And Lorrol: Her smile was shining, just like her name. I felt as though we’d been friends forever, and I didn’t have to be shy about all the tears and hugs the night before last.
“I have important stuff to tell you,” I said right away. “Let’s go behind the library and talk.”
“Okay,” she said, but didn’t ask any questions. Lorrol always seemed to know when to be ready for something Big. We waded through waist-high weeds and wildflowers, and sat side by side on the hood of an abandoned car.
“I wrote three issues of the Gas Gazette yesterday!” she said. “I was so sad, I just got to work.”
I nodded. “Good idea. I can’t wait to read them, and to find out more about Darwin, lots more. But first I’ve gotta tell you a secret.”
In the next half hour, I spilled the sugar on the mysterious notebook. Lorrol was quiet at first, then she grabbed a handful of Queen Anne’s lace and pulled it up by the roots. I was glad I wasn’t a nearby plant.
“Why didn’t you tell me right away?” she blurted, but simmered down again once she’d heard more. Eventually she understood that I couldn’t have told without putting a member of my family in danger.
“So how the heck can we find this stranger when you don’t know what he looks like?” she asked.
“Easy. I’d recognize his voice,” I said. “He makes a wa-wa sound, like someone eating a hot marshmallow.”
“Hmmm.”
“Three Oaks is so small. If he’s here, he’s probably right nearby, trying to look innocent. I mean, if we were visitors and just ran off after the fire, it would look suspicious, right? Also, maybe he doesn’t know the notebook was the valuable thing in the box — I mean, that box was all sealed up when we got it. It’s possible the stranger still thinks we’re hiding something, but doesn’t know what it is even though he now has the notebook. I mean, he’s gotta be the one who took it from the toolshed, but maybe he doesn’t know why I was hiding it. And maybe he’s still watching us. Why don’t we walk around, and — hey! We’ll use me as bait!”
“Huh?” Lorrol leaned closer and looked right at me.
“He’ll know who I am. And he’ll know I had the notebook, because he must’ve seen me hide it in the shed. All you have to do is notice who is noticing me!”
“I told you Brain Boy was a good name for you!” Lorrol crowed, rocking back and forth. Suddenly she stopped.
“What?”
“How could he have been outside the toolshed when the fire was first exploding if he set it?” she asked. “You couldn’t have heard Buckeye, we know that, because he was behind the store by then … or in it….”
We were both quiet for a minute.
“Maybe the Stranger started the fire by mistake,” I said. “My grandpa never allowed anyone to smoke inside the store. He used to say that it was ‘dry as a plow horse at noon.’ Just about all whatnots can burn or melt: books, furniture, treasures…. All you’d have to do is drop a cigarette or a match in there, and after a few minutes everything would explode in flames —” I broke off, remembering Lorrol’s horseshoe on the red sofa. I wanted to tell her about it, but didn’t dare. Suddenly my eyes were swimming.
“Zoomy? You okay to do this?”
“Just got some dirt in my eye,” I said.
“So much family soo-ris. That’s the word my mom uses when troubles are piling high on all sides.”
I nodded. “That’s another language?”
“Yiddish. It’s spelled t-s-u-r-i-s.”
“It sounds like a short version of Worry Crumbs Times a Million, which is definitely what we’ve got.”
“Yup.” Lorrol nodded, but then somehow knew that action would help more than sympathy. For a Firecracker, she’s wise. Folding her hands under her chin, she said, “So, let’s start. There’s only one place in town that the Stranger could be staying: Mrs. Gander’s. We could get her to talk if she’s not suspicious and if he’s not home.”
“Right. Let’s stroll toward her place, and you watch like a hawk,” I said, standing up.
“Right.” Lorrol nodded. “He’ll be trying to look casual. Like he’s not in any hurry.”
“Right,” I said again. Lorrol and I definitely belonged to the Same Word Club, in addition to the other ones. “I’ll bet the cops have already talked with him. Any visitor stands out around here. But if Buckeye’s their suspect and the Stranger is slippery, I’ll bet he has an alibi and is planning to swim on out of town once he knows for sure there isn’t any more treasure to be found.”
“Well, we’ll just have to catch him before he leaves, won’t we?” Lorrol said, and I suddenly believed it. I squeezed the stem of my glasses, making sure the masking tape was on tight.
“Ready?” I asked. “You’ll have to tell me whenever we get to a curb.”
“Will do.”
“Put me on the hook.”
PLAYER FOUR ORDERED eggs over easy, hash browns, and raisin toast. He pretended to read the paper.
The conversation swirled in currents around him:
“… so sad …”
“Can’t imagine the town without it …”
“I’ve heard Ash dropped his insurance …”
“I bought our oak dining table from his father …”
In a town this size, the stranger knew he had to stick around. Give it another day. He’d already explained to the cops how he’d found Three Oaks, and why — after all, the delivery job he’d been doing for Mr. Zip hadn’t been illegal. He’d then identified his stolen truck, which was still in police custody, agreed to be fingerprinted, and told the police that he’d been in bed early the night of the fire and hadn’t left his room.
He put down the paper in order to smear a thick spoonful of blueberry jam on his toast. Looking through the front window of the coffee shop, he caught the eye of that short girl with frizzy, black hair, the one in the library. She was walking next to the grandson with Coke-bottle glasses.
She looked right back and, turning toward the boy as they moved on, whispered something in his ear. As she glanced over her shoulder, the man gave her a little smile.
He sighed and wiped the stickiness off his fingers.
The whole situation was unfortunate. He wished he hadn’t had to play a part.
“TELL MRS. GANDER you’re selling something,” Lorrol whispered.
I cleared my throat. “Morning,” I said.
The old lady’s head popped up from the hollyhocks lining her garden fence. “Oh, Zoomy!” she said, and rushed to give me a hug. “How are all of you doing?” she asked. “So terrible.”
I did my best to look uncomfortable. “Could I come in for a minute to use your bathroom? Any guests at the moment?” I asked. “This is my friend Lorrol. We’re just walking around and reminding folks to buy my grandma’s pies. She baked a bunch this morning.”
“Of course, dear! Of course,” Mrs. Gander said, and hurried us both inside. We noticed the front door was standing open when we came, and she didn’t close it now.
I started up the stairs as if I knew where I was going. Lorrol followed me. “Oh, ah, there is one guest staying here, but you can use the downstairs powder room,” Mrs. Gander said. “Maybe that’s better….”
“That’s okay, she’ll wait outside and help me find my way down,” I called back, hurrying ahead. Feeling wall tile under my hand, I ducked into a hallway bathroom and closed the door loudly.
Lorrol can be amazingly brave. As she told me later, she peeked into each of the three bedrooms. Only one had an unmade bed. And, whoa, a duffel bag with clothes. She reached into the bag and felt around. Nothing.
A screened porch outside the room! No sound from downstairs. She stepped out onto the porch and pushed on each one of the screens. Whoa! One gave. There was room for a person to squeeze out onto the roof, climb into the pine tree, and then jump to the ground — or the other way around.
Just then she heard a man’s voice downstairs. It was odd and yes, kind of gooey. Nothing for it but to hu
rry back to the stairs and plop down. She said her heart was going double-time, and she was sure she looked as guilty as a beet.
PLONK. PLONK. PLONK. Silence. The heavy boots stopped in front of her knees. Lorrol looked up, and the stranger scowled down.
“I’m just waiting for my friend,” she trumpeted in a voice that would’ve worked for the legally deaf. “He’s legally blind. Had to use the facilities.”
I got the message, and flushed the toilet twice.
“Of course,” a familiar voice snarled. Plonk, plonk, BANG: A door slammed shut.
When I stepped out of the bathroom, Lorrol practically broke my neck. She grabbed me by the arm — “Hurry, he’s in his room!” — and dragged me down the stairs so fast that I tripped and skinned my knee.
“I heard!” I whispered as we thumped along at top speed. “Slow down, will you? I don’t know these stairs!”
“Something I’ve gotta tell you!” Lorrol whispered back.
Mrs. Gander heard all the bumping, and rushed out of the kitchen.
“Oh, my!” she said. “Still in such a hurry?”
After she’d put disinfectant on my knee and insisted we have some lemonade in the kitchen, we headed back toward town. We never did get a name.
“Sorry about that,” Lorrol said. “Guess I’m a little excitable under pressure.”
“Just remember that when you jerk a fishing line at the wrong time, you scare the fish,” I said.
Lorrol filled me in on everything. And she said this was the same guy who’d noticed us from inside the coffee shop. Should we tell the police?
“Let’s first collect a few more facts,” she suggested. “Some stuff that might add up to a clue.”
“Hey!” I stopped dead in my tracks. “I know what I would have done if I was a grown-up trying to hide that notebook.”
“You mean a fishy grown-up,” Lorrol added.
“Right. If I were the Fish, I wouldn’t keep the notebook nearby. I’d get rid of it!”
MY CHIN BARELY came up to the counter.
“Well, hello, Zoomy,” the postmaster said in a pleasant voice. “So very sorry about the fire. What a loss for us all.” Mr. Dither’s fingers always flew around like they had their own plan. Right now they were playing with a pen attached to a chain.
“Thank you,” I said. Lorrol, standing next to me, started in on the wiggling. “Could my friend use your bathroom, please?”
He sounded surprised. “Well, why, sure. Come around the counter here, and down the hall to the right, young lady. There’s no one back there.”
I stayed in front. It’s a small space, and I knew I was the only customer.
“How’s business these days?” I asked. “Lots of summer mail?”
The postmaster’s voice clouded over. “Not like a few years ago, lot fewer people,” he said. “But we’re lucky to still have our own post office here. I count my blessings, don’t get me wrong.”
“I think my grandpa told a customer where to mail a small package day before yesterday, the day of the fire. I was just curious; that would’ve been the last sale we ever made, and I kinda think my grandpa would be happy to buy it back. You know, if the mail didn’t go out and the customer agreed to sell it back.”
“Know the man’s name?” Mr. Dither asked.
“Just a visitor,” I said. “Cash.” I was now knee-deep in whoppers.
“Too bad. Several people did mail packages yesterday morning, but the post went out in the afternoon, I’m afraid.”
“Was one a fi — I mean, a stranger with a kind of sticky voice?” I asked. “If not, I can probably find him in town — that is, if he’s still around,” I blundered on. “I’d recognize his speech.”
“You’re a regular detective,” the postmaster said. A thick rubber band was now riding around on his first two fingers. “Sorry I can’t be more helpful, Zoomy. You’re one thoughtful grandson.”
Lorrol was back, and tapping me impatiently on the shoulder like she had something to tell.
“See you, thanks!” I said, turning to go.
“You’ll never guess what!” Lorrol whispered as she pulled open the door.
The stamp box clattered off the counter behind us. I knew the sound; I’d seen it happen before. As the door jingled shut, I pictured Mr. Dither’s fingers cleaning up and being glad they had something to do.
“MR. DITHER’S A volunteer fireman! He must have been there the night of the fire!” Lorrol crowed. “I saw the fire department calendar and his firefighter’s certificate back by the bathroom. If we only had a picture of the Fish …”
“What does he look like, anyway?” I asked.
“Perfect, like we invented him. Eyes far apart, gray hair and speckly skin. And he slides along sideways.” Lorrol waved her arms in a swishy way. “Like he’s swimming with the current.”
“So maybe Mr. Dither would remember seeing someone like that drifting around on the night of the fire.”
“Maybe. Should we go back and ask? And I’ll describe him?”
“Not now. What if we get Mr. Dither suspicious, and he feels he has to stop us? Grown-ups sometimes get so worried about kids doing their own investigations, you know? Like they don’t want us to get hurt.” I rolled my eyes as if I did this kind of thing all the time.
“I know,” Lorrol said. “He did seem a little nervous. He might freak out about us spying.”
We sat on a bench on Elm Street for a few minutes. The sun was high now, and sweat trickled down my neck. I smelled Lorrol’s coconut smell, which probably meant she was broiling, too.
“Let’s take a break in the library and see if we can figure out any more about the notebook,” I suggested. “The Fish has gone to an awful lot of trouble for it.”
“And created an awful lot of tsuris.”
“No kidding. He’s gotta know something that we haven’t figured out.”
“Yet,” Lorrol added.
We headed into the always-cool library, which felt like protected territory, probably because of Mrs. Cloozer. Lorrol wasn’t holding on to the line, I wasn’t being bait, and neither one of us noticed the top of a gray head seated in one of the armchairs not far from the computers.
* * *
The Gas Gazette: Issue Fifteen
A FREE NEWSPAPER ABOUT A MYSTERIOUS SOUL
~Starting as a boy, I kept lists and notebooks and crossed things off.
~I stored everything on shelves, in tidy rows and piles.
~I rarely threw out a list.
~I once wrote, “Let the collector’s motto be ‘Trust nothing to the memory,’” because each moment and experience in life can feel like the best, and the past fades with time. Memory isn’t always accurate.
~Lists can tell a story. Here are parts of one of mine from 1859:
> Magnesia. Smelling-salts.
> Little candle. Brandy.
> Thick stockings. Night caps. Shoeing Horn.
> Cigars. Spare Watch & Spectacles.
> Diging shirt. Rough Towels.
> Case to hold Pens and Pencils. Diary.
> Inkstand. Pen-wiper.
> Waterproof coat & Leggings.
> Flask of water. Umbrella. Stick.
~Don’t bother to tell me I spelled “digging” wrong. I’m sure I did.
~Do you feel like you know me better now?
Who am I?
If I saw one of your lists, would I know you better?
NEXT ISSUE TO COME.
FREE!
* * *
LORROL PULLED UP a chair next to mine. I typed 1835 Travel Notebook into the Search Box.
Up came entries on Mark Twain’s notebooks and Nathaniel Hawthorne’s, names Lorrol said she’d heard before, and some others we had no idea about. We scrolled to page two. Toward the bottom was:
• Darwin Online
“Whoa!” Lorrol and I breathed at the same time. I clicked it.
At the top of the page, under The Complete Works of Charles Darwin Online, were cho
ices:
• Publications
• Manuscripts
• Biography
• Credits
“Yikes, this looks hard,” I said.
“Yeah, it’s for grown-ups, no doubt about that,” Lorrol said. “But we can do this. I’ve read hard stuff before.”
“Yeah, plus we’re investigating for Darwin and us. Think of all the tough things he tackled, not knowing if he’d ever understand them.” I had a surge of hope. Gas was just that kind of friend.
“Right.” Lorrol nodded. “Click on Manuscripts — that would be handwritten stuff.”
I clicked. Up came a long, long list, kind of a chart. Lorrol read the writing on the top: “This is the largest collection of Darwin’s handwritten manuscripts and private papers ever published.”
“The guy sure wrote a lot,” Lorrol said.
“He kept a ton of notebooks,” I agreed. I thought of my under-the-bed collection, which now seemed very small.
I scrolled on, past the list of drafts and notes for books. Each had a small photocopy of a page next to the entry, and you could click on the word browse next to it. It would then get large and you could read more of the real thing, as if you were allowed to step into that notebook.
Whoa, there was a familiar I, shaped kind of like a leaf on a long stem, and a bendy y that looped up like a fishhook.
“Slow down!” I ordered. “Too fast.” Words weren’t coming; it was as if my eyes were using all of my brain.
“Like Darwin’s tree,” Lorrol said, sitting back in her chair. “Branches, and each keeps going. A list tree.”
I nodded. Now I spotted a d with a squashed top, as if someone had leaned on it, and an h with a curly foot. How could this be?
Then Lorrol, who read faster than I did, suddenly jabbed the computer screen with her finger. “Beagle, Beagle!” she squealed. “We’re getting somewhere!”
“Wait!” I said. “Wait! We might miss something!” Actually, I was just waiting for my language to catch up. Lorrol began wriggling next to me. Squeak, squeak went her chair.
The Danger Box Page 12
