Closed for the Season

by Mary Downing Hahn

  "How much is this?" A woman in a flowered blouse and tight pink pants came up to Violet, holding a purple plastic file box. "I don't know why you people can't put prices on things."

  As Violet took the box from the woman, Arthur said, "Can I ask you something important?"

  "Really important," I added, finally getting the nerve to say something.

  Violet looked puzzled. "Like what?"

  "Do I have to get a manager for a price check?" the woman butted in. Scowling at me, she added, "My time is very important."

  "So is mine," Arthur said.

  "I'm sorry, ma'am." Violet led the woman away, but she called back to us, "Wait there. I'll only be a minute."

  True to her word, Violet came back fast. Returning the purple file box to the shelf, she said, "She thought it was way too expensive. And a piece of junk."

  Arthur handed her the little Magic Forest bag. "We found this in the attic. There's a note inside from your mother."

  Violet gasped. "From my mother?" She pulled out the plastic gingerbread men. "Oh, my gosh, I used to play with these when I was little." Her eyes filled with tears, and she brushed them away with one hand.

  "The note," Arthur said. "Read the note."

  Violet smoothed the creases out of the paper. "It's Mom's handwriting," she whispered. More tears ran down her face. This time she ignored them.

  When she'd read the note, she looked at Arthur. "I knew my mother didn't steal that money!"

  "But she knew who did steal it," Arthur pointed out.

  "It couldn't have been the park's owner. Mr. Farrell was a nice old man," Violet said. "When I was little, he let me ride the rides free and he gave me candy—little peppermints."

  "Who else worked there?"

  "I don't remember anybody but Mr. Farrell." Violet frowned. "No, wait. There was somebody else—he was hired long after I got too old for the Magic Forest. Mom complained about him all the time, but I don't remember his name. I'm sorry."

  "What was the finding game?" Arthur asked. "What does it have to do with the briefcase?"

  "I don't know." Violet shook her head sadly. "I haven't thought about the Magic Forest for years. It makes me too sad. Mom's dead, the park's closed—it's like my whole childhood is gone."

  It was time to call it quits, I thought. At least for now. Violet had had enough of us.

  But when I looked at Arthur, I could see he still had questions. I don't think he'd even noticed Violet was close to crying.

  "How about 'You Know Who'?" he persisted. "Were you scared of some woman who worked in the park, somebody who knew the embezzler?"

  "I was afraid of lots of things when I was little." She paused. "I still am," she added in a low voice, more to herself than us.

  "Think, Violet, think," Arthur begged. "It has to be a woman—the note says 'she's just.' Just what?"

  Violet wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. "There was a mean old lady who worked at the frozen-custard stand," she said slowly. "I was afraid to ask for a cone when she was working. But I don't see what she'd have to do with anything."

  Before Arthur could ask another question, a sharp-faced little man interrupted us. "Too much talking, Ms. Phelps." Shooting a nasty look at Arthur and me, he added, "You boys need to buy something—or leave."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Phillips," Violet said. "They wanted some advice about school supplies, and I—"

  "No excuses. I saw you wasting time earlier talking to a man. If it happens again, I'll put a comment in your file."

  We watched him stalk off toward electronics, his baggy pant legs flapping around his ankles.

  Violet scowled at the man's back. "He thinks being a manager at Wal-Mart is a really big deal."

  "Sorry," I said. "We didn't mean to get you in trouble."

  "It's okay. He's always mad at somebody."

  "We'd better go." Arthur held out his hand for the bag.

  "Please let me keep it," Violet said. "My mother wrote the note to me. And the little men—I thought they were gone forever." She gazed at us with those big sad eyes of hers.

  Arthur and I looked at each other. I was kind of reluctant to let our only evidence go, but how could we say no? After all, we did have a copy of the note.

  "Don't let anybody see it," Arthur said.

  Violet pressed the bag to her heart. "It's my secret," she said. "Mom's and mine."

  "And try to figure out what your mom meant about the finding game," Arthur said, "and not being scared."

  Violet nodded, her face solemn with worry. "I will."

  Outside, Arthur and I got our bikes and pedaled across the parking lot. After Wal-Mart's super-duper air-conditioned comfort, it was like riding into a wall of fire. Ahead of us, the asphalt shimmered in the heat.

  We stopped at the edge of the road and waited for a break in the traffic. "Where to now?" I asked.

  "Want to see the Phelps place?" Arthur asked. "Its definitely not to be missed. You can see the Jarmons' house, too. Two for the price of one—a real treat."

  Without another word, he sped away, leaving me no choice except to follow in his wake.

  11

  After a half hour of steady uphill climbing, made even more fun by cars and trucks racing past just inches from my handlebars, Arthur turned off the highway. Soon we were making our way up an even steeper hill on a narrow dirt road that wound along the edge of a sharp drop-off. Not the sort of place to encounter a large vehicle—nowhere to go but off the road and down the hill into a rock-strewn gully. Certain death.

  Finally, Arthur rounded a curve and came to a stop, skidding on loose gravel and dirt. "The Phelpses' house is up the hill on the left. The mobile home where Violet lives is behind it."

  He wiped his sweaty face with his arm. "The Jarmons live on the other side of the road. They've got a bunch of mean dogs who hate bikes."

  While I tried to convince myself I wasn't scared of the Jarmons or their dogs, Arthur dumped his old Raleigh in a thicket of honeysuckle and wild grape vine.

  Sure I was making a big mistake, I laid my bike beside his. Keeping a screen of underbrush between ourselves and the road, we sneaked toward the houses. I had a feeling those dogs could smell us ten miles away, even if something like the old Berlin Wall separated us from them.

  "Voilà, la maison Phelps." Arthur pointed to an old farmhouse weathered to gray. Its roof was patched with sheets of plywood, and a pile of cinderblocks propped up one corner of the front porch. A vine—no doubt kudzu—covered most of the porch roof and hung from the eaves. Except for the satellite dish attached to a tree, some people might have described the place as picturesque in a ramshackle, run-down way—but not if they d known anything about the inhabitants.

  Its chrome shining, Silas s motorcycle leaned against the porch. My stomach plummeted—he must be home. That was bad, very bad.

  Behind the house was a beaten-up old mobile home. From somewhere inside, a radio blasted '70s hard rock music, but no one was in sight.

  "Look over there." Arthur pointed across the road. "La maison Jarmon."

  The Jarmons house was smaller and made of stone, but it was just as neglected. Two small cement lions sat on the porch, gazing across the overgrown lawn. At least a dozen skinny cats slept on the sagging roof of a rusted-out Geo Prizm, but the dogs were nowhere to be seen.

  Crudely lettered signs nailed to trees warned strangers away. BEWAR VISHUS ATTAK DOGS, one said. NO TRESPASTING, said another. And scariest of all: HALF GUN WILL SHOOT.

  The hot summer sun beat down on my bike helmet. Sweat ran down my spine. My T-shirt stuck to my skin. I felt dizzy from the heat and the endless buzzing of cicadas. I wanted to go home before the dogs attacked or a Jarmon came to the door and shot us with his half gun.

  But before I had a chance to say, "Let's go," I saw Silas step out of the mobile home. Danny was right behind him.

  From our hiding place, we watched Silas straddle his motorcycle.

  "Give me a ride, Dad," Danny begged. "You promised."
His voice had a nasal edge, almost a whine, that I hadn't noticed when I met him at the Toot 'n' Tote.

  "Some other time. Maybe tomorrow."

  "You said that yesterday," Danny said, definitely whining. "And the day before."

  His dad shrugged, strapped on his helmet, and roared down the driveway with the throttle wide open. Danny watched him leave, his face creased with disappointment.

  When Silas was out of sight, but not of hearing, Danny stood in the driveway, his head down, his shoulders drooping, kicking stones. I could almost have felt sorry for him. Almost. Not quite.

  A skinny little girl appeared in the mobile home's doorway. Maybe five, maybe six, she wore a faded T-shirt and baggy shorts, and her hair was the color and texture of dental floss. "Is Daddy gone?"

  "What do you think?" Danny muttered a few cuss words and went into the mobile home with the girl. The screen door slammed behind them like a gunshot.

  "That was May," Arthur whispered. "Danny's little sister. Poor kid."

  Just as I was about to suggest leaving, Billy's pickup rumbled into sight. Johnny was with him. In the back were the boxes from the attic bulging with Mrs. Donaldson's stuff. Ducking behind a tree, we watched Billy pull into the driveway. He and Johnny got out and began unloading the boxes.

  Dumping the contents on the ground, they started pawing through the clothing, books, and newspapers.

  "You really think you're going to find any money?" Johnny asked.

  "She had it hid all over the house. Ask anybody."

  "That's just a rumor, Billy. I was in and out of there a lot, doing yard work and stuff. I kept my eyes peeled, I can tell you, but I never saw an extra dollar bill. She could barely afford to pay me for cutting the grass."

  "Then why did somebody kill her?"

  Johnny shrugged. "Money was probably what he was after, but I doubt he got any."

  "Maybe she hid it in the Magic Forest." Billy kicked a thick book across the yard. "Did you ever think of that?"

  Johnny grimaced and wiped his sweaty face with his T-shirt. "If she hid it in that jungle, nobody will ever find it."

  "A couple of million bucks is worth looking for, ain't it?"

  Johnny shrugged. "That's just a rumor. Nobody knows for sure how much was missing."

  Danny chose that moment to cross the road. "What are you guys doing with that old stuff?"

  "Nothing." Billy kicked a box over and scowled at the books and records and photo albums that tumbled out. "Just junk."

  Signaling to Johnny, he headed for the pickup.

  "Can I come with you?" Danny asked.

  Neither Billy nor Johnny answered. Leaving Mrs. Donaldson s stuff in the yard, they got into the truck and drove away.

  Left behind again, Danny cussed all the swear words I'd ever heard and a few I hadn't. Then he pulled a low-slung bike out of the weeds and rode off, still cussing. I pitied anyone smaller than him who looked at him the wrong way.

  "Come on," I said. "Let's get out of here before someone else comes along."

  Just as we reached the place we'd hidden our bikes, the dogs crawled out from under the Geo, three of them, long and lean and mean. Part wolf from the look of them. Maybe all wolf. Barking like hellhounds, they came after us fast.

  Arthur and I threw ourselves on our bikes and started pedaling faster than I thought possible. The dogs were right behind us, so close I swear I felt their hot breath on my bare legs. Just as I thought they had us, we crested the hill and started down. Bumping over ruts and skidding on loose gravel, we stayed on our bikes as if we were glued to the seats.

  From the bottom of the hill we could hear the dogs barking, but they seemed to have lost interest in chasing us. Maybe they'd just wanted to scare us away. Well, I can tell you, they succeeded. My heart was beating so hard, I was afraid it would burst.

  "Those dogs were bigger than the Hound of the Baskervilles and twice as vicious." I frowned at Arthur. "I'm never coming near this place again."

  He pushed his sweaty hair back from his forehead, leaving it standing straight up. "As James Bond once said, 'Never say never.'"

  "Never, never, never," I retorted.

  When we finally got home, my legs ached. In fact, I almost fell down when I got off my bike. I was that sore. But before I had a chance to go inside and take a nap in the bathtub, Mrs. Jenkins beckoned to us from her back door.

  "Somebody's here to see you boys," she called.

  Violet was sitting at the kitchen table, looking as weary as I felt. The plastic gingerbread men were scattered across the table.

  Arthur grabbed a couple of cold cans of soda from the refrigerator and handed me one. "I don't know whether to drink it," he said, "or pour it over my head."

  "I say drink it." I flopped down at the table, tipped the can back, and gulped it down so fast, I almost choked.

  "Violet showed me the note from her mother," Mrs. Jenkins said. "We've been sitting here trying to figure out what game she meant."

  Across the table from me, Violet toyed with a green gingerbread man. "Remember the map of the Magic Forest they used to give you when you bought a ticket?" she asked Arthur.

  He nodded. "There were little pictures of all the attractions. Willie, the castle—"

  "If I looked at one," Violet said, "maybe I'd remember the finding game."

  "I bet the library has plenty of them in the local-history file," Arthur said. "Want me to get one for you?"

  "I'd go myself," Violet said, "but I work the nine-to-six shift tomorrow, the same hours the library's open." She pushed her chair back and gathered up her things. "I have to go home and fix dinner for the kids."

  At the door, Mrs. Jenkins gave her a hug. "You be careful, honey. Being divorced isn't enough to keep Silas away. Any trouble, you call me. Come over if you like. Bring the kids. We've got an extra bedroom."

  Arthur raised his eyebrows in mock horror and ran a finger across his throat. Neither one of us wanted Danny Phelps staying at Arthur's house.

  The next morning, Arthur and I rode our bikes to the library. He headed straight to a row of gray filing cabinets against the rear wall. Dropping to his knees, he opened a bottom drawer labeled LOCAL HISTORY, L-N. Flipping through the folders, he pulled one out and waved it at me.

  "Voilà!" he cried. "The Magic Forest!"

  We sprawled on the floor and started going through the folder. Stuck in with old photographs and newspaper clippings was a map of the Magic Forest, showing a wide path looping around Willie the Whale s Pond. Smaller paths branched off, leading to kiddie rides and other attractions: the old Woman s Shoe, Peter Pumpkin s Shell, Cinderella s Coach, Mother Hubbard s Cupboard, the Witch s Hut.

  "Uh-oh," I said, "It's stamped 'reference only.'"

  "So?"

  "So that means you can't check it out."

  "Who said anything about checking it out? We can make a photocopy."

  "Do you have any money?"

  "No, but you must have some."

  I turned my pockets out to show they were empty.

  Arthur swore a little swear. Then, taking a quick look around, he stuffed the map into his pocket.

  "Arthur—"

  "Shh. We need this more than anybody else I can think of." With that, he headed for the door, pausing on his way out to wave to Mrs. Bailey in the children's room. "We'll bring it back," he whispered to me, "after Violet figures out where her mother hid the briefcase."

  First trespassing. Now stealing. No, not stealing—informally borrowing. What would Arthur think of next?

  Although I was positive an alarm would go off, no one stopped us from sauntering out into the steaming July heat.

  "Where to now?" I asked wearily.

  "Wal-Mart," he said. "Where else?"

  Grabbing our bikes, we sped away, unnoticed, uncaught, criminals in the making. We might as well have been part of the Jarmon/Phelps extended family.

  12

  At Wal-Mart, we found Violet at her usual station in office supplies, trying to
look busy tidying the displays.

  "We brought you a map of the Magic Forest." Arthur held out the wrinkled sheet of paper.

  "You'd better keep it for now." Violet's eyes filled with tears. "Silas took the note," she whispered.

  I stared at her, too shocked to speak, but Arthur made up for my silence. "What do you mean 'Silas took the note'? How did he get it?"

  Violet straightened a row of notebooks. "He came over last night." Her face colored. "I wasn't expecting him. He barged right in demanding to see Danny, and he saw me reading the note. He snatched it out of my hand like he thought—Well, I don't know what he thought. But when he saw it was from Mom, he took it."

  "Where is he now?" Arthur looked around as if he expected to see Silas lurking behind a rack of school supplies.

  "He said something about going to the library," Violet said, "which struck me as really weird because I've never seen him pick up a book, let alone read one. No," she corrected herself, "he used a dictionary once to prop open a window."

  Arthur looked at me. "That reminds me. Grandma wanted me to see if the new Mary Higgins Clark mystery has come in. She's got it on reserve."

  "But we were just there. Why—"

  Arthur shook his head. "Come on, Logan."

  "I don't want to see Silas—"

  Arthur towed me toward the door. "Let's go."

  "Wait a minute," Violet called after us. "Tell your grandmother I'll be coming over tonight with Danny and May. Not for long. Just a couple of nights."

  "Yeah, sure, that's a great idea," Arthur said, trying to sound sincere. "Maybe Silas will steal a car or do a little breaking and entering or shoot somebody and get sent back to jail. Then you won't have to worry about him."

  Violet tried to smile again—a little more successfully this time. "We can always hope."

  As soon as we were outside Wal-Mart s big sliding glass doors, I said to Arthur, "Tell me why we re going to the library twice in one day. We've got the map. What else do we—"

  Arthur cuffed my arm lightly. "Think, Logan, think! Why is Silas going to the library?"