by Peg Kehret
Still holding the bill up to the light, I moved it to a different angle, and that’s when I remembered. My teacher had not demonstrated a one-hundred-dollar bill, but he’d told us about a special ink that’s used on the numerals in the bottom right-hand corner when one-hundred-dollar bills are printed. As I tilted the bill, the number 100 in that corner changed from green to black. I moved the bill back and forth, watching the numeral turn green, then black again.
The money was not fake; it was real.
I used my thumb to flip through the edges of the rest of the bills in the stack, looking at the number in the corner of each one. All of the bills were the same.
I counted: There were one hundred bills in this stack. One hundred times one hundred dollars . . . I held ten thousand dollars in one hand!
I couldn’t get the bill I’d removed to slide back under the strip of paper so I laid it on top and set that stack of bills on the floor. I took out another stack, and then another, counting the bills in each one.
Some of the stacks at the bottom were held together with green rubber bands, and the bills were worn, as if they’d been in circulation for a while. Those stacks were slightly thicker, but each one held the same amount.
Altogether, the box contained thirteen stacks of bills, with ten thousand dollars in each stack!
I did the math in my head. Oh, man! Along with Willie’s leg bones, I had removed one hundred thirty thousand dollars from the grave!
Wait a minute. The amount sounded familiar. Aunt Ethel had told me that’s how much the Cash for Critters auction had raised. One hundred thirty thousand dollars had been stolen by the masked robber outside the bank.
Could this be the money the community had raised for the animal shelter? In my mind, I replayed Aunt Ethel’s account of the robbery. I was sure she had said bags of money were stolen.
The bags from the auction would have contained bills of many sizes, not all one-hundred-dollar bills. Still, the amount seemed suspicious. The thief could have exchanged any coins and lesser bills for bills this size, so the money would fit in a smaller box and be easier to hide.
Shaking with excitement, I stuffed the money back in the box, pulled the light chain, and carried the box out of the barn.
The sky and yard were black as midnight now, although the rain had stopped. A crescent moon peeked over the treetops, too slim to send any light to the ground. It didn’t matter. I knew where the house was, and I ran toward it, clutching the box of money in my arms.
I was halfway to the back door when headlights announced a car coming down the driveway. I stopped, my heart pounding. I wanted to shout the news of my discovery to the world, but not everyone is honest. I didn’t want to tell the wrong person, especially when I was alone out here in the country.
This car’s driver was probably some friend of Aunt Ethel, come to check on me, but I decided to hide the box before I showed myself.
Instead of continuing to the kitchen door, I ran to the big lilac bush near the side of the house and knelt behind it. From there I could see the end of the driveway and the front of the house. I put the box on the ground, shoving it in close to where the lilac branches came out of the dirt.
The car drove in fast. The driver left the lights on when he got out, probably so he could see to walk to the front door.
I started to stand up, intending to go greet the visitor, but when I looked at the driver, my breath caught in my throat.
The driver wore a black ski mask, the kind that covers the whole head, with slits for the eyes and mouth.
This was no friendly visitor.
Why would anyone approach Aunt Ethel’s house in the middle of June dressed like that? The only reason I could think of for someone to hide his face with a ski mask was if he intended to commit a crime and didn’t want to be recognized.
It seemed too much of a coincidence for this man to come tonight. Did he know Aunt Ethel wasn’t here? I wondered if some dishonest hospital employee passed along to a thief the names of people who were admitted to the hospital, knowing the person’s house would probably be unattended. If unscrupulous people stole from patients in the hospital, anything was possible.
I dropped back behind the lilac bush, the wet leaves brushing my face.
The man strode quickly up the porch steps, then pounded on the door. “Ethel Hodge!” he called. “Open up!”
Whoever he was, he didn’t know Aunt Ethel was in the hospital. If he intended to rob Aunt Ethel, he wouldn’t call out her name. But why else would he wear a ski mask in the middle of June? Nothing made sense.
Maybe when nobody answered the door, the man would leave. As soon as he did, I would call the police. I wished I had called them when I first got home from the hospital.
He didn’t leave. Instead, he opened the front door and stepped inside. The indoor lights went on. Through the windows, I could see the man go from room to room. He looked under the table and behind the couch, as if he were searching for something in particular.
Was he looking for the box of money? I couldn’t tell if this was the same man I’d seen digging in the cemetery, but even if he was, how could he possibly know I had the box?
Light blazed from the upstairs windows. As I pictured the masked man going into the bedrooms, I realized he would soon discover Aunt Ethel did not live here alone.
I had left my dirty clothes in a pile on the floor. My extra sneakers stood beside the bed. My CDs were stacked on the small table, and a half-read book and a bag of jelly beans rested on the nightstand. It would be perfectly clear that someone besides an eighty-three-year-old woman lived in this house. Someone my age.
Was he a petty thief, looking for anything of value? Or was he the man I’d seen at the cemetery, looking for the box of money?
The upstairs lights went out, followed by the kitchen light, and, last, the living room light. The front door opened. The man returned to his car.
He drove off, spinning his tires in the gravel so it flew toward the porch.
I waited a minute to be sure he was gone. Then I grabbed the box from under the bush, raced toward the house, bolted up the steps, and pushed open the front door.
I flipped the light switch, then ran to Aunt Ethel’s old black dial telephone, the one I’d used to call the medics. I put the box on the table and picked up the receiver.
My hands shook as I dialed the numbers. I was probably setting a new record, calling 911 twice in one day from the same telephone.
I held the receiver to my ear. There was no sound. My call had not gone through. I jiggled my finger on the button, then listened again. Nothing. No dial tone.
My eyes followed the telephone cord to where it met the wall. It stopped two feet short; the cord had been cut.
I stood with the useless receiver in my hand, staring at the dangling cord. I was completely isolated. No phone, no neighbors, no way to get help.
I couldn’t stay here alone until morning, not with so much money. What if the masked man returned? I would have to ride the old bicycle down the hill to Carbon City in the dark, using a flashlight to see the road.
I didn’t think I could manage to hold a flashlight and the box of money, too, while I rode, so I decided to leave the box here. I grabbed it, ran to the kitchen, and stuck it in the clothes washer.
I raced back to the living room for the flashlight that Aunt Ethel kept next to her recliner in case the power went out. I bent to pick it up when, behind me, I heard a click as the front door opened.
I whirled around.
The man in the ski mask stood inside the door. He had a gun in one hand, pointed at me.
“Where’s the box?” he asked.
“Box? What box? I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do. You or Ethel Hodge dug up a box at the cemetery today. It’s mine, and I want it back. Now.”
I tried to look innocent. “What makes you think we have it?”
“Because the flowers planted there are the same as the ones on Flo
rence Hodge’s grave. They’re all along the side of this house, too. Either you have the box or Ethel Hodge has it. Where is she?”
“She’ll be back any minute,” I said. I couldn’t let him know the truth, that I was here alone.
“Did she take the box with her?”
I stalled, trying to think what to do. “We don’t have any box. She, um, went to a neighbor’s house.”
I remembered Aunt Ethel’s gun, the one she had used to shoot the bat. She kept it in her bedroom. Should I pretend the box was upstairs, tell the man I would get it, and then get the gun instead? But I didn’t know anything about guns. I wouldn’t know how to tell if it was loaded, and even if I did know how to use it, did I really want to shoot at a person? There had to be a better way to save myself than by getting into a gunfight.
A flash of light beamed through the front window. Another car was driving toward the house! The man and I both looked out.
“Here’s Aunt Ethel now,” I said, as I wondered who it was.
The man stepped close to me. The gun was only a foot from my chest.
“I’ll wait behind the couch,” he said. “If this is not Ethel Hodge, you will get rid of whoever it is without saying one word about me or about the box you found. Is that clear?”
“I didn’t find any . . .”
“Is that clear?” His eyes bore into me through the slits in the ski mask.
I nodded.
“If you don’t do as I say, you won’t live to see tomorrow.”
He pulled the couch out from the wall far enough to get behind it, then he dropped to his knees. I couldn’t see him, but I knew he was watching, and I knew the gun was still aimed at me.
There was a quick knock on the door. Then it opened a crack, and a woman’s voice called, “Ethel? It’s me. I’ve come for the cake.” Without waiting for a response, a woman in a gray pantsuit pushed the door open and stepped inside. A big red hat gave her a cheery look.
“Hello,” I said, trying to sound normal. “I’m Josh, Ethel’s nephew. She had to leave for a minute. She’ll be right back.”
The woman frowned. “Ethel doesn’t usually drive after dark,” she said. “Is everything all right?”
“Oh, yes.” I forced a smile. “Everything’s fine.”
She gave me an odd look, as if she weren’t convinced. “Where did she go?”
I blurted the first thing that entered my mind. “A friend in Carbon City fell and needed some—some pain medicine. Aunt Ethel took her a bottle of Tylenol.” I held my breath, hoping the woman wouldn’t ask more questions.
“I wonder why she didn’t call me,” the woman said. “Well, I’m running late as it is. I should have been here hours ago. I tried to call earlier, but nobody answered so I took a chance and came. I saw your lights and knew you were still up. I’m Muriel Morris, by the way, Ethel’s friend from Diamond Hill. I ordered a cake for my daughter’s birthday. It’s tomorrow, but I need to get the cake tonight.”
I almost told her the cake wasn’t finished, but when I thought about the blank space on the cake and the tube of frosting, I had an idea.
“I can get the cake for you,” I said. “It’s in the kitchen, all ready to go.”
“Oh, thank you, Josh. I’ll write out the check while you get it.” Muriel sat on the couch, opened her purse, and took out a checkbook. “Whose car is out there?” she asked.
Pretending not to hear her, I hurried to the kitchen. I picked up the tube of frosting and squeezed hard on the bottom. A line of yellow frosting squirted out.
In the middle of the cake, where it was supposed to say Happy Birthday, I made giant frosting letters: HELP. Then I put the cake in the box, shut the box, and carried it into the living room.
From the corner of my eye, I could see the man watching me from behind the couch.
“Aunt Ethel always asks her customers to look at the cake before they take it,” I said, “to be sure it’s OK.”
I started to open the box.
“Oh, I’m sure it’s fine,” the woman said. “I’ve been getting cakes from Ethel for years and years. My daughter always wants one on her birthday. Carrot cake.”
“I’ll be in trouble with Aunt Ethel if I don’t show it to you,” I said. “Please take a quick look to be sure it’s what you ordered.”
Keeping my back to the couch, I opened the top of the cake box and thrust the box toward her.
Muriel Morris glanced at the cake. “Oh,” she said as she looked more closely.
Don’t give me away, I pleaded silently. Please, please don’t say anything about the message on the cake.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Mrs. Morris looked at me, then back at the cake.
I closed the box. “I hope it’s right,” I said. “I know it’s important for the cake to say exactly what you want.”
“It looks perfect,” she said. “Here’s the check for your aunt.” She gave me the check, and I gave her the cake box. “Tell Ethel I’ll call her,” Muriel said.
Did she emphasize the words I’ll call or did I imagine that?
She carried the cake to her car and drove off.
As soon as I heard the car leave, the man came out from behind the couch.
“I notice the knees of your pants are all dirty,” he said. “Looks as if you’ve been kneeling in the dirt, digging.”
“I did some gardening for my aunt.”
“Yes, you did,” he said. “You planted flowers at the cemetery. Where’s my box?”
“I told you, I don’t know anything about a box.”
“I do not have time to play games. I’m going to count to ten. Either you give me the box before I reach ten, or else.”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to. I knew exactly what or else meant.
He stepped closer. The overhead light glinted off the barrel of the gun. I couldn’t give him the box of money. No matter what he said, it didn’t belong to him.
But I couldn’t let him shoot me, either.
“One,” the man said.
“Willie!” I shouted. “Help me!” I didn’t know if the ghost would hear me or if he could do anything to help me; I yelled for help because I didn’t know what else to do.
“Quiet!” the man said. “There’s no one to hear you. Stop trying to trick me.”
“Willie, please!” I yelled. “Hurry!”
Over the man’s shoulder, I saw a coal miner’s hat. Willie materialized inside the house.
“Drop the gun!” Willie said.
The man did not react.
“He can’t hear you,” I said.
The man looked behind him, then turned back toward me. I knew he couldn’t see the ghost. “Two,” he said.
“Willie, he’s going to kill me!”
“I told you to quit trying to fool me. There’s nobody here.”
“Willie’s here. My friend.”
“Imaginary friend. Three.”
Willie put both hands on the telephone and shoved. The phone clattered from its stand to the floor.
The man jumped. “Who did that?” he demanded, looking all around the room.
“My friend,” I said. “He’s a ghost.”
“Ghost!”
“This house is haunted. The ghost’s name is Willie, and he wants you to leave.”
“I don’t believe in ghosts. That’s nonsense. Four.”
“You’d better do what Willie says. He’s a mean, vindictive ghost, and he doesn’t like weapons. The last time someone brought a gun in here, Willie disconnected the brakes on the man’s car, and they failed as he drove down the hill. If you don’t go right now, he’ll do the same to you—or worse.” I surprised myself with that story. In my desperation, the words rolled effortlessly out of my mouth like a bike going downhill.
The man glanced around the room. I couldn’t see his expression because of the mask, but I knew I was making him uneasy.
“Five.”
Willie floated across the room to Aunt Ethel’
s plate rail and pushed a blue-and-white plate off. It crashed to the floor, scattering pieces of pottery across the room.
The hand holding the gun began to shake.
“The ghost is my friend,” I said. “If you hurt me, you’ll be haunted for the rest of your life. Willie will follow you and cause trouble. You’ll live in fear forever!”
Dark blotches of perspiration appeared on the man’s shirt under his arms.
“You can’t scare me. Six!” His voice got louder, but it lacked the conviction he’d had earlier. My comments about the ghost were scaring him, no matter how much he denied it.
Keep it up, Willie. Throw something else on the floor. If we can stall long enough, the police might come. I didn’t know for sure that Muriel Morris had understood my message, but I thought she had. Otherwise, she would have said the writing on the cake was wrong.
I hoped she had driven to the nearest telephone in Carbon City, called the police, and asked them to go to Ethel Hodge’s house immediately. If she had done so, help should be on the way. I had to keep the man from getting his hands on the money until the police arrived—and I had to keep him from shooting me.
“The ghost says you’re supposed to go right now,” I said. “Forget the box. I don’t have it anyway. The ghost says to leave and don’t come back.”
The man’s head turned; his eyes swept all around the room as if he wondered what would fall to the floor next. He even looked up at the ceiling fan.
“This is your last chance,” the man said. “I won’t shoot if you give me my box. The choice is yours.” His voice quavered now, but he still said, “Seven!”
I knew Willie had him frightened, but I couldn’t take a chance that he would kill me. I had no way to know when the police would arrive or even IF they would arrive. In a rural area like this, the police probably cover a lot of territory. Even if they responded quickly to Mrs. Morris’s call, they could be miles away.
Willie tried to push another plate from the plate rail, but it didn’t move. I remembered him saying he couldn’t carry the spade because he had little strength. It must have required a huge effort for him to push the telephone and the first plate to the floor; now he couldn’t move anything else.
