“It sounds like Eddie has helped a lot,” said Stacey with a meaningful glance at Claudia.
“He has,” said Lindsey. “Every morning when we come out here there’s a pile of wood all cut to the right size so all we have to do is start hammering. And he checks on us all the time to make sure we’re on the right track.” Lindsey picked up a hammer and reached for a nail in the carpenter’s apron tied around her waist. “I’m going to finish off some of the work inside,” she announced. Then she pulled the door open and ducked low to fit through it.
“It looks as if you’re almost done,” Stacey said. “When is the housewarming party?” She was joking, but Buddy took her seriously.
“That’s a great idea,” he said. “We could have a party for this house at the same time as the one for the new addition. Mom and Franklin were planning to invite all their friends over for a barbecue next week. We can invite our friends, too, and show off the playhouse!”
“Yay!” shouted Taylor. “Let’s go ask right now. I bet Mom will say yes.”
“When you go in,” called Lindsey from inside the playhouse, “ask Eddie if he can come out soon. The playhouse is pretty much done, and we need his help to move it outside.”
“I’ll go with you guys,” Claudia said in a hurry. This was her chance to spy on Eddie and the other workers. She followed Buddy and Taylor as they ran into the house. And while they went into the living room to find Mrs. DeWitt, Claudia headed upstairs.
There was no need to tiptoe, since Claudia could hear hammering and sawing coming from the addition. Nobody could hear her coming, even if they tried, over that racket. Still, Claudia proceeded slowly, hoping to catch Eddie or one of the other workers where he didn’t belong.
No such luck.
Eddie was using a screw gun to attach some wallboard. Jake was hammering on window trim. Lori was measuring a piece of molding. And Jim and Dooley were both halfway under the sink in the new bathroom, attaching some pipes.
Claudia tried not to feel disappointed. After all, finding everyone at their jobs instead of snooping around seemed to prove that the snooping they were doing at Granny and Pop-Pop’s was out of the ordinary. Didn’t it?
“Excuse me,” she said to Eddie. “I can tell you’re really busy, but the kids wanted to know if you could come down and help them move the playhouse out into the yard. When you have a chance.”
“When I have a chance!” said Eddie. “Hey, if that building’s ready to move, I’m ready to move it.” He looked as excited as a little kid on Christmas morning. “I can’t wait to see how it looks in the spot we’ve chosen for it.”
Eddie and the other workers took a break and came out to the shed. Inside, they oohed and aahed over the playhouse and told the kids what a terrific job they’d done. Then they rolled up their sleeves and prepared to move the playhouse.
There was only one tiny problem.
It wouldn’t fit through the door.
That same Friday, while Stacey and Claudia were doing construction over at the Barrett-DeWitts’, I was doing some construction of my own. I wasn’t building a house, though. I was building knowledge, about events of the past that might have very much to do with my present life.
I’d woken late, with the sun shining full strength through my window. I must have been even more tired than I’d realized.
As I rubbed my eyes and yawned, I felt a little shiver of excitement. You know that feeling when you first wake up on Christmas morning or on your birthday? You’re not even fully conscious yet, but somehow you know the day’s going to bring wonderful things your way. Surprises, all wrapped up in colorful paper, just for you. Well, that’s how I felt as I stretched — and I didn’t even know why. Until I opened my eyes. Then, suddenly, it all came back. Right away, I saw the stack of letters sitting on my desk. That was the wonderful thing, the thing I couldn’t wait to “unwrap.”
The second thing I saw was a note from Sharon. She must have tiptoed in early that morning to prop it up on my dresser. “Dear Mary Anne,” it said. “I really appreciate how hard you’ve been working over at Granny and Pop-Pop’s. I think you deserve a day off. There’s plenty to eat in the fridge, and it looks like a nice day for a swim or a bike ride. Enjoy! I’ll see you tonight. Love, Sharon.”
Do I have the nicest stepmom in the world or what?
I stretched again, yawned some more, and slowly climbed out of bed. There was no need to hurry. I could spend the whole day in whatever way I wanted. And I knew exactly what I was going to do. I wasn’t interested in going to the pool or riding my bike.
I was interested in reading those letters.
First, though, I headed downstairs to find myself some breakfast. The house was quiet and peaceful, and I hummed contentedly as I set out cereal, milk, and juice. I took my time eating and washing up. Afterward I went back upstairs and put on shorts and a T-shirt. Then, bringing the letters, a bottle of water, and a pillow with me, I headed out to the hammock in the backyard, ready to settle in for the rest of the morning. The hammock is tied between two young maple trees, and there’s no more comfortable place to lie in the dappled shade of a summer day.
I began to read. At first, I hunted everywhere for more mentions of the “goings-on next door,” and for clues about the mysteries I was trying to solve. Slowly, though, I began to forget about that and to enjoy learning what Granny had been like as a girl my age. First of all, her name was not, of course, Granny. It was Grace. From the letters I discovered that Grace had had curly blonde hair (I remembered the ringlets I’d seen in the picture Sharon had shown me) that she longed to cut into a more fashionable style. She had a white kitten named Smidge. She had never kissed a boy. She wished she’d had a little brother.
As I read, I also discovered that Grace was interested in the same kinds of things I am:
She had the same kinds of concerns:
And she seemed to have just as many good friends as I do:
I began to piece together the situation. Until that summer, June and her parents had lived three doors from Grace and her parents. (June’s mother and Grace’s mother were sisters and very close.) Then June’s father had developed terrible allergies, and the doctors had ordered him to live in a drier climate. Within weeks, June’s family had packed up and moved to Arizona!
The cousins missed each other desperately, that was obvious. But it was also clear that they were maintaining a very close relationship by writing regularly. In some ways, their friendship reminded me of mine and Dawn’s. Like June and Grace, we’re family as well as friends, and while we live far from each other now, we do our best to stay in touch — although we’re more likely to pick up the phone. Those long-ago girls wouldn’t have dreamed of running up the kind of phone bills we’re used to!
Lying there in the hammock, swaying gently and enjoying the slight breeze as I read through the letters, I began to feel as if Grace were a friend herself, someone I would have known and liked if we had been girls at the same time. I became so involved in learning about her that I nearly forgot all about those “goings-on next door.” Then I came across a letter that made me sit up in the hammock, so suddenly that I nearly tipped over.
As I read that letter and the next and the next, I began to figure out that the Baileys were the family living in the house next door, the one that now belongs to Granny and Pop-Pop. Lydia was the teenage daughter. I guessed she must be about nineteen. And Mr. Bailey, her father, sounded as if he could be in the Guinness Book of World Records under “Strictest Father.”
Lydia was beautiful, with long dark hair and green eyes. (Grace envied those eyes and often told June so.) She always had boyfriends, and before June moved away, she and Grace kept tabs on which ones were cutest, which ones were sweetest, and how long each one lasted. In one letter, Grace reminded June about Sam Tolliver, who’d only had half a date with Lydia. (She’d dumped him before the movie even started. Grace and June, who’d followed them to the picture show, had seen the whole thing.) Sam still held t
he record for shortest romance.
Now, according to Grace, Johnny Buckman was a sure bet for winning the longest romance category. wrote Grace.
But, as usual, Mr. Bailey didn’t approve. And he wasn’t shy about letting Lydia know. He didn’t like Johnny Buckman. He didn’t think Johnny Buckman was good enough for his daughter. And he’d forbidden Johnny Buckman to come anywhere near her.
But Johnny Buckman seemed to be just as “stuck on” Lydia as she was on him. He wouldn’t or couldn’t stay away. And every time Mr. Bailey caught Johnny and Lydia together, he threw such a fit that everybody on the block could hear him.
It was no wonder that Grace was fascinated by Lydia and Johnny’s romance. I would have been, too. After all, they were “star-crossed lovers,” just like Romeo and Juliet. She was beautiful, he was handsome, and they were forbidden to meet. How romantic!
Grace told June every detail. She wrote about the notes Lydia tossed out her window to Johnny, about the flowers Johnny tossed back to Lydia. She wrote about how Johnny would hang around in the bushes, waiting for Mr. Bailey to go to sleep, and then throw pebbles at Lydia’s window until she appeared, smiling down at him. Grace saw it all.
Grace also had an ear out for other news June might find interesting.
she wrote in one letter.
Mr. Bailey’s legal difficulties didn’t seem to affect the way Johnny felt about Lydia. The romance continued, and while Mr. Bailey still objected to it, Grace wrote that she noticed fewer “fits.” she told June.
By this time, I was reading through the letters as quickly as I could. It was like reading a novel that came in installments. I couldn’t wait to see what happened next.
As it turned out, what happened next was very, very interesting.
I put down the letter. My heart was racing. Quickly, I pawed through the other letters, hoping to discover that Grace had found out who was in the backyard and what they were burying. But there were no further mentions of the episode. In fact, Grace soon seemed to have tired of writing about the Baileys. Instead, she began to exclaim over the “handsome fellow” she’d met at the ice-cream shop. Any other time, I might have loved reading about a new romance. But at the moment, I had other things on my mind.
The letters had made me think — hard. And I was beginning to put two and two together. Not about the backyard burial. The answer to that was fairly plain to me. I was pretty sure it was Mr. Bailey, hiding away some of the money he’d stolen from the bank. That seemed obvious, and I was looking forward to telling my friends about it at the BSC meeting that afternoon. It might explain why people were so interested in the backyard of Granny and Pop-Pop’s house.
But what I was really interested in was this: Suppose you had a secret boyfriend, one your father disapproved of. A boyfriend with deep blue eyes and a special smile. And suppose that boyfriend gave you a wonderful, romantic present. What would you do with it? Would you keep it in your room? Absolutely not. You’d hide it away somewhere, where you knew it would be safe.
I was fairly certain that the music box had been a gift from Johnny to Lydia.
That afternoon, at the BSC meeting, I couldn’t wait to tell my friends about Granny’s letters. So as soon as Stacey and Claudia finished telling us about the latest developments at the Barrett-DeWitts’, I started in. I explained about June and Grace. I told them about Johnny and Lydia and their forbidden romance. And I told them about Mr. Bailey and his embezzling.
The interesting thing was the way my friends reacted. I’d assumed that, like me, everybody would be overcome by the romance of the story. And Mal and Claudia certainly were. They loved hearing about Johnny and Lydia, and they were more interested than ever in finding out the truth behind the music box mystery. But Kristy saw the letters in a different light, and so did Abby. To them, the letters had more to do with the other mystery at Granny and Pop-Pop’s. They were very excited by the fact that Granny had seen someone burying something in that backyard. Jessi and Stacey, meanwhile, were becoming convinced that the mysteries were intertwined, and that by solving one we could solve them both.
“Isn’t it romantic?” I asked, after I finished the story. I sighed. “I wonder what ever happened with Johnny and Lydia.”
“And I wonder what ever happened with Lydia’s father,” said Kristy, tapping her pencil thoughtfully on Claudia’s desk. “And the money he stole.”
I should have known she wouldn’t be caught up in the romance of the situation. I ignored her. Somehow I couldn’t work up a whole lot of excitement over some money that had probably been found ages ago, though I guess if there were money in their backyard, Granny and Pop-Pop might like to know about it. “If only there was some way we could be positive the music box was a gift from Johnny,” I said. “I’d really like to know.” I thought of my sad-eyed sailor. Privately, I’d already begun thinking of him as Johnny.
“I’m not so sure the music box has anything to do with Johnny and Lydia,” said Mal. She was flipping through some of the notes she’d made in the mystery notebook. “I mean, what about H. I. W. and L. S.? The only initial that matches up at all is the L. How do you explain that?”
“I can’t,” I said. “But I still think the box was a gift from Johnny.” How could I tell my friends that I was basing my guess on the fact that both Johnny and the boy in my dreams had deep blue eyes? They’d think I’d gone off my rocker.
“I think we need to do some more research into the other people who’ve lived in that house,” said Jessi. “Who knows what we might find out? That music box could have been hidden there way before Lydia and her family moved in. And we might find out something about the so-called treasure in the backyard — like, that somebody’s already dug it up.”
“I’ll help you,” said Stacey, who was nodding in agreement.
“I’m going to spend some time scouting around in that yard,” vowed Abby. “We can’t dig there now, obviously, since it would draw too much attention. But as soon as we have the chance, I’m dying to start shoveling. I bet the treasure’s still there and my guess is that’s what everybody’s looking for.” Abby was, as usual, ready for action.
“Can I see that photograph again?” asked Claudia. Her thoughts were still on the music box mystery.
I’d brought all the “evidence” — the letters, the note from H. I. W. to L. S., and the photo — to the meeting with me. I handed over the photo.
Claudia looked at it closely, frowning a little. “If you’ll let me borrow this, I may be able to blow it up and see if any clues surface.”
Reluctantly, since it was my only picture of the boy I’d come to think of as Johnny, I agreed that she could take it, just for a night.
By the end of our meeting, it was pretty clear that each of us was committed to doing what we could toward solving one — or both — of the mysteries we’d become involved in. And over the next few days, everyone did a lot of investigating.
Claudia’s entry in the mystery notebook revealed her frustration. She’d been so sure she could find some clues in that photograph. Clues that would lead us to the true identity of H. I. W. and L. S.
Claudia, I should mention, is an artist in the darkroom. She’s taken some photography classes and learned how to shoot pictures, develop the film, and print photos. She’s so good that she even used her skills once before to help solve a mystery. That’s why she thought she could do it again this time.
She worked as fast as she could, since she knew I wouldn’t feel entirely comfortable until that picture was back in my hands. First, she examined it closely with a tool called a loupe, which is a special magnifying glass for looking at pictures or negatives. She was hoping to be able to see something not visible to the naked eye. (Isn’t that a strange expression? As if our eyes usually go around dressed in their Sunday best.) Something like a name, etched on that ID bracelet.
No such luck.
But Claudia went ahead with her plan anyway. First she took a picture of the picture. Then she developed
the film and began to print and enlarge, print and enlarge, until she’d blown up every section of that picture to nearly life-size.
She brought the prints over to show me that night when she returned the original photo. We pored over them. I felt a secret thrill when I saw the boy’s eyes. They were my sailor’s eyes, no doubt about it. But was my sailor named Johnny, and had he dated a girl named Lydia? The photos gave me no sign. The ID bracelet had no trace of a name on it. Instead, there were a bunch of stars engraved on the place where a name would usually be. They were pretty, but they didn’t tell us a thing about the identity of the owner of the bracelet. Claudia had hit a dead end.
Stacey, Jessi, and Mal spent Monday afternoon at Stoneybrook Town Hall, searching for answers.
Stacey and Jessi were interested in finding out about the history of Granny and Pop-Pop’s house. They wanted to leave with a complete list of everyone who’d lived there since it was built.
And Mal was planning to go over the old town voter rolls, looking for every single person she could find with the initials L. S. or H. I. W.
But first they had to face the dragon: Ms. Stepkowski.
“Can I help you girls?” she asked, looking over her half glasses. She stood on one side of the counter, and the three of them stood on the other. Mal was convinced that Ms. Stepkowski was standing on a box because she seemed so imposing. But Stacey said it was just her attitude that made them feel like little kids.
“We need to look at some records,” said Jessi.
“We’ve done it before, and we know how,” said Mal. That was true. We’d done detective work at Town Hall before, and nobody had ever given us a hard time about it.
“We don’t need to bother you at all,” added Stacey helpfully.
But Ms. Stepkowski seemed bothered anyway. Mal said it was as if the records were her personal property, she was that reluctant to part with them. However, the town records are open to the public. Ms. Stepkowski sat Mal, Jessi, and Stacey down in an empty room where the town council meets in the evenings. Then, box by box, she brought in the files, refusing help.
Mary Anne and the Music Page 6
