“Yeah …”
Frankie laughed, eager to tell the story to someone new. “Well, it turns out it was the jam on Oliver’s sandwich that took him out. Something in it gave him an allergic reaction.”
“Jam?” Matilda said skeptically.
“Mango chutney,” Oliver said. “It’s not like I knew.”
“It was awesome. He wasn’t seriously hurt or anything, but his mouth went numb for a good hour. And he did get busted for swiping lunches. I hear he has to do volunteer work at the old folks’ home three days a week to keep from getting expelled.”
“Wow,” Matilda said pensively. “Jam. Imagine the odds.”
Elaine Figge walked up the front steps with a welcome-to-the-neighborhood basket of pastries in one hand and the elbow of her younger sister in the other.
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Josie said.
Elaine, who would be the first to admit she could be a bit of a busybody, looked at her sister and said what every busybody in human history has always said. “It’ll be fine. You’ll see.”
She rang the bell. There was a lot of barking. Then the door opened.
“Elaine, hello,” Steve said.
“You’re sure this is an okay time?” Elaine said.
“Oh, sure,” Steve said. “I’m just waiting on the electrician.” He turned his attention to Josie. “Hi, Steve Bishop,” he said, offering his hand.
Josie took it. “Josie,” she said, smiling awkwardly.
“Oh, silly me,” Elaine said, smacking her forehead with her palm. “This is my sister, Josie.”
“Would you guys like to come in? I have coffee, we could crack open this basket.”
“We would love to,” Elaine said, leading her sister inside, but not before turning back and whispering, “See, I told you he was cute.”
“Better, but you’re coming in late off the bridge,” Bad Becky said flatly.
“I know,” Billy said, kicking himself. They’d only been at it less than a week, and Billy couldn’t believe how much he’d learned. They’d been the best days of his life. Still, he wanted to prove himself, and he took every mistake hard.
“You’ll get it,” Bad Becky said. “Or you won’t.”
She always tacked that on, like a gesundheit after a sneeze. Billy guessed it was because her mouth wasn’t used to saying encouraging things, so when she did it felt odd.
“Go again from the top?” Billy said, but Bad Becky’s attention was drawn to the door, where Mr. Lindo was standing with a blank, searching look on his face. He was a widower from the memory care wing and the only resident at Shady Glades who got along with Bad Becky, probably because he could never remember that he didn’t really like her, either.
He’d been wandering by a lot lately, whenever Bad Becky was giving Billy one of his guitar lessons in the rec room. At first it was kind of creepy, the way the old man just stood in the doorway, motionless. He’d stare at them—and sort of past them at the same time—until one of the attendants came to lead him back to his room.
Once, Bad Becky had even barked at him. “Well, Chester, you in or out?”
He wandered away that time. And the next two times after that.
But today Bad Becky had that look in her eye. The one that meant she was gearing up to yell at the next person she caught in her sights.
“All right,” she growled under her breath. Then, with the furious intensity of a Spartan drill instructor in an itchy tunic, she yelled, “Chester Lindo, I’ve had about enough of your foolishness. You hear me? Get your skinny, wrinkled butt in here. Now!”
Mr. Lindo straightened up and walked directly into the room.
“Drummers. They’re all the same.” Bad Becky sighed. “You got your sticks?” she barked at Mr. Lindo.
Mr. Lindo nodded quickly, pulling two drumsticks out of his back pocket.
Bad Becky looked around the room. “Billy, slide that round four-top over here.”
Billy dragged the table into the center of the room. Becky grabbed a chair as well.
“C’mon, now,” she said to Mr. Lindo. “You’re holding up rehearsal.”
Mr. Lindo sat down at his improvised drum set.
“Ready when you are,” Bad Becky said.
What happened next may have technically been just drumsticks banging on a dining table, but it was pretty amazing. Mr. Lindo had been, still was, an excellent drummer. And despite his age and dementia, he kept perfect time.
And for the first time, Billy wasn’t late off the bridge.
Archie was pouting again. Frankie couldn’t figure it out, but it had been going on for a couple of weeks now. Everything would start out fine. Frankie showed up at Steve’s house after school, and Archie would greet him at the door, practically knocking him over in the process. Then they’d head out for their afternoon walk.
But about ten minutes in, Archie’s mood would change. His head would hang, and he’d start lagging. It was like he didn’t even want to be on the walk anymore. And Archie loved walks.
After a couple of days, Frankie even pinned down the exact point on the walk where Archie started pouting. It always began at the corner before the really steep hill, the one with …
… the cat.
Could it be that simple?
Frankie doubled back and went down the street he’d been avoiding ever since Archie nearly concussed himself against the old Cadillac parked on top of the hill. Sure enough, the minute they turned down the street, Archie’s ears perked up and he went on high alert.
Frankie remembered too late to tighten his grip on the leash. Archie lunged as the tabby they’d seen on their first walk darted across their path and under the Cadillac, hiding like it had before under the tire block behind the rear wheel. Frankie stumbled forward as Archie bounded around the corner of the car, barking enthusiastically. The rottweiler really wanted to get at that cat.
“Come on, boy,” Frankie said, pulling Archie back. He stooped to peek under the car, afraid that the cat, now cornered, might go on the offensive. But the tabby wasn’t hissing or hunching. In fact, its orange fur was down; it didn’t even look afraid.
Meanwhile, Archie kept barking. But as Frankie listened, he realized that there wasn’t any bass, no deep growl behind it. This was a “hey, let’s play!” bark.
Frankie had been altering his route per Matilda’s instructions. But the next day, Frankie took Archie down the street again first. Archie and the tabby played the same dash, lunge, tire-block, hide-under-the-Cadillac, bark-repeatedly game as before. That’s what it was, a game.
And Archie was happy again.
In a way, Archie kind of reminded Frankie of his twin brothers. Whenever he saw the cat, he’d let out a series of four barks and one delighted howl that sounded eerily like Seamus and Hugh’s call-and-response battle cry: “Frankie! Frankie, Frankie! Frankie, WATCH!”
It deflated Frankie to realize that he was the cat in the equation. But for the first time since his parents had brought them home, he considered the possibility that his little brothers weren’t actually out to destroy him. And though Frankie was still fairly certain that they would someday land him in the emergency room, he was kind of okay with that.
Today Archie’s walk took them past Henry’s Market. As usual, the place was doing a brisk business. Ever since Billy Fargus had gotten laid out by a peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich, the little market had been crowded with kids grabbing artisanal jams as soon as they hit the shelves. Curiously, the popularity of the jams didn’t drop off after Billy Fargus stopped being the notorious lunchtime marauder of Preston Oglethorpe Middle School. Because while the kids may have initially come for the bully repellant, they came back because it was really, really good jam.
According to a human-interest story in the local paper, the owner, Henry Beecham, had no idea why his homemade artisanal jams were suddenly the hottest ticket in town. And it wasn’t just kids flocking to the store, either. Not lately. Foodies from as far as Gary, Indi
ana, and Kenosha, Wisconsin, had driven in just to buy some of his jam. Apparently, his flavors were even trending on social media.
As Frankie passed by with Archie, he wondered what Henry Beecham might think had he known that his popularity all started because of an allergic reaction to chutney. Probably the same thing Frankie thought when he realized he was walking Archie right now because the same market had been handing out free samples of beef jerky.
Imagine the odds.
“Man, I’m beat,” Frankie said on their way home from school. “That dog doesn’t quit. Half the time I wind up jogging with him just to keep up. Another couple weeks of this and I’m gonna have legs like a marathon runner. No black Lincolns, though.”
“Well, I’m not having much luck, either.” Matilda sighed. “I can’t figure out why George Kaplan would be interested in Oliver’s family. Neither of Oliver’s parents seem to be significant.”
“Um, ouch,” Oliver said. He was getting used to Matilda’s dispassionate way of putting things, but a kid does have his pride, after all.
“So, what now?” Frankie asked.
“Well,” Matilda began, “now it’s up to Oliver.”
“Oh no,” Oliver said, physically backing away from them. “I can’t.”
“We’re at a dead end, Oliver. Just a peek inside Kaplan’s wallet could be a treasure trove of intel.”
“Yeah, Oliver,” Frankie said. “Matilda here can probably run his picture through some top secret government face-recognition software she’s got lying around the house.”
Frankie laughed. Matilda didn’t. “We’re not there yet,” she said. Then, to Oliver: “You can do this.”
Oliver was not so sure about that.
His mom had been seeing Mr. Kaplan a lot over the last several days. Oliver knew he was supposed to keep an eye on them, that his mother might be in danger. But at the same time, she seemed really happy, and seeing his mom happy now reminded him of just how unhappy she’d been for this last year. Between Oliver’s dad leaving them and everything else with her job and the house, didn’t she deserve to feel good about things for a change? Even if it might be a lie?
Mr. Kaplan arrived at five minutes to seven to pick up Oliver’s mom for dinner. Oliver let him in with a smile he was sure gave away his plan completely.
“Good evening, Oliver,” Mr. Kaplan said warmly as he stepped inside.
“Hi, Mr. Kaplan,” Oliver said, fighting a tremor in his voice.
Mr. Kaplan draped his sport coat over a dining room chair.
“Um, my mom will be down in a minute.”
“No rush. Actually, could I use your bathroom?”
“Oh, yeah. Past the kitchen, on the right.”
Mr. Kaplan excused himself, leaving Oliver alone with the jacket. He’d never get a better chance.
Oliver took his cell phone out of his pocket and opened the camera app. That, of course, was the easy part. Then, after a quick look down the hall, he pulled back the coat lapel to see Mr. Kaplan’s wallet resting comfortably in the inner right breast pocket.
Oliver held his breath as he sticky-fingered the wallet and removed the driver’s license and credit cards. He then managed to photograph the license and two of the cards before he started to get light-headed. He had been holding his breath. Oliver exhaled and took another deep gulp of air, as if he were performing this amateur spy act underwater.
Once the wallet was safely back in the sport coat, Oliver looked up, sure that Mr. Kaplan would now be standing before him with a none-too-pleased look on his face. But he was still alone in the living room; he’d gotten away with it.
Which is what made Oliver’s next move all the more foolhardy. It was a nice jacket, a very nice jacket; Oliver had noticed it when he let Mr. Kaplan in the house. Oliver wasn’t much for clothes, but Mr. Kaplan had looked so at ease wearing it. So put together.
In control.
He had to try it on and get just the briefest idea of what it was like to feel those things.
It felt good.
“The coat works on you,” Mr. Kaplan said.
Oliver turned to see Mr. Kaplan watching him from the hallway.
“I—I’m sorry,” Oliver stuttered. “I was just …”
“You need the full effect, however,” he said as he closed on Oliver in two long, easy strides. When he reached Oliver, Mr. Kaplan removed his tie.
“Turn to the window,” Mr. Kaplan said as he stood behind Oliver, lifting the collar on Oliver’s shirt and draping the tie across Oliver’s neck. “Thin on the left, thick on the right,” Mr. Kaplan said patiently as he began tying the tie, checking their work in the window’s reflection.
“Of course, this tie doesn’t really go with your shirt,” he said as he fixed the dimple under the knot. “Though these days, mixing patterns is trendy. So, what do you think?”
Oliver and Mr. Kaplan looked in the window. Oliver forgot everything about the black Lincolns and the likelihood that this man, who let him wear his expensive coat and had just taught him how to tie a tie, was probably not who he claimed to be. He wanted to enjoy the moment, for this to be real.
“I think it’s perfect,” Oliver’s mom said from the bottom of the steps.
“Oh, Floss.” Mr. Kaplan turned. “Oliver and I were just goofing around.” He gave Oliver a conspiratorial wink. “I’ll tell you what, Oliver. Keep the tie for practice. I’ll need the coat back, though.” He leaned down and stage-whispered in Oliver’s ear, “It’s got my wallet.”
Had Mr. Kaplan offered up a kidney or some spare bone marrow, Oliver couldn’t have felt any lower. He took off the coat and handed it to Mr. Kaplan.
“Frankie! Door stays open!” Frankie’s mom called from downstairs.
“It’s open, Mom,” Frankie called back from his bedroom.
Oliver and Frankie had arranged for Oliver to come for a sleepover while Oliver’s mom was on her date. Matilda came over as well and was currently synching up Oliver’s pictures onto her laptop.
“What are we supposed to do about that?” Matilda said, gesturing to the open bedroom door.
“Don’t worry,” Frankie said, dismissively. “The twins pretty much scream and spill things for two hours straight after dinner. My folks will have their hands full until at least eight o’clock.”
As if on cue, one of the twins shrieked as the sounds of loud objects falling shook the entire first floor of the house.
“Okay,” Matilda said, typing furiously on her laptop. “Let’s see what we got.”
Oliver and Frankie watched in amazement as various web pages popped up on the screen, many of which seemed like the type that weren’t exactly open to the public.
“Wait a minute,” Frankie said, squinting at the screen. “Did you just hack into the Seattle DMV website?”
“Yes,” Matilda said plainly, as if she’d been asked if George Washington was our first president. She frowned, disappointed. “Hmmm. The license is legit.”
“So Mr. Kaplan’s telling the truth?” Oliver said, perking up.
“Not necessarily.” Matilda resumed her furious typing. A Google Maps snapshot of a Starbucks in downtown Seattle popped up on the screen. “Yep. Here we go.”
Oliver and Frankie leaned closer.
“What’s that?” Frankie asked.
“That,” Matilda said with a smug air of satisfaction, “is the home address listed on Mr. George Kaplan’s driver’s license.”
“A Starbucks?” Frankie said. “Oh, I get it. Fake address, right?”
“I knew he’d slip up. Sooner or later they always get lazy with the little details.” Matilda stopped as she noticed that Oliver had receded away from them. He sat down on Frankie’s bed, a dejected look on his face.
“This is good, though. Right?” Frankie said. “I mean, now we know.”
“Yeah,” Oliver said, conceding the logic. “You’re right. Now we know.”
But he couldn’t let the sinking feeling go. It followed him through a half-hearted gam
e of Clue, a couple of hours in front of the TV, and a chocolate-chip-cookie break down in the kitchen. Pretty soon, it was time for Matilda to go.
“When I get home, I’ll start running through Kaplan’s credit card statements,” Matilda said as she and the boys waited on the porch for Matilda’s mom to come pick her up. “If we know where he’s buying his gas and his groceries, we should be able to narrow our search grid considerably.”
“Yeah, cool,” Frankie said, trying to sound upbeat. Oliver had hardly spoken since they’d learned the truth about George Kaplan.
Oliver knew his friends were worried about him, but he also doubted that he could explain to them how or what he was feeling. Because the truth was, he almost felt more sad than afraid. He had really liked Mr. Kaplan, even when he was suspicious of him. And Oliver really thought Mr. Kaplan liked him, too.
He knew it was foolish. Deep down Oliver had never doubted that Matilda was right about Mr. Kaplan. So why did he let himself fall for the man’s act? Even for a second? Maybe because, for a brief moment or two, everything seemed okay again. Mr. Kaplan made Oliver’s mom happy for the first time in a year, and he made Oliver feel like he wasn’t disposable, that he was worth the time it takes to teach a boy to tie a tie. Because even if Mr. Kaplan was some kind of mysterious archvillain, he at least knew that Oliver and his mom were too important to throw away for a personal trainer in Phoenix, Arizona. Oliver believed that, and maybe believing it made it easier to overlook the lies.
Matilda’s mom pulled up in front of Frankie’s house. Matilda grabbed her backpack and computer. “See you guys on Monday,” she said.
Halfway down the steps she stopped, turned, and ran back up the steps to Oliver and gave him a hug.
“Oh,” Oliver said, taken aback.
“They say a ten-second hug can completely reboot a person’s emotional biorhythms,” Matilda said, holding on to him firmly. Then, about four seconds later, she said, “There,” and let go of him.
He did feel better, though a little awkward. Matilda must have felt awkward herself, because she gave Oliver a sudden but not unkind punch in the arm. Then she ran back down the steps.
Connect the Dots Page 7
