I glance down the road again and then start up the side of the property, along the fence line. The grass here has been trampled. Just beyond the house the path of crushed grass stops. This must be where the guy entered the property.
I frown at the fence. This is going to be like breaking into Fort Knox. But this is where the guy went through. There must be a secret gate or something. As I step closer to examine it, I hear a noise—and freeze. It sounds like something heavy scraping across concrete. I look toward the house, but an overgrown hedge blocks my view. Darn! Still, if I can’t see the person on the other side of the hedge, he can’t see me either.
With that thought in mind, I search for a place to hide. Fortunately, there are trees and bushes everywhere, so I duck behind one.
I hide not a second too soon either. I’ve barely crouched down when out from the hedge comes the guy I saw sneaking around last night. He’s whistling. I scrunch lower and peek through the leaves of the bush. When he gets to the fence, he pulls down on one of the iron bars and lifts it out. Aha! Cute trick. I watch as he turns sideways and threads himself through the opening. As he replaces the bar, I make a mental note of which one it is.
Resuming his whistling, the guy starts jogging through the trampled grass toward the road. I scoot around to the other side of the bush. If he looks back, I don’t want him to see me. But he’s a man on a mission. When he reaches the street, he turns onto the sidewalk and keeps going.
When I’m sure he’s gone, I creep out of my hiding place. Then I scamper soundlessly down the trampled path and peer along the road. All I see is the guy’s back as he exits Greeley Lane onto the adjoining street.
Should I follow him? If he’s the crook, chances are he’s heading where there are lots of people. From what I’ve heard and seen on television, pickpockets like to work in crowds. That would be good for me too, because I could watch him without being seen. Who knows—I might actually catch him in the act.
I glance at Greeley House. With him gone, now is the perfect time to check out his hideaway. If he’s stashed his loot in there, that’s evidence.
It’s a win-win situation. I opt for the house.
Even though I watched the guy work the fence, it stumps me at first, mostly because I reef on the wrong bar. Breaking and entering is new for me. Finally, I find the right iron picket. I grab it with both hands and yank hard. To my surprise, it comes away easily, leaving a half-inch gap where it’s been cut. I pull the bar toward me and slide it out. Then I examine the fence where I removed the bar. At the base, a hole containing a heavy-duty spring keeps the bar secure when it’s in place. It’s the same technique that’s used to hold batteries inside a flashlight. I’m impressed. It’s a pretty slick trick.
I climb through the opening in the fence and replace the bar. Then I scoot across the yard and slip behind the hedge. There’s a wooden door. It’s green, but weather and years of neglect have blistered the paint and warped the wood. That’s probably why it scraped on the stone sill. That and the fact that the walkway is buckled. But if the guy could get the door open, so can I.
Anticipating resistance, I put my shoulder into it, turn the ancient knob and push. The noise that follows is so loud, I’m sure all of Witcombe must hear it. But I’ve come this far. There’s no backing out now. Taking a deep breath, I leave the brilliant morning behind and venture into the darkness.
As I feel my way along the wall, I wonder why people didn’t invest in windows back in the olden days. The damp plaster crumbles at my touch. Why didn’t I think to bring a flashlight? Dank air invades my lungs and refuses to leave. I try breathing through my mouth, but now I can taste the rotting house as well as smell it.
I must be in a hallway, because I can see light ahead of me. I hurry toward it. The corridor gives way to a tiny cubicle with a window. It’s small, and years of dirt are caked on the glass, but it provides enough daylight to see by.
The room is so tiny, a person with long arms could stand in the middle and touch the walls. But the guy is obviously living in it—well, sleeping anyway. There’s an air mattress and sleeping bag on the floor and a backpack and a stack of clothing on a table. It’s not exactly the Witcombe Hilton.
There is no other furniture, and no bags or boxes on the floor either. If the guy is the thief, he’s storing his loot in another room. I head back to the hallway. I find a couple of doors, but they are locked and boarded up.
I head back to the exit. On a hook by the door is a flashlight.
“Fat lot of help you are now,” I snort and walk outside. It’s like surfacing in a lake after a long, deep dive. My lungs hungrily suck up the fresh air.
I’m still not convinced the guy is innocent, but I don’t have any proof—yet. I guess I’ll have to stake out the place again and follow him when he shows up.
I take a quick look around the grounds before slipping back through the fence and replacing the iron bar. No one will ever know I was here. I hurry back to the road. Why do I feel like I’m being watched?
Chapter Four
According to the thermometer hanging by the door, it’s ninety-three degrees—and that’s inside the antique shop. Aunt Maude’s air-conditioning has packed it in. Talk about bad timing. We have set up fans all around the shop. If the electrical system doesn’t blow a circuit, it will be a miracle.
The store is quiet. Aside from the occasional person running in from the street in the hope of cooling off for a few minutes, it’s pretty dead. I’ve been put on dusting duty. In an antique shop, that’s a never-ending job. Today the only items being dusted are the ones located near the fans.
“Christine!”
I jump and spin around. Aunt Maude is standing right behind me. I grab my chest and roll my eyes. “Are you trying to give me a heart attack or what? You shouldn’t sneak up on a person like that.”
She laughs. “I didn’t sneak up on you. In fact, that’s the third time I called your name. But your head is so close to that fan, you couldn’t hear me.”
“Oh.” I shrug sheepishly. “I must’ve been dusting something underneath it.”
That makes Aunt Maude laugh again. “The reason I was calling you was to give you the rest of the afternoon off. It’s sweltering in here. Besides, there aren’t any customers. There’s no point in both of us melting. Why don’t you get your swimsuit and go for a dip in the community-center pool?”
“You should come too,” I say. “Close the shop. You said it yourself—there are no customers. We could both go for a swim.”
She pats my arm and prods me toward the stairs that lead to the apartment. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll get my swim—in the bathtub this evening while you’re making supper.” Then she winks and gives me another push.
The community center is packed with people—swimmers and air-conditioning seekers. It is way too hot to be outside. I imagine there’s hardly any room in the pool to swim, but simply submerging myself in the cool water will be a relief.
There are three pools—one for little kids and their parents, one with a water slide and a third, regulation-size pool complete with diving boards. That’s the one I head for. Though this pool has no age restrictions, only proficient swimmers are allowed to use it. Even so, there are lifeguards all over the place, with fluorescent lime-green T-shirts and whistles around their necks. At my pool, three of them prowl the edges—a girl and two guys.
“Whoa!” One of them grabs the arm of a boy just before he rams into me. “You know the rules, Mason. No running on the pool deck. You’ll hurt yourself or somebody else.”
The boy hangs his head and nods.
The lifeguard ruffles the kid’s hair and smiles. “Okay then. Try to remember from now on. Away you go.” When the lifeguard turns to me, I see his face for the first time. It’s the gorgeous guy who’s holed up in Greeley House. I’m sure my eyes bug out of my head.
“Sorry about that,” he says and then adds with a shrug, “Kids. They don’t mean to break the rules. They just forget
.”
I force a smile. “No problem.” Then I carry on to the pool. Whew! He didn’t recognize me. But I haven’t taken two steps when his voice stops me again.
“Wait a second. Don’t I know you?”
Rats! I paste a bewildered look on my face and turn around. “I don’t think so.”
He looks unsure for a couple of seconds. Then his expression clears, and a grin spreads across his features. “Sure, I do. Well, sort of. You were on that ghost walk last night, weren’t you?”
I have to give the guy credit. He thinks fast. By reminding me I saw him on the ghost walk, he reinforces his alibi.
What can I say? I nod. “Right. You were the guy who told everyone about the thefts in Kaleden.”
“Well, that’s been the big news around here for the last week. There have been motel break-ins or pickpocket robberies every day. From what I’ve heard, the police don’t have a single suspect. They have no idea where the thief will strike next. Whoever’s behind this is pretty clever.”
Pat yourself on the back, why don’t you? But, of course, I don’t say that.
“It’s only a matter of time before Witcombe gets hit.”
Well, you’d know, I say to myself, but to him, I say, “I sure hope not.”
“Hey, Simon,” another lifeguard calls as he heads for us. “Coming to the barbecue at Abby’s house?”
Simon? As in Simon Greeley? I know it’s not the same guy, but could the name be more than a coincidence? Could this be a descendent of Simon Greeley?
Simon Lifeguard shakes his head. “No, man. I’d like to, but I can’t. I’m whooped.” He checks his watch. “My shift is done in an hour, and then I gotta catch some z’s.”
Or perform another robbery.
I take this opportunity to sneak away. Yeah, I could still use a swim, but I have an hour before Simon is off-duty. I’ll use that time to check out his digs once more. Maybe there’s something in his backpack or buried beneath his pile of clothes. And if he’s planning another theft, I can follow him.
The thing about air-conditioning is that it doesn’t last. Within minutes of leaving the community center, I’m drenched in sweat. By the time I reach Greeley House, I’m sure I’ve sweated off five pounds. But there’s no time to waste, so I run up the trampled trail, dislodge the iron bar, slip through the fence and race to the door.
At which point I stop.
The door to Greeley House is padlocked. Where did that come from? Simon’s belongings are piled on the stone walkway in front of the door. And there’s a notice nailed to the door—PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT. TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED.
Chapter Five
As I crouch behind a bush waiting for Simon Lifeguard to show up, I think about this new plot twist. It would seem I am not the only one who knows he has been hiding out in Greeley House. And now he’s been evicted. I bet he wasn’t planning on that.
I have no idea what time it is, but it feels like sweat has been trickling down my back and puddling behind my knees for a couple of hours. The longer I wait, the more I start to think that Simon isn’t going to show. Maybe his story about needing sleep was a lie. Maybe he had no intention of coming back here, or maybe he needed an excuse to skip the barbecue. What an idiot I am! Simon is probably committing another theft right this minute.
And instead of catching him in the act, I’m hiding behind a stupid bush, getting sunstroke. But I can’t leave. The only way out is down Greeley Lane. If Simon shows up as I’m leaving, he’ll see me for sure.
I wish I had brought my phone. If nothing else, I could pass the time on the Internet. I no sooner think this than I hear whistling. It must be Simon. I make myself as small as I can.
The bush I’m hiding behind is at the top of the trampled trail, near the removable picket. I see Simon as soon as he leaves the sidewalk and starts up the side of the property. He could probably see me too if he was looking, but his gaze seems focused on his feet.
He lets himself through the fence and disappears behind the hedge. For a couple of seconds it’s dead quiet. I picture the confused expression on his face when he sees the padlocked door and his belongings stacked in front of it. And then, as his brain finally figures out what has happened—
I don’t have to use my imagination anymore. He lets loose with every swearword I’ve ever heard—plus a few more. The guy is definitely upset. He emerges from behind the hedge, kicks at the grass, stomps back and forth and launches into another round of cursing. More grass kicking. More stomping. More swearing.
His antics remind me of a spoiled little boy who has been told he can’t have candy. He is so out of control it’s funny, and, forgetting that I’m in hiding, I laugh.
I clap a hand over my mouth, but it’s too late. He stops pacing and ranting and spins in my direction. I’m not laughing anymore. In fact, I’m not even breathing.
As he tries to locate the source of the sound—namely, me—his eyes narrow into a squint. He sinks into a stalking position, every muscle poised for pursuit. I still can’t tell if he’s seen me, but I’m starting to get scared. As he steps through the hole in the fence, I panic and take off.
He definitely sees me now. I don’t need to look back to know he’s chasing me—and catching up. I hear his footfalls on the path. We reach the sidewalk at the same time, and before I can make the turn onto the lane, he catches me in a bear hug. He’s put on the brakes, but I’m still moving forward, so, of course, we both lose our balance. If my momentum wins out, we will crash onto the sidewalk, but he’s stronger and pulls me backward onto the grass. We still land with a thud though, and when my back slams into his chest, I hear the air rush out of him. He goes limp.
Now’s my chance. I roll off him, but instead of scrambling to my feet and running, I hesitate. What if he’s hurt?
Mistake. Before I can even check to see if he’s alive, he grabs my wrists and tumbles me to the ground, pinning me down.
“You!” he shouts when he gets a look at my face. “Why are you spying on me?”
I squirm beneath the weight of his body, but it’s no use. “Let me go!”
Still gripping my wrists, he eases himself up, but when I start kicking and writhing, he lowers himself right back down.
“Let me go!” I screech again.
“Only if you promise not to attack me.” He grunts, trying to corral all my wriggling body parts.
I thought I was perspiring before, but that was nothing compared to the rivers of sweat running over me now. The guy is simply too strong. I have no more fight.
“Fine,” I pant, letting my body go slack.
He doesn’t release me.
“I said I give up!” I growl. “So get off me already.”
“You’re sure you’re not going to kick me and take off again?”
“I’m sure. What do you want—a signed affidavit?” I scowl at him like I’m the one in control even though I’m pinned to the ground.
Eyeing me warily, he lets go of my wrists and pushes himself to his feet. Then he offers me a hand up.
I ignore his help and stand with as much dignity as I can muster. Then I brush the grass and dirt from my shorts and T-shirt, which are sticking to me like I’ve been swimming in them. My hair is plastered to my head, and sweat is dripping onto my neck. I’m sure I look lovely, but I’m too angry to care.
“I’ll ask you one more time,” he says, glaring at me. “Why were you spying on me?”
I fumble for a suitable excuse, but when nothing comes to mind, I opt for the truth. I prepare to run and scream, just in case. “I saw you go behind Greeley House during the ghost walk,” I tell him. “The place is like a fortress, but you got in, no problem. I wanted to know how and why. So I came to find out.”
“That’s it?” He seems surprised.
I shrug. “You seemed to know an awful lot about the robberies that have been going on.” Saying my suspicions out loud makes them sound totally lame.
For a second he just frowns and blinks at me
. Then his face breaks into a huge grin. “You thought I was the thief?” Without waiting for my answer, he bursts out laughing. “Seriously?” he manages between guffaws.
I bristle. “It’s not that crazy. Somebody’s the thief. Why not you? Holing up in a condemned house is exactly what a thief would do.”
He stops laughing, and now it’s his turn to shrug. “Okay, so your theory’s not totally off-the-wall. But believe me, I am not the thief.”
“So why were you sleeping in the house?”
“’Cause it beats sleeping on a park bench. I don’t have money for a place. Okay?”
“But you have a job,” I counter.
“Actually, I have two jobs. I lifeguard at the pool during the day and wait tables at a restaurant in the evenings. But I need every penny I earn.”
“For what?” Now that he’s on the defensive, I want to keep him there.
He scowls. “Not that it’s any of your business, but I’m saving for a conference. I got a scholarship to an elite magicians’ school, and part of it is held in Las Vegas. Some of the world’s best magicians are putting this on. My classes are covered, but I still have to pay for my accommodations in Vancouver, my airfare to Vegas, my hotel and my food.”
“A school for magicians?” I say. “You’re a magician?”
He nods. “I’m trying to be.”
“That still doesn’t explain why you have no place to stay. Where’s home? It’s obviously not Witcombe.”
“Calgary,” he says. “Well, it used to be Calgary. But my dad wants me to study law and join his firm. I took one year at U of C, but it’s not for me. I told him I want to be a magician—I’ve been doing magic since I was ten—but as far as he’s concerned, that’s not an option. It’s his way or the highway.” He shrugs again. “So I took the highway. I figured I’d work my way to Vancouver.”
I glance back at Greeley House. “Looks like your hotel has gone out of business. So now what? Know any magic for conjuring free accommodation?”
Alibi Page 2
