“Look,” Gilda said, donning a wig with long, messy brunette hair. She scowled. “Who am I?”
Wendy leaned back on Gilda’s bed, propping her weight on her elbows. “A witch?”
“Please. I would never be something so obvious. I’m you! All I need now is a shoulder bag filled with math textbooks, calendars, and staplers.”
“That seems dumb,” said Wendy. “I don’t carry around calendars and staplers.”
“It’s a caricature, Wendy. The calendars and staplers symbolize your organizing tendencies.”
“Fine. Then I’ll be a caricature of you.” Wendy searched in Gilda’s closet until she found a feather boa and a leopard-print jacket. “Here,” she said. “Mismatched weird clothes plus typewriter equals Gilda Joyce.”
“Now you’re just being mean. I would never wear that boa with leopard print.”
“You’re the one who suggested doing caricatures!”
“Well, I just changed my mind.” Gilda tore off the brunette wig and tried on another option—a blond wig with sausage ringlets. “Maybe I’ll be something totally different, like an old-fashioned Southern belle.” Gilda put a plumed hat over the wig and stared at herself in the mirror.
Gilda’s ear suddenly tickled. An image flashed in her mind: She saw an old, yellow house shadowed by tall trees. An enormous porch surrounded the house. As she looked at the house in her mind, she felt cold.
“What’s wrong?” Wendy asked.
“Wendy, I think I just got a psychic signal.” Gilda had spent more than a year working to develop her psychic skills. She had memorized The Master Psychic’s Handbook by famed psychic Balthazar Frobenius, and her budding psychic abilities had already helped her solve several mysteries.
“Did you get a vision of a sheep?” Wendy joked. “Because you kind of look like Little Bo Peep right now.”
“Wendy, I’m serious. I saw a picture in my mind—a very clear image of a house. And there was something really spooky about it.”
“Was it a house around this neighborhood?”
“I don’t think so.” Gilda took off the hat and wig. “It kind of looked like the Southern plantation house in that old movie—Gone with the Wind.”
“Well, that’s probably because of your mom’s trip to Florida, right?”
“Yes. . . . I have a strange feeling about that trip.”
“You really think she’s secretly visiting some guy?”
“I told you: she was giggling like crazy on the phone before she left, and her suitcase was full of new outfits.”
Gilda suddenly felt sad as she looked at her closet filled with costumes, but she couldn’t articulate what was wrong. It bothered her to suspect that her mother might be concealing the true purpose of her trip. She also had a premonition of some general instability—the sense that something very important in her life was suddenly out of place.
“I can’t explain it yet,” she said. “I’ve just got a bad feeling about this.”
3
Darla
On a quiet street in one of the old neighborhoods of St. Augustine, a twelve-year-old girl named Darla sat on her sprawling front porch sipping sweet tea and staring at a page of her history textbook. She was supposed to be studying for a quiz on Florida history, but she couldn’t concentrate on the descriptions of Spanish and French explorers in the New World. She felt sleepy as she listened to birds calling from branches in the mossy trees and the magical, sparkling sound of wind chimes as they moved in a warm breeze.
Suddenly Darla felt a presence. I’m not alone, she thought, sitting up straighter in her chair. She felt certain that someone was in the yard, watching her. Reluctantly, Darla raised her eyes from her book.
A woman wearing a long, white dress stood motionless under one of the towering oak trees. Her hair hung in long waves, but it did not move in the wind. She was beautiful, but oddly frozen there under the tree, and Darla did not want to look at her because she already knew this woman was dead.
Dropping her book, Darla abruptly jumped up from her chair and ran inside the house.
Once inside, she raced upstairs, slammed her bedroom door behind her, and immediately picked up her cell phone to call a friend. I’ll never sit out on the front porch by myself again, Darla vowed.
It was best to keep busy and distracted—best to avoid the lonely hours during long, lazy afternoons around the house. After all, the ghosts always came looking for Darla when things got too quiet.
4
The Mysterious Gift
Gilda burst into her bedroom and immediately sat down at her typewriter.
Dear Dad:
Mom has been acting weird since she came back from her vacation.
What do I mean by “weird”?
WAYS MOM IS ACTING STRANGE:
Okay, it isn’t exactly a shocking change after we fixed it with the grape Kool-Aid, but MOM DIDN’T EVEN NOTICE ANY DIFFERENCE IN MY HAIR.
ITEM: Stain on the white bathroom mat from grape Kool-Aid used to adjust red hair dye. Mom didn’t even comment about it.
No questions from Mom about what, exactly, we did while she was gone. VERY UNUSUAL.
NO SUNBURN. Whenever Mom goes to the beach, she burns and then peels like a snake shedding its skin. Actually, she and I both have this exotic trait in common. This time she only has a few extra freckles, and her skin is as white as ever. Was she hanging out with vampires? Did she even go outside??
NO SILLY SOUVENIR GIFTS!! Let’s be honest: Mom has bad taste in gifts. I fully expected her to return with one of those T-shirts that says My Mom went to St. Augustine, and all I got was this shirt! So I was shocked (and yes, highly suspicious) when Mom gave me something genuinely beautiful--an antique crystal bracelet that’s fragile, sparkly, and not like anything you’d see in a regular tourist shop. It looks like something you might find preserved in the jewelry box of a wealthy old lady who had some high-rolling times back in the olden days.
Then I noticed something else: Mom was wearing crystal earrings that perfectly matched the bracelet.
“I like your earrings,” I said, thinking it was a little odd to see Mom wearing such nice jewelry.
“My earrings?” She touched her earlobe as if she had no idea they were there.
“They match this bracelet, don’t they?”
“Do they?”
What was Mom’s deal? Was she just pretending to be spacey to avoid answering my questions? Or had her weekend trip to Florida resulted in some kind of brain damage?
I was about to confront Mom about her odd behavior when the doorbell rang: It was a girl delivering the box of Girl Scout cookies we ordered. This was a pretty big distraction because, as you know, Thin Mints are my favorite cookie of all time.
Dad, remember that time when we drove all the way down to Disney World for a vacation, and Mom and Stephen fell asleep in the backseat, and I sat up in the front seat to keep you company as we drove through the Great Smoky Mountains, and (here’s the really fun part) we ate a WHOLE BOX of Thin Mints between the two of us while Stephen and Mom were asleep? I remember how you would pretend to doze off at the wheel, and then I’d stick a cookie in your mouth to wake you up. We agreed we wouldn’t tell Mom about that game. Good times!
Okay, Dad--it looks like I have some sleuthing to do on the home front. I’ll keep you posted!
I still miss you, just in case you wondered.
Love,
Gilda
As she read over her letter, Gilda reached for the soda she had perched on the windowsill and accidentally knocked over a stack of books. Reaching down to retrieve the books, she spied something she hadn’t seen in years—an oversize plastic ring she had purchased from a gum-ball machine when she was about ten years old. It looked like a giant, fake amethyst, and it flipped open to reveal a game—a tiny maze containing little metal balls. Wendy had a similar ring, and they used to hide secret notes passed to one another during the school day inside the rings. Gilda had assumed the ring had been lost or to
ssed out years ago and, now, here it was. She felt as if she had just received a letter sent from a simpler time when she and Wendy had filled their days with silly games—a time when her dad was still alive.
Gilda put on the ring and felt slightly ridiculous as tears of nostalgia filled her eyes.
A moment later, she stood up very suddenly.
Stay focused, Gilda, she reminded herself. You have to figure out what actually happened to Mom in Florida.
5
Spy Report #2
ATTENTION: SPY MISSION
SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED!!
Dear Dad:
As we both know, there are times when spying is necessary for expanding knowledge and protecting national security. True--there are also times when snooping is simply an invasion of privacy.
WHAT I JUST DISCOVERED IN MOM’S ROOM JUSTIFIES THE NEED FOR INVASIVE TACTICS.
Here’s what happened: When Mom went to work, I tiptoed into her bedroom. I normally have little incentive to snoop in Mom’s room because her only interesting secret is some occasional backsliding into her old cigarette-smoking habit. (She doesn’t buy cigarettes for herself anymore, but I happen to know that she sometimes bums them off the other nurses after work. Nurses are supposed to know better, but they sure don’t always practice what they preach.)
I wasn’t sure exactly what I was searching for, but I knew I had to find whatever Mom has been hiding about her trip to Florida. So I put on my spy gloves (to avoid leaving fingerprints) and I started looking for clues.
INTELLIGENCE-GATHERING NOTES:
General observations: a) Mom’s bedroom was messier than usual, and b) she hadn’t unpacked her luggage. (By the way, I’ve noticed that Mom is very critical of my bedroom--and Stephen’s, too--but if you ever go take a look at HER bedroom, you realize that she’s no Mary Poppins, as you probably remember.)
I unzipped Mom’s carry-on bag and found something VERY INTERESTING--a blue velvet jewelry box that looked elegant, but also old and worn. Brace yourself, Dad (and I’m sorry to be the one to break this to you):
THERE WAS A DIAMOND RING INSIDE THE BOX.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Well, I knew right away that this wasn’t just a cocktail ring that Mom bought for herself on a whim, or a little romantic trinket to send a friendly message: “Hey, let’s have coffee sometime!” Or, “Hey, can I sit on your couch all day while you make my car payments?” in the tradition of Mom’s previous boyfriend. Clearly, this ring was a marriage proposal in a box.
I was so surprised, I sat down on the bed and just stared at that ring. No wonder Mom has been acting so weird, I thought. Some guy proposed to her out of the blue, and she’s probably trying to decide whether to say yes or no!
On impulse, I decided to try on the ring. That’s when something strange happened: Immediately, I got a very strong psychic signal--that tickle in my ear I get when I’m about to discover a clue to some deeper mystery. And get this, Dad: In my mind, I saw that same old, yellow house again--the spooky one with the big porch. It was very clear to me, almost like looking at a photograph.
I flipped over the box and found a label for a place called Charlotte’s Attic in St. Augustine, Florida.
There was also a phone number, so I decided to go ahead and dial it. I figured that I could ask one of the employees at Charlotte’s Attic if they remembered this ring, and anything about the guy who must have purchased it for Mom.
I WAS NOT PREPARED FOR WHAT HAPPENED AFTER I DIALED THE NUMBER.
The phone rang once, and a man’s voice answered in the following manner: “WELL, HELL-O THERE, PATTY-CAKES! IS EVERYONE EXCITED ABOUT THE BIG NEWS??”
Uh-oh, I thought. He must have seen Mom’s name and number on his caller ID. I was so surprised that I actually hung up the phone.
Of course I was mad at myself for slamming down the receiver so quickly and missing an opportunity to get more information. But as I was thinking about what to do next, the phone rang. My stomach tied itself in a double knot: The ID on the screen said CHARLOTTE’S ATTIC.
I hesitated for a second, but then I decided that I might as well answer the call. I mean--who was this “Charlotte’s Attic” man--this strange person who refers to my mother as “Patty-Cakes”?
ME: Hello?
MYSTERY MAN: Patty? I think we got cut off a minute ago. I can’t hear you very well; it’s a bad connection here.
ME: Um, this is actually Gilda--the daughter of “Patty-Cakes.”
MYSTERY MAN: Oh! Gilda! I’ve heard so much about you. Are you excited to take a trip down to St. Augustine?
ME: Sure am. (TRIP?! WHAT TRIP?!)
MYSTERY MAN: Your mom and I are going to have us a real nice ceremony right out by Matanzas Bay. Cake, champagne--the whole thing. In fact, after I leave the shop today, I’m on my way to talk to a priest friend who said he’d be willing to do the ceremony for us at short notice.
ME: (Silence. Speechless at his comment about “doing the ceremony at short notice.” I’m thinking that I just can’t believe it’s true. There’s NO WAY Mom could be planning a wedding WITHOUT EVEN TELLING US FIRST!!)
MYSTERY MAN: Your mother is a very special lady, you know that?
ME: She’s certainly special.
MYSTERY MAN: When you meet THE ONE, you don’t delay. No time for that.
ME: Gotta strike while the iron is hot. (What does this phrase really mean?)
MYSTERY MAN: (chuckling) I bet your mama’s been showing off that ring to everybody in the neighborhood.
At this point, Dad, I felt very annoyed that I was talking to a man I had never even met about plans that, if they were real, would probably change my entire life--plans about which I knew exactly nothing. (Thank you, Dad, for noticing the lack of a dangling preposition in that last sentence.) It was impulsive of me, but I couldn’t help it. I decided to give Mystery Man a piece of my mind.
ME: Actually, Charlotte--
MYSTERY MAN: Who’s Charlotte? This is Eugene!
ME: I just assumed--
EUGENE: Charlotte’s Attic is the name of my antiques business. But I guess your mother probably calls me Mr. Pook when she talks about me.
I barely managed to control a burst of immature giggles at the name “Mr. Pook.” I wondered if Mom would actually change her name to Patty Pook, which made me come really close to losing it. (Incidentally, Dad, if I ever get married, I will definitely NOT change my name from Joyce unless my husband’s name is more compelling and unforgettable for a novelist and psychic investigator. Something along the lines of “Gilda Angelista-Flashbottom” might be worth the change.)
EUGENE: Say, Gilda, why don’t you put Patty-Cakes on the phone?
ME: Actually, Mr. Pook--
EUGENE: Call me Eugene.
ME: Eugene, the truth is that my mom is at work right now, and to be honest, this is the first I’ve heard about the “big plans.” In fact, I just happened to find the ring you gave her in her bedroom. I was dusting under the radiator and there it was just lying there, so I figured I’d call the number on the box.
There was a silence at the other end of the phone that was so treacherous and loaded with significance that I actually started to feel scared.
ME: Um . . . Mr. Pook?
EUGENE (now speaking in an ominously quiet voice): I’m here.
ME: Um--I’m sorry. I was just kidding about finding the ring under the radiator.
EUGENE: (still silent)
ME (now feeling an urgent need to patch things up): The truth is that my mom wanted the wedding plans to be a big surprise for everyone, but then I kind of found out by accident.
EUGENE: (deep sigh, more silence)
ME: You won’t tell her we talked on the phone about this, will you? She’ll be so mad at me.
EUGENE (with an uneasy chuckle): Well, we don’t want to ruin your mama’s surprise, now. (This seemed to smooth things over for the moment.) I won’t say nothing, Gilda. It will be our little secret for now.
I hung u
p the phone with a weird and not-too-pleasant feeling. I admit it: The feeling I had was something close to terror. I mean, I’ve been less scared in haunted houses. Why terror? I have no idea, except that something bothered me about this guy, Eugene Pook. Plus, this new development is a bit too close to home. It’s one thing for Mom to have a new boyfriend--but a new fiancé? A fiancé I’ve never met? A fiancé who lives hundreds of miles away?
When I feel scared, it sometimes helps me to stop and write down what I know about the situation, so that’s what I did.
WHAT I KNOW:
Eugene Pook, owner of Charlotte’s Attic in St. Augustine, proposed to Mom, and is under the impression that she is going to marry him at a wedding ceremony on Matanzas Bay.
WHAT I DON’T KNOW:1. Does Mom WANT to marry him? Have they set a wedding date?
2. If they’re getting married, does that mean we’ll move to Florida? Or will he move in here with us??
3. WHY AM I LEARNING ABOUT THIS BY SPYING INSTEAD OF MOM SIMPLY TELLING ME?
Well, one thing’s for sure: It’s time to take off my spying gloves. Let ye olde interrogation process begin.
6
It’s Not Going to Happen
Gilda leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her brother, Stephen, as he prepared a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich. “Did Mom tell you that she’s planning to get married?”
“Is this one of your little games?”
“If you mean the ‘little games’ where I figure out what’s going on in the real world, then yes.”
“Okay—so who’s she marrying?” He asked the question nonchalantly, wiping his mouth with a napkin as he spoke.
Gilda bristled. Ever since her older brother got accepted to the University of Michigan, he had a detached demeanor that suggested someone on his way out the door—someone whose life was about to begin somewhere else.
Gilda Joyce: The Bones of the Holy Page 2
