“Maybe you should check with the sheriff’s office. That’s sort of the lost and found around here.”
Mr. Smithers didn’t answer right away. Did I see something like fear in his eyes? Had he just been hit by a thought about snakes? That was my best guess. Finally he said, “It’s an idea.”
Mom went out. I found to my surprise that I had a cookie in my mouth, and moved to a cozy spot by the fire. This cozy spot was not far from the wine rack. I picked up an interesting smell from that direction, and if I hadn’t been busy with the cookie, or just so comfy, I might have gone over to investigate.
HARMONY, MRS. HALE, AND I WALKED across the village green, me not walking but lounging in my backpack. The green was snowy white, not green, and snow was starting to fall, slanting on account of the wind.
“Brrr,” said Mrs. Hale, pulling her scarf over her face. “I hate the cold. I never used to. Don’t get old, Harmony.”
“But the other option’s not so good,” Harmony said.
Mrs. Hale laughed. She was still laughing when a phone buzzed, somewhere deep in the layers of her clothes. Mrs. Hale fished it out. “Hello?” she said. She listened. Her skin got paler, almost matching the color of the snow, except for pink blotches that appeared on her cheeks. “I’m on my way,” she said, and tucked the phone back in her clothes, or tried to. It fell on the snowy ground instead.
Harmony knelt and picked it up. “Mrs. Hale? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said, although she didn’t look it, in fact seemed to be trembling as she took the phone. “It’s Artie.”
“Who’s Artie?”
“My husband. I told him and told him but he just won’t listen.”
“Told him what, Mrs. Hale? I don’t understand.”
“And so did Dr. Hashmi. Why does he have to be so pigheaded? He’s had two knee replacements, for heaven’s sake! Not to mention the spinal fusion. Plus the—”
“But what did you tell him?” Harmony said.
“That his days of shoveling the driveway were over! A no-brainer. And what does he do, first chance he gets? So now he’s slipped and fallen on a patch of ice and they’ve taken him to the hospital in an ambulance. Could it be more predictable?” Mrs. Hale took a deep breath, the way humans do when they’re trying to calm down. “I’ll have to take a rain check on this, Harmony.”
“Want me to come with you?” Harmony said.
“Thank you, but no,” said Mrs. Hale. “This will not be pleasant.”
“That’s okay,” Harmony said again.
Mrs. Hale’s eyes misted over. “You’re a good girl.” She turned quickly and walked away in the direction we’d come from. That left me and Harmony all by ourselves on the village green.
“This is terrible, Queenie.”
Certainly true for this Artie character, and possibly for Mrs. Hale as well, but I myself was undisturbed. Supposing something terrible was happening to Harmony? That would be different.
“I guess we better be heading home,” Harmony said.
The wind picked up. I snuggled in close to her. We didn’t seem to be heading home, or in fact moving anywhere. No problem. We were just fine like this.
“But,” Harmony said after some time, “I was kind of stoked about this visit. If only Arthur hadn’t eaten the map!”
True, I supposed, but I didn’t want to get into any of the if-only-Arthur-hadn’t stuff. Once you started, it never stopped.
“Do you see any reason it could hurt?” Harmony said. “If we went ahead with this visit on our own? Mrs. Hale did say they’d love you at the Evergreen House.”
Then how could it hurt? Giddyap, I thought, which is what riders say to get a horse moving. Harmony was no horse, but wasn’t I … sort of a rider? What a pleasant thought! To be a rider of humans!
I kept thinking giddyap, giddyap, the whole way to Evergreen House, which turned out to overlook Icehouse Pond, not far from the hockey rink. Evergreen House was really too big to be a house, actually reminded me more of the hospital, where I’d been once, picking up Bro after the broken-wrist-falling-out-of-the-apple-tree incident, which we don’t have the time to get into now. The point was that Evergreen House reminded me of the hospital, except for being smaller and white with green trim, instead of all bricks. In short, it looked like a soft hospital, at least to me.
We went inside, entering a nice big room with lots of plants and—what a thoughtful touch!—a caged bird. An old lady had wheeled her wheelchair up close to the bird and was saying, “How’s my pretty Polly today?”
Polly said something that sounded a lot like “Get lost.” The woman said, “Aren’t you a little brat.” And they went back and forth like that, with me waiting for the woman to say, “How about I let you out of that cage for a bit?” But she never did, at least not while I was there.
We stopped at the desk, where a much younger woman in a bright-yellow uniform spotted me right away and said to Harmony, “Hi there. You’re with the pet therapy folks?”
“Well, I—”
“And what’s the name of this cutie pie?” She reached across the desk and—and touched the tip of my nose through the mesh? Did I know her? Did she know me? And the whole rude move was so unexpected that I didn’t think of bringing my teeth into play until it was too late.
“Her name’s Queenie,” Harmony said.
“Oh, perfect!”
“And … and we’re here to see Mr. Pelter.”
“What a fine idea! He hardly ever has visitors. Room one thirty-six in the Garden Wing. Here’s our interior plan. And don’t be alarmed at anything Mr. Pelter says. On the crusty side at times, but he means well.”
“Uh, thanks,” said Harmony.
We headed down a hall, Harmony studying the plan, me gazing straight ahead, not in the best mood. Did my eyes have that fierce look? I bet they did. Touched my nose? Beyond belief.
We came to a closed door. Harmony read the number. “G 136.” She knocked.
From inside came a man’s voice—the voice of an old man, but not especially weak. In fact, it was more of a shout. “What do you want?”
“Oh god,” said Harmony, very quietly. Then, raising her voice, she said, “Visitors.”
“Visitors? Visitors? What kind of so-called visitors?”
“Yikes,” said Harmony, again very softly. And still softly added, “What should I tell him?”
My only thought was to tell him to let Polly out of the cage, but that probably wasn’t what Harmony was looking for. Humans, in my experience, often completely miss what’s important.
“Uh, Mr. Pelter?” she said.
“Who else were you expecting?”
“Nobody. Sir. It’s just that—”
“Are you a kid? You sound like a kid.”
“I’m a kid,” Harmony said. “My name’s Harmony. And I’ve brought Queenie with me. She’s a cat.”
“A cat? I like cats. Are you from pet therapy? I’ve been waiting and waiting.”
“We’re here,” Harmony called through the door. “Which is totally true,” she added in the quiet voice.
“Then what are you waiting for? It’s not locked. It’s never locked, which is just one more blasted—”
Harmony opened the door.
“—reason I’m busting out of here the first chance I get.”
An old man was sitting up in bed. He was very small, maybe the smallest man I’d ever seen. But he also had maybe the loudest voice of any man I’d heard, which he was toning down now that we were in the room. He wore a flannel shirt buttoned up to the neck and had what I believe is called a hawk-like nose. In fact, he reminded me of birds, not the kind of birds I usually deal with—like cardinals and robins—but the other kind, the big ones drifting high above. Once I saw one dive down from the sky and grab a rabbit! That gave me a lot to think about.
“Hello, Mr. Pelter,” Harmony said.
“Harmony?” he said. “That’s your name?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What kind of a name is that?”
“My name.”
“Oh? Did I ask for a smart answer? Exactly the kind of lip I’d expect from someone named Harmony.”
Harmony seemed to get blown back a little, like by a strong wind. But she stiffened, the way she does, and said, “Really, sir? Isn’t harmony—with a small h—all about getting along?”
Mr. Pelter’s eyes—bird-like for sure—got furious. But the expression faded fast, and so did his voice. “I don’t see a cat. I was promised a cat.”
“Here, Mr. Pelter. In the backpack.”
His eyes—suddenly not bird-like but very old—found me. “Well, isn’t that a pretty picture? Queenie, you said?”
“Yes, she’s—”
“There’s a proper name, no two ways about it. No two ways a—” Mr. Pelter blinked, like he was confused. His eyes found me again and he said, “Why is Queenie a prisoner?”
“Oh, she’s not. She likes—”
“Then for the love of mercy, let her out!”
Harmony unzipped the mesh covering and I glided out. Where to go? Mr. Pelter’s quilt, soft and puffy, looked appealing. Was there even something scratchable about it? Only one way to find out. And the very next moment I was on the bed, sitting beside Mr. Pelter. He smelled like old newspapers, a smell I don’t mind a bit.
“Well, well,” he said. And, “My, my.” Then he reached out and stroked my back with his bony hand. I’ve felt much better stroking, but it wasn’t terrible, certainly better than nothing.
Mr. Pelter glanced past me, at Harmony. “Are you still here?”
“I’m with Queenie,” she said.
“So you’re staying? Is that it?”
“If it’s all right. I’d like to find out about the map.”
“Map? I don’t have any maps.”
“But you did. It ended up in the map room at the library.”
“Maps, maps, maps. I don’t know about any maps. Everything I have is in this room.”
He looked around. There wasn’t much to see. Mr. Pelter had stopped stroking my back, but now he started up again.
“I think the map was in a box of your books that got packed up and donated to the library,” Harmony said.
Mr. Pelter raised a finger, all twisted and bony. “Donated? Then where’s my tax credit?”
“I don’t know,” Harmony said.
“Ha!” said Mr. Pelter. “That’s what you get for trying to pull the wool over my eyes.”
“Oh, but I’m not,” Harmony said. What was this? She was on the verge of tears, her eyes misting over? Why? I didn’t understand. And lucky for me I didn’t have to, because Harmony gave her head a quick shake and got back to holding it up and tall, like normal. “The map’s important, Mr. Pelter. I … I think it got a man killed.”
Mr. Pelter went very still. “Where?” he said. “Killed where?”
“Up on the old Sokoki Trail.”
“Got more than one killed.” Mr. Pelter gazed out the window. Snowflakes slanted down through a gray sky. “Criminals falling out. Like hyenas. But I’m surprised you know. It was a long, long time ago.” His eyes closed.
Harmony came closer. “What was a long time ago?”
There was no answer. Mr. Pelter remained sitting up, propped against pillows, but his hand slipped off my back and rested on the quilt. I gave the quilt a slight scratch, just a test. Yes, it would do nicely.
“Mr. Pelter? Are you all right?” Harmony leaned over him. “Is he even … yes, he’s breathing, Queenie.” Harmony pulled up a chair and sat down. It got very quiet in Mr. Pelter’s room. That happens in our part of the country, especially on snowy days. There was really not much to hear but the sound of my claws on the quilt; just one front claw, actually, a front claw perhaps blocked from Harmony’s view by one of those little toss pillows. We enjoyed a nice quiet time that came to an end when Mr. Pelter’s eyes opened suddenly and he cried out, “No, no, no.”
“Mr. Pelter—what’s wrong?”
He glanced around wildly. His eyes looked scared. I couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. At the same time, he’d interrupted my little amusement. It’s only fair to put that in.
Mr. Pelter spoke. His voice, so powerful before, was now high and small, almost like a child’s. “Don’t go, Daddy,” he said. “Not on the lumber road.”
Harmony rose and laid her hand on his. The difference in the two hands caught my attention. Harmony’s hand was so alive. Mr. Pelter’s hand looked like it had been through a long, hard time and was barely hanging on.
“It’s all right, Mr. Pelter,” Harmony said. “You were having a nightmare.”
He turned his head and seemed surprised to see her. She patted his hand. He licked his lips; dry lips, and so was his tongue. All the parts of him: barely hanging on.
“Harmony?” he said.
“Yes.”
“With the cat?”
“Queenie’s right here.”
He turned to me. “Ah,” he said. “Beautiful.”
Totally true, meaning old Mr. Pelter still hadn’t lost it completely. He licked his lips again.
“Are you thirsty?” Harmony said.
“All the time,” said Mr. Pelter.
Harmony poured water from a bedside carafe into a glass and gave it to him. His hands trembled. Harmony helped him hold the glass steady and together they brought it to his lips. He drank, then let his head fall back against the pillows.
“I had a nightmare?” he said.
Harmony nodded.
“What was it about?”
“Your daddy, I think. You didn’t want him to go on the lumber road.”
Mr. Pelter’s eyes got a distant look, like he was trying to see far, far away. “But he did anyways.”
“He went to the lumber road?”
“Part of his job. But what could he do? I didn’t understand. I was a kid, like you.”
“What was his job?” Harmony said.
“Truck driver,” said Mr. Pelter. “Drove for Foster Mahovlich.”
“Mr. Mahovlich?”
“The original Mr. Mahovlich. One who made the money. This was all way back, Depression time. Also Prohibition. Went together, now that I think about it. The Mahovliches were poor as us, poor as everybody then. But that changed.”
“How come?”
Mr. Pelter shot her an angry look. “How come some get rich and others don’t? Is that the question?”
“Well, no,” Harmony said. “How come the Mahovliches got rich?”
“Didn’t I just say?”
“I must have missed it, Mr. Pelter.”
“Must have missed it? Don’t you know the world’s too dangerous for that? Don’t you—” Then came a horrible bout of coughing. Mr. Pelter coughed and coughed. I stopped what I was doing with the quilt and moved away. Meanwhile, Harmony held the glass to his lips, got some water into him, and the coughing faded away. He gave Harmony a new sort of look, like he was seeing her in a different way. “What’s your name again?”
“Harmony.”
“And the cat is Queenie?”
“Yes, sir.”
He nodded. “You think I’m crazy, an old old man having nightmares from childhood.”
“I don’t.”
Mr. Pelter tried to take a deep breath, but it ended up being a sort of shudder. “Prohibition,” he said. “That’s how the Mahovliches got rich.”
“I don’t understand.”
“No alcohol in Prohibition, Harmony. But only in the good ol’ US of A. Up north in Canada they kept on like always. Folks down here still wanted their drink, goes without saying. New York City folks, for example, nightclub people, party people, all kinds. Gangsters made big money supplying them. The big problem was getting the stuff into the country.”
“Are you talking about smuggling?”
“Didn’t you want to know how the Mahovliches made their loot? Smuggling. There’s your answer. The liquor came down from Montreal, crossing the border on farm
roads at night. My daddy would drive up and meet them on this side—he was the main driver for Mr. Mahovlich. Course there were road blocks on the main roads. But he knew all the back roads, all the old lumber trails. The roadblocks never got set up in the bottom part of the state, so it was pretty much clear sailing south of Mount Misty. The gangsters’ truck would meet my dad up there and transfer the load.”
“Up on Mount Misty?”
“Lumber road cuts right across the Sokoki Trail, ends up on old Highway Seventy-Seven.”
“There’s no lumber road on Mount Misty,” Harmony said.
“No? Then tell me where it happened.”
“Where what happened?”
“All the killing.”
“What killing?”
“When it came to an end. The last shipment. The Montreal guy and the New York guy never met in person, up till then. Nobody trusted nobody. Every once in a while the New York guy would come up and stash away payment for the next few shipments. Buried it in a secret place up there, never the same spot twice. Then the Montreal guy would come down and dig it up. Just the two of them knowing the spot. But on the last shipment, just before the end of Prohibition, the two guys met. They ended up in a fight. All by themselves, no one else up there. No one even knew what had happened till my daddy and me found the bodies.”
“You, Mr. Pelter? But you were a kid!”
Mr. Pelter closed his eyes. “My daddy was a hard man. Maybe not as hard as some. He wouldn’t have brought me up there if he’d known what we’d find. One knifed the other. The other one shot the first. We found them in each other’s arms, right outside the cave.”
“Oh,” said Harmony. “That was awful for you.”
A tear appeared in one corner of old Mr. Pelter’s eye. He turned his head away. “Awful leads to more awful,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
He looked at her. “Nothing you should know.”
Harmony shook her head. “I need to know,” she said.
Mr. Pelter blinked. “Why on earth?”
“Because of what you said—I think more awful is still happening.”
“Don’t matter to me. I’ll be dead soon enough.”
“No you won’t.”
“Don’t be stupid. Nothing inside me works anymore.”
Ruff vs. Fluff Page 15
