Closed for the Season

by Mary Downing Hahn

  "You should talk to my grandmother," Arthur said. "She's the one who found the body. See?" He stabbed at his photocopy with his finger. "That's her. Mrs. Darla Jenkins. My name's Arthur. We live right next door to Mrs. Donaldson s old house, where Logan's living now."

  The woman opened her purse and pulled out a notebook. "Please give me your grandmother's name and phone number. I'll call her."

  "D-a-r-l-a J-e-n-k-i-n-s," Arthur spelled, even though the woman probably already knew how to spell both names. "Our phone number is unlisted." Lowering his voice, he whispered the number.

  She wrote it down carefully. "Thank you, Arthur." Turning to me, she added, "If it's all right with your parents, I'd like to see your house and take some photographs. May I have your parents' names and phone number, too?"

  I gave them to her, and she thanked us again. "My name is Nina Stevens." She handed us each a small white card with her name and phone number on it. "Now, I must read these articles. It was nice meeting you. I'll see you soon."

  With that, she sat down and began poring over the newspaper.

  Outside, the sun hit my face like a blast from a furnace. I wished I hadn't spent my money on photocopies. An ice-cold soda sure would've tasted good.

  "We might get in the newspaper, Logan," Arthur said happily. "Maybe she'll even take our pictures. Won't that be something to talk about when school starts?"

  I nodded, but I didn't see why Nina Stevens would want to waste her time photographing us. There was no sense telling Arthur that, though. Let him daydream about being famous, if it made him happy.

  5

  When I got home, the first thing I saw was Johnny O'Neil mowing the lawn. He was riding one of those little tractor things, and grass flew everywhere. It smelled like summer, sweet and fresh and damp.

  Mom was sitting on the front porch reading a crime novel. I dropped the photocopy in her lap. "Want to read about a real murder?"

  She jumped as if I'd dropped the body itself in her lap, but she read the article. When she finished, she looked up at me. "I'd almost convinced myself Arthur made the whole thing up, but I guess it's true after all." She shivered and folded her arms tightly across her chest. "That poor woman. Such a horrible way to die."

  I sat down beside her. "When Arthur and I were at the library, we met a reporter from the Richmond Times. Her paper's doing a series on unsolved crimes—you know, what they call 'cold case files. She's writing about Mrs. Donaldson's murder, and she wants to take some pictures of our house."

  "I'd better tell your father." Photocopy in hand, Mom went inside, with me right behind her. Dad was in the kitchen, talking to a contractor about a new roof.

  "Look at this." Mom waved the photocopy. "Everything Arthur said is true. Mrs. Donaldson really was murdered right here in this very room."

  The contractor nodded affably. "Didn't you folks know that?"

  Mom shook her head. "Isn't there some sort of law that makes it illegal to hide things like this about a house?" she asked.

  Dad sighed. "It's hardly worth pursuing. We've bought the place, we've moved in, I've hired a roofer, a plumber, and an electrician. I can't see leaving because a woman was murdered here."

  "I'll never enjoy cooking a meal in this kitchen," Mom said.

  Dad gave her a long look. "Let's face it, Carolyn. You've never enjoyed cooking a meal anywhere."

  The contractor and I laughed, but Mom poured herself a cup of coffee and went outside to drink it on the porch. She'd never had much of a sense of humor about herself.

  That evening, Nina Stevens called and made a date to come to our house the very next day. So when Arthur showed up at breakfast in the morning, I stopped him in the doorway. "Guess who's coming at eleven o'clock to take pictures of the crime scene?"

  "She'll be at my house at ten sharp to talk to Grandma." Arthur slipped past me and helped himself to a glass of orange juice.

  "She's taking pictures of Grandma and me, too." He scooped up his usual handful of Raisin Bran and stuffed it in his mouth. "What do you want to do till she gets here?"

  "Finish my breakfast," I said.

  Arthur laughed and took a second helping of Raisin Bran.

  At nine thirty, we perched on Arthur's front steps and played chess while we waited for Miss Stevens. Much as I hated to admit it, Arthur was better at strategy than I was. By the time a sporty little red Miata pulled into the driveway, I was losing big-time.

  Scattering chessmen everywhere, we jumped to our feet, waving like loyal subjects. If I'd had a cap, I would've doffed it.

  "Good morning, Miss Stevens," Arthur said, giving her his biggest grin. "Welcome to our humble abode!"

  She smiled. "'Miss Stevens' sounds so formal. Why don't you boys just call me Nina?"

  "Nina." Arthur drew in his breath as he'd just said a magic word. "All right, Nina!"

  Mrs. Jenkins must have been looking out the window, for she joined us on the porch before Nina had reached the first step.

  After she'd introduced herself, Nina complimented Mrs. Jenkins on the blossoms of a scraggly rose bush languishing by the porch.

  Mrs. Jenkins laughed. "That poor old bush has seen better days—just like me."

  Arthur and I followed the women inside. If I hadn't been so eager to hear every word Nina said, I'd have probably been more amazed by Mrs. Jenkins's decorating taste: one wall tiled with mirrors, a huge recliner in front of the TV, a sagging sofa with faded slipcovers, a lava lamp on a small table, and at least a dozen badly done paintings of clowns on the walls, plus crowds of little ceramic clowns on the mantelpiece, on knickknack shelves, on top of the TV, and surrounding the lava lamp.

  "She collects them," Arthur whispered. "Don't ask me why."

  In the kitchen—where more clowns leered at us from the walls and countertops—Nina sat down at the table and opened a little notebook.

  Before she asked about Mrs. Donaldson, she said, "I just love your clowns, Mrs. Jenkins. They're adorable. You must have been collecting them for years."

  Mrs. Jenkins looked around the room. "You know how it is," she said with a smile. "You get a few here and a few there. Before you know it, people start giving them to you. Pretty soon you have more than you know what to do with." She picked up one and grinned at its round face. "You can never have enough clowns."

  At last, Nina began asking Mrs. Jenkins about Mrs. Donaldson. She seemed especially interested in the Magic Forest. "Do you think she embezzled the money?"

  "No, indeed!" Mrs. Jenkins glared at Nina. "Myrtle Donaldson was the most honest woman in the world. I never heard her tell a lie or cheat in any way. It hurt her deeply to be questioned about the missing money."

  Nina paused and jotted down a few words in her notebook. "People who know the victims often think they know who killed them," she said. "I was wondering if you—"

  "I'd put my money on Silas Phelps." Mrs. Jenkins sat up straighter. "There was bad blood between him and Myrtle. She didn't want him to marry her daughter, Violet. Did her best to prevent it. But Violet ran off and married him anyway."

  She took a swallow of coffee. "Silas treated that poor girl real bad. She was always coming home to her mother, dragging her kids with her. Then Silas would show up, demanding she come home, and he and Myrtle would get into it. I had to call the police more than once. I was scared he'd kill all of them. You read about things like that in the paper—but I guess in your profession you know that."

  When Mrs. Jenkins paused to wave a fly away from the sugar bowl, Nina said, "But why would he kill her? What was his motive?"

  "Here's what I think." Mrs. Jenkins looked at all of us as if to make sure we were listening. "Silas probably believed Myrtle had the missing money hidden in her house. He came to get it, and when she put up a fight, he killed her. As I said, he never liked her. Or the dog."

  "Why do you think the police didn't suspect Silas?"

  "Oh, they talked to him, but he said he was home watching TV, and Violet backed him up. She was so scared of
him, she'd say whatever he told her to say—even with her hand on the Bible. She was more scared of Silas than the Lord, and that's the sad truth of it."

  Mrs. Jenkins pressed her lips together and shook her head sadly. "I still miss Myrtle. You never get over a murder, especially when the killer's out there somewhere, free to do what he likes, and Myrtle's dead in her grave."

  "Silas is in jail now," Arthur pointed out.

  "But not for murder," Mrs. Jenkins said. "He'll be out in no time—just you wait and see."

  "What became of Violet?" Nina asked.

  Mrs. Jenkins poured herself another cup of coffee. "She and the kids are living in a mobile home out at the Phelps place. Can't afford to move." She thought a moment. "The last I heard, Violet was working at the Wal-Mart on Route 23. She might still be there—not many jobs in Bealesville."

  "Thanks, I'll see if I can find her." Nina jotted something in her notebook. "There's one other thing you could probably help me with. I rented a car, but it doesn't have a navigational device. With my terrible sense of direction, I'm thinking of hiring a local to show me the area."

  "Me!" Arthur jumped up as if he were volunteering for extra credit at school. "I can show you everything in Bealesville and beyond. Ask Logan—I just gave him a great tour."

  Nina smiled. "Thanks, Arthur, but I want someone who's at least eighteen."

  "Try Johnny O'Neil at Golden Joe's Pizza Go-Go," Mrs. Jenkins suggested. "He's always looking for extra cash."

  Nina wrote down Johnny's name and closed her notebook. "Now, if I could take a few pictures, I'll be on my way. I've taken up far too much of your time already."

  It was what Arthur and I had been waiting for. Flanking Mrs. Jenkins, we grinned through at least ten shots. After Nina took some of Mrs. Jenkins by herself, she went outside and aimed her camera at our house. She must have shot dozens of pictures from all possible angles.

  Nina noticed Bear sitting on our back porch. "Is that your dog, Logan?"

  "No," Arthur said, without giving me a chance to do more than open my mouth. "That's Bear, Mrs. Donaldson's dog. Grandma and I have been taking care of him since she was killed, but he spends most of his time on Logan's porch. I think he's waiting for Mrs. Donaldson to come home."

  "How sad." Nina followed Arthur and me into my yard and took a few pictures of Bear lying by our door.

  Mom and Dad stepped outside to welcome Nina. Inside, she devoted herself to photographing every room upstairs and down, including the dark, cobwebby basement. She wanted a feeling, she said, of Mrs. Donaldson's life—and death.

  "Does that lead to the attic?" she asked, pointing to a door in the upstairs hall.

  "Yep," Dad said. "I'm planning to have a fan installed to draw the hot air out of the house. It'll be a very efficient cooling system."

  "Is it possible for me to have a look?"

  "Of course." He opened the door to a steep flight of steps leading up into dusty darkness. "Nothing to see," he said. "Just dust and a ton of Mrs. Donaldson's junk that nobody ever removed."

  Nina climbed the stairs and disappeared into the darkness. She stayed there so long I was tempted to ask if she was okay, When she finally came down, she had a smudge of dirt on her cheek and cobwebs in her hair.

  "Well," she said, "if you could tell me a little bit about why you moved to Bealesville and how you felt when you learned Mrs. Donaldson was murdered, I'll be finished here."

  "I got a job at the high school, teaching art," Dad began.

  "And we were sick of the crime in Richmond," Mom put in. "So what happens? We buy a house in a small town and find out the previous owner was murdered."

  Nina looked sympathetic. "You must have been horrified."

  Mom nodded, but before she could elaborate, Nina got up to leave. "Thank you so much for your time."

  "When will the story be in the paper?" Arthur asked her.

  "I'm not sure," she said. "It's part of a series. I suppose the editors will decide when all the articles are ready."

  Arthur and I followed Nina outside and watched her drive away in her nifty red car.

  "You know what we should do?" Arthur said. "Ride our bikes to the Magic Forest and take a look around. I haven't been out there for ages."

  "I thought you said it was closed."

  "It is." Arthur picked up a stone and chucked it at a pot drooping with dead flowers on his back porch. The stone thunked against the house, missing the pot by at least a foot. "But I know how to get in. You ought to see it before it's bulldozed."

  "Logan," Mom called, "lunch will be ready soon." Arthur was about to follow me, but his grandmother stopped him. "There's a nice bologna sandwich waiting for you on the table, Artie."

  "See you later," he called and ran inside.

  6

  Arthur showed up after lunch, just in time to wolf down at least half a bag of fancy chocolate-chip cookies—the expensive kind Mom usually doles out two at a time.

  "I guess I'd have to say these are better than the grocery-store brand Grandma buys," he admitted.

  As he reached for another helping, Mom snatched up the bag and put it in the cupboard, slamming the door a little more forcefully than necessary.

  "Let's go outside," I said, hoping to preserve the peace. Although Arthur didn't realize it, he was perilously close to being sent home in disgrace.

  Unaware that he'd done anything wrong, Arthur followed me onto the back porch. "How about riding our bikes to the Magic Forest?" he asked.

  "How far is it?"

  Arthur shrugged. "A couple of miles, I guess."

  We pedaled down Navajo Street to Route 23 West. As we neared the Toot 'n' Tote convenience store on the edge of town, five boys about my age came outside carrying big cups of soda. The minute they spotted Arthur, they surrounded his bike and mine.

  "Hey, it's Art the fart," a lanky redhead said.

  A mean-faced kid wearing a faded T-shirt grabbed Arthur's handlebars. "Cool bike," he said. "Where did you find it? At the junkyard?"

  "Remove your filthy hands from my bicycle," Arthur said in what could only be described as a snooty voice.

  "Who's going to make me?" Mean Face asked, looking even meaner—if that was possible.

  Then the redhead noticed me. "Hey, look. Arthur's got a friend."

  The boys lost interest in Arthur. "What's your name?" Mean Face asked me. "Where do you live?"

  "His name's Logan," Arthur answered for me, which was just as well because my mouth had gone dry. "He lives right next door to me."

  "You live in my grandma's house?" Mean Face dropped his voice a few notches lower. His face was so close to mine, I could see the pores in his skin. And the anger in his eyes. "She was murdered there," he added in an even lower voice, almost a hiss. "Did you know that?"

  From the look on his face, you'd think I'd killed his grandmother. "Arthur told me," I managed to say in a sort of squeaky voice.

  "Arthur told him." Mean Face turned to his friends and laughed. "Arthur the idiot told him. Arthur the moron told him."

  They took it up like a chant. The words ran together, losing their meaning, making my head hurt. "Arthurtoldhim, Arthurtoldhim, Arthurtoldhim. Arthurtheidiot, Arthurthemoron."

  While they chanted, they tried to yank my bike away. One cuffed my helmet. Another snatched my water bottle. Just as I toppled off my bike, somebody grabbed Mean Face and gave him a shake.

  "Hey, what do you think you're doing, Danny?"

  It was Johnny O'Neil. The other boys backed away.

  "Nothing," Mean Face muttered.

  "Just kidding around," the redheaded kid added. "That's all."

  "Imbeciles." Arthur spoke just loud enough for the boys to hear. Very smart, I thought, definite proof he was a true genius.

  "You okay, Logan?" Johnny asked.

  "Yeah, sure." I got to my feet and straightened my helmet, picked up my bike, and stuck the water bottle in its holder. My left knee was scraped and bleeding, but I didn't mention it.

&
nbsp; The boys lingered in a tight little gang, watching us, ready to run if they had to.

  "Have you started working for Nina yet?" Arthur asked Johnny.

  Johnny glanced at Arthur. "Who?"

  "Nina Stevens," Arthur said, "the reporter from Richmond, the one who's working on Mrs. Donaldson s murder."

  "Oh, yeah, Nina the reporter. Good-looking lady." He tossed a strand of dark hair out of his eyes and grinned. "Couldn't do it—I'm working two jobs already, delivering pizza and helping Logan's dad. I gave her Billy Jarmon's number. He's always looking for work."

  "You gave that bum Nina's phone number?" Arthur stared at him in disbelief.

  Johnny tapped Arthur's bony chest with one finger, just hard enough to hurt. "Hey, kid, watch what you say about Billy. He's my cousin, you know."

  Arthur backed away and straddled his bike. "Come on, Logan," he muttered.

  Johnny gave my shoulder a playful punch and headed into the convenience store. "Tell your dad I'll be by this afternoon to finish the lawn," he called from the door.

  Mean-Face Danny and his gang had regrouped under a tree at the edge of the Toot 'n' Tote parking lot. The redhead gave me the finger, but I pretended not to see. Arthur was already several yards ahead, pumping hard, and I pedaled after him. Since the boys didn't have bikes, they couldn't follow us. A big relief.

  "Danny Phelps is my number-one enemy," Arthur said. "He hates me because I'm smarter than him and all his family put together. He's the dumbest kid in Bealesville. If a teacher could stand him for more than one year, he'd be lucky to be in second grade."

  "Why did he say I live in his grandmother's house?"

  "Because you do. Violet's his mother, and Silas is his old man." Arthur turned his head to grin at me and almost rode off the road. Swerving away from a ditch, he added, "Danny was nicer before his grandma was murdered. In fact, he was almost human. Believe it or not, we used to play together when he was staying at your house—you know, those times when Violet had to get away from Silas." Arthur frowned. "Of course, we were little then. By grade school, I had figured out he was a dope."