by Dan Poblocki
Rosie had a large family. Her mother was the town librarian and her father was on the board of the art museum on the hill. Sylvester’s parents owned the Main Street Diner, and Sylvester often helped out at the counter after school, doing his homework in between pouring coffee and bussing dishes. Woodrow lived with his mother, who had moved to town several years ago to work at the park in the mountains. His father was a lawyer in New York City. Woodrow tried to visit him as much as possible.
Viola took meticulous notes, jotting down differences between the Hudson Valley and her old town, which had mostly been made up of highways and strip malls and fast-food restaurants.
Eventually, the group made a full circle and stood on the corner in front of Rosie’s house.
“We’re back,” said Rosie, disappointed. “And I didn’t notice any mysteries at all.”
“What about that house over there?” Viola pointed to the house across the street from her own. It was hidden well behind a thick patch of tall brush, overgrown trees, and spidery, creeping vines.
“Mr. Reynolds’s house?” said Rosie. “It’s been empty ever since he died last year, but I don’t think there’s any mystery about it. It’s just a creepy old place.”
“It’s been almost two hours,” said Sylvester, turning away from the house across the street. Viola could tell he didn’t want to go exploring over there.
She pursed her lips. “Well, maybe we can prolong our search….”
“How?” asked Woodrow. “Don’t you have to go home?”
“Exactly,” said Viola. “And you guys should come with me. I think my mom made some lemonade for the movers this morning. There should be some left in the fridge.”
The group nodded and followed Viola up the sidewalk and past her mom’s sedan, which was parked in the driveway.
Once inside, Viola heard her father talking on the phone in his new office next to the living room. Like the rest of the house, the office furniture was a jumble, and the walls were bare. “The first faculty meeting was last week, but I was able to teleconference in. I set up meetings with some of the grad students for tomorrow,” he said, glancing at the small group standing in the foyer. He smiled and winked, then turned away and continued his conversation. Upstairs, Mrs. Hart sang to herself as she organized her bedroom.
“Come on,” whispered Viola. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Viola managed to find four glasses in one of the boxes and poured everyone some lemonade. They all sat at the cluttered kitchen table, glancing around the room at everything left to be unpacked. Woodrow banged his cup against the table, sloshing liquid onto his hand.
“What’s wrong?” Sylvester asked.
“I just had an idea,” Woodrow said, reaching for a paper towel, a grin creeping across his face. “We’ve been looking all over town for a mystery, right? A mystery for Viola to solve.”
“With your help,” Viola pointed out. She hadn’t meant for this afternoon to be all about her. “You know, like a game?”
“A mystery game,” said Woodrow. “We’ve been looking for a mystery to solve all afternoon, while Viola’s been solving mysteries the whole time.”
“She has?” said Sylvester.
“Yeah,” Woodrow said. “She’s solved the mysteries of us. Well, we’ve had our own mystery to solve too. We just didn’t realize it.”
“What is it?” asked Rosie, sitting up straight. “What’s the mystery?”
“Viola,” answered Woodrow.
“Viola?” Sylvester looked confused. “What did she do?”
“She didn’t do anything,” said Woodrow. “But we don’t know anything about her.”
“Huh,” said Rosie, looking at Viola quizzically.
“Yeah,” said Sylvester, “we’ve told you all about ourselves, but you haven’t clued us in about yourself, Viola.”
Viola turned cherry-bomb red. “I’m sorry! I was just so concerned with taking notes and finding—”
“Don’t apologize,” said Woodrow. “If you’d told us about yourself, we wouldn’t have a mystery to solve right now.”
“She’s not much of a mystery if she’s sitting right here,” said Sylvester. “All we have to do is ask her about herself.”
“Here’s where the game comes in,” said Woodrow.
“Right!” said Rosie, turning quickly to Viola. She reached out and pretended to zip Viola’s lips shut. “From now until we solve the mystery of Viola Hart, you’re not allowed to tell us anything about yourself.”
“We’ll use clues we find around your house to figure out who you are,” said Woodrow. “When we’re done, we’ll present you with a list of our conclusions. You’ll tell us if we were right or not.”
“That sounds like fun,” said Viola, secretly thankful that she hadn’t yet unpacked her underwear. “Here—you can borrow my notebook if you want.”
“Perfect,” said Rosie, gulping down the rest of her lemonade. “Are you guys ready to get started?”
“Sure,” said Sylvester.
Woodrow picked up Viola’s notebook and pen. The group began to tour the house, and Viola stayed not far behind, watching inquisitively. The three wandered through almost every room, keeping their voices low. Woodrow took notes.
Upstairs, Viola introduced everyone to her mother, who seemed happy that Viola had made friends so quickly. The group snooped around Viola’s messy bedroom and around the guest room down the hallway. When they peeked into the bathroom, Viola momentarily wondered if this had been a bad idea. There was something embarrassing about looking at toilets with other people. To her relief, the group didn’t stay in that room very long.
Downstairs, her father finally hung up the phone and greeted the group. Viola was quick to ask him not to tell her friends anything about himself just yet, explaining that they were in the midst of a mystery game. Mr. Hart seemed confused but let them go about their business.
Finally, Rosie, Sylvester, and Woodrow huddled together. After a few moments, they requested that Viola leave the room. She happily obliged. Viola sat on the front steps outside and stared at her new neighborhood. Behind her, inside, she heard her new friends whispering.
What would they say? Would they be right on, or would their guesses be totally wrong? Would they joke that her middle name was Kiki or Brunhilda or Puddles? What if they found her life to be really, truly boring? Sure, Rosie, Sylvester, and Woodrow all seemed nice enough. But that hadn’t stopped people from being mean before. Maybe, thought Viola, I should have started off here differently. Now there was a mystery for you: how to act on the first day in a new town.
The door opened behind her and the porch creaked with footfalls.
“We’ve got you pegged, Viola,” Woodrow teased.
“Cool,” Viola said, trying to sound like her usual confident self. “Bring it on.”
“Why don’t we head into the backyard,” Sylvester suggested. “My parents are probably wondering where I am, and that way they can see me.”
“Mine too,” said Rosie. “We can sit where our yards meet.” The kids headed around the side of Viola’s house.
“Yeah,” said Woodrow. “We’ve got all four corners now that you’ve moved in, Viola.”
Viola laughed. “If we wanted, we could stand in all of our yards at once.”
“Whoa … you’re right,” said Sylvester. “I get to try it first!” When they reached the place where their yards seemed to come together, Sylvester jumped into the middle of it. The spot was merely a patch of grass, not unlike the rest of the lawn that surrounded them—green, soft, and a bit damp. “Hmm,” said Sylvester. “I thought this would be more exciting.”
“Speaking of excitement,” said Rosie, “let’s share our investigation with Viola.”
“Yeah,” said Woodrow, “let’s see if we were right.” All four kids sat down in their respective yards, leaning toward one another in anticipation. Woodrow opened Viola’s notebook. “So we’re going to tell you some stuff we came up with. You have to te
ll us if we’re right. But then your part is to guess how we knew.”
“Okay,” said Viola. “Cool.”
“Our first guess,” said Woodrow. “You moved here from Pennsylvania.”
Viola’s face burned with surprise. “Hey! You’re right!”
“How did we know?” asked Woodrow.
Viola glanced back at her new house. In her mind’s eye, she removed the outer wall, trying to imagine each room as if the building were a giant dollhouse filled with all her secrets. After a moment, she realized that the answer wasn’t inside the house, but next to it, in the driveway. Not more than an hour earlier, the group had strolled by their first clue.
“The license plate on my mom’s car,” said Viola with certainty. “The state is printed there. That’s how you knew I’m from Pennsylvania.” She looked down at her T-shirt. “My UPenn shirt probably clued you in too.”
“Right!” said Woodrow, passing the notebook to Sylvester. “Nice job.”
“You’re good at this, Viola,” said Sylvester.
“Well, that one was pretty easy,” Viola replied.
“Okay, next guess,” Sylvester continued. “Your mom is a writer.”
“Yup, again. She’s actually going to be an editor now, at the local paper. You guys are really good at this too.”
The other three gave high fives across their small circle.
Viola thought back on the events of the day. So much stuff was still packed up in boxes, but maybe there had been something lying around that gave away her mother’s job.
“So, how did we know?” asked Sylvester.
Earlier that afternoon, just before Viola had asked if she could go outside, her mother had unpacked something from the box on the kitchen table. Viola was certain this object had provided the clue. “Was it my mother’s journalism award?” she asked.
“Yes, it was,” said Sylvester. “I noticed it sitting on the counter when we first came in for lemonade.”
“My turn?” Rosie asked, holding out her hands for the notebook. “You ready for another, Viola?”
“I think so.”
“Okay. Our next guess about you is … you used to have a dog.”
Viola wasn’t expecting this one. She closed her eyes, then, trying not to get weepy, she slowly nodded. The rest of the group was quiet, unsure how to respond. Finally, Viola pulled herself together and answered, “Brandy got sick last year. She didn’t make it.”
Rosie reached out and grabbed Viola’s hand. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay,” said Viola. “I’m glad you guys noticed. I know exactly what clued you in.”
“What was it?” Rosie asked.
“The picture of me and Brandy that I brought up to my bedroom,” Viola continued. “I want to get it framed.”
“That’s right,” said Rosie. “I noticed the picture, but didn’t see Brandy anywhere. We figured she might be sleeping, but then we noticed there weren’t any dog toys or food bowls around either.”
“Very perceptive,” said Viola. “You guys are learning all about me.”
“Ready for another?” Woodrow asked, reaching for the notebook. He seemed eager to change the subject. Viola nodded. “Okay, here were go. You don’t have any brothers or sisters.”
Viola perked up. “And I’m happy to keep it that way!” She giggled to herself.
“Oh, I know what you mean,” said Rosie. “With all my brothers and sisters, sometimes I wish I was an only child too.”
“Totally,” Sylvester chimed in. “My baby sister can be so annoying sometimes.”
“Well, I’m an only child too,” said Woodrow. “But sometimes I wish I had a brother to just be brothers with.”
“But you got me, dude,” said Sylvester, nudging Woodrow with his sneaker toe.
“You’re not my brother,” said Woodrow. “You’re just my best friend.”
“Stop, please!” cried Sylvester. “You’re gonna make me all emotional.”
Everyone laughed.
Finally, Woodrow asked, “So, Viola, how did we know?”
“Hmm,” said Viola. “Besides the fact that you saw only me and my parents inside my house?” The other kids nodded. “I know! The empty bedroom in the hallway upstairs.” Woodrow smiled. She was right. “If I had any siblings, that room wouldn’t have been empty.”
“Okay,” said Sylvester, as Woodrow handed the notebook to him, “last guess.”
“I’m ready,” said Viola.
Sylvester cleared his throat dramatically. Standing, he read as if making a speech, “We, the members of the Four Corners Mystery Club, believe that Viola Hart’s father is a professor at Moon Hollow College.”
Viola threw herself back into the soft grass and snorted with laughter. “The Four Corners Mystery Club?” she managed to say. “Who came up with that?”
“I did,” said Sylvester. “Just now. You guys want to be part of it?”
“Yeah!” they all answered.
“But, Viola,” Rosie added, “you didn’t answer the question. Were we right?”
“You sure were.”
“So how’d we guess?” asked Sylvester, sitting again.
“Let’s see,” said Viola, racking her brain. Might they have seen her father’s diploma in his office? No. First, she didn’t think he had actually unpacked it yet. Besides, a diploma wouldn’t say that her father was a professor. Could they have read about his appointment in the newspaper? Uh-uh, Viola considered. None of her new friends seemed like the type to be interested in reading those kinds of articles, if there had even been an article to read in the first place. The clue had to have been something that the kids had encountered inside the house. Had her father said anything to them about himself after he’d hung up from his phone call?
No, Viola thought, but he had said something before, just as they’d all come in the front door.
“You overheard my dad say that he’d missed the first faculty meeting last week and had to call in for the teleconference,” said Viola. “He admitted being a member of a faculty. And he also mentioned his grad students, which meant it had to be college. And since there’s only one college around here …”
“You are a rock star!” said Sylvester.
“Hardly,” said Viola, taking back her notebook. “But thanks.”
“We should do this again soon,” said Woodrow.
“Oh, can we, please?” said Rosie.
“School starts in a few days,” said Viola, “but that shouldn’t stop us from meeting right here, where the four corners come together, whenever we feel like it. Mysteries are everywhere, if we look for them.”
After their parents began to call the kids home, the group said good-bye. Viola’s heart thumped as she came around the front of her new house. Smiling, she climbed the porch steps.
Mysteries are everywhere, she thought. And now she had three friends to help her find them.
3
EVEN DETECTIVES
GET GOOSE BUMPS
The first night in the new house, Viola awoke to a tapping sound. She sat up and listened, and the noise stopped. Viola wondered if she’d dreamt it, but then it started up again. For a moment, she worried that someone was at her bedroom window. But that was impossible — she was on the second floor.
Viola crept out of bed and into the hallway.
Her parents’ door was closed. If they’d heard anything, they didn’t seem to mind. Viola tiptoed to the top of the staircase, sharpening her ears to pick up any hint of sound. And there it was. Downstairs. A tiny, repetitious tapping, soft and dull, like a spoon on wood.
In her old house, sometimes the pipes popped and snapped when the heat turned on. Once, a mouse got in under the kitchen sink and made a scritch-scratching noise at night as it bit through a box of doggie treats. This sound was not like either of those. It was creepier, as if someone were downstairs searching for something — a way in, perhaps. Viola steeled herself, then slowly descended to the small foyer. The tapping wasn’t coming from bey
ond the front door.
Instinct brought Viola to the door that led to the basement. She turned the knob and pulled the handle. The darkness down there was darker than the darkness up here, and Viola couldn’t stop chills from racing across her skin. Especially when the sound echoed up the stairs.
“H-hello?” she said, her voice weaker than she wished. And it stopped. Viola closed her eyes as she reached around the doorjamb, searching for a light switch. She found it and flicked it, but nothing happened. Either the bulb was a dud, or the socket was empty. Viola listened to her own breath passing back and forth through her lips. After several minutes, she decided that whoever (or whatever) had been down there was either hiding or gone.
As she crept back upstairs and into bed, thinking about terrible possibilities, Viola’s love of mysteries dampened with fear. She stared at the wavering shadows of leafy branches on the ceiling and then remembered the best remedy for this weird feeling. Daylight.
The next morning was busy, and, even if she’d had the nerve, Viola barely had time to think about exploring the basement. Her mother insisted on taking her along to run errands while Mr. Hart met his students at the college. They stopped at the grocery store and hardware store and finished at the pharmacy, where Mrs. Hart let Viola pick out a pack of pencils with fluorescent green erasers—Viola’s favorite color.
By the time they pulled into the driveway, Viola was practically bouncing off the ceiling. “Can I go find my friends?” she asked, whipping open the door, one foot already on the asphalt.
“After you help unload the car,” said her mom.
Viola pressed her lips together to stop from groaning.
Later, Viola visited each of the three houses that bordered her backyard, but no one was home. After running back to her house and grabbing paper, a pen, and a roll of tape, she stuck notes to her neighbors’ front doors.
Who: The Four Corners Mystery Club (You know who you are.)
