Abby and the Notorious Neighbor

by Ann M. Martin

  It was Sunday afternoon, and Kristy had come by to visit. She’d caught me sitting at the window, binoculars glued to my eyes, staring out at Mrs. Porter’s house. (Mr. Finch was out, or else I’d have been staring at him.) It was a drizzly, gray day, and I was still feeling pretty lousy. “What else is there to do?” I asked. “Anyway, it’s fun. Want to look?” I offered her the binoculars. “Mrs. Porter is cooking up some kind of stew. Probably eye of newt, or at least that’s what Karen would think.”

  “I’m not interested,” said Kristy. “It’s rude to spy on people.” Then I saw her glance at Mrs. Porter’s house and knew that, despite her words, she was tempted.

  “But you learn so much,” I said. “I mean, I can tell you all kinds of secrets about people in this neighborhood.”

  “Abby!” said Kristy, looking shocked. She paused for a second. “Like — like what, for example?” Her curiosity was getting the better of her.

  “Like, the Korman kids are building a go-cart, and I have a feeling it’s going to be very fast. I’d bet on them to win the race, and none of the other teams even knows that Melody and Bill are entering!”

  “Interesting,” Kristy said. “What else?”

  “I think Shannon has a secret admirer,” I said. “There’s this boy who rides his bike past her house at least twice a day. He always tries to look cool, as if he’s just in the neighborhood by chance, but I can tell by the way he slows down as he passes her yard that he’s looking for her.”

  Kristy smiled. “I wonder if she knows,” she said.

  “And Mr. Papadakis is building a shed in their side yard, and based on what she’s been putting out for the garbage collectors, Mrs. Papadakis must be cleaning out all the closets in the house,” I continued. “And Ms. Fielding just bought five new rosebushes, and —”

  Kristy was looking perturbed. “Wait a minute,” she said. “If you know all this stuff about everyone else in the neighborhood, you must know stuff about my family too.”

  “Um,” I said, stalling.

  “Go on.” Kristy put her hands on her hips. “Tell me. What’s going on at my house?” She still sounded curious, but I heard something else in her voice too.

  I decided to tread carefully. “We-ell,” I began slowly, “I know that Watson’s been thinking about planting some new trees, because I’ve seen him pacing around in the yard with the man from the nursery.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Kristy. “And?”

  “And Karen seems pretty bummed — probably about Andrew being gone?” I added, knowing that this wouldn’t be news to Kristy.

  Kristy frowned. “I know,” she said. “What else?”

  “That new girlfriend of Charlie’s? I’m not sure she’s as crazy about him as he is about her.”

  Kristy’s eyes narrowed. “How can you possibly know that?”

  I shrugged. “It’s just that she, um, makes faces when his back is turned sometimes. You know, rolling her eyes and stuff.”

  “Abby!” Kristy said. “How much time have you spent spying on my family?” She shook her head. “I think you’ve gone a little too far with this. I mean, to know all these details —” She broke off. “Wait a minute,” she said, staring out the window. “Is that the guy you’ve seen riding by Shannon’s house? I think I know who he is. Pass me the binoculars.”

  I grinned and handed them over. Kristy had caught the bug.

  She watched the boy until she realized that she didn’t know him after all, then swept the binoculars around to check out the other neighborhood action. “What about our so-called criminal, Mr. Finch?” she asked, directing her gaze toward his house.

  “Oh my lord!” I said, smacking my head. “I can’t believe I forgot to tell you. The tape came in the mail yesterday!”

  “The tape?”

  “You know, of the show. Of the first Mystery Trackers show I saw. Remember the intern, Amy, who was going to send me a tape? Well, she did.”

  Kristy looked impressed. “Cool,” she said. “Have you watched it yet?”

  “Are you kidding? I’ve seen it twice. No — three times. I would have watched it again, but I don’t want Mom and Anna to start asking questions.”

  “And?” asked Kristy.

  “And I really think he could be him,” I said excitedly. “I mean I think Mr. Finch might really be Arthur Maguire.”

  “Which one was Maguire?” Kristy asked. “The bank robber or the embezzler?”

  “The embezzler.”

  “Oh, right. The one from Iowa.”

  “The one who abandoned his family,” I said, nodding. “I’m telling you, this guy is a dead ringer for Mr. Finch. And there are other clues too, like the furniture —”

  “Furniture?” she interrupted, holding up a hand. “Hold on there. Maybe I should take a look at this show.” She held up the binoculars again and checked Mr. Finch’s house. “Still not home,” she murmured. “Let’s go to the videotape!”

  We hurried downstairs. Fortunately, my mom and Anna were out. I didn’t want to have to explain anything to them. I pulled the tape out from its hiding place behind the others we own and stuck it into the VCR. Kristy and I settled in on the couch to watch.

  The tape was so familiar to me by then that I could practically recite along with the narration. But it was Kristy’s first time, so I tried to keep quiet and let her watch.

  The segment on Arthur Maguire opened with a picture of his employee card from the last place he’d worked. “See?” I asked. “See what I mean?”

  “Shh,” said Kristy, concentrating. The announcer was talking about Arthur Maguire, and how he’d always seemed like an upstanding citizen. There were a couple of interviews with coworkers and neighbors who said that he was polite enough, even though he “kept to himself.” Then there was some footage of his tearful wife, who talked about how shocked she’d been when he disappeared. In the background, two young kids — a girl and a boy, maybe six and eight — squabbled over a box of cereal.

  Then there was a series of pictures of Maguire: In some he looked younger, in some, older; in some he had a mustache and in others he didn’t; in some he looked serious and in some he was laughing. As the pictures flashed by, the announcer talked about what Maguire had done. He’d disappeared with over twenty thousand dollars of other people’s money!

  Kristy whistled. “How could he have thought he would get away with that?” she asked.

  “Wait, there’s more,” I said. The last part of the segment was coming up, the part I’d paid the most attention to. It was a family video, made on Arthur Maguire’s birthday. There were shots of him blowing out candles, opening presents, and listening to his family sing “Happy Birthday.” Through it all he looked content, and totally normal. As if he were any regular American dad.

  “What a creep,” Kristy muttered as the last images faded. “How could he cut out on his family that way?”

  Her voice sounded a little thick. I looked over and saw that her face was tight. Suddenly, I realized she must be thinking of her own dad, who had abandoned her and her mom and her brothers so many years before. Of course, he hadn’t stolen money from them, but I could see why she’d have especially hard feelings toward Arthur Maguire.

  “So, what do you think?” I asked gently, trying to change the subject a little. “Doesn’t he look like Mr. Finch?”

  “Absolutely,” said Kristy. “I have to apologize for doubting you. The two of them could be twin brothers.”

  Yesss! Finally, I’d convinced someone. “And you know what?” I asked. “The furniture he has in his house now is just like the furniture in the home movie. So Finch also has the same taste as Maguire. There’s even a vase on the hall table that looks like he might have taken it with him when he left.”

  “Whoa!” said Kristy. “Let’s go check that out.” I could tell she was dying to grab those binoculars again. She’d forgotten any objection she’d once had to spying.

  We headed back upstairs. “And the kids,” I said. “Those two kids wo
uld be just the right ages to produce that refrigerator art. I’ve seen a lot of pictures on a lot of fridges, and I know what kids draw.”

  “Right,” said Kristy. “Like, at six they all draw houses with smoke coming out of the chimney. And at eight they’re drawing horses, if they’re girls —”

  “And rocket ships, if they’re boys,” I chimed in. “That’s exactly what’s on his fridge. A drawing of a house and a picture of a rocket ship. I figure Patty drew the house and Joseph drew the rocket.” (Patty and Joseph were the names of Arthur Maguire’s kids. We’d learned that from the video.)

  “I have a great idea,” said Kristy, picking up the binoculars and focusing on Mr. Finch’s house.

  “I bet I know what it is, and the answer is no,” I said. “The binoculars aren’t quite good enough to let us read the signatures on those pictures.”

  “Bummer,” mumbled Kristy, who was sweeping the binoculars from room to room in Mr. Finch’s house. “Well, then, we’ll have to figure out some other way to catch him.”

  Behind her, I raised a victorious fist in the air. I’d convinced Kristy. Now maybe it was time to convince the authorities.

  “Take my advice, Abby. Forget about this and go back to bed. You sound like you need some rest!”

  “But, Sergeant Johnson,” I pleaded. “I’m telling you, it’s not just my imagination.”

  It was Monday morning. I was home from school again — my cough had worsened in the night, and I’d hardly slept — and I was on the phone with my favorite “authority,” Sergeant Johnson. I’d called him first thing, as soon as my mom and Anna had left for the day. Fortunately, he wasn’t currently working the night shift, which meant he was in his office.

  Sergeant Johnson is a really good guy. He’s not the kind of adult who belittles kids or doesn’t take them seriously. And he knows that the BSC members are good detectives. (He’s handsome too, by the way — for a grown-up. He’s tall, with black hair and swimming-pool-blue eyes.) But this was one case he thought we should forget about.

  I’d called to tell him about receiving the tape from Mystery Trackers and how watching it had confirmed my suspicion that Mr. Finch and Arthur Maguire were one and the same. “He even has the same taste in furniture,” I blurted out, feeling silly as soon as I’d said it. Sergeant Johnson would think I was working too hard to make a point.

  “Furniture?” he asked, clearly puzzled. Then he realized what I was saying. “Abby, I warned Mary Anne about spying on your neighbors. You’d better watch your step.”

  “Never mind about the furniture,” I said quickly. “But the two of them really do look alike. And I’m not the only one who thinks so. Kristy agrees one hundred percent.”

  “Does she, now,” Sergeant Johnson said.

  I was beginning to feel he was humoring me. “Really!” I said. Then I broke out into a fit of coughing.

  That’s when he told me to go back to bed.

  “But didn’t you tell Mary Anne you would run a check on Mr. Finch?” I asked. “When are you going to do that?” I knew I was pushing my luck. I hoped Sergeant Johnson would chalk up my behavior to the fact that I was sick.

  “I’ve already done it,” he said gently.

  “You have?” I asked, nearly shrieking. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You didn’t give me a chance. Anyway, there’s nothing to tell. The check came up clear.”

  For a second I was speechless. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Clear?” I asked finally.

  “Clear,” Sergeant Johnson repeated firmly. “He has a legitimate driver’s license with no criminal record on the holder. And the state of Iowa is very good about keeping up their records.”

  “Iowa?” I repeated. “Wait a second. Are you saying that Otto Finch is from Iowa?”

  Sergeant Johnson raised an eyebrow. Don’t ask me how I could tell over the phone. I just could. “That’s correct, Abby. And as far as I can remember from my police training, there’s no law against being from Iowa.” Now he was smiling too. That came through the phone lines crystal clear.

  “But don’t you see?” I asked impatiently. “Arthur Maguire is from Iowa too. Des Moines, Iowa.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Sergeant Johnson. “And so are thousands of other people.” I heard the sound of shuffling papers and knew he had started to tune me out. He was cleaning his desk as we talked.

  “Sergeant Johnson —” I began.

  “Listen to me, Abby. I promise to keep an eye on this Mr. Finch of yours. But so far he has not done a single illegal thing. And in this country, people are considered innocent until proven guilty. Now, I would really rather not field any complaints from him about neighborhood teenagers spying on his comings and goings. So I think you’d better lay off for a while. Understand?”

  I was silent.

  “Abby? Come on, now. You know it’s not that I don’t value your detective work. It’s just that this time … this time —”

  “You think I’m off my rocker,” I said.

  “I wasn’t going to put it that way. The fact is, I’m really just too busy to spend any more time on this today.” I heard papers shuffling in the background again.

  “I understand,” I said. “Thanks for running that check. Good-bye, Sergeant Johnson.”

  “Good-bye, Abby. Hope you feel better soon.”

  I hung up, feeling rotten. Why was it that nobody believed me? Well, Kristy did. But only because she’d seen things with her own eyes. Maybe that’s what it would take. Maybe I’d have to convince Sergeant Johnson to come over and view the tape, then take another look at Mr. Finch. I reached for the phone, then pulled my hand back. Sergeant Johnson had made it perfectly clear that he’d rather not hear from me again anytime in the near future.

  I couldn’t believe Sergeant Johnson didn’t make anything of the fact that Otto Finch was from Iowa. It seemed like more than just a major coincidence to me. I groaned, frustrated. Suddenly, I felt too tired to stand up for another second. (I’d been talking on the kitchen phone.) I sat down at the table with my head in my hands. Detective work was supposed to be fun, wasn’t it? But this case was stalled, and there was nothing I could do about it.

  I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes after nine. I wasn’t hungry, but I knew I should eat something. I spent a few minutes rummaging around in the fridge, then sat down again and spooned some black cherry yogurt into my mouth. After I’d eaten half the container, I gave up. I was too sleepy even to hold the spoon.

  I tidied up by putting away the yogurt and rinsing off the spoon in the sink. Then I stumbled upstairs to my room. Out of habit, I glanced out the window to see what the neighbors were doing. A movement at Mr. Finch’s house caught my eye, and I picked up the binoculars to take a better look.

  He was in his backyard, hanging out laundry. Two plain white T-shirts, a pair of tan slacks, several pairs of black socks, and a blue button-down shirt, to be exact. Mr. Finch was not the most exciting dresser in the world.

  I pulled a chair to a spot near the window and settled in with the binoculars. Mr. Finch wasn’t doing anything suspicious, but what would it hurt to keep tabs on him? I thought of Sergeant Johnson’s warning against spying and felt uncomfortable for a moment. But the moment passed, and soon I was watching every move my neighbor made.

  Until I fell asleep, that is.

  Oh, yes, even spymasters need to snooze. The binoculars fell into my lap, my chin dropped to my chest, and I was dozing, big-time.

  I think I slept for almost two hours, right there in that chair. It’s a rocking chair, the one my mom used when she was nursing Anna and me, so it’s pretty comfortable. But still, I was more than a little stiff when I woke up.

  I don’t know what woke me. Maybe it was a bird or an airplane passing overhead. All I know is that it took me quite a while to wipe the fog from my brain. I stretched and yawned and coughed until I began to feel a little less muddled.

  Then I lifted the binoculars to my eyes. After all, I was still seated b
y the window. Why not check on Mr. Finch? (Okay, I admit it. I was a tiny bit addicted to spying.)

  He wasn’t in the backyard anymore or in the living room. But — “Hey,” I said in a low voice. Mr. Finch was in his kitchen. And he wasn’t doing dishes.

  What was he doing, you ask? Good question. But you probably won’t believe the answer.

  He was burning things. In the sink.

  First he burned what looked like a passport-sized book. A bankbook? Then he burned some photographs. I could see the colors melting as the fire consumed them, but I couldn’t see what — or who — the subjects were.

  Now, if this wasn’t suspicious behavior, what was?

  I almost ran for the phone. Sergeant Johnson would have to listen to me this time. But then I imagined the conversation. “Abby,” he’d say. “It’s true that burning things in the sink is odd behavior. But it’s certainly not illegal. Would you have me burst into Mr. Finch’s house and arrest him for it?”

  I couldn’t call Sergeant Johnson, that was clear. But I had to talk to someone. So I called Amy Shapiro at Mystery Trackers. She was properly impressed. In fact, she was pretty excited. “I just know we’re going to break this case!” she said. “Listen, Abby, you sit tight and keep watching him. I’m going to alert the authorities who are working on the Maguire case. I think it’s time.”

  Yes. It was time.

  When I hung up, I felt another wave of exhaustion hit me. This time, I lay down on my bed and stretched out. And this time, I slept for more than a couple of hours. In fact, I slept straight through until later that afternoon, when Kristy showed up after school.

  Okay, here’s the part where I give a confession and a warning.

  The confession? What Kristy and I did next was not entirely brilliant.

  The warning? Don’t try this at home. You’ll see why.

  When Kristy woke me up that afternoon (she’d let herself in, since Mom was still at work and Anna was at a rehearsal), I was still pretty groggy, but it didn’t take me long to snap out of it and fill her in on what was happening with Mr. Finch.