Mary Anne and the Silent Witness

by Ann M. Martin

  You’ll never believe who I saw, there in a clearing in the woods. It was dusk and there was just enough light for me to be sure. Reginald Fowler, himself! He was talking to a teenaged boy, but I couldn’t see the boy’s face very clearly. The boy was bent over and breathing hard, which made me think he was the one I’d heard running. As I watched, Fowler passed the boy a wad of what looked like money. Then he and the boy took off, each in his own direction. The boy dropped something as he headed off.

  I sneaked over and picked up the object he’d dropped. It was a brick — a brick with green paint on it. And as I looked at it, suddenly a bright light clicked on, shining into my eyes and blinding me.

  “Freeze!” a loud male voice commanded. “Stoneybrook Police!”

  I did what he told me to do. I froze. Wouldn’t you have? I went completely still, except for my hands, which were shaking. I didn’t let go of the brick.

  “Want to tell me what’s going on here, young lady?” asked the voice.

  I drew a deep, ragged breath. It took everything I had to resist the impulse to burst into tears. I tried to speak, but no words came out. I put up my hand to shield my eyes from the bright light, which was still shining on me. “I — I — could you turn that light off?” I don’t know where I found the guts to ask him that, but I guess it was because I just couldn’t take it any longer.

  He didn’t turn it off, but he stopped aiming it at my face. He came closer. “I’m Officer Cleary,” he said. “Your name?”

  For one wild second, I thought of giving him a fake name. Hildegarde Braunschweiger. Annette Funicello. Jane Smith. Anything. But what came out was my real name. “Mary Anne Spier,” I said meekly.

  “And what are you doing in the woods?” he asked.

  “I — I’m a baby-sitter,” I explained. “I’m looking for one of my charges. He ran off.”

  The policeman, who looked as if he were about my father’s age, nodded. He believed me! “How long ago was this?” he asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said. I had lost all sense of time. “An hour?” Suddenly I remembered Amalia. Cary had promised to take care of her, but could I trust him? And where, oh where, was Luke? The Martinezes would be home soon — in fact, they might be home already. I started to panic. “I have to go!” I cried. “I have to check on the other child I was sitting for.”

  Officer Cleary nodded. “We can do that,” he said. “But then you’ll have to come down to the station with me.”

  “But —” I began.

  He nodded toward the brick in my hand, and I looked down at it. A sick feeling washed over me. “I didn’t —”

  “Let’s go,” he said. “We can talk about it down at the station. First thing is to make sure those kids are okay.” He held out his hand. At first I thought he wanted to shake, but then I realized he wanted me to give him the brick I was still holding. I handed it over. Then he led me to his squad car, which was parked near Ambrose’s Sawmill, and introduced me to his partner, Officer Pelkey, who had been waiting in the car.

  We drove straight to the Martinezes’ (I was thankful that Officer Pelkey didn’t feel a need to turn on the siren and the flashing lights), and Officer Cleary escorted me to the door.

  Cary met us there. Who would ever have guessed I could be so glad to see Cary Retlin? When he saw Officer Cleary, he gave me a questioning glance, but I shook my head. “It’s complicated,” I said. “Where’s Amalia? And what about Luke?”

  “Luke came home on his own about twenty minutes ago,” said Cary. “He and Amalia are in the kitchen, having a snack. They’re both fine.”

  I breathed a huge sigh of relief. “I owe you one,” I said.

  “No problem,” said Cary, smiling. Then his face changed. “Uh-oh,” he said. He was looking past me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “I think Mrs. Martinez just came home,” he answered.

  I groaned. I didn’t even have a chance to think about how to start explaining things before Mrs. Martinez ran into the house. “What is it?” she asked. “Why is that police car here? What’s happened? Where are the kids?”

  Officer Cleary stepped forward. “Mrs. Martinez?” he asked. She nodded. “Your kids are safe and sound. They’re in the kitchen having a snack. But we have a problem here.” Then he started to explain that he had found me in the woods after the police had received a report of suspicious activity in the vicinity. “There was some vandalism at Ambrose’s Sawmill,” he went on. “And this young lady here may have been involved. We’re going to have to take her in for questioning.”

  “What?” said Mrs. Martinez. “You must be kidding. I don’t know Mary Anne very well, but I do know one thing. She’s no vandal. She’s a decent, responsible girl.”

  My eyes welled up with tears. It felt so good to be defended, but I was so ashamed of what had happened. Even though it hadn’t been my fault, I had done what no sitter should ever do: I had left my charges. And now I was in trouble with the law. I knew I’d be able to explain everything and clear my name — or at least I was pretty sure about that — but it was humiliating to have to stand there with Officer Cleary hovering over me. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Martinez,” I said, trying to look her in the eyes. “I really am.”

  “Don’t you worry, Mary Anne,” she answered. “I know everything’s going to work out just fine. I’ll call your dad and tell him to meet you at the police station.” She reached out and touched my hand. Then she hurried off to the kitchen to check on Luke and Amalia.

  Cary gave me a little punch on the shoulder as he walked outside with Officer Cleary and me. “Hang in there,” he said.

  I felt the tears come again, and I ducked my head to hide them. “Thanks, Cary,” I answered. “Thanks for everything.” Maybe Cary Retlin wasn’t so bad after all.

  Officer Pelkey drove us downtown to the police station. When we walked in, my dad jumped up from a seat in the waiting area. “Mary Anne,” he said, hugging me and stroking my hair. “Are you okay, sweetie?”

  This time the tears came for real. I wiped them away. “Thanks for coming, Dad,” I said. “I’m okay.”

  My father introduced himself to Officer Pelkey and Officer Cleary. “How about if I just take her home for now?” he asked. “I can bring her back tomorrow if you really need to see her.”

  Officer Cleary shook his head. “It would be really helpful for everyone involved if we could speak to her now,” he said.

  At that moment, a familiar figure came into the room. A tall, black-haired man, with sparkling blue eyes. “Sergeant Johnson!” I cried. I was so glad to see him. Sergeant Johnson is a good friend to the BSC. See, we’ve helped to solve more than one mystery in Stoneybrook, and Sergeant Johnson has been our main contact in the police department. By now, he knows we’re good detectives, and he values our help.

  “Mary Anne?” he said. “Mary Anne Spier? You’re the one they were bringing in?” He shook his head. “Something’s seriously cockeyed here.”

  Officer Cleary looked from me to Sergeant Johnson and back again. “You two know each other?” he asked.

  “Mary Anne and I are old pals,” explained Sergeant Johnson. “Colleagues, actually,” he added, smiling at me. “How about if I take over from here? I can handle this criminal on my own, I think.”

  Officer Cleary seemed reluctant to turn me over, but he finally did. Sergeant Johnson asked my father if it was all right if he talked to me privately. “We both know Mary Anne hasn’t done anything wrong,” he told my dad. “But it’s true that she was caught in a compromising situation, and I need to talk to her about what happened.”

  My father nodded, squeezed my hand, and told me he’d be waiting.

  Sergeant Johnson led me to one of the small rooms the police use for questioning people, sat me down, and asked me to tell him exactly what I’d seen and heard in Miller’s Park.

  I told him the whole story.

  He listened carefully, wrote down everything I said, and didn’t interrupt once. Then, when I
was done, he told me that he believed everything I’d told him. “Except for one thing,” he said. “You must have been mistaken about seeing Fowler. We tried to reach him as soon as we heard about the vandalism, but his wife said he’s in San Francisco at a convention.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I was pretty positive that the man I’d seen was Fowler, but I didn’t want to contradict Sergeant Johnson, not after he’d been so nice to me. I glanced again at the Polaroid pictures he had shown me of the vandalism at the mill. The vandals had broken most of the windows in the place, and also made a mess of things, slapping paint all over. It was strange, I thought, that they hadn’t used spray paint. Instead it looked as if the mill had been splashed with house paint. Green house paint.

  * * *

  The next day, the story hit the papers. They couldn’t use my name, of course, since I’m a minor, but anyone reading between the lines could have figured out that the YOUTH CAUGHT AT MILL was a member of the BSC, since the article mentioned our protest against Fowler. The article went on to say that no charges had been filed. It also said that the police had discovered that the footprints near the mill were from man-size sneakers, and that the real vandal was still being sought, but I doubted whether everybody read that far. The article also quoted Fowler, who had been reached in San Francisco and asked for a comment. He said something about how ironic it was that “the youth of Stoneybrook would try to destroy what they claim to want to protect.”

  Kristy was very upset. “This is terrible publicity for the BSC,” she wailed.

  We all agreed that what had happened was awful — and very suspicious. Had Fowler tried to set me up, in order to ruin the BSC’s image and discredit our campaign to save Miller’s Park? Even though the article had said that I wasn’t a suspect, some people might still believe I’d done something wrong.

  I wondered whether Luke, who was in the woods that night and might have seen the whole thing, might hold the key to Fowler’s dirty secrets. But Luke, as I already knew, was good at keeping secrets. And, as usual, he wasn’t talking. Whoever had warned him not to “tell” had a pretty powerful hold on Luke.

  The mystery notebook really had a workout after those two afternoons: Wednesday, when Kristy sat for the Martinezes, and Thursday, when Jessi was their sitter. Both of them wrote up a storm.

  What’s the mystery notebook? Oops, I forgot to explain that. It’s something new. Kristy (naturally) thought it up, after we’d been involved in several mysteries. It seemed to her that we should have one central location for keeping track of clues, suspects, unusual events — all the bits and pieces that you have to try to put together when you’re solving a mystery. (We used to write stuff like that down on the backs of envelopes, or math worksheets, or even napkins if we happened to be discussing a case during a meal at Pizza Express.) It’s hard to say whether the mystery notebook has made us better detectives, but we’re definitely better organized.

  Anyway, back to Kristy’s and Jessi’s experiences at the Martinez house. On Wednesday afternoon, Kristy headed over, feeling a little apprehensive (she told me later) because of what had happened to me the day before. She didn’t know what she was going to tell the kids if they asked questions, but she figured they’d be a little upset after seeing their sitter hauled off by the cops.

  They weren’t.

  Or at least, they didn’t appear to be. Amalia seemed to have forgotten what had happened. She was her normal, affectionate self. And Luke didn’t seem interested in talking about it, even when Kristy brought it up.

  “Mary Anne is fine, in case you’re wondering,” she told them.

  Luke nodded. “Cool,” he said, looking down at the Power Ranger he was playing with.

  “Beary Anne, Peary Anne,” Amalia sang happily.

  “She wasn’t in trouble or anything,” Kristy continued, unsure of how much to say. “The police just wanted to talk to her.”

  Luke seemed engrossed by his Power Ranger, and Amalia went on singing. Kristy decided that there was no point in talking about it anymore. If they had questions, they could ask her and she’d answer them, but if not it seemed just as well to drop the subject.

  “How about a snack?” she asked. “You guys must be hungry.” She headed into the kitchen, and both of them followed her. She fixed some peanut butter and jelly on crackers, poured them each a glass of milk, and sat down with them while they ate. By the end of snacktime, Amalia’s face, hands, and dress were stained with grape jelly. There was even jelly in her bangs.

  “Better clean you up,” said Kristy. She turned on the taps in the sink and checked to make sure the water wasn’t too hot. Then she picked up Amalia, sat her on the counter, and helped her scrub her hands and face. Just as she was wiping the front of Amalia’s dress, the phone rang. Kristy sighed. Her hands were wet and sticky with jelly, and she couldn’t leave Amalia sitting on the kitchen counter. “Luke, could you grab that?” she asked. She knows it’s best for the sitter to answer the phone, but there are exceptions to every rule.

  Luke ran for the phone, which hung on the wall next to the refrigerator. “Hello?” he said. He listened for a second. “Who is this?” he asked. “Hello?” He listened again, and then, suddenly, he hung up the phone with a bang. Kristy turned just in time to see a terrified look on Luke’s face.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Luke, who was that?”

  Luke didn’t answer.

  “Was somebody saying scary things?” Kristy asked, remembering what I’d told her about the writing on the window.

  Luke still didn’t answer. He just looked down at his sneakers.

  Kristy dabbed one more time at Amalia’s dress and then lifted her down. “You sit here and dry off,” she said, handing her a paper towel. Then she walked over to the phone, picked up the receiver, and pushed three buttons.

  “What are you doing?” asked Luke.

  “I’m trying to find out who that was,” answered Kristy. “If I dial those three numbers, the phone where that call was made from will ring. Hopefully, someone will pick up, and I can find out who it was that scared you.”

  Luke didn’t look comforted. In fact, he looked more scared than ever, Kristy said later.

  Kristy listened while the phone rang. It rang about ten times, and she was just about to give up when somebody answered. A woman. A woman who had been waiting for a bus near a pay phone in downtown Stoneybrook, at the corner of Main and Essex. She told Kristy that she’d just seen a young man using the phone, but that was all she knew.

  Luke refused to talk about what the caller had said, and finally Kristy just gave up. It was hard enough trying to get through to Luke; she didn’t want to annoy him.

  Just as Kristy was wiping off the countertop, someone knocked on the door. She ran to answer it, with Amalia in her arms and Luke right behind her. Steig and Benson were at the door. They asked if Luke wanted to come outside with them.

  Kristy thought she saw Steig wink at Luke, and Benson seemed to be holding something behind his back, but she didn’t think much of it.

  “Can I go out?” Luke asked her.

  “Sure,” said Kristy, surprised and pleased. It was the first time Luke had allowed her out of his sight. She made him put on a jacket and, remembering how Luke had run off on me just the day before, told all three boys to stay within shouting distance. Then she looked at Amalia, decided that her dress was still too messy, and took her upstairs to change.

  She and Amalia took a while to pick out a clean dress, and then Amalia pleaded with Kristy to read “just one story” from her Peter Rabbit books. Kristy was in the middle of The Tale of Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle when she heard a loud whistle, followed by a popping noise. She stopped in mid-sentence to listen, and heard another whistle and pop. “What —” she began, jumping up to run to the window. She saw nothing in the front yard, so she ran to Luke’s room to check out the backyard, and was shocked to see the three boys huddled near the swing set, setting off bottle rockets. (Those are little firecrackers attache
d to a stick; you stand them up in an empty bottle, light them, and they take off into the sky — that’s the whistling noise — and explode.)

  Kristy grabbed Amalia and thundered down the stairs. She ran out the back door, surprising the boys just as they were about to light one more rocket. “What are you doing?” she demanded as all three boys froze. “Where did you find those matches? Do you know how dangerous that is?” Kristy was beside herself. The boys were silent. Kristy held out a hand, and Steig put the matchbook into it without being asked.

  Kristy noticed that his shirt was stained with soot. She knew, from watching her brothers set off bottle rockets, that they don’t make much of a mess, so the stain made her wonder. She also remembered that Steig had asked me whether I smoked, and wondered if he had been trying to find a source for matches. Was Steig into fires? Could he have set the one in the Martinezes’ garage? Maybe that was Luke’s secret. Luke was best friends with Steig, and might be willing to keep silent for him. Then Kristy remembered my telling her that I’d noticed soot on Cary’s hands. Was he in on this, too? Had he been the one who wrote “DON’T TELL” on the window? Maybe Fowler wasn’t involved after all. Kristy’s head was spinning. Something very strange was going on at the Martinez house, and she had the feeling she wasn’t going to get to the bottom of it that day. All she could do was send Steig and Benson home and bring Luke back inside for a big lecture on playing with matches and firecrackers.

  The next day, Jessi sat for Luke and Amalia. She was determined to be friendly to Luke, and hoped he would warm up to her. She didn’t have much luck, though. Luke wasn’t rude or mean to Jessi, but he was quiet. No matter how hard she tried to involve him in conversation, Luke resisted. And he seemed to stick to her like glue, just as he’d done with the rest of us.