Someone Was Watching

by David Patneaude

  “Nobody would care?” Pat said.

  “Not unless there’s some really valuable garbage in there.”

  “We might as well, then, huh, Chris?”

  Chris glanced at him again. Did the poor guy think there really was a bear? “Sure,” he said. “It’s worth a look.”

  9

  “There’s no bear,” Chris said, once they were out on the sidewalk and headed up the block.

  “What?” Pat said.

  “I made up the bear story,” Chris said.

  “I knew that,” Pat said. “I never saw Molly with a bear.”

  “You knew it?”

  “Yeah. I just played along because I thought it would give us an excuse to snoop around over there, in case someone wonders what we’re doing.”

  “You think we’ll really find anything?” Chris asked. “In the garbage, I mean?”

  “Who knows?” Pat said. “But where else do we have to look?”

  Chris thought for a minute while they crossed the street, heading away from The Cloverbud to the next block, where they’d go left and then left again into the alley, doubling back toward the apartment. It was the only way to get there without going through the store. “I guess we don’t have any other choices right now,” he said. He couldn’t think of anything, at least.

  “Maybe we’ll come up with some more ideas while we’re looking,” Pat said.

  “Yeah,” Chris said. But except for giving them a chance to think, he figured this was going to be a waste of time. He couldn’t imagine the dumpster being anything but empty. If Bud and Clover really were trying to hide their trail, they’d done a good job of it so far; Chris didn’t expect that to change.

  As they hurried down the dusty alley, looking for the back of The Cloverbud, his mind kept working, not letting up. There had to be some other ways to find out where Bud and Clover went—some ways he and Pat just hadn’t thought of yet, or maybe didn’t even know about. They couldn’t have run into a roadblock, already—not this soon.

  But what if they had? Or were about to? What if there was nothing at the apartment, and they couldn’t think of anywhere else to turn? Then what? Should he tell his parents? The police? Maybe the police could track them down. But why would they want to? He still had no proof of anything—not even any concrete reasons to be suspicious. But he was more than suspicious. Despite some doubts, he had a feeling—a deep-down feeling—that Molly wasn’t in that river, that Bud and Clover had taken her, and that their reason for leaving town so quickly and quietly had nothing to do with Clover’s mom being sick. Chris just had to figure out how to get back on the track.

  “Any ideas, Pat?” he said.

  “Not really,” Pat said. “Everything’s going nowhere. I was just trying to think if there was some way to find out if Clover’s mom really is sick. But then we’d have to find out where she lives—if she’s even alive—and if we knew that, we’d know where Bud and Clover are, too.”

  “Which we don’t.”

  “Right.”

  “So that idea won’t work.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Pat said. “Everything’s going nowhere. Or at least back to us needing to find out where they went.”

  Chris glanced to his left and saw a familiar name—The Cloverbud—painted in white letters on one of the mailboxes attached to the building. Next to it was the door that must have been the entrance to the apartment—the back entrance to the store. On one side of the entrance was a small shrub, brown and dry and dead from neglect. On the other side, a battered dumpster squatted, the lid closed.

  They stopped, glanced at each other, and then headed across the small, weedy yard. Here goes nothing, Chris thought.

  They reached the dumpster and stood there, frozen.

  “Be my guest,” Pat said finally, pointing to the lid.

  Chris opened it slowly, afraid to look down, to look inside, but he heard Pat mutter something under his breath, and he knew he didn’t have to look. When at last he did, he wasn’t surprised—just disappointed. It was empty—as empty as he felt right now. “Not even a gum wrapper,” he said.

  “Sorry,” Pat said. “It was a waste of time.”

  “It didn’t take much time,” Chris said. “And we need to check out everything we can think of.”

  “Yeah,” Pat said, “but I can’t think of anything else. What do we do now?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said. “Looks like we’ve hit a dead end. I think we’re going to have to talk to somebody about getting the police in on this. They know how to track people down.”

  “You going to tell your dad?”

  “I guess I’ll have to. Then he can talk to the police. I just don’t know if anyone will believe me.”

  “Us,” Pat said. “I’ll back you up on this.”

  Chris looked at his watch. “We’ve got over an hour till the next bus gets here. Maybe if we grab something to eat, and wander around a while, we’ll come up with something.”

  He looked at Pat, waiting for an answer. “Okay, Pat?” he said. But Pat was looking right past him, right past his ear. “Pat?”

  “That their mailbox, Chris?” Pat said.

  Chris turned and saw what Pat was staring at. “Looks like it to me,” he said.

  “I think there’s something in it.”

  Chris looked closer. Through slits in the brown metal he could see white paper. He glanced over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching, but the alley was vacant in both directions. When he turned back, Pat was already lifting the small lid and removing the contents of the box.

  “What do we have here?” Pat said.

  Chris shouldered in next to him, eyeing the small stack of mail in Pat’s hand.

  The top piece was a white window envelope addressed to Mr. Bud Butler at 146 Date Street, Greenwater. The envelope was from Larson Dairy Products in Crescent, a larger town about ten miles away. Maybe a bill, Chris decided.

  “Junk,” Pat said, and moved it to the bottom of the pile.

  The next piece was a coupon envelope addressed to “Resident.” Then another white envelope, this one from an insurance agency in Crescent, addressed to Mr. and Mrs. Leon Butler.

  “Leon?” Pat said.

  “His real name,” Chris said. “You think his parents named him Bud?”

  “You never know,” Pat said.

  A postcard advertising a magazine was next. Pat quickly shuffled it to the bottom of the pile.

  Another white envelope followed. But this one was different. Chris stared at it, trying to figure out what it was doing in Bud and Clover’s mailbox.

  “What’s this?” Pat said.

  But Chris didn’t answer. He was listening to his heart accelerating inside his chest. The envelope wasn’t addressed to Bud and Clover. It wasn’t addressed to anyone in Greenwater, or Crescent. It was addressed to a Barnlow Realty in someplace called New Moon Bay. In Florida. And stamped next to the address were the words ATTEMPTED, NOT KNOWN. Above that stamp was another one—a hand, pointing a finger toward the upper left hand corner of the envelope, where the return address was neatly written. RETURNED TO SENDER was printed on the hand, and below that, the words ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN.

  The post office had gotten its message across: they couldn’t deliver the mail, so they’d returned it to the return address—146 Date Street, Greenwater. The envelope hadn’t been sent to Clover and Bud; it had been sent from them.

  ’The post office sent it back, didn’t it,” Pat said.

  “That’s what it looks like.” Chris heard his voice quavering.

  “But I thought they’d stopped their mail delivery,” Pat said. “How did these get in the box?”

  “I don’t know,” Chris said, not really caring. The important thing was that they were in the box. But Pat shuffled through the mail, and Chris noticed something. “They’re all postmarked between June ninth and twelfth,” Chris said.

  “Except for this one,” Pat said, holding up the returned envelope and handi
ng it to Chris. “June 6th,” he said.

  “I think they postmark the mail where you send it from,” Chris said, examining the envelope. “It needed time to get down and back. But it looks like they all got delivered before June fourteenth—the day Mr. Armstrong said they’d stopped delivering. Probably only a day or two before.”

  “Maybe Bud forgot to check his mail right before he left,” Pat said.

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Chris said. “Or maybe he left town a little earlier than he’d planned.”

  They stood—silent—in the shadow of the building. A soft whisper of a breeze pushed past Chris’s face. Suddenly the air smelled sweeter.

  “Florida,” Pat said. “That’s definitely south.”

  “Do you think there’s an ice cream store in New Moon Bay?” Chris said. He couldn’t help smiling.

  “I think we better find out,” Pat said, meeting Chris’s smile with one of his own.

  They hurried to the phone booth in front of the gas station, where they pulled all the change from their pockets and set it on the shelf under the phone.

  “What’s it cost to call Florida?” Chris asked.

  “In the middle of the day?” Pat said. “Probably a lot.”

  “We’ve got $1.53,” Chris said, pushing the last of the coins into a small pile.

  “Not enough,” Pat said. “At least I don’t think so. We’ll have to go in and get some change.” He started to pull out his wallet, but Chris stopped him.

  “Wait!” Chris said. “I just remembered: I’ve got my parents’ credit card number for long distance calls.”

  “They gave you their credit card number?” Pat said in disbelief.

  “For emergencies,” Chris said. “I’ve never used it before.” He pulled a small slip of paper from a corner of his wallet and unfolded it. A number was written on it in his mom’s handwriting. All he had to do was punch it in at the end of his area code and phone number, and he was in business. He wondered how she’d feel if she knew what he was about to use it for—how his mom and dad would feel about everything he was up to today. He had an idea that they wouldn’t trust him quite as much anymore. But this was something he had to do.

  “My parents gave me something for emergencies, too,” Pat said. “Some advice. They said to always carry a quarter with me.” He had the phone book open, looking through the area code directory in the front. He found Florida, and ran his finger down the list of codes. “There’s four area codes for Florida,” he said. “Call information for all of ‘em.”

  When Chris finally dialed, he felt as if he were punching enough numbers to call Mars. It worked, though, and he got the right area code for New Moon Bay on his second try. But the operator had no listing for a Bud or Clover or even a Leon Butler. He hung up, looked at Pat, and shook his head. “Nothing,” he said.

  “What next?” Pat asked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe they don’t live right in New Moon Bay, but I don’t know the names of any other towns around there. Maybe we can get a map of Florida.”

  Chris was about to suggest that they head for the town’s little library to take a look at a United States atlas when he had another idea. “You think they call their store The Cloverbud down there?” he asked.

  Pat smiled. “Could be,” he said. “It would probably make things easier for them.”

  Chris punched in Florida information again. His head was pounding. “Do you have a listing for an ice cream store called The Cloverbud in New Moon Bay?” he asked the operator.

  “Checking,” she said in his ear. After what seemed like a year she said, “I show no listing for The Cloverbud.”

  He asked her to try Clover and Bud’s, and Bud and Clover’s, and Butler’s. Still nothing—and he’d run out of ideas. He hung up the phone again and looked at his watch. A half hour until the next bus now. Should they just get something to eat, get on the bus, and go home? Maybe they’d come up with some ideas on the way. Or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe he’d just have to try to convince his parents that they needed to get the police involved. But what were the chances of that? He was certain that he and Pat hadn’t come up with enough to interest the police; he wasn’t even confident that his mom and dad would take the evidence—if you could call it that—seriously.

  He wiped his sweaty hands on his T-shirt. Something crinkled under the pressure, stiff against his skin. The envelope. He’d stuck it inside his shirt when they’d left Bud and Clover’s house. He pulled it out, holding it up to Pat. “I think we need to look in here, don’t you?”

  “It’s probably against the law,” Pat said, grabbing the envelope and tearing it open. He removed a piece of note paper. Another piece of paper fluttered to the pavement. Chris picked it up. It was a drawing—a rough sketch of a room.

  “Dear Mr. Barnlow,” Pat read aloud, holding the note in front of him.

  The estimate you forwarded to me from Pelican Construction seems to be a fair one. You should have the signed lease by now, so please see to it that the remodeling gets started as soon as possible. We have already talked about what I need to have done to the space, but I am enclosing a drawing of what I have in mind, in case there is any confusion. Please share it with the construction people, and when you’re in Westview, I’d appreciate your checking on their progress. We’d like to be up and running by the end of the summer. Thanks.

  Bud and Clover Butler.

  Pat lifted his eyes to Chris. Even in the bright sunshine, they seemed to be on fire. “You think Westview is another town near New Moon Bay?” Pat asked.

  “Could be,” Chris replied. “Bud was expecting this Barnlow guy to be going there, according to the note.” He turned back to the phone. “Let’s give it another try.”

  His fingers were trembling as he pushed the buttons for information again. The operator answered.

  “I’d like information for Westview, please,” Chris said.

  “Go ahead,” she said.

  “I need two numbers. One for a Leon, Bud, or Clover Butler. The other one would be for The Cloverbud. It’s an ice cream store.”

  “Thank you,” she said. After a long pause she was back. “Checking under Butler and The Cloverbud I find nothing in Westview,” she said.

  “Oh.” Chris’s heart sank. He looked over at Pat, who was holding the envelope and a broken pencil hopefully, waiting for a number. Chris shook his head at him. “Thanks—” he began into the phone, when the operator interrupted him.

  “Could it be a new listing, hon?” she asked.

  A new listing. Chris hadn’t thought about it being a new listing.

  “Could be,” Chris said. “Yeah. It could be a new listing.”

  “Checking,” she said.

  “I have both, hon,” she said a moment later.

  Both? Chris thought. Both numbers? Now tears were coming to his eyes. “Can I have them please?” he asked. He looked at Pat, who was jumping up and down and waving the envelope and pencil in the air, a silly grin on his face. Chris’s heart was beating so loudly that he was afraid he wouldn’t be able to hear the operator.

  “Sure thing,” she replied. “The new listing for Leon Butler is 546-1368. For The Cloverbud Ice Cream and Confectionery Shop it’s 546-1224.”

  “That’s 546-1368 for Leon Butler and 546-1224 for The Cloverbud,” Chris said loudly. Pat was writing furiously.

  “That’s right, hon. You gonna have a better day now?”

  A better day? Chris hadn’t realized his disappointment had been so obvious. “It just got better,” he said. “A lot better. Thanks for all your help.”

  “You bet, hon,” she said, and disconnected.

  Still smiling, Pat handed the envelope to Chris. “Go for it,” he said.

  “Call them? Now?”

  “Just hang up if you get an answer.”

  Chris punched in The Cloverbud’s number and the credit card number and waited. He hung up on the tenth ring. “No one’s at the store,” he said.

  “It’s n
ot the end of the summer yet. Maybe it isn’t even open.”

  “Could be,” Chris said, “especially since this letter never got there.” He was pushing Bud and Clover’s home number now. He hit the credit card numbers, heard the recorded voice say, “Thank you,” and waited. The phone rang. Once. Twice. Three times. Four times. Then a sleepy voice was saying, “Hello.”

  Clover’s voice.

  Chris was having a hard time breathing. He was afraid he was going to make some kind of noise into the phone. But he couldn’t hang up. He wanted to scream at her, to warn her that she better be nice to his baby sister because he was on his way. To tell her that everything would be forgiven if she would just give Molly back. He wanted to pretend he was a little kid and ask if Molly could come to the phone.

  But he said nothing. He looked at Pat and nodded, and Pat’s face brightened.

  “Hello?” Clover said again, more awake now, sounding even more like herself. He imagined her saying, “Hello, Chris,” back at The Cloverbud just a few months ago. It was the same voice.

  He hung up softly. “It was Clover,” he told Pat.

  “Really?”

  “I’m sure of it.” He was trying to stay calm, but he felt as if his feet were floating off the ground.

  In a split second they were. Pat had gotten him into a bear hug and lifted him a foot off the pavement, dancing around in a circle and laughing.

  “Put me down, King Kong,” Chris chuckled, and squirmed out of Pat’s grasp. “We haven’t exactly proven anything, you know.”

  “Yeah, but we’re moving again. We’re not at a dead end anymore. We actually know where they are.”

  They. Chris liked the sound of the word they. When he heard it, he thought about Clover and Bud, but mostly he thought about Molly. “Thanks to a letter that ended up where it started,” he said.

  “What now?” Pat asked.

  Chris glanced at his watch. “We’ve got ten minutes till the bus gets here.”

  “That gives us five minutes to grab a hot dog at Fast Freddy’s,” Pat said, taking off down the street toward the little drive-in restaurant and the bus stop beyond. “Let’s go!”