The Hidden Valley Mystery

by Susan Ioannou

  “The kid’s O.K.,” the man shouted, as if to defend himself.

  “No thanks to you!” Mike cried. “Can’t you even get out to look? I ought to call the police!”

  At the word “police” the man’s head jerked inside. With a squeal the van shot forward and roared down the parking lot to the empty incoming lane. At the stoplights, it skidded around the corner and sped south toward Highway 401.

  “The licence number!” Mike kicked himself. All he had caught were the last two letters: PJ.

  Shaking with anger, he limped toward his friends. Gunnar and Freddy had settled Tuan on The Beer Store bench. Except for a rip in his T shirt, and a bruise where his forearm had broken the fall, Tuan looked unhurt. Mike hobbled up and flopped beside him. “Are you O.K.?” he asked.

  “Yes, I am fine,” Tuan replied, “just a little shook up. My shirt’s not so good,” he held up the tail and waved it to show off a long rip.

  Freddy rested one foot on the bench. His face was still red from running. He shook his head. “It’s lucky you’re so quick,” he said. He looked at Mike. “How Tuan skipped back in time, I don’t know. That idiot in the van just missed him by centimetres.”

  Pacing behind the bench, Gunnar wiped his forehead. “That van sped by so fast, I was sure it spun Tuan off balance,” he muttered.

  “Can you believe that guy?” Mike fumed. “He didn’t even get out to look!” He glanced behind at Gunnar. “And when I said I’d call the police, he took off like crazy.”

  Freddy pounded his palm. “That really stinks,” he snorted. “What kind of guy would leave a kid lying on the ground?”

  Gunnar stared over Mike’s shoulder at the stoplights. “Mike, before the van drove away, did you hear a dog bark?” he asked.

  “Maybe,” Mike shuddered, “there was a dog in the van. A big one, black, sitting behind that guy. Why?”

  Gunnar looked Mike in the eye. He frowned. “Think about it.”

  Mike gulped and shook his head. He didn’t want to think about what happened near the mansion that morning. Or about what almost happened to Tuan. Not any more. He’d had enough adventure.

  CHAPTER 7 – New Neighbours

  On Sunday morning, the streets were cool and quiet as Mike slowly pedalled home. He still felt stiff from his fall down Dead Man’s Cliff, but his knees no longer stung.

  A block from his house, he stopped by the curb and leaned down. Gently he peeled off the gauze patches Gunnar had taped to each knee. He crumpled them into his shorts’ pocket. No need to upset his mother. She’d wring her hands and natter about blood and germs, then poke through the cupboard for more disinfectant and bandaids. Her fussing made him feel like a baby.

  With his bandages tucked out of sight, Mike slid back onto the bicycle seat and made his stiff legs pedal faster and faster. Past the neighbours’ houses, around the lilac bush, up his own driveway he swung. From across the street, he felt Mrs. Mallo’s eyes on his back. Everyone knew she watched the whole street through a crack in her living-room curtain. Could her x-ray vision see the scabs on his knees?

  He skidded out of sight by the garage. After locking his bike inside, he dashed to the side door. He eased it open and crept up the steps toward the kitchen. He would shower and change into long pants, ready to visit Theo Lazo, before his mother got home from church.

  “EEE!” his mother shrieked.

  Mike jumped back. “Hi, Mom,” he called from the landing.

  “Michael, you startled me. Don’t prowl like a cat.”

  Mike stuck his head through the door, keeping his knees out of sight. “I thought you were still at church.”

  “I didn’t go. I am too upset and tired from last night,” his mother wrung her hands. Up and down the kitchen she paced. Her blue bathrobe swirled as she turned, white slippers slapping the tile.

  Mike gulped. Had she glimpsed his knees so fast? Or did Mrs. Mallo telephone? Better to face his mother now, and get the fussing over. Mike stepped into the kitchen, dangling the rucksack in front of his legs, just in case. “What’s wrong, Mom?”

  Mrs. Steriou waved her hands. “Those people!” she sputtered, and leaned against the sink for support. “They ruined my shower for Cousin Deeta.”

  “What people?” Mike scratched his head.

  Mrs. Steriou waved toward the front door to explain. “Those horrible people. Across the street. Our new neighbours.”

  Mike looked blank.

  His mother continued, “They just moved into Mr. Kozinsky’s old house. Yesterday afternoon. They’re renting it for the summer, Mrs. Mallo told me.”

  Mike laughed. “No wonder I don’t know them.”

  “And you’re not going to!” His mother stamped her foot.

  Mike had never seen her so angry. “What happened, Mom?”

  “Before my shower, they drove up in a van and a dirty truck. When I looked outside at 2:00 o’clock, the truck was blocking my driveway. I went out and stood by my lilac bush. I called across the street to the men please to move it—I had company coming.”

  “Were they busy unloading?” Mike asked.

  “No!” his mother puffed. “That I would understand. They just sat on the curb, drinking beer.”

  “It was really hot, and maybe they were tired,” Mike suggested.

  “No. They were bad men. One even shouted a terrible word at me. I said I would call the police. Two of his great big friends stood up and started across the street toward our lawn. I was scared. I ran into the house.”

  Mike walked to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He held the rucksack over his knees. “What happened next?” he asked. He knew how easily his mother got excited. She wanted everything perfect for her family and friends.

  Mrs. Steriou whirled around. “Then Aunt Nitsa and Cousin Aliki drove up and had no place to park. You know our street gets busy on Saturday. And poor Anastasia, with her cane. And Mary’s little girls—what a handful. To think my guests all had to drive around the block.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t mind, Mom,” Mike tried to comfort her.

  “To see those big, lazy men, sitting on the curb, drinking beer,” Mrs. Steriou shook her head. “I was so embarrassed. What will my guests think of my neighbourhood?”

  “It’s over, Mom. Don’t worry.” Mike leaned across and patted her arm.

  Mrs. Steriou took a big breath. She turned away and shook her head. With a sigh, she raised herself on tiptoe and lifted the coffee pot from the cupboard. “No, Michael, there’s something not right about those people,” she insisted, filling the pot with water from the tap. “I have a bad feeling about them. No good woman has time on moving day to do nothing. How could she sit on her steps all evening, looking at magazines?”

  Mike shrugged. What did he know about women, or how they were supposed to behave? He stood up carefully, dangling the rucksack in front. When his mother started to make lunch, that meant she was calming down. Now he just wanted to shower and change before she noticed his knees.

  * * * * *

  Theo Lazo lived in a narrow house closer to downtown. Mike didn’t mind going for dinner. He enjoyed crowding around the table in the small yellow dining room, especially since Sunday was the only day his father didn’t work long hours.

  Theo Lazo, his mother’s uncle, always had plenty of jokes to make him chuckle. His wife, Thea Elenie, told funny stories about growing up overseas in the village. But best of all, she cooked his favourite traditional foods. Her cheese filled pita wedges were more flaky and buttery than any other he’d tasted. Tonight he gobbled half a dozen. The sweet milk custard she baked for dessert melted on his tongue.

  “You’re going to eat all the baklava too?” His father swung across the table and snatched at Mike’s dish.

  Mike studied his father, folding hairy arms across his broad chest. In his crisp, short-sleeved white shirt and crimson tie, Mr. Steriou looked handsome. His dark hair was combed neatly to one side, and his thick brows arched above green eyes and a
mischievous smile.

  Without looking away, Mike set the honeyed roll back on the gold rimmed dessert platter. He licked his sticky fingers, watching for a change of heart to flicker in his father’s gaze. From the corner of his right eye, he saw Thea Elenie wave her fork.

  “Stop teasing him, Georgio. Look how the boy is growing!” She always grinned at his appetite, her blue eyes sparkling under fluffy white hair. “Here, Mike,” she pushed the platter closer, “Forget that little dish. Eat, eat, the whole platter, if you can.”

  With such tasty food on her table, Mike wondered, how could Thea Elenie stay so skinny in her shiny purple dress? The grannies and other old aunts in his family swelled in the middle like beach balls draped in black. Even his mother, a generation younger, sat plump and pink as a cherry beside him in the evening warmth.

  From the head of the table, Theo Lazo nodded down at Mike. His brown eyes shone under his wavy white hair and moustache. “So, Mike, you got yourself a job this summer? Or,” he winked to his left, at Mr. Steriou, “just soaking up the sun in your own backyard?”

  Across from her husband, Mrs. Steriou squirmed in her chair. “He’s too young to work away from home.” She plinked her coffee cup onto its saucer. “Don’t put ideas in his head, Uncle.”

  “Of course not, Effie. Never would I interfere between mother and son.” Theo Lazo winked again at Mike’s father. “But a boy with Mike’s big appetite, not to mention his love of camping, why, he must have lots of energy to burn up. Not at all like me. Me, I’m not so young any more. No more hiking through the mountains, like back home. Now, just climbing the stairs, I get all puffed out. I could use a sturdy errand boy at the printing shop—even for a couple hours a day.”

  “No, Uncle, I can’t “

  “Please, Mom!” Mike bent forward. This was his chance at last to earn the Explorer sleeping bag.

  Theo Lazo laid his hand on Mrs. Steriou’s. “Effie, my devoted niece, think of it not as a job for your son, but as a kindness for an old man, a special favour to your hard working, tired uncle.”

  “But, Theo “ Mrs. Steriou sputtered.

  Across the table her husband nodded at her. “Philotimi, Effie,” he murmured in Greek. “Honour the family.”

  “Oh, all right,” Mrs. Steriou sighed. “Mike, you can help your uncle in the mornings. But I need you too, don’t forget, to cut the lawn, and, and “

  Without thinking, Mike turned and threw his arms around her neck. “Thanks, Mom!” he cried.

  Mrs. Steriou flushed with delight. It was a rare treat these days when her growing son hugged her.

  “And thank you too, Theo Lazo!” Mike stood and reached down the table to shake his great uncle’s hand. “I’ll work hard. You’ll be proud of me.”

  “You bet I will!” Theo Lazo laughed, and winked at Mr. Steriou. “Mike, we start early. Be at my shop by 8:00 tomorrow morning.”

  CHAPTER 8 – A Theory

  “Hey, Mike!” Gunnar strode up the Steriou’s narrow driveway.

  Sitting on the porch steps, Mike looked up from the camping gear catalogue spread across his knees. In the Saturday morning shade, the breeze felt pleasantly cool on his face. He smiled, glad to see Gunnar. With working at Theo Lazo’s print shop and helping his mother clean out the garage and then the basement, almost a whole week had sped by.

  “So,” Gunnar sat down, stretching his long tanned legs beside Mike’s, “how’s the new job?”

  Mike laid the catalogue on the porch behind him. “It’s fine,” he said. “Theo Lazo’s a great guy. When it’s sunny, he sends me on lots of deliveries. I never feel cooped up. In between, I help him around the press, or parcel the finished printing. Every day is a little different.”

  Gunnar nodded. “It sounds good.”

  “How’s the golf ball business?” Mike asked.

  Gunnar plucked a cratered orange ball from his pocket. With one hand, he tossed it up and down. “It’s booming. Sunny weather, people on vacation. The golf course is packed with lost balls and customers.”

  “That’s great.” Mike tore a leaf from the mint bush by the steps. He rolled it slowly between finger and thumb.

  Gunnar continued, “It’s odd, though. I find so many balls in the woods past the third green.”

  “What’s strange about that? Lousy golfers always hit into the trees.” Mike flipped the mint leaf away and sniffed his now fragrant thumb.

  “But there are plenty of trees behind the second green too. I don’t find nearly as many balls there.”

  Mike thought for a moment. “I know,” he straightened and jabbed Gunnar’s arm. “The dogs. The ones we saw in the kennel beside the mansion. They bark and scare the golfers away before they can find their lost balls.”

  “Then why don’t I hear them bark when I’m out collecting?” Gunnar reached a long arm to the mint bush and tore off a leaf for himself.

  Mike leaned forward, propping his chin on his hands. “Good question.” He thought for a few moments. “Unless,” he sat up and pointed to his watch, “it has something to do with the time. When do you usually hunt for balls?”

  “I go in the lulls,” Gunnar replied, “like 11:30 in the morning. But lately it’s been so hot, I’ve waited till after 8:00 at night.”

  “And you don’t hear the dogs then?”

  Gunnar shook his head. “Except that Friday I found the $1000 bill.”

  Mike stared at his running shoes. “And have any golfers complained about the dogs during the day?”

  “Not that I know of,” Gunnar replied.

  “Well,” Mike rubbed the side of his toe against the step, “Nobody plays golf at night. What’s left?”

  “Only the early morning.” Gunnar’s voice quickened. “This time of year, the course opens at 6:15. And there’s always a line up, people wanting to play nine holes before work, or before it gets too hot.”

  Slowly Mike sat up. “So, if they’re in a hurry and it’s busy, and they hear the dogs barking closer, they won’t search around for lost balls.”

  “Good for you, Einstein!” Gunnar slapped his friend’s knee.

  Mike studied the grin spanning Gunnar’s face. He grabbed his camping gear catalogue from the porch and pretended to whack it over Gunnar’s head. “You joker!” he croaked in mock anger. “You knew all along!”

  Laughing, Gunnar raised his arms to fend off the fake blows. “Are you wide awake now, Sherlock Holmes?”

  Mike laid the catalogue on the step. He leaned back on his elbows. “I guess your next question is what am I doing at 6:15 tomorrow?”

  “No.” Gunnar winked. “What are you doing at 5:30?”

  “5:30!” Mike groaned. “What a slave driver! O.K., I’ll meet you behind your house.”

  * * * * *

  At 5:30 A.M., despite birds chirping awake, the sky hung darkly overcast. Protected against poison ivy by long sleeves and jeans, Mike followed his friend down the hill behind Gunnar’s house. The binoculars knocked against his chest. A flashlight hung from his belt loop bumped against his thigh.

  On the ravine floor, the stream’s trickle had swollen to a rush from thunderstorms during the night. In shadow, the boys crossed the footbridge. On the other side, their running shoes squooshed through the thick, wet grass around the back of the fourth green. Ahead, the woods loomed, a huge black shape hunched like a dinosaur waiting to swallow them up. Mike couldn’t even see the hole in the fence.

  “Hey, Gunnar,” he whispered, “I hope you know where we’re going.”

  Gunnar replied by blinking his flashlight twice. He walked faster.

  As the fence took shape in the gloom, Mike saw the rip in the wire next to the post. The trees on the other side stood close together. How black it looked inside. His heart beat harder. He unhooked the flashlight from his belt. After Gunnar, he eased through the torn fence, into the dinosaur’s leafy mouth.

  No birds chirped here. Instead, the boys’ steps squished and snapped as they pushed through wet weed and fallen twigs.
>
  The darkness deepened. Gunnar flicked on his flashlight. Mike did the same. Against the trees’ deep shadows, how fragile bobbed the two small circles of light. As wet branches and bushes brushed against him, Mike was glad for his long sleeves and jeans. In this blackness, even Gunnar couldn’t have found his way through the poison ivy.

  At last the trees thinned. Mike felt Gunnar’s arm block his chest. He stopped. He heard Gunnar breathing. Where the woods opened into a wide field, through the lightening mist, far off an orange rectangle glowed.

  Mike raised his binoculars toward the outline of the mansion. As he focused, two red lights appeared out of nowhere in front of the house. “Tail lights,” he thought. He blinked. The red lights swung around, a moment later replaced by larger yellow beams. They were too high off the ground for a car. “Look, Gunnar,” he whispered, “a truck, I think, or a van, went up that U-shaped driveway. It’s parking in front of the house.”

  Gunnar took the binoculars from Mike’s hands. “I wish it wasn’t so overcast,” he grumbled. “I can’t figure out what they’re unloading. But I think there are three men there, and it looks like two are lugging boxes into the house.”

  Mike nudged Gunnar and pointed to his watch. “6:20,” he said. “The golfers are teeing off.”

  Gunnar handed back the binoculars. Mike looped them around his neck. “O.K.,” Mike said, “get ready.” He cupped his hands and, as loud as he could, hollered, “FORE!”

  As his voice echoed across the valley, a chorus of barking started. Mike snatched up the binoculars and took a quick look. Sure enough, a figure darted out of the house toward the kennels.

  Gunnar grabbed his elbow. “What can you see?”

  “The van’s coming down the driveway.” Mike stared as the yellow beams grew larger, then swung onto the gravel road, and continued north a few moments. “Now it’s turning again. It’s heading west, toward the garage and kennel.” Small, smaller, the tail lights sped away, then disappeared. In their place, a figure holding back a leaping dog headed toward the woods where the boys hid. “Gunnar, now!” Mike let the binoculars drop to his chest. “Time to run!”