everything on a tray and brought it out to the garage. “Jac-kie, Ar-chie, Shea!” she called out the open door. “Lunch is ready.”

  The boys came running. Their faces were flushed and their eyes were bright with excitement.

  “So, have you come up with any ideas?” Mary Anne asked innocently.

  “Lots!” said Jackie. “Now we know how you put the frame together and attach it to the wheels.” He grabbed a sandwich and started eating.

  “So you figured out what the magazine was saying?” asked Mary Anne, hiding a smile.

  “Um — right!” said Shea. “Right, the magazine.” He picked it up and leafed through it.

  “And we saw Char —” Archie began, but his brothers shushed him.

  “Have a sandwich, Archie,” said Shea.

  “And Vaness —” Archie began.

  Jackie shoved a glass of milk into his brother’s hand. “And some milk,” he said. “Drink up!”

  “So,” said Mary Anne, deciding to let the boys have their secret, “who’s going to be the driver of this awesome go-cart?”

  “Me! Me!” cried Jackie. “I want to.”

  “Are you out of your mind?” asked Shea. “You’d crash the thing in a minute. You’ve already totaled two bikes.”

  “Totaled?” asked Mary Anne.

  “You know, like a car crash. When the car is completely wrecked, they say it’s totaled,” Shea explained.

  “I could drive,” Archie suggested happily.

  “I don’t think so,” Shea said gently. “But you can be in the pit crew. You know, the guys who have all the tools and fix the race cars when they break. No, I’ll probably drive.”

  Jackie looked deflated. “I know I could do it without crashing,” he murmured. “If I really try, I can be careful.”

  And for the rest of the day, Jackie set out to prove himself to Shea. Mary Anne had never seen Jackie move so slowly or carefully. “It was as if he had become his own opposite,” she told us later. “Like the Walking Disaster side of him is really his evil twin or something.”

  Jackie did everything right. He followed Shea’s directions to the letter as they began putting their go-cart together. He sawed through boards without sawing through his own clothes or the old kitchen table he was leaning on. He hammered nails without banging his thumb. And when he almost — almost — knocked over a jar filled with screws, he caught it just in time, before Archie was covered in a shower of hardware.

  Mary Anne watched with growing admiration. Maybe Jackie was maturing. Maybe he’d finally learned how to tame his Walking Disaster side. Maybe sitting for the Rodowskys wouldn’t be so dangerous anymore.

  Then, toward the end of the afternoon, Shea made an announcement.

  “We still have to attach the steering mechanism
and the brake,” he told his brothers. “But so far, I think we’ve done a terrific job. Jackie, I take it back. I think you might just be the perfect driver for this go-cart.”

  Jackie beamed. “Wow! Really? Cool.” He and Shea gave each other a high five. Then Archie wanted to give him one too, so all three brothers spent a few minutes congratulating each other.

  Then Shea made a big mistake.

  He opened a can of paint.

  “We might as well put a first coat onto the main part of the go-cart,” he said. “That way, once we attach the last parts and put on another coat, she’ll be ready to roll. We’ll have time for some practice runs.”

  Eagerly, the three boys began to paint. Shea had found an old can of orange paint that his dad had used to touch up their driveway basketball hoop, and the color looked great.

  They’d opened the door of the garage for ventilation, and a cool breeze blew around, keeping the smell of paint to a minimum. All was quiet and peaceful as the boys worked.

  Then, suddenly, Jackie let out a whoop. “Hey!” he yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?” He stood up quickly and pointed, kicking the can of paint as he moved. Over it went, flowing onto Archie’s sneakers. Archie looked up, surprised, as orange paint puddled around his feet.

  “Aww, Jackie, why did you have to do that?” asked Shea. “You were doing so well.”

  “Do you expect me to stand for it when those girls spy on us?” asked Jackie, waving his arms. “I just saw all three of them peeking around the corner of the garage. They’re trying to steal our secrets so they can win the race!”

  Mary Anne looked from an outraged Jackie to a head-shaking Shea to an orange-paint-drenched Archie — and all she could do was try her best not to laugh.

  “I don’t believe you!” Kristy said. “Aren’t you tired of spying yet?”