“Well, the editor seems to have a pretty strong opinion about the issue,” my dad remarked. He pointed to a column that ran down the side of the page. It was titled IDEALISTS? PERHAPS. BUT THEY HAVE THE RIGHT IDEA. I started to read it out loud. “ ‘Many of our readers may glance at the letters on this page and dismiss them as the work of a bunch of naive, idealistic kids,’ ” I read. “ ‘I’ll admit that that was my first impulse, when they arrived in my office. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that these kids had a point. The world — and Stoneybrook — really does not need another office park. What this town does need are beautiful spaces where people can gather and be comfortable. Spaces where they can sit in the sun, walk their dogs, play catch, eat a picnic lunch. Spaces where they can reaffirm their sense of community, and their sense of that community’s history. Miller’s Park can be, and should be, such a space. The kids have the right idea.’ ” The editorial went on, but I skipped over to an article on the facing page.
A reporter had interviewed Reginald Fowler, giving him the chance to react to our letters. As you can imagine, his reaction was not good. He wasn’t at all pleased with what he called the “uninformed opinions” of the BSC members. He also said he had no intention of giving up his plans for what he called “Carter Park,” which I thought was strange. I’d never heard it called that before. And he mentioned an upcoming town council meeting at which everything would be decided, once and for all. The meeting was a couple of weeks away.
“Wow!” I exclaimed, putting down the paper. It looked as if our letters had started something. Something big.
Sure enough, the word had spread all over school by lunchtime. The BSC was big news that day. Most of the kids — and teachers — who told us they’d seen our letters agreed with us, but not all. Some thought we were being ridiculous to suggest that saving “a couple of acres of weedy dirt” was important. We spent our whole lunch hour defending our viewpoint against a few kids who disagreed with us, and encouraging the ones who agreed to write their own letters.
When we left school that day, we discovered that the quarrel between the BSC and Fowler had hit the big time: it was in the Stamford papers. (Stamford is the city closest to Stoneybrook.) DEVELOPER FEUDS WITH LOCAL TEENS, said the headline in one paper. TEENS SPEAK OUT AGAINST PROJECT, announced another. The editor of one paper supported us, while the other paper’s editor supported Fowler.
Kristy was beside herself. She barely remembered to call our meeting to order that afternoon, she was so excited. “This is the best publicity the club has had in a long time!” she crowed.
“Kristy,” Stacey chided her gently, shaking her head. “Aren’t you forgetting something? This isn’t about the BSC. This is about Miller’s Park.”
“Right, right,” said Kristy, chomping a handful of Cracker Jacks, which Claudia had passed to her. “I mean, I know that. I haven’t forgotten what’s really important here. But you have to admit, it is great publicity.”
Kristy adores publicity. She was positively glowing as we talked about our next move in the war against Fowler. She wanted to call a press conference.
Mallory thought a demonstration might be a good idea.
Stacey wanted to start calling all the local politicians.
Claudia (naturally) was dying to design a poster we could plaster all over town.
Abby came up with the idea of challenging Fowler to a public debate.
I didn’t mind that idea, as long as I didn’t have to be onstage. I also thought we should make sure the Historical Society was involved in whatever we did, since they had a real stake in the survival of Miller’s Park and Ambrose’s Sawmill.
Logan, who had come to the meeting that day, thought that the club should support the Martinezes in their fight against Fowler. “They’re such nice people,” he said. He had just come from sitting for Luke and Amalia. I didn’t have a chance to ask whether he’d noticed Luke acting strangely.
We decided, after talking about the options, that for now we would concentrate on what Kristy called a “letter blitz.” We’d keep writing letters to the editor, and we hoped that other people would join in and write letters, too. “Public opinion is the most important thing,” said Kristy. “Once he sees that everyone is against him, Fowler will probably just give up and crawl away with his tail between his legs.”
At the time, I thought Kristy was right. But over the next couple of days, as more and more letters and articles appeared in the paper, it became clear that Fowler was not going to be crawling away anytime soon.
Dear Editor,
I am a fourth-grader at SES, and I have always loved Miller’s Park. I think Mr. Fowler is a very bad man. Or at least he has bad ideas. Please don’t ruin our park, Mr. Fowler!
Sincerely, Tiffany Spencer
Dear Editor,
I have lived in Stoneybrook all my life, and I believe that Miller’s Park is an important and beautiful place for all the children and adults in this town….
Sincerely, Claudia Lynn Kishi
Dear Editor,
I am writing as president of the Stoneybrook Historical Society and as a citizen of Stoneybrook. Miller’s Park is one of our town’s most valuable assets. I join the members of the Baby-sitters Club and others in condemning Mr. Fowler’s plans….
Sincerely, Jane Kellogg
Dear Editor,
As a small-business owner and a member in good standing of the Stoneybrook Rotary Club, I feel I must write to express my disgust with the current brouhaha over the development of Miller’s Park. Those who protest that it must be saved may be sweet, well-meaning children, but they clearly have no understanding of economics….
Sincerely, Don Parker
Dear Editor,
I am an eighty-nine-year-old woman who grew up in Stoneybrook, and I have many sweet memories of time spent in Miller’s Park. I support these wonderful kids who are trying to save it. Shame on you for ignoring their pleas, Mr. Fowler!
Sincerely, Berta Frank
DEVELOPER VOWS TO CONTINUE FIGHT
STONEYBROOK — Developer Reginald Fowler called a press conference today and renewed what he calls his “promise to Stoneybrook’s business community.” … The conference was interrupted several times by protesters who chanted, “People, Not Profits!” Fowler responded angrily to the protest and assured reporters and the public that he had Stoneybrook’s “best interests at heart.” …
Dear Editor,
I am writing again to say that, although my friends and I are young, we believe we know more about Stoneybrook’s “best interests” than Mr. Fowler does….
Sincerely, Kristin Amanda Thomas
ARE YOUNG PROTESTERS IN OVER THEIR HEADS?
A guest editorial by Samuel Dodds, President of Dodds Management Corp.
Since when do we let public policy be decided by children? Clearly, the controversy over Miller’s Park has struck a chord. Unfortunately, most of those who object to its development as an office park are short-sighted, naive, and completely uninformed regarding the incredible prosperity such development could bring to Stoneybrook….
Dear Editor,
Is it short-sighted to believe in preserving history? Is it naive to distrust wealthy developers? If so, I am happy to be called by those names….
Sincerely, Mary Anne Spier
The afternoon started off so innocently. It’s still hard for me to believe how it all ended up. Mary Anne Spier, Suspected Criminal. I wonder if this is going to end up on my permanent record somewhere.
Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t really do anything. But it sure did look bad. I guess I should start from the beginning, so here goes.
It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was sitting for Luke and Amalia. I was a little frustrated because, so far, I hadn’t made much headway with Luke. He still stuck by my side like glue, but he wasn’t exactly friendly. It was almost as if he were suspicious of me! Ridiculous, I know, but that’s how it seemed. Amalia, on the other hand, had continued to be o
ne of the most affectionate little kids I’d ever met.
When I arrived at the Martinezes’, Amalia ran to greet me with a big hug, a loud, wet kiss on the cheek, and a whispered “I love you.” She was irresistible. She had no trouble talking me into helping her cut out some paper dolls while she crayoned new dresses for them. (She didn’t stay in the lines much, but her scrawls were colorful.) Luke brought his math homework into the rec room where we were playing and sat at a desk in the corner, as if he wanted to keep an eye on us.
“Look at this dress!” Amalia said, holding up one she’d just finished.
“Pretty,” I remarked. Amalia flashed me a big smile.
“Can you cut me another doll, pretty please, Allie?” she asked.
“Sure,” I replied, “but my name’s Mary Anne.” I noticed Luke shooting a nasty look at Amalia, as if he thought she was unbelievably dumb for forgetting my name. It didn’t bother me. I’ve had kids call me everything from “Mom” to “Kristy.” When they’re excited, sometimes they just forget who they’re talking to. I picked up the scissors and started to cut out the doll Amalia had asked for.
“Mary Anne,” Amalia repeated agreeably. “Mary Anne, Fairy Anne, Carry Anne, Beary Anne,” she sang beneath her breath as she continued to color. I smiled to myself.
“Gary Dan, Sary Man, Lary Ban,” Amalia continued, a little louder.
“Amalia!” Luke sounded annoyed. “Cut it out.”
“Stary Gan, Wary Tan,” Amalia chanted, clearly enjoying herself.
“Amalia,” Luke repeated, in a warning tone.
“If it’s bothering you, you could always work in the kitchen,” I suggested. Luke didn’t seem to like that idea. He frowned at Amalia, clapped his hands over his ears, and returned to his math homework.
Just then, the phone rang. Luke and I both jumped up to answer it. “I’ll get it,” he said.
“It’s the sitter’s job to answer the phone,” I told him. “I’ll answer it.” I left the room, noticing that for once he didn’t follow me. I answered the phone, took a message for Mr. Martinez, and headed back to the rec room. As I came through the door, I saw Luke jump up from the couch and race back to his seat at the desk.
When I glanced at the couch, I saw my backpack sitting there. At first I thought it was just as I’d left it, but when I came closer I could tell that the top zipper had been opened. It looked as if someone had been rummaging through my stuff.
I glanced at Luke. He appeared to be deep in thought, leaning over his math book with a wrinkled brow. I took a breath, opened my mouth, and was about to say something when, suddenly, I had second thoughts. After all, I could see that nothing had disappeared from my backpack. And there was a slight possibility that I’d left it open that way and just forgotten. There was no point in accusing Luke, possibly unfairly, of snooping through my things. He wasn’t crazy about me as it was, and I didn’t want to make things any worse.
I snapped my mouth shut and gazed around the room. When my eye lit on a shelf full of board games, I had an inspiration. “Hey, Luke,” I said. “How about a game of checkers? Me and Amalia against you, okay?”
Luke looked up at me, and I thought I saw relief in his eyes. “Um, sure,” he agreed. “I’m all done with my homework, anyway. I’ll set it up.”
“I’m on your team,” said Amalia, climbing into my lap and smiling up at me. “We can win him, right?”
“Sure we can,” I replied, returning the smile.
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” said Luke, who had brought the board over to the coffee table. “I’m the checkers champion of our family, you know.” He gave me a quick grin.
“Really?” I asked. “Cool!”
After a few minutes, it was clear that Luke really was good at checkers. I had to focus all my attention on what was happening on the board, and even so he was soon winning easily. He had about six kings, and Amalia and I didn’t have even one. I took my time with my turns, trying hard to figure out a good strategy. Finally, I was able to move one of my pieces to the back row. “King me!” I cried triumphantly.
When Luke didn’t respond, I looked up from the board and found him staring over my shoulder at something behind me. His face was white and his mouth was open. He looked terrified.
I turned around quickly — and caught a glimpse of a figure darting away, just outside the window. It was hard to see clearly, because the window was one near the garage, and it was still dirty with soot from the fire. But the soot didn’t cover the whole window. Instead, there were strange marks in the soot, marks that almost looked like writing.
I stood up and walked over to the window. Luke joined me. As soon as I was closer, I could see that the marks were writing. Writing that said:
“Don’t tell?” I asked. “What does that mean? Don’t tell what? Who could have written that?” My voice was a little shaky.
Luke looked up at me, still white-faced. He didn’t say a word.
I returned to the couch and picked up Amalia. “How about a little piggyback ride?” I asked her, trying to hide the fact that I was feeling totally creeped out.
“Yay!” she yelled, clambering onto my back.
“I’m going to take a closer look at that writing,” I told Luke. He followed me outside, and we both walked around to inspect the window. Guess what? By the time we reached the window, the writing was gone — wiped away — and there was no sign of the writer, either. “Weird,” I said. Once again, Luke didn’t say anything.
I looked around and noticed that the sun had come out (it had been gray and drizzly when I’d arrived at the Martinezes’). “Let’s stay outside for a while,” I suggested. “How about if we take a walk?” I thought I’d keep a sharp eye out for any suspicious characters, and at the same time become acquainted with a neighborhood I hadn’t spent much time in before. As usual, Luke seemed to be more than willing to stick with me, although the short burst of friendliness he’d shown during the checkers game had disappeared. Amalia was happy as long as she had her piggyback ride, so we started walking around the block.
“Hey, there,” the next-door neighbor greeted us as we walked by. He was working in his garden, but he stood up and brushed off his hands. He was a tall, thin, gray-haired man with piercing blue eyes. “I’m Mr. Fontecchio,” he said. “You baby-sitting these kids?”
“That’s right,” I answered, thinking he was a little nosy. I decided not to offer my name. “Your daffodils are pretty,” I added, to be polite.
“Sure, sure,” he said. “But I’ll be leaving them behind soon. As soon as Fowler hands over the bucks!” He laughed as he pulled a pipe out of his shirt pocket and lit it. Puffing away, he went on and on about how smart he and his two brothers had been to sell out to Fowler, and how ridiculous the Martinezes were being to hold out. “There’s a bundle to be made!” he said.
“Uh-huh,” I said, backing away. I thought he was a little strange. “Well, nice to meet you, Mr. Fontecchio.” He gave me a little salute, and I headed off with Amalia on my back and Luke by my side.
Just then, a boy about Luke’s age came running across the street.
“Hi, Steig,” said Luke. “What’s up?”
“Steig!” I heard a male voice call. “Where’d you go? I thought we were going to play catch.” Then the owner of the voice appeared.
“Cary Retlin!” I exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Cary Retlin is a boy I know from SMS. He moved to Stoneybrook just recently, but he already has a big reputation as a practical joker and a troublemaker. I was shocked to see him. And it wasn’t exactly a happy surprise, since Cary and I haven’t become friends. I don’t trust him, to be frank.
“I live here,” explained Cary. “Right across the street.” He nodded at a small white house. “These are my brothers, Steig and Benson.” He waved a hand at them. Benson, who had followed Cary across the street, looked about eleven. “Steig and Luke are best friends.”
“Nice to meet you,” I told them both.
Steig peered
up at me. “Do you smoke?” he asked me.
“Uh, no,” I replied. “I don’t.” I thought his question was awfully strange.
Cary seemed to think so, too. He gave me an apologetic shrug. Just then, I noticed a big black car cruising up the street, and I turned to make sure Luke and Steig weren’t standing in the road. They weren’t. They’d seen the car, too — and apparently something about it scared them. They both took off running, toward the woods in back of the Martinezes’ house. Before I could even yell out their names, they’d disappeared.
“Oh, my lord!” I said. “I’m baby-sitting for Luke. I can’t let him run off that way.”
“We’ll find them,” said Cary. “Come on.” After asking Benson to wait in the yard, he led me into the woods. I still had Amalia on my back, so I couldn’t move too quickly, but I kept calling Luke’s name and Cary kept calling Steig’s. At one point, Cary held a tree branch so it wouldn’t smack me as I passed, and I noticed soot on his hands. I was too upset to think much about it at the time, though.
Finally, as we were walking on a path near the edge of the woods, Steig reappeared. “Where’s Luke?” I asked. He just shrugged, and I felt my stomach twist into a knot. Night was falling, and I had to find Luke as soon as possible. I hated to ask Cary for a favor, but there didn’t seem to be any choice. “Cary,” I said. “Can you watch Amalia for a few minutes so I can look for Luke?”
“Sure,” he said. “We’ll be back at my house.” He helped Amalia, who was nearly asleep, off my back and onto his.
I set off, calling for Luke, running toward Miller’s Park and the old sawmill, the only area we hadn’t checked yet. It was darker by then, and I was starting to feel a little creeped out about being alone in the woods. All was quiet, until, suddenly, I heard the unmistakable sound of glass breaking. I stopped in my tracks. Then I heard running footsteps. I quit calling for Luke and hid behind a tree, my heart beating hard. The footsteps passed very close to me, but I didn’t dare to look. After they’d gone by, I came out from behind the tree and glanced down the path. At a distance, I could see two people talking. Curious, I tiptoed closer, hiding behind every convenient bush and tree along the way.
Mary Anne and the Silent Witness Page 3
