In class after lunch we had time to work on our relief maps of Mexico. While I mixed up the dough ingredients and stirred the paint, I thought about poor Kyle and his missing cat and his strange request. I also tried to figure out how come Yasmeen had kicked me. I mean, she wanted to shut me up, but why?
Anyway, it wasn’t so smart to think about the case while I worked, because the dough came out all runny and my green paint looked blue. Mrs. Timmons asked me if I was feeling okay and even put her hand on my forehead like maybe I had a fever. Mrs. Timmons likes me because we have cats in common. She has a white one with blue eyes and an orange tiger like Luau, which is something everyone in our room knows because she is always brushing white and orange fur off her clothes.
“Don’t forget to put your dough away in a Ziploc,” she reminded the class when we were done working. I smiled because it made me think of Miss Deirdre and Jeremiah’s preschool. I guess when it comes to dough, you never grow up.
Yasmeen met me at the door of the classroom after school.
“There was something strange about the way Kyle was talking,” she said. “Did you notice? He was so nervous.”
I slung my backpack over my shoulders, and we started walking down the hall. “Sure, I saw he was scared,” I said. “So what, though? Why not tell him about the catnip? Why not tell him what my mom said?”
“I don’t know how to explain this,” she said, “but something told me not to trust him—like an instinct.”
We walked out the front door of the school and into the daylight. It was a perfect fall afternoon—blue sky, white clouds, fiery leaves.
“Come on, Yasmeen,” I said. “You don’t think he stole his own cat, do you?”
Yasmeen shook her head like she was trying to straighten out her thoughts. “That doesn’t make sense, does it?” she said. “But wait. What about this? What if he made up the story about seeing the thief?”
“And he doesn’t want us to do any detecting because he’s afraid we’ll find out,” I said.
Yasmeen nodded. “Exactly.”
“But why would he do that?” I asked.
“Maybe something else happened to Hallo - ween,” Yasmeen said. “Maybe Halloween wasn’t supposed to go outside, and Kyle let her out, and she got hit by a car or something else bad, and now Kyle is afraid he’ll get in trouble.”
That was a pretty smart guess, I thought. Lots of people keep their cats inside to protect them. I could imagine a kid inventing a story to stay out of trouble and then getting scared someone would find out.
But I would never tell Yasmeen I thought she was smart. She already thinks she is plenty smart. So I just said, “Yeah, maybe. Anyway, now we’ll never know for sure.”
“What do you mean?” Yasmeen asked.
“You told Kyle we would quit detecting,” I said.
Yasmeen shook her head and grinned. “No, I didn’t.”
I thought back to what she had said in the cafeteria. “You told him you wouldn’t bring Halloween back,” I said.
Yasmeen nodded. “But I never said you wouldn’t.”
Chapter Twelve
Yasmeen and I had just turned the corner onto Chickadee Court when we spotted a police car parked in front of Bub’s house.
That sounds scary.
But it wasn’t.
There’s a police car there a lot. Officer Krichels is Bub’s friend. He likes to stop off for soup.
I looked at Yasmeen. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
She nodded. “We need to talk to Officer Krichels. But what time are we going to get the pumpkins?”
“Dad said the PTA meeting will go till five,” I said.
Yasmeen smiled. “I can be a little late getting home, too. My dad won’t be back with Jeremiah till four.”
A minute later, Bub opened the door for us and bowed. “Bienvenue, Madame, Mess-yer. Zee potage of zee day eez vee-shee-swaz.” He was speaking in a French accent that even I knew was a bad French accent. It cracked us up. “Zat just means zee zoup de po-tay-toe. Eet’s zupposed to be cold, but who likes zee cold zoup? I serve my vee-shee-swaz fresh from zee stove.”
“Sounds great,” I said, “Mess-yer.”
Bub brought Yasmeen and me bowls of white soup sprinkled with flakes of green stuff. Officer Krichels was just getting ready to leave.
“Can we ask you something?” I asked him.
“Your mom told me you were interested in the missing cats,” he said. “It’s a bad time of year for it, you know. Better keep a close eye on Luau.”
Yasmeen said, “Did you notice anything odd about Kyle, the kid you talked to on Groundhog Drive?”
Officer Krichels scratched his chin. “Can’t say I did. Kind of a Gloomy Gus, but his cat was gone, so who could blame him? Now, that pip-squeak sister o’ his, she was somethin’.”
“Did she say anything?” Yasmeen asked.
“The pip-squeak?” said Officer Krichels. “You couldn’t shut her up! I didn’t pay much attention on account of how she wasn’t a credible witness. That means someone you can believe.”
Officer Krichels is nice, but he treats all kids like they’re two years old. Sometimes, like now, Yasmeen gets impatient.
“I know what a credible witness is,” she said. “Do you remember anything the little sister told you?”
Officer Krichels had his hand on Bub’s door-knob. “Bunch o’ nonsense. Something about how her rotten big brother tortured the cat. . . .” Officer Krichels shrugged. “You know siblings—they’re always out to get each other.”
Officer Krichels saluted Bub. “Great soup today, like always.”
Bub was sitting at the table with us, his hands clasped over his belly. He nodded at his friend, “See ya tomorrow. I’m thinkin’ black bean.”
The instant the door closed, Yasmeen burst. “I cannot believe him!”
“Yasmeen,” I said, warning her.
But Bub just laughed. “One of the sweetest guys I know,” he said, “but genius is not one of his attributes.”
“I suppose now we should talk to Kyle’s little sister,” I said, “to Cammie.”
Yasmeen picked up her soup bowl and gulped the last bit. “I don’t see how we can do that,” she said, “without Kyle finding out we’re still detecting.”
It was getting close to four. Yasmeen went to call her dad and ask if she could go with Dad and me to the Harvey house to get pumpkins. I told Bub the whole story, and to my surprise he picked up right away on something my mom had mentioned.
“Ransom note,” he repeated. “I bet you dollars to doughnuts Kyle got a ransom note. It happens all the time in books. The detectives are working their tails off, and suddenly whoever it was hired ’em calls and tells ’em to quit. In this case, the catnapper told Kyle not to try to find his cat, just pay the money. That’s why Kyle talked to you today. That’s why he looked so scared.”
Chapter Thirteen
Mr. and Mrs. Blanco must have worked really hard to fix up the Harvey house because it hardly even looked haunted anymore. The paint was fresh, and the twisted rungs of the black metal fence by the sidewalk had been straightened out. All the little frame-doodads around the porch and windows had been repaired and nailed back into place. From the sidewalk I could see for the first time that this pretty much used to be a mansion compared with the other houses on Main Street. I guess it was built by somebody rich.
Yasmeen, my dad, and I opened the gate—which didn’t even squeak—and walked through the front yard toward the porch. There were pumpkins on either side of the walk. The house was brightly lit, and there was a new purple sign:
HARVEY HOUSE HEALTH BOUTIQUE
NATURAL FOODS AND FIBERS, VITAMINS,
AND HOMESPUN REMEDIES
EVERYTHING FOR YOUR GOOD HEALTH
“What’s a homespun remedy?” I asked.
Dad scratched his head. “Eric Blanco explained the theory to me on the phone,” he said, “but to tell the truth, I don’t get all of it. The gi
st seems to be that sometimes weaknesses can be repaired through the ‘introduction of offsetting substances.’ ”
Yasmeen and I looked at each other. Huh?
Dad laughed. “Let’s say you want to build muscles. The homespun idea would be that you swallow a tonic made from something strong—like an ox.”
“You mean drink ox blood?” I shuddered. “I think I’d rather do push-ups.”
“I’m not much for push-ups,” Dad said. “And who knows? Maybe it works.”
Mr. Blanco met us at the front door of the store. “Welcome, neighbors!” he said, then he looked at Dad. “You here for my eyesight pills?”
Dad smiled. “Frankly, I’m still skeptical. But we know for sure we’re in the market for pumpkins.”
“We’ve got plenty of pumpkins,” Mr. Blanco said, “and all of them certified organic. You kids want to pick out a couple of good ones while the old fogies talk?”
Yasmeen and I went back out into the yard to look at the selection. I am not a big shopper. Right away I noticed a pumpkin that was more or less round and pretty big. It didn’t have any rough brown places or dots, either.
“This one’s good,” I said.
Yasmeen examined it. “It has a big green spot,” she said.
“Only on one side,” I said. “We can cut it out for the nose or something.”
Yasmeen said she was going to keep looking, which meant picking up every single pumpkin, turning it over and over, then shaking her head and setting it back down.
“Do you think Bub’s right?” I asked her, “about the ransom note?”
“But what about what Officer Krichels told us?” Yasmeen said. “Maybe Kyle was afraid we would find out that he tortured his cat, and that’s why he called us off.”
“I think the ransom note is more likely. To me it seems like Kyle really liked that cat.”
Yasmeen had picked up a small pumpkin and now held it under her arm. “What about this? The catnapper was misinformed. He thought Kyle loved his cat enough to pay ransom, but he didn’t really.”
My head was spinning, which is precisely what I don’t like about detecting—too much brain work. I nodded at the pumpkin Yasmeen was holding. “Is that the one you want?” I asked.
“It’s perfect,” she said.
I thought it was way too small, but I didn’t want to encourage more shopping. “You’re absolutely right,” I said.
A thump on the porch startled me, but it was only Dad. He held up a bag for me to see. “You’ll never believe it,” he said. “Organic marshmallows!”
“Are regular marshmallows inorganic?” Yasmeen asked.
“Got me,” said Dad. “I’m just telling you what it says on the bag. Why don’t you take these over to Mr. Stone? He’s the one who loves marshmallows, right?”
“Served with hot chocolate,” I said, “and a ghost story.”
The sky had been clear a minute ago, but now I felt a gust of cold wind and heard a rumble like thunder.
Dad checked the sky, too. “Weather looks iffy all of a sudden,” he said. “Let’s take your pumpkins in and pay up.”
Yasmeen followed me into the Harvey house. It was bright and cheery inside, with hand-painted signs, bins of vegetables and grains, shelves of vitamin-type bottles, a rack of spices and herbs in little plastic bags, books, and a cold case with yogurt and juices. The cash register was behind a counter near the door. On the counter was a basket of white things that reminded me of Luau’s catnip sachet. I was about to inspect one when Mr. Blanco said, “That will be forty-two dollars and ninety-seven cents, Dan.”
I said, “For pumpkins and marshmallows?”
“And eyesight pills,” Mr. Blanco said.
Dad handed over his credit card. “For that price, they’d better work,” he said.
Mr. Blanco smiled. “As I explained, this is just enough for a few days, Dan. I’ll call when I get a fresh batch.”
Yasmeen said how nice the store was, and Mr. Blanco thanked her. Then I asked about the ghost. Did he know the house was supposed to be haunted?
Before Mr. Blanco could answer, I heard a throaty howl that seemed to come from every direction at once. I gave Yasmeen a What-the-heck? look, and the next thing a flash of light turned her face all eerie blue, sick, and scared. The gust of wind, the howl, the flash—and suddenly a crack like thunder splitting a tree trunk an inch from my ear . . . then a sizzle of electricity, and everything went black.
Chapter Fourteen
I held tight to my pumpkin, like it might turn out to be some kind of protection from supernatural forces. My dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Alex? Yazzie?” Even with him there, I could feel my heart pounding and hear Yasmeen breathing fast, like she was scared.
The next sound in the dark was Mr. Blanco. He was laughing and at the same time rustling around behind the counter. “There,” he said, and a lantern came on. “Sorry about that, Dan . . . , kids,” he said. “It happens now and again. I think it’s that same ghost you were asking about, Alex.”
“You’re kidding,” said Dad. “Aren’t you?”
Mr. Blanco bent down and fooled with some switches behind him on the wall. After a few seconds the overhead lights blazed back on. He turned toward us again and shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I don’t know if I’m kidding. All I know is this is the fourth time it’s happened just that way—wind, howl, flash, thunder, and out go the lights. It’s a bother, but it doesn’t seem to be dangerous. The only trouble is it scares the customers—some customers.”
“I’m not scared,” Dad said, but I noticed his face looked whiter than usual.
“I am!” I said.
“You don’t really believe in ghosts, do you?” Yasmeen asked Mr. Blanco.
“Seems like it’s more that the ghost believes in me,” said Mr. Blanco. “Besides, have you got a better explanation?”
Yasmeen usually has all the answers. Now she opened her mouth like she was going to fill us in, but then she closed it again. “No,” she said. “I don’t.”
At home there was a message on the answering machine. It was from Billy Jensen telling us that Marjie Lee had had a baby girl at six that morning. It might seem weird that a first-grader would be making that kind of phone call, but in our neighborhood it made total sense. Billy Jensen loves to spread news.
I told Dad about the baby, then I phoned Mr. Stone to ask if he would tell us the famous ghost story.
“Oh, you kids aren’t interested in an old chestnut like that,” he said.
Mr. Stone can be what my dad calls “difficult” and my mom calls “ornery.”
“We really do want to hear it, Mr. Stone,” I persisted. “Oh—and I forgot to mention, Dad bought you a bag of fancy marshmallows, too. They came from Mr. Blanco’s new store downtown.”
“A present for me?” Mr. Stone said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Tomorrow after school then. Three-thirty? I’ll make hot chocolate.”
Dad called me for dinner as soon as I hung up. I sat down at the table in the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. Luau sauntered in and glanced at his food dish in the corner. No luck there, so he decided to check out my food dish—my dinner plate, I mean. He jumped into an empty chair and peeked over the edge of the table. He was hoping for fish sticks or tuna casserole, but we were having macaroni-and-cheese from a box with a side of sliced apple.
Luau swished his tail a couple of times and looked at me, which meant, I never cease to be amazed at the strange foods you humans eat. Then he stepped into my lap, circled, and curled up for a nap.
Dad had just served his own plate when we heard the whir and squeak of the garage door opening. “Glory be.” Dad looked at his watch. “Mom’s home early.”
Two sticky bites later, she walked into the kitchen looking tired.
“Another bad day?” Dad asked her.
Mom nodded and sank into a chair. Dad popped up and got her a plate of food. Mom thanked him, but didn’t eat. Instead, she rested her head on her
hand and stared at her macaroni.
“What happened?” I asked her.
She didn’t look up. “Two more missing cats.”
“Really?” I shifted my legs, which woke Luau. “Then I’d better call Yasmeen.”
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Detecting can wait, Alex. It’s rare that we’re all together.”
Mom insisted she wasn’t hungry, but Dad folded his arms across his chest and said, “Noreen, I want you to eat that macaroni—every bite!”
Mom sampled a single elbow, then two, then finally a regular forkful. Soon her macaroni was gone, and Dad brought her a second serving.
“I guess I forgot to eat today—after my doughnut breakfast, that is,” Mom said.
“Well, no wonder you’re a basket case.” Dad put her plate back in front of her. “And eat your apple, too, honey. It’s good for you.”
“I don’t like apples,” Mom said.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Dad said, “everybody likes apples.”
I thought of something—not about apples, about cats. “Were these cats taken from ‘negligent’ owners, too?”
Mom nodded. “Pretty bad.”
“Did the owners see the thieves?”
“One was asleep. The other thought she saw . . .” Mom shook her head.
“Saw what?” I asked.
“Thought she saw a ghost. Honestly, some of the people in this town. They are so superstitious.”
“But, Mom,” I said, “that’s what Kyle said, too. I don’t know. Maybe . . . ?”
Mom looked at me. “Sweetheart, I have enough to worry about putting bad people in jail. If I have to worry about bad ghosts, too, well . . . I’ll be seeking a new line of work.”
Mom sounded so exhausted that I didn’t want to ask her anything else. “Yasmeen and I are going to get the whole ghost story from Mr. Stone tomorrow,” I said.
“That’s good, honey,” Mom said. “If this is all a Halloween prank, maybe it will shed some light. So far, though, I don’t see a connection to the Harvey house.”
Who Stole Halloween? Page 4
