Charlie and Frog

by Karen Kane

  “I will read it!” Charlie said. “It’s only been one day!” Charlie wrote this down for Frog, who rolled her eyes.

  Chief Paley signed and then said, “If their aunt Aggie is really lost, they should have filed an MPR—that’s Missing Persons Report for you civilians. I’ll tell you what—you give me a description and I’ll take a look around the village for Aggie, Dex, and Ray. See if we can figure out what’s going on. Nice job being proactive citizens.” Chief Paley held out a fist for each of them to bump. “Remember—good people do good things!”

  “Oh no,” Charlie said. “Not you, too.”

  “Definitely me, too,” Chief Paley said. She pointed to a framed photo on the wall—Vince Vinelli and his gleaming teeth.

  Chief Paley and Frog both kissed the back of their fists.

  Charlie waited in line with Frog next to two gondola first-timers.

  “This seems really dangerous,” one said.

  “You’re exaggerating.”

  The gondola wrenched to a stop. It swung and swayed over the Hudson River for several long seconds. Finally it pitched forward again.

  “Am I?” the first friend said. “Am I?”

  Frog watched their faces and body language as Charlie wondered what the Department of Transportation statistics were for gondola deaths each year. Frog read his mind because she wrote: The gondola is totally safe! Much safer than driving a car!

  But Charlie felt better now that Chief Paley knew about Aggie. And he knew Frog was happy the Aggie case was still her (and Charlie’s) investigation.

  Remember, Frog wrote, even though Harold Woo probably wasn’t poisoned, I STILL think this could be a murder mystery. So be careful.

  Frog signed the letter K with both hands. She tapped her right pinky finger on top of her left index finger twice, palms facing inward toward each other. “Careful.”

  Charlie copied the sign, and then asked: Careful about what?

  Dex and Ray. And this guy Tony. That’s the second time his name has been mentioned. So be careful. We don’t even know what he looks like. He could be anyone.

  So how can I be careful!?

  Just have your key ready, Frog wrote.

  Although Charlie did plan to have his key ready, he did not want to be told to have his key ready. It made Dex and Ray—and Tony—that much scarier.

  I’ll send you a letter, Frog wrote, about the next step of our investigation.

  A letter?! That’ll take days!

  Not with him. Frog gestured to Mr. Simple, who was coming out of the gondola station to unload passengers.

  Okay, Charlie agreed. And I have something I have to do anyway—with my grandparents.

  Mr. Simple helped shaky riders to the ground. He signed something to Frog, who was first in line to board. Frog signed back. Mr. Simple took a dollar from Frog and signed some more. As Frog boarded she gestured for Charlie to pay attention to Mr. Simple.

  “I was just saying they’re starting early,” Mr. Simple said. “Frog here wanted to know what I meant. Those alumni folks, I said. Some of them are already here, riding the gondola over. I helped a little lady yesterday.”

  “Did she have a mole on her cheek?” Charlie asked.

  “That!” Mr. Simple signed. That’s who I mean.

  Frog signed through the window. “Aggie!”

  “Alive!” Charlie added, happy he knew that sign.

  Mr. Simple collected more dollars. “Lots of former students go visit the grave of that author Frog loves. Pay their respects every year.” Mr. Simple closed the gondola door.

  “I’ll write you!” Frog signed to Charlie through the window.

  Mr. Simple entered the gondola station and pulled a lever. The gondola lurched ahead. Frog grinned. The other passengers did not.

  • • •

  Grandma Tickler held a jar of jelly beans in her lap, eating them one by one. Whenever Grandma Tickler found a black jelly bean she handed it to Grandpa Tickler, who popped it into his mouth.

  Charlie’s parents would be back in seventeen days.

  In seventeen days he would be going to boarding school. Once he was there he would be gone for good. Perhaps Charlie wouldn’t even get to go home for Christmas or summer vacation. His parents would enjoy having him gone so much that they would want him to stay there all the time. He would be forgotten.

  Nobody would miss Charlie Tickler.

  Charlie waited for a commercial. Then he stood in front of the television and turned down the volume.

  “We can’t see the television, Charlie,” Grandma Tickler said. “We like the commercials, too, you know.”

  “Grandma, I want to do something together,” Charlie said. “Something besides watching television.”

  “Besides television?” Grandma Tickler said. “Like what?”

  Charlie held up a book. He had decided to read Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure instead of Great Expectations. In Charlie’s opinion, Charles Dickens used way too many words—many of which Charlie didn’t know. Chief Paley would love that book.

  “Charlie wants to read to us, Irving!” Grandma Tickler shouted. “He wants to read us a book!”

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler said.

  “No,” Charlie said. “I want you to read to me. That’s what grandparents do. They read to their grandchildren.”

  “I suppose,” Grandma Tickler said, “if you sat in the front of the television set, we could watch you instead.”

  Charlie tried again. “It’s the grandparents who are supposed to do the reading—”

  “You’ll have to read loud,” Grandma Tickler said, leaning back in her E-Z chair recliner, “so Irving can hear.”

  Charlie sighed. Yvette peered around the corner, shook her head, and went back into the kitchen. Charlie turned off the television. His grandparents waited for the reading show to start.

  Charlie held up the book, moving it in an arc so each viewer in his or her E-Z chair recliner could see. “Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure, by D. J. McKinnon.”

  “Dorrie McCann?” Grandma Tickler asked. “Irving, isn’t that a movie?”

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler said.

  “Charlie, there’s a movie we can watch instead,” Grandma Tickler said.

  “There isn’t a movie, Grandma,” Charlie said.

  “Are you sure?”

  Charlie ignored this and started reading.

  “All her life—which wasn’t that long, but still—people had said no to Dorrie McCann. It was always ‘No, Dorrie,’ or ‘You can’t do that, Dorrie,’ or ‘You might get hurt, Dorrie,’ or ‘You have to be able to hear to do that, Dorrie.’ But Dorrie McCann never listened—not when she really wanted something.”

  “That girl has a problem,” Grandma Tickler said. “A problem with listening. When I say no to Irving, he listens to me.”

  “Ayuh!”

  “You do listen, Irving—stop saying you don’t!”

  Charlie kept reading. “Just today, in fact, Dorrie McCann had been told no. But Dorrie McCann’s detective intuition told her something was not right. And Dorrie McCann always listened to her detective intuition.”

  “Poppycock,” Grandma Tickler interrupted again.

  Charlie looked up. “What?”

  “Detective intuition? Poppycock! I never heard of such a thing!”

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler said.

  “It is not a real thing, Irving!” Grandma Tickler said.

  Charlie thought about what his teacher would have said last year while reading a book to his class. “Grandma, would you mind holding your comments until the end of the chapter? Then we can discuss it.”

  “I suppose,” Grandma Tickler grumbled.

  Charlie continued with the story. Dorrie’s favorite author had gone missing. She had left a note, however, just before she disappeared. Dorrie was certain the note contained a secret message—but she hadn’t been able to find it. Dorrie’s best friend, Jack, urged her to keep trying.<
br />
  “‘I don’t know if I can,’ Dorrie told Jack. Her signing was small and unsure. She looked down at the note and shook her head.

  “‘You have to,’ Jack signed. ‘Remember, Deaf can!’

  “‘Why is it always Deaf can? Why not hearing can?’

  “‘Come on, Dorrie,’ Jack begged. ‘You know I’m lousy at solving ciphers.’

  “Dorrie nodded. Jack was right. It was up to her. She reached into her top dresser drawer and pulled out a long red scarf. Dorrie wrapped the scarf around her neck and took a deep breath.

  “‘What are you doing?’ Jack asked. ‘It’s hot in here.’

  “‘This isn’t a scarf to keep you warm,’ Dorrie said. ‘It’s a scarf to remember. My grandmother knitted it for my mother. She wanted Mom to always remember she had power inside of her.’”

  Charlie turned the page and paused. He looked up from Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure.

  Both of his grandparents were sound asleep, softly snoring in their E-Z chair recliners.

  Yvette came into the living room. She put her fists on her hips. “Now I’ve got to wake them up before I leave or they’ll sleep here all night.”

  “They weren’t supposed to fall asleep,” Charlie said. “They were supposed to stay awake and be interested.”

  “If it isn’t on a screen, they aren’t interested,” Yvette said.

  “There has to be something they like besides television,” Charlie said.

  “Sure there is,” Yvette said. “It’s called bed. Now help me wake them up so they can get into theirs.”

  “Charlie!” Grandma Tickler called from downstairs. “Charlie, wake up! Walter Simple is here for you.”

  Charlie rolled out of bed. He picked up Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure from the floor. He had continued reading the book on his own last night. Charlie didn’t remember much about what he had read before falling asleep except for one thing: Dorrie was just as determined as Frog.

  Charlie rubbed the sleep from his eyes, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and went downstairs. Mr. Simple was on the front porch.

  “Letter for Charlie Tickler,” Mr. Simple said. He pulled a letter from his US Mail bag.

  “That’s me,” Charlie said. He reached for the letter. Mr. Simple took a step back and held the letter close to his chest.

  “Beautiful day out, wouldn’t you say?” Mr. Simple gazed around the Ticklers’ yard.

  “I guess,” Charlie said.

  Yvette pulled Charlie inside. “He’s waiting for a tip,” she whispered. “That’s why he didn’t give it to your grandma. Irma’s not a tipper.”

  “We have to tip the postman if we want our mail?” Charlie whispered back. “Is that legal?”

  “Walter Simple doesn’t work for the United States Post Office. He won that mailbag in a poker game.”

  “Oh,” Charlie said. All the change Nate had given him from his hundred-dollar bill was upstairs.

  Yvette saw him hesitate and said, “I’ll go get my purse.”

  “Thank you, Yvette, but I have money. I’ll be right back, Mr. Simple,” Charlie called.

  Mr. Simple beamed. “I’ll wait.”

  • • •

  Charlie tried giving Mr. Simple one dollar, but he did not look pleased. When Charlie gave him a second dollar Mr. Simple handed the letter over with a flourish.

  Dear Charlie!

  I have to work until 4 p.m. today. Can you come for a sleepover after that? You can sleep in Oliver’s bunk bed! Do you think your grandparents will let you? That will give us more time to investigate now that we know Aggie came here!!!

  Yours sincerely,

  Frog Castle

  Let him? Charlie could probably just go and his grandparents wouldn’t notice he was gone unless he turned up on the television as a missing kid.

  That they would notice.

  The sound of a television news program blared from the living room. Charlie waited for a commercial.

  Charlie asked.

  “Ayuh?” Grandpa Tickler cupped his ear.

  “Not sweet clover, Irving. Sleep over!” Grandma Tickler shouted. “We have a doctor’s appointment today, you know,” Grandma Tickler told Charlie. “Irving and I have bunions—both of us on both feet!”

  “The sleepover, Grandma?” Charlie said. “It’s at Frog’s house, which is in Castle School for the Deaf. Can I go?”

  “Ayuh.” Grandpa Tickler nodded.

  “If Irving says it’s fine I suppose it’s fine with me, too,” Grandma Tickler said. “Just make sure to take your key. Remember, Charlie”—Grandma Tickler settled back into her recliner—“criminals are everywhere.”

  • • •

  Charlie said a careful “Good morning” to the cat when he entered the library. Mr. Dickens eyed Charlie with pity. Charlie handed Miss Tweedy Great Expectations.

  “My grandparents don’t like books,” Charlie said.

  “Impossible,” Miss Tweedy said. “Everyone loves books and everyone loves Charles Dickens. Perhaps you should try Oliver Twist?”

  “What else did your grandparents do with you,” Charlie asked, “besides reading?”

  “Well, my grandmother was the most marvelous baker. Some of my fondest memories are with her in the kitchen, baking cookies and cakes.”

  Grandma and Grandpa Tickler did love to watch baking shows.

  “Where are the baking books?” Charlie asked.

  Miss Tweedy peered down at him over her pointy glasses. “The Dewey decimal system,” she said. “Please tell me you’ve heard of it?”

  “I think so—”

  “The Dewey decimal system is a library classification system created by Melvil Dewey in 1876. Books are categorized into ten main classes. The Dewey decimal system is how this library maintains its pristine orderliness.”

  Charlie looked around at the dusty books piled on the floor, on the tables, and in overflowing bookshelves.

  “Got it,” he said.

  “That is a card catalog.” Miss Tweedy pointed to a wooden chest with many small drawers. “Once you find the book you will find its Dewey decimal number—a number”—Miss Tweedy picked up her thwacker and inkpad—“with a decimal point.”

  “Don’t you have a computer I can use instead?” Charlie asked. “To find the book?”

  Miss Tweedy peered down at Charlie over her pointy glasses. Again.

  “The card catalog is a perfectly fine way for people to find books. Besides, in this village, computers are much too slow. Finding a card with your hands will be faster.”

  Charlie did not know the title of the book he was looking for, but it seemed unwise to say this out loud. He opened one wooden drawer with the letters Ba–Bh on it. The drawer was filled with cards, each with a book and its information. Charlie flipped through them, searching for book titles beginning with the word “bake.” There was a basket with pencils and scrap paper on top of the card catalog. One book sounded just right. Charlie jotted down its Dewey decimal number (641.815) and showed the scrap of paper to Miss Tweedy.

  “Ah. The six forties. Home and family management. Those books are kept by the potted fern.”

  Charlie looked through the stacks of books by the potted fern until he found the book with the Dewey decimal number 641.815: Baking with the Grandkids: 101 Easy Recipes to Fill Their Stomachs and Your Heart.

  On the front was a picture of a plump grandma with rosy cheeks. She wore an apron and smiled sweetly at a boy eating a cupcake. There was no television anywhere near them.

  • • •

  Charlie had time before he had to meet Frog. He decided to stop at the police station and see if Chief Paley had found out anything about Aggie or Dex and Ray. But first he had an errand to do.

  Charlie gripped his key between his knuckles, glad there were lots of people around. As he passed Junk and Stuff, his palms grew sweaty. The clerk was behind the counter, playing the guitar. Today he wasn’t singing and he didn’t have headph
ones on. Charlie stood outside and listened.

  The clerk played as bad as he sang.

  Charlie continued walking. At the stationery shop, Cartwright and Co., he bought a small notebook, the kind Frog used to write back and forth with hearing people. And a new pen. It didn’t seem fair that Frog always had to use her notepad and pen to communicate.

  As Charlie left the shop, he noticed the ivy-covered cottage with the purple front door. Charlie crossed the street.

  DESDEMONA FINKELSTEIN, F.T.E.

  CASH ONLY

  OPEN 10-4

  (UNLESS THE UNIVERSE TELLS ME DIFFERENTLY)

  What had Frog said?

  Desdemona might have vital information for them.

  Maybe he should wait for Frog. On the other hand, Dex and Ray were out there somewhere, looking for Aggie. The vital information from Desdemona Finkelstein, F.T.E., might just be what Charlie and Frog needed to find Aggie first.

  Last time the door had been locked. Had the universe told Desdemona to come to work today? Charlie reached for the brass doorknob and turned it.

  It had.

  • • •

  A woman with short brown hair stood in the center of the cottage, as if waiting for Charlie.

  “You came!” she said. “I knew you would!”

  “Hi,” Charlie said. “My name is—”

  “Angus.” The woman gave a wise nod.

  “What?” Charlie said.

  “Your name is Angus.” She extended her hand. “Angus, it’s a pleasure to meet—”

  “No,” Charlie said. “My name is—”

  “Barry. Barry, it’s a pleasure to meet—”

  “Charlie,” Charlie said. “My name is Charlie.”

  “That’s what I was going to say next. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Charlie. My name is Desdemona. Please have a seat.”

  Desdemona pointed to a chair in front of a desk. She moved behind the desk and sat. Rows of law books lined the bookshelves. Stacks of files were piled everywhere. Charlie brought his gaze back to Desdemona, who wore a navy blue suit.

  “If I look like a lawyer,” Desdemona said, “it’s because I am one—was one—sort of still am one,” she amended hastily. “I’m trying to transition to a new career. My parents insisted I study law, so I did. But it wasn’t what I wanted.” Desdemona leaned back, clasped her hands, and placed them on her desk. “But enough about me. The clock is ticking. I bill by the quarter hour. How can I help you?”