Spy in the Alley

by Melanie Jackson

  “I was sleeping, and the alarm went,” he explained. “When I got downstairs, the kitchen door had been jimmied open. I didn’t see anyone, but a bottle of cranberry juice was spilled all over the table. I guess the thief was thirsty,” he shrugged.

  “Anything missing?” asked one of the officers, jotting all this down.

  Jack made a rueful grimace. “The thief grabbed my ancient, battered old briefcase, which had my even more ancient and battered old laptop inside. Worth all of about fifty cents. Plus a box of GASP brochures, buttons and other stuff. Man! That’s going to be one disappointed burglar.”

  Pantelli’s dad commented, “Whoever did it must’ve thought the place was vacant, the Rinaldis being in Europe and all.”

  “But somebody broke in earlier,” I interrupted. “Some tomato pictures disappeared.”

  “Tomato pictures,” repeated the other officer, and the two of them laughed. Huh! I thought. This duo would not go far on the force.

  “You gotta leave lights on,” Mr. Audia advised. “Leave ’em blazing.”

  The first officer controlled his laughter long enough to say, “I agree with Mr. — ”

  “Audia,” Pantelli’s dad filled in, beaming. “I’m the Block Watch captain, for two blocks, actually. Lotta Nichols was the other one, for this block, but then she had a hernia, and — ”

  “I don’t think we need to hear about Ms. Nichols’ medical history,” the officer said crisply. Holding his notepad aloft, he snapped it shut with a faint smack! “We’ll give you a case number, Jack. Any more problems, or if you do find something missing, phone us. The number’s here,” and he handed Jack a card.

  “Some tomato pictures are missing,” I insisted.

  It was like trying to speak through soundproof glass. In any case, my mother then ran up to us in bathrobe and cucumber face cream, distracting everyone.

  Mothers must have some sort of guild, where they get together and figure out ways to horribly embarrass their daughters. If so, my mom was the president. Her face, gleaming and scented with cucumber lotion, turned first to Jack and then to Mr. Audia. “There’s no danger, is there? I get so worried when Dinah dashes off like this.”

  As I fumed at Mother for making me sound like an out-of-control train, the police officers assured her that their presence would spook any burglar. Mr. Audia then embarked on his theory about keeping all lights on at all times. Jack gazed past Mother’s cucumber-creamed face to Madge.

  “Hi,” Jack said.

  “Hi,” said Madge. “I’m sorry about somebody trying to break into your place.”

  Jack grinned happily at her. “It’s okay. Really.”

  Then, as the police murmured something about one last check, Jack apparently remembered that there were other people on the planet besides Madge.

  “Would you like some tea?” he asked Mother and Mr. Audia.

  “Naw, that’s kind of you, kid, but it’s too late. Or too early,” Mr. Audia joked, and Mother nodded, her face glowing in the light from the Rinaldis’ kitchen.

  Then, in true grown-up fashion, they, Madge and Jack proceeded to stand around talking. Bo-o-r-ring. “Let’s join the police in checking around,” I whispered to Pantelli.

  We retreated from the chatting foursome slowly, so they wouldn’t notice. The police had already disappeared into a neighbor’s garden, which we didn’t quite have the nerve to do. Too many shadows. But the alley was lit. We poked around there.

  “Hey look,” Pantelli exclaimed from a blackberry bush beside the Urstads’ garage. He pulled out a beat-up hockey stick someone had abandoned. “Hungry, Dinah?” He began to whack at the blackberries with the stick, evidently thinking this was a clever way to pick fruit.

  “Come on,” I said. Some detective he was.

  “I’ll just borrow this in case we run into trouble,” said Pantelli, gritting his teeth and narrowing his eyes at imagined burglars. Placing one hand on his hip, the other clenching the hockey stick, he engaged in a sword fight with the night air.

  Since the police were investigating the other side of the alley, I thought we might as well cover this one. We proceeded past the Urstads’ to the Dubuques’, the house next to mine.

  The Dubuques had a tidy garden, the grass clipped practically to the roots, the flowers neat, tiny and evenly spaced, the bushes pruned to about the size of basketballs. Nothing was ever out of place. Except that long shadow gliding across the lawn.

  I rested my wrist on the top of the Dubuques’ fence. I didn’t switch my flashlight on — not yet. But I ran my gaze from the shadow’s head along to where its feet, and therefore the feet of the person casting the shadow, would be.

  Click! I switched the flashlight on, catching in its beam a pair of running-shoed feet, knobby knees below cut-offs and a T-shirt decorated with stick figures. Then I raised the beam higher to the face of — Buckteeth!

  Because this was so much like my dream, I screamed and dropped the flashlight. Everyone came running.

  “Honey! Are you all right?” Mother and Madge enveloped me in a hug that prevented me from retrieving the flashlight.

  “Didja see him? Neat!” crowed Pantelli.

  There was the sound of leaves getting thrashed about in the Dubuques’ yard. “Buckteeth’s getting away!” I yelled, squirming out of Mom and Madge’s hug. I picked up the flashlight and shone it — but saw only the Dubuques’ empty garden. Dang. He had gotten away.

  Pantelli was starting to scale the Dubuques’ fence when his father pulled him back.

  “I will go after him,” growled Mr. Audia. “Who does he think he is, busting into folks’ houses … scaring children … ”

  I guessed I was the “children,” having screamed so moronically.

  “I’ll go after him,” Jack declared, and he was just scaling the fence when one of the police officers caught him by the arm.

  “Just what did you see?” the officer then demanded of me.

  “Buckteeth!”

  Of course, then I had to explain that this was a person, not merely an orthodontic concept. Mother and Madge got into it, too, worrying that Buzz hadn’t convinced our friendly neighborhood spy to scram after all. And Pantelli chimed in helpfully, “Lemme tell ya. Buzz is a total GOON.”

  Suppressing a smile, Madge said to Jack, “Since the subject of goonish Buzz has come up, do you happen to know if one of your volunteers is buck-toothed? Buzz claims the guy he caught spying on us was wearing an anti-smoking T-shirt.”

  “Gee,” said Jack, dismayed. “I sure hope Buckteeth isn’t one of my people. I haven’t met all the Vancouver volunteers yet, but if I find a bucktoothed one, I — ”

  “Just hold on,” broke in one of the officers. They were looking puzzled and a little annoyed. “When did we get on to the topic of orthodontics? Who cares if somebody you know needs braces or whatever!”

  Mother tried to soothe them. “It is confusing, isn’t it? A thief and a spy, all in one night, and in one alley.”

  Then Jack, growing impatient, did leap over the Dubuques’ fence. The officer who’d grabbed him before yelled, “Hey, kid! That’s our job!” — and leaped over after him.

  A zigzag wooden fence heavily entwined with wisteria separated the Dubuques’ property from ours. The rampant wisteria, which we quite liked, was a sore point with the tidy Dubuques.

  Now, as the fence rattled first under Jack’s weight and then the policeman’s, wisteria leaves flew all over the Dubuques’ garden — in time for Mr. Dubuque, who’d just thrown up his bedroom window and stuck his head and beefy shoulders out, to have a full, horrified view. He bellowed, “WHAT THE BLAZES IS GOING ON?”

  “I think I saw him!” yelled Jack. “He just shot round the side!”

  The second police officer scaled the Dubuques’ fence and our zigzag one. “These men of action can’t be bothered with gates,” I said to Madge.

  Leaves rained down. Mr. Dubuque, stunned into silence, leaned out farther to watch. His wife, hair in curlers, joined him a
nd peered timidly over his shoulder.

  There was a loud sound of three pairs of feet crunching on the pebbles beside our house. “We’ve got him cornered!” shouted Jack. More crunching of pebbles and some scuffling noises.

  “My geraniums!” yelled Mr. Dubuque. “Will ya watch it?”

  Madge, Mother and I craned our necks to see. Had Jack and the police nabbed Buckteeth? Even Mr. Dubuque forgot to be cross about his messed-up garden. “Go get him!” he cheered.

  An officer’s voice floated dryly to us. “He got him, all right.”

  Jack appeared in the light cast by our windows.

  He was carrying Wilfred.

  Chapter Eight

  GASP — a rally!

  After that, I made a strategic error and admitted that I’d dreamed about Buckteeth. This convinced everyone I’d imagined seeing him.

  “Poor little Wilfred,” Madge cooed over our fluffy feline the next morning, as we sat on the deck. “Naughty Wilfred, going outside again! Naughty, naughty, naughty,” and for every naughty, she kissed him.

  Girls, I thought sourly. I was in a bad mood. Not only did no one believe me about Buckteeth, but after breakfast I was going to have to rake up all the wisteria leaves that had fallen into the Dubuques’ garden.

  Roderick appeared round the side of the house just then, making my morning just perfect.

  “Hear you had some trouble last night,” he greeted us. “Your neighbor was telling me about it just now, while he oohed over the new Mazda Dad got me. Forest green with tan leather upholstery. Dad ordered it before he went away — it just arrived today.”

  Roderick had an amazing talent for swiftly turning any conversation around to himself. Unimpressed, Wilfred began to wriggle. Madge put him back inside. Wilfred had never really cottoned to Roderick.

  “How is your father?” Mother asked. “I understand from the society page that your parents just got back from their long vacation.”

  “They’re both rested and relaxed,” Roderick assured her. “Dad’s going to ease back into work gradually. Boy, will he be surprised when I present him with a long-term contract signed by Bonna Terra and Fields Tobacco. There’ll be no shunting me off to some school or other — he’ll need me to manage the place! Yup, I think the old man will be quite impressed with my powers of persuasion, sweet-talking these big companies.”

  With Roderick, a little bragging went an extremely long way. I cut in, “Well, Buzz’s powers of persuasion leave a lot to be desired. Our buck-toothed spy came back.”

  Roderick gave me a thin, superior smile. “So you claim,” he said. “The word is that you dreamed him up. Your neighbor’s hopping mad about the damage to his garden.”

  Just as I started to boil, an amused voice behind him commented, “I can’t imagine Mr. Dubuque hopping. It would sure register high on the Richter scale.”

  Madge and I giggled. Even Mother, who eyed the Dubuques’ house uneasily in case one of them might be listening, smiled.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” said Jack, not looking sorry at all. “I just wondered if anyone,” and his eyes met Madge’s, “would like to come to the park with me and some friends for a picnic and some singing and — ”

  “How wholesome,” Roderick said jeeringly. “A few rounds of “Michael Row the Boat Ashore,” maybe? What fun. Fortunately, Madge has a ready-made excuse not to attend. We have a photo shoot to do. Right, Madge?” he prompted, because Madge was still looking at Jack.

  “In all the excitement, we forgot to ask if the thief made off with anything last night,” she said.

  Jack picked up a fat, pretty bluebell that, in last night’s trampling, had been torn off its stem. Holding the flower, he looked back at Madge — and it was clear he wanted to give it to her.

  Roderick reached over and clasped Madge’s hand. So Jack tucked the flower in his shirt pocket and replied, “Yeah, the thief did help himself to something. He only had a few seconds between the time he jimmied the kitchen door lock and the alarm went from bleeping to blaring. I guess he decided anything was better than going away empty-handed, and I do mean anything. The guy took my old, battered briefcase. Nothing in there he could sell.”

  “For some reason, really stupid thieves seem to be targeting the Rinaldis’ house,” I observed, remembering the tomato photos. “Maybe you should put a sign on the door: ‘Please do not break in unless you have passed the official thief certification program.’”

  Everyone laughed except Roderick. “I’ll get our official Wellman Talent security person to keep an eye on your place as well,” he offered.

  “That’s decent of you,” replied Jack, surprised and grateful. “I’d appreciate that.”

  “No problemo. C’mon, Madge, we gotta split.” Roderick added to Jack, “Enjoy your picnic, or whatever.”

  I gaped after Roderick and my sister as, with good-bys to my mom and me, they disappeared round the front of the house. My mouth was hanging open. “Butterflies and wasps are going to fly in there,” Jack teased, but I couldn’t help it. Roderick — Roderick Wellman — had been nice. Had offered to help Jack. Had been totally undweebish.

  “I’m feeling a bit weak,” I mumbled.

  That, however, did not get me out of raking the Dubuques’ lawn free of wisteria leaves. “Nobody believes me,” I informed the lean, mean tabby perched on our fence. As usual, he was staring through our windows to catch a glimpse of Wilfred. “Therefore,” I sighed, stuffing a bunch of the leaves into a garbage bag, “I get punished with two hours’ hard labor. But I didn’t dream that I saw Buckteeth. He was real. In the moonlight, his teeth were shining as bright as day.”

  The tabby yawned at me. “Too slow to appreciate my wit, huh,” I told him. “Like you’re so great. Wilfred’s been out twice lately, and you haven’t been around either time to nab him. Some stalker you are.”

  Our alley seemed to attract ineptitude, I reflected, running the rake beneath the Dubuques’ porch steps. Take the Rinaldis’ burglars. How hopeless the first one had been, to make off with some photos of tomatoes. “I mean, I ask you, tomatoes,” I mused to the tabby. Then, the next burglar had picked off an ancient laptop when all that silver was lying around. And, he’d knocked juice all over the place. Tom Cruise would never recruit these guys for his Mission Impossible team.

  At least the burglar last night had got a drink for his trouble. Life was so unfair: here I was, by contrast, an honest, upright citizen, and parched with thirst.

  Soon after that, Mrs. Dubuque came out to give me a glass of pink lemonade and a brownie, so my martyr complex lost some of its strength.

  I realized it wasn’t me she was mad at, so much as the wisteria. She fumed, “Wisteria climbs, it gropes, it clutches, it strangles!”

  My eyes widened appreciatively. “Wisteria’s done this to you?”

  “What?” The wild look left Mrs. Dubuque’s eyes and she regarded me in puzzlement. “Me? No, dear, I’m referring to the drainpipes.”

  “Oh,” I nodded, disappointed. For a while she’d really had me interested. “Well, thanks for the treat,” I said politely. I placed the glass on her patio table. “I have to get back to Deathstalkers at Hangman’s Hideaway now. I’m on level twelve, and about to be shot down in flames.”

  “Oh no, you’re not,” said Mother, from behind the offending wisteria. Her face appeared above it; she was on our deck. Jack and Pantelli were beside her.

  “Jack has been kind enough to wait for you,” Mother said. “He’s taking both you and Pantelli to his anti-smoking, folk-song rally at the park. I think you’ve spent too much time indoors, hunched over these gruesome computer games. You’ve lost your perspective, honey. You’re hearing spies when it’s just leaves rustling. Villains, where there are only shadows. Suspecting crime when it’s just —”

  “We’ll go, we’ll go,” I interrupted hastily, thinking, Man! What ever happened to curt orders?

  Jack teased, “I can promise you guys bracing fresh air … healthy sunshine … ”

/>   Pantelli and I traded unhappy glances. “Talk about gruesome,” Pantelli said.

  Pantelli and I had brought along our Game Boys, so we did not immediately notice where Jack was driving us.

  “Hey, I thought we were going to the park,” I objected, as Jack bounced his rattling, paint-peeling red jeep past the Japanese grocery store where Mother always bought sushi. “Like, the park down the street.”

  “Stanley Park,” corrected Jack, as the jeep bounced into a pothole and the tops of our heads hit the partly rolled-back canvas roof.

  Apologetically, Jack had told us that the top was too rickety to be pushed back any farther than above the driver’s seat — otherwise it would fall right off. Furthermore, the roof was patched in many places with duct tape; given our approaching rainy season, not a good sign for a car.

  “Nobody calls Stanley Park ‘the park,’ ” I said disapprovingly. “People will spot you from a mile off as a tourist if you talk like that.”

  With loud creaks, the jeep veered up the Georgia Street viaduct. Jack allowed himself an admiring glance at our cityscape, with its glimpses of sparkling blue ocean between tall buildings shimmering in the sun.

  He asked, “You mean, everybody has to say the whole name, Stanley Park, all the time? You can’t occasionally just say, like, ‘Catch ya later. I’m off to see Stanley?’”

  We giggled. “‘Stanley’ on its own is the name of a theater,” Pantelli explained, and then, at Jack’s confused look, we giggled even harder.

  We were in a giddy condition by the time Jack pulled into a parking spot near the totem poles towering over Burrard Inlet. Right away, faces belonging to kids about Jack’s age crowded the jeep’s windows.

  “Hi Jack, who’re the tykes?” a boy demanded good-naturedly.

  “Who’re you?” I retorted.

  “Gasp,” said a girl.

  I sat up straight, glared at her and began brandishing my Game Boy indignantly. “Listen, if you have a problem — ”

  “Time, please,” interrupted Jack, laughing. He swung out of the jeep and opened the door for me. “GASP,” he explained kindly, “stands for Grad Advocates for Smoking Prevention. It’s that group of kids I was telling you about at dinner the other night, the ones who are taking a year off after high school to raise public awareness about the dangers of smoking … Dinah, Pantelli, I’d like you to meet Lorraine,” this was the freckled, dark-braided girl who’d spoken to us, “and Todd,” the bespectacled boy of the offensive “tykes” remarks, though actually he looked pretty nice.