To Mary Beth Englund for her friendship, inspiration, and counsel.
Text copyright © 2017, 2003 by Marianne Mitchell
All rights reserved
Published by Boyds Mills Press, Inc.
A Highlights Company
815 Church Street
Honesdale, Pennsylvania 18431
Printed in China
Visit our Web site at www.boydsmillspress.com
Publisher Cataloging-in-Publication Data (U.S)
Mitchell, Marianne.
Finding Zola / by Marianne Mitchell. —1st ed.
[144] p. ; cm.
Summary: A thirteen-year-old girl investigates the disappearance of an older woman in this coming-of-age mystery.
ISBN 1-59078-070-1 hc • 1-59078-370-0 pb • 978-1-62979-886-8 e-book
1. Detective and mystery stories — Juvenile literature. (1. Mystery and detective stories.)
I.Title.
[F] 21 AC 2003
2002108408
First edition, 2003
First Boyds Mills Press paperback edition, 2005
First Boyds Mills Press ebook edition, 2017
The text of this book is set in 13-point Minion.
P1.1
Chapter 1
THE DREAM HIT ME AGAIN THAT FIRST MORNING in Copper Valley.
I jerked awake, my heart racing. Somewhere in the house, a phone was ringing. I blinked hard, gulping for air like a fish flopping on dry sand. Shaking my head, I tried to sweep away the fragments of that awful dream. I scanned the room, searching for familiar sights. There weren’t any. Instead, I faced walls of tan adobe blocks. Wooden shutters covered the windows, letting in a dim morning light. A dove cooed on the window ledge. No, I wasn’t in my own bedroom in San Diego. This was Grandma Emilia’s townhouse in Arizona.
I glanced at the framed picture on the bedside table. It was a photo of Dad as a teenager with dark ponytailed hair just like mine. He stood holding a garden hose by his Corvette, a silly grin on his face like he was about the turn the hose on whoever was taking the photo. For an instant I thought he even winked at me, as if to say “Hiya, Crystal!” I still couldn’t believe he was dead.
I pushed myself up into a sitting position, then carefully lifted my legs over the side of the bed. With my right hand, I grasped the arm of my wheelchair and made the transfer. After a long stop in the bathroom—every little thing took so much time now—I headed out to the patio, where Mom sat reading the paper. Dressed in faded jeans and a sleeveless blouse, she looked more like my sister than my mother. Her short-cropped brown hair always had a casual, windblown look.
“Morning!” said Mom. “How’d you sleep?”
“Lousy. I had that dream again.” I reached for the pitcher of orange juice and poured a glass.
Mom put down the paper. “I’m sorry, Cryssy.”
“When I woke up, I didn’t know where I was.”
“Smack dab in the middle of the desert. Don’t worry, we won’t be here long.”
“Good.”
It had been a year since the accident that had killed my dad and left me in a wheelchair. Even after six months of physical therapy, I still had no movement from the waist down. It had also cost me a year of school. Next fall, at thirteen, I’d only be a seventh-grader. Going back to school was not something I was looking forward to. When I show up in a wheelchair, everyone will look at me like I’m a freak.
“Did the phone ring?” I asked, taking a bite from a muffin.
“Yes. It was Dora McIntyre from the Archuleta Gallery in Santa Fe. The good news is, someone canceled out of an exhibit. She asked if I’d mind stepping in at the last minute and showing my work. Of course, I said I’d be glad to. Imagine, Santa Fe!”
“Cool. What’s the bad news?”
“The bad news is, I have to leave tomorrow. For a week.”
“But we just got here! Have you seen how much stuff Gran had?”
“I know, I know. But all that ‘stuff’ isn’t going anywhere. We can take our time sorting through it.”
I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. First I lost Dad, then Gran died. Now we had to pack up her things and sell her townhouse. My life seemed full of “never agains.” Gran and I would never again sit on the patio and tell each other stories. I’d never again hear her laugh or hold her soft, wrinkly hand. Maybe she and Dad were up in Heaven right now, watching over us. A sigh hiccuped out of me. My eyes blurred with tears. Overhead, wind chimes tinkled in the morning breeze, as if Gran was trying to send us a comforting song.
“I miss her. I miss her voice, her stories, her ‘wise’ sayings.”
Mom smiled and nodded. “Me, too. Those proverbs just seemed to grow on the tip of her tongue.”
Whenever I’d wish things would go faster, Gran would tug on my hair and tease me, saying, “Paciencia, pioja.” Patience, little louse. She’d often leave out the other half of the proverb: que la noche es larga. The night is long. I was always rushing into things without thinking first. Those proverbs were her way of teaching me a little from the Mexican side of my family. Dad had grown up hearing Spanish from his parents. Mom’s side was Irish, so what Spanish I knew I got from Dad or Gran.
Mom started stacking the breakfast dishes on a tray. “I’d better get busy. I’ve got to figure out which paintings to take.”
I let the news of Mom’s trip sink in. She’d been hoping to get a show in Santa Fe for a long time. It was a shot at the Big Time—a chance to hang her paintings next to some famous artist’s. Maybe someday my mom, Sandra O’Connell Ramos, would be famous, too.
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.
“Dora said it would take a couple of days to set everything up. Then four days to meet and greet the public. A day to drive there and a day back. Eight days, max.”
“Well, don’t worry about me. I’ll have lots of Gran’s things sorted and boxed by the time you get back. I’ll be fine by myself.”
Mom shook her head.
“Why not?” I protested. “I can take care of myself.”
“I know you can, Cryssy. But I can’t leave you here alone for a week. You don’t drive, you aren’t used to a gas stove—”
“I’ll order pizza!”
“And you’d be lonesome! This town is not exactly full of kids your age, remember?”
That stopped me. This was Geezer City, all right. The average age was probably seventy-five. In most neighborhoods, you couldn’t even buy a house unless one of the buyers was sixty. You couldn’t have kids under eighteen living with you, either. I was glad Gran had chosen one of the nonrestricted neighborhoods. “I don’t want to be stuck with just los viejos,” she’d said.
“So …” Mom continued, “I asked Gran’s neighbor, Zola, to come over and stay with you.”
I groaned. Just what I needed—an eighty-year-old baby sitter. “Why her?”
“For one thing, I trust her. Zola practically lived over here while Gran was sick. She took care of her right up to the end. You know how hard it was on me to live six hours away and constantly worry about Gran. I don’t know what we would have done without Zola’s help.”
It was all true. Mom had wanted to come more often, but she was teaching an art class and I was still recovering. Even so, Mom called Gran nearly every day, offering to come. But Gran kept putting her off, saying she didn’t want to be a burden and that she was pampered enough already by her neighbor.
I put the basket of muffins on my lap and followed Mom inside. I was really happy she was getting a chance to show her paintings. Santa Fe was known all over the country as an art center. She should do it. But leave me stuck with Zola? I’d only met her once, about a year ago, just before my accident. All I remembered about her was that she seemed old. And a l
ittle odd.
“What about DJ? Could she come down?”
Mom thought for a moment. “That’s a great idea. The semester’s over by now. I’ll give her a call.”
That made me feel better. DJ—she never used her real name, Dolores Josefina—was my cousin. She was a sophomore at the University of Arizona and a star player on their girls’ softball team. I hadn’t seen much of her lately, but we used to be pretty close. Before the accident, that is.
Everything in my life had fallen on two sides: Before Accident and After Accident. Before the accident, I never thought about what I could or couldn’t do. I just did it. Sometimes, like Gran loved to remind me, I got in over my head without thinking first about the consequences. The accident sure knocked that out of me. Now I found myself holding back, afraid to try things. I didn’t like it at all. I wanted the old me back.
Gran had another favorite saying for me whenever I got discouraged. Donde una puerta se cierra, otra se abre. Where one door closes, another one opens. She was right. I was deep into a crossword puzzle that morning when someone started pounding on the front door.
Chapter 2
THE SUDDEN NOISE STARTLED ME. WHEN I opened the door, a disheveled old lady stood there, her frizzy gray hair poofed out around her face like a halo. She wore floppy bedroom slippers and a pale blue housedress that was buttoned all wrong. She bent forward and shouted at me.
“I am late?”
I sat there blinking for a minute, wondering if the woman thought that because I was in a wheelchair, I must be deaf, too.
“Zola?”
“Yes. I am Zola. Who are you?”
“Crystal. My mother’s expecting you.”
Zola edged right by me and into the house like she owned the place. “Yes, yes. I come over to Emilia’s. So sad about her. Bring her soup. Bring her flowers. Give bath. Such a sweet lady. You knew her?” Her knobby fingers fussed with the top button on her dress that had missed its hole.
“Yes. She was my grandmother.”
“So, Sandra calls and I come.” Zola padded down the hallway, not waiting for directions or formalities. She had a deep voice that reminded me of a Russian spy from old movies. All her esses sounded like zees. Zo, Zandra callz …
I shook my head, wondering what possessed Mom to ask a Russian spy to stay with me. I shut the door and pushed my way after Zola. “She can’t be serious,” I muttered to myself. “She can’t do this to me!”
In the back bedroom Mom sat in the middle of the floor, putting the last bit of masking tape on several square packages wrapped in brown paper. She looked up as Zola came marching in.
“Zola!” Mom stood up, wiped her hands on the back of her faded blue jeans, and took Zola’s small hand. “Thanks for agreeing to stay with Crystal on such short notice.”
“Is no problem.” Zola gazed around the room and sighed. “So sad. I am here every day for Emilia. Is hard to believe she is gone.”
Patting Zola’s arm, Mom said, “You were a big help. With us living in San Diego, it eased our minds knowing Gran had a friend like you to look in on her.”
Zola’s head bobbed in agreement. “She was fine lady. Someday I hope someone is looking after me.” She pointed to the packages on the floor. “You are leaving soon?”
“Yes, first thing in the morning,” said Mom. “I’ve got six paintings wrapped, strapped, and ready to go! I’ll call as soon as I get to Santa Fe. I left the number where I can be reached by the phone.”
“Then I go home to pack my things.” Zola turned to me, her pale eyes crinkling and her hands scratching playfully at the air. “I come back in morning. We have good time, yes?”
“Umm, yeah. Sure,” I mumbled, watching her head back down the hall. I sat there for a few moments, picking at the padding on my armrests, picturing me and Zola having a such a “good time” playing pinochle. Or cleaning moldy cheese out of the refrigerator. Or watching the birds poop on the back patio.
“Mom, does she have to stay here with me? She seems … I don’t know, spacey. Like she’s got a few files missing. She didn’t even know who I was when I answered the door.”
“She’s only met you once, remember. Look, she knows this house and how to take care of the ones who live here. She’s already proven herself. Besides, I think it helps her to feel useful to others.”
I wrinkled my nose. “I feel like a charity case.”
“Be happy, Crystal. It’s only for a week. Plus, I called DJ and she’s coming down in the morning.” Mom gathered up the paintings, placing two on my lap. “Come on. You can carry these for me.”
I followed Mom out to the carport. I noticed a small travel bag in the back seat of the car.
“You didn’t waste any time getting ready, did you?”
She smiled at me, bending down to give me a hug. “Cryssy, I’ve been getting ready for a show like this for twenty years! This could make a big difference in our lives. You know how tight money has been.”
“I thought you’d take more paintings.”
“Dora already has five at the gallery. I had planned on taking all the paintings I gave Gran, but I can’t find one of them.”
“Which one?”
“It’s one I did years ago of your father working on a sculpture. It was called David and Goliath. I remember how pleased Gran was to get it. She even had a special frame made for it. Very fancy. Silver with turquoise inlay.”
“I remember that painting.”
“Gran kept it right over her bed. Only now it’s missing.” Mom shut the trunk of the car, looking pensive. “Why on earth would she have taken it down?”
Chapter 3
AS I WATCHED MOM DRIVE OFF THE NEXT morning, I felt a twinge of excitement. I had a whole week ahead of me to stretch my wings. Oh, sure, old Zola would be here, but I wasn’t going to let her stop me from trying a few things. Maybe DJ and I could go shopping. Nogales was only thirty miles to the south. We could even practice bargaining in Spanish. But first I wanted to start packing some of Gran’s stuff.
In the kitchen I found a stack of old newspapers, perfect for wrapping dishes. Then I headed down the hall to Mom’s room. I knew she’d left more cardboard boxes and some tape piled up in the corner. After nesting four of the boxes together and piling them on my lap along with the roll of tape, I pushed my way back down the hall to the living room. When I got near my room, I thought I saw a flickering light. It had that pale blue glow of a television. That’s odd, I thought. There’s no TV in my room. As I went through the door, I felt the hair on the back of my neck prickle. The room felt as cold as a freezer.
Over by the bedside table, Dad’s picture sat in a halo of blue light. The light pulsed once and went out. I jerked in surprise, knocking the roll of tape off my lap and sending it under one of the twin beds. Tilting my head, I peered down as best I could to find it. It had come to a stop by a bundle wrapped in a towel. I leaned down, trying to grab the tape, but it was too far under and I nearly tumbled out of my chair. There was no way I could get to it. What bothered me more was the weird blue light. What was that all about? I shrugged it off, deciding it must have been sunlight coming in at a funny angle.
By eleven that morning, Zola still hadn’t come over. At first I didn’t mind. I was enjoying being on my own, puttering around. But she had told Mom she’d be over in the morning. So where was she? On my way into the kitchen, I peered out the front window. Zola’s townhouse sat directly across from Gran’s. There she was, all right, sweeping something out her front door. Water dribbled down her driveway. Why was Zola sweeping water out of her house?
It took me less than a minute to wheel across the street. She looked up, her blue eyes bulging in panic. “Water all over my house! Come!”
Inside, the floor plan was exactly like Gran’s, only backwards. A small entry opened to a combined living room and dining area. To the left was a small kitchen. To the right, a hallway led to bedrooms and the bath.
Zola waved her arms. “Water, everywhere!”
<
br /> Sure enough, water pooled over the whole tiled floor. From somewhere down the hall, I heard splashing. I eased through the puddles toward the bathroom. There, water thundered into an already full tub, sloshing over the sides like a waterfall.
“You left your bath running!” I shouted.
Zola came in, shook her head, and turned the knobs to off. Then she stood up, her shoulders drooping in confusion. “I am eating breakfast. I go into the bathroom. But then I get here and I forget why.” She cocked her worried face toward me. “Who are you?”
Weird. She seemed to have no memory of meeting me. It was like it had never happened. I wondered if she’d also forgotten her promise to come stay with me.
“I’m Crystal, from across the street. You came over to Gran’s house yesterday. Don’t you remember?”
“Oh, yes. Emilia’s house. How is Emilia?” She didn’t wait for an answer. Instead she splashed back down the hall, muttering to herself.
I sat there, stunned. Oh, great. This is just great. Mom has hired a crazy, forgetful old lady to take care of me. I followed Zola back to the kitchen. She sat at the small table, spreading red jelly on a piece of toast.
“You want toast?” she asked, like nothing was wrong.
“No, thank you.”
She pointed to my wheelchair. “Why you are in that thing?”
“I was in a car accident.” Please don’t ask any more, I begged silently. I hated talking about the accident. So I changed the subject. “Do you live here by yourself?”
Zola chuckled. “Yes. One brother in Chicago. But he is old and crazy. Not smart, like me!”
Mom had told me that the neighborhood association provided upkeep and maintenance for the residents. Someone would have to come over here and mop up the water. It shouldn’t take too long, since Zola’s floors were all done in tile.
Zola looked out the window. “You live over there now?”
“No. We’re just packing up Gran’s things.”
“Yes, the lady who makes the jelly. Jelly from cactus! Taste some. Is good!” She shoved her toast at me.
As I took a bite, a sweetness filled my mouth and a warm glow spread over me. Gran had made this jelly. It brought her back, if only for a moment.
Finding Zola Page 1
