Cherry Ames Boxed Set 9-12

by Helen Wells

  His voice held the ring of truth, but perhaps he was only a clever actor. Cherry sighed, and sat down on a log.

  “If it’s Purdy’s mask, why should I give it to you? No, Mac, I’m sorry, but unless you can give me some believable explanation for all this—”

  “What do you care? That’s my business.”

  “It might also be my business if I should get our neighbor, Mr. Purdy, into trouble. I must say, Mac, you’ve behaved strangely—ducking when Purdy came into sight at the greenhouse that time—staying out of the way when he came to judge the picture exhibit—”

  “If you knew the truth, Miss Cherry, you wouldn’t blame me for ducking.”

  Mac sat down beside her and put his head in his hands. This young man was in trouble. Cherry felt a surge of unreasonable sympathy for him; she steeled herself against it. Mac’s entire behavior was suspicious, the stories he told were vague and wild.

  “Listen, Miss Cherry. I realize the way I’m acting doesn’t make any sense to you,” he said, with that extraordinary sensitivity—or cleverness?—of his. “But honestly there’s a reason—if I could tell you.”

  It seemed to Cherry that if the reason were an honest or valid one, Mac would not need to keep it secret. Blameless people did not go skulking around as Mac Cook was doing. But Cherry kept still and let him talk.

  “Miss Cherry, do you know if Paul Purdy came here directly from New York?”

  “I don’t know. Even if I did know,” she said stiffly, “I’m not sure I should tell you, I can tell you that Mr. Purdy is known and respected around here.”

  “Yes, sure he is,” Mac agreed. He plucked at a piece of twine, brooding. “Will you change your mind and let me have the mask? Please!”

  “I’m sorry, Mac, but I can’t do that.”

  Cherry walked away, leaving him sitting there. He seemed discouraged rather than angry.

  She did not think Mac would harm her in an effort to possess the mask. Did he, though, intend some harm to Paul Purdy? Secrecy would be essential. Why all the protests of innocence? To mislead her and keep her from talking? Or was there a chance that Mac was innocent—that the mask did belong to Purdy? That certainly appeared unlikely.

  Cherry at once removed the mask from the Can-You-Name-This Shelf. She put it in an envelope, sealed the envelope, and asked Uncle Bob to keep it for her in the safe. That mask might come in handy one of these days, she thought, remembering the newspaper article she had read. No mention of a mask was made, but the two women employees had said that the thief had appeared featureless.

  Could a mask like this make one appear featureless? Cherry believed it could.

  CHAPTER VII

  Look Out for Trouble

  THE GRAY KITTEN WAS EXPLORING CAUTIOUSLY, delicately, among the cool ferns at dusk, outside of the Mountaineers’ cabin. When Cherry saw the silky little creature jump at a fern frond, pretending to be a tiger, she looked more closely at the ferns.

  “So Katy completed her project,” Cherry said to herself. “Good for her!”

  There were repercussions.

  The first thing Cherry knew early the next morning was Sue Howard saying in an aggrieved voice outside her window:

  “Was it your idea, Miss Cherry? Hey! Are you awake?”

  “I’m awake, all right, especially with you talking in my ear,” Cherry said. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Oh. Sorry. But did you give Katy those ideas? I mean, it was very nice of her to suggest landscaping our cabin. And Mary Alice does appreciate Katy’s straightening her bunk shelf for her, even if Katy did accidentally spill Mary Alice’s bottle of toilet water. But are you responsible about the ferns?”

  “Ferns were Katy’s idea, and I admit I encouraged her.”

  At first the Mountaineers praised Katy’s efforts, Sue said, and welcomed her awkward efforts to be friends. “We said if Katy’d try, we’d try.”

  Searching for the ferns in the woods had been fun. But digging them up had led to an argument. Katy wanted to supervise the job; the other girls felt she was not doing her share of the work. Lil arbitrated. But when lugging the filled bushel baskets back to camp had produced blisters on their hands, Katy had complained loudest of all.

  “Oh, that Katy! She was bearable last week, as long as she thought she was Juliet. But now she’s her old cranky self again,” Sue sighed.

  “If you go on disliking her,” Cherry said, “all you’ll ever have is warfare. Do you want that?” Sue shook her head. “Believe it or not, Sue, I have an idea a sensitive, friendly girl is buried somewhere inside Katy.”

  “Buried awfully deep,” Sue observed, in a discouraged voice.

  “Yes, but trying to come out. I know you’ve tried to be patient and helpful, but were you the perfect camper, your first season at Blue Water?”

  “N-no. I guess,” Sue said quickly, “for Katy it’s harder than for others. That’s what Lil Baker told us. All right, Cherry, we Mountaineers will do our best for Katy, even if it kills us. She is doing better.”

  As Cherry predicted, Katy was trying hard to be less selfish. Sue and Ding treated her with a new respect, and Mary Alice forgave the wasted toilet water. But Katy had her lapses. The girls never could be sure what to expect from her. If it had not been for Mac Cook, snatching a blanket roll out of the fire at the woodcraft area, Katy would have paid dearly for her carelessness. They were using the blanket roll to practice how to handle it and how to choose the best spot for sleeping outdoors, for their forthcoming overnight hike.

  “You really ought to be a little more careful,” Sue told Katy worriedly. “You know we have to pass our skills tests, to go along on the hike.”

  “I’m going on that hike.” Katy tossed her head a little. “I’ll be just as skillful as anybody else. Notice that I know how to make a fire that lasts.”

  Sue bit her lip to keep from making an unkind answer; Jean Wheeler and Cherry intervened. Cherry had been giving them a little talk, warning about poison ivy, and poisonous berries and mushrooms, and in general how to take care of one’s health in the open. Jean Wheeler, the hiking master, went on to describe the shelters they would use on the trail.

  “The boys from Thunder Cliff built them, other summers, and they did a good job. If it rains or turns cold, we could live comfortably in those shelters for as long as we had to.”

  As the Intermediates practiced, Mac reinforced a stone fireplace at the end of the woodcraft area. Cherry sensed Mac Cook listening and watching.

  Ever since the conversation about the mask, Mac Cook had been half avoiding her. That mask weighed on Cherry’s conscience. She had been turning over in her mind the question of discussing it with the camp director. She had even been thinking of mentioning it—guardedly—to Mr. Purdy. But she saw no use in stirring up trouble over, quite possibly, nothing. If the mask had carried any identifying marks, that would be another matter. But the mask alone was a blind article. It was Mac Cook’s actions which—again!—were revealing.

  Cherry was walking along the road late one evening with Leona Jackson and Jean Wheeler, having a stroll before turning in. All this first week of August had been hot, even at this elevation. The cool, dark evening was a relief. Lights were out in the neighborhood farmhouses; the stretch of greenery which lay between the road and the water was deserted. In this peaceful place the three young women were startled by the wail of a siren.

  “What’s that?” Jean Wheeler trained her flashlight down the road toward the noise. “Police? Fire engine?”

  “Step back into the grass!” Leona Jackson pulled at Cherry’s arm.

  They quickly got off the road as the wailing vehicle rushed toward them. It flashed past and turned sharply into the hills, screaming as it went.

  “The state police,” Jean Wheeler said. “It looks as if they’re heading for that disreputable tavern where a fight broke out last summer.”

  She swung her flashlight in a wide arc around the road. Out of the dark a man came running across the flash
light’s beam—a yellow-haired man running in panic—running away from the lake front.

  “Why, it’s Mac Cook!” exclaimed Leona.

  “I thought he went home to the Clemences’ hours ago,” Jean Wheeler said. “And what’s he running like a scared rabbit for? Hi, Mac!”

  But he did not stop running nor look back. The flashlight’s beam could not extend far enough to follow him. Mac Cook vanished in the shadows.

  “He’s a crazy kid,” Leona remarked. “Come on. Let’s go home. It’s late and we have quite a piece to walk.”

  “Mac was probably coming back from a late swim,” Jean Wheeler said, “and the police siren startled him. Startled me, too.” She chuckled.

  But why, Cherry thought, did a police siren frighten Mac Cook so much that he fled in panic?

  What had he been doing at the lake’s edge? Not swimming, for she had seen that his hair was dry. Cherry would have liked to go and look around the water’s edge where Mac had appeared from, but her companions were starting back to camp. She tried to remember whether he had been carrying anything—perhaps a fishing rod—but she wasn’t sure.

  Thursday afternoon was free time for Cherry. She hitched a ride with Vernie Epler, whom she met on the road, and drove with Vernie toward the village.

  “Did you hear that siren last night?” Cherry asked.

  “Wasn’t it enough to wake the dead!” Vernie agreed. “Those shiftless people at the tavern, again. Mrs. Brenner, who lives a mile from there, called me up and told me the police padlocked that awful place. Thank goodness.”

  “I thought possibly someone had broken into Mr. Purdy’s barn again,” Cherry said, and waited for Vernie’s reply.

  “Not that I know of,” Vernie Epler said. She did not speak again until she headed the jeep into the village. She asked Cherry where she could let her off.

  “The drugstore, if that’s convenient for you.” The jeep stopped and Cherry jumped out. “Thanks a lot. It was fun to see you.” Even though we had very little conversation, Cherry thought.

  “Nice to see you,” Vernie said politely. She drove off, down the village street.

  “Now I have no reason to suspect Vernie Epler of anything,” Cherry scolded herself. “Vernie simply didn’t feel like chatting, that’s all. Why, the Eplers are among the most solid citizens around here.”

  She concluded that Mac Cook’s actions were making her so suspicious that she’d be wary of the birds and butterflies next, if she didn’t watch out!

  As though she had conjured him up just by thinking of him, Mac Cook stood in the drugstore, with his back to her, busily making a purchase. It gave Cherry a turn to see him so unexpectedly. Though wasn’t it always at unusual times and places that Mac appeared, with some weak excuse?

  Why was Mac Cook in the village during his working hours? Had the Wrights sent him in on an errand? At the moment Mac was buying, of all things, a bottle of hair bleach. There were no synthetic blonds in camp. Was Mac Cook buying the hair bleach for himself?

  Cherry looked carefully at his hair. Why, of course, it was dyed! It showed dark at the scalp—she had never noticed this before. And the mustache, too, must belatedly need a touch-up.

  She felt her heart pounding with excitement or with fear. The false blondness now pointed toward an open attempt at deception. All along she had felt doubtful about the young man’s doings but had been unable to prove anything. Now, today, here at a prosaic drugstore counter, she had stumbled onto the fact that he was trying to conceal his identity.

  “Hello, Mac,” she said, trying to sound as usual.

  “Great balls of fire! You again!” He faced her, trying to smile. “We seem to meet all the time. Well—” Mac Cook was flustered. “I—ah—I’m in the village because I have to buy supplies for one of the kids’ birthday party. This Saturday.”

  Cherry nodded and said, laughing, “You certainly use colorful language. What was that expression—‘Great balls of fire’?”

  But Cherry did not really feel like laughing, for she remembered all too clearly that the loan company robber, when confronted by the two women, had pulled a gun and said, “Great balls of fire! Get in that door and keep still!”

  “I didn’t use any expression like that.” Mac Cook had turned pale as a ghost. “You heard me wrong, Miss Cherry.”

  “Perhaps I did,” Cherry said pleasantly.

  The drugstore clerk came to give Mac the wrapped package and his change. Mac seemed relieved at the interruption. He held up the package jokingly.

  “Tooth powder, but not for the birthday party.”

  Cherry knew it wasn’t tooth powder, but she said nothing.

  They walked together to the door. “Didn’t you come in here to buy something?” Mac asked.

  “Yes. I’m in no hurry,” Cherry said.

  “Or did you come in here to spy on me?” His voice was low, so only Cherry could hear, and trembling with anger. “If you knew the whole story, you wouldn’t—”

  “Then why don’t you tell me the whole story?” Cherry had to control her own temper. “See here, Mac, I’m not spying on you. But what do you expect me to think when you ask me for the mask I fished out of the lake, and now when I find you buying hair dye, not tooth powder? What would you think?”

  “The worst.” He held the door open for her. They went outdoors together as if nothing were happening. “I can tell you this much. If you go to Purdy and tell him what you know about me—well—”

  “Well, what?”

  “You’ll be making an awful mistake. Don’t do it. There’s too much at stake. Don’t tip off Purdy!”

  “I don’t like being threatened, Mac Cook!” Cherry burst out. He tried to protest but she would not be stopped. “I know you’re afraid of something. Anybody would know after seeing you run down the road the other night when the state police car—”

  “So it was you! Who else saw?” Mac demanded.

  “Two other counselors.” Poor Mac. He was still a ghastly color, and his eyes pleaded like the eyes of an injured animal. Guilty or innocent, she pitied him. “Take it easy, Mac. The other two girls didn’t give it a second thought.”

  “But you did. Are you going to report me?”

  “I don’t know yet,” Cherry said. “I have to think.” Mac went on talking with an effort. Cherry let him change the subject.

  “Sue Howard’s going to have a birthday party,” he said. “Surprise party, I guess. But she’s sharp, she’ll probably guess it. Well, I have to get along to the grocery store. Sophie wants some extra supplies.”

  Mac and Cherry parted, Cherry deep in thought. Where did her duty lie? Should she report her suspicions to Uncle Bob? If she did, he probably would fire Mac and perhaps call in the police. And this, if Mac were innocent of any real wrongdoing, could do him great harm. But dared she wait, thus exposing the campers to possible harm and becoming in effect an accessory to what might have been Mac’s crime?

  So preoccupied was Cherry that she completely forgot to make her purchases and walked all the way back to camp, mulling over her problem as she went along.

  Finally, she came to a decision. “I believe,” she said to herself, “that I will wait a little longer. I’ll watch Mac as much as I can, and try to get some real evidence. All I have now are suspicions, and I’d hate to jeopardize a man’s reputation on suspicions alone.”

  With her mind made up, Cherry entered the infirmary, determined to find out the real truth about Mac Cook.

  So much noise, so many voices floated out of the Mountaineers’ cabin even after Lights Out that Cherry guessed Sue knew all about the “surprise” party. The clamor sounded too cheerful for squabbling with Katy. Friday night’s efforts at sleep were punctuated by that cabin’s bursts of song:

  “Goodness me, why what was that?

  Silent be, it was the cat!

  It was, it was the cat!

  They’re right, it was the ca-a-at!!”

  Then Lil Baker’s exasperated voice: “This is no
time to sing Pinafore.” There was a brief silence, followed by smothered giggles which Cherry could hear clear across the path in her own cabin. Well, with all these high spirits, and even allowing for tiffs with Katy, Sue’s birthday party promised to be a merry occasion.

  The entire camp was invited. Some brother campers of the same age were asked, too, including D. V. who, in tribute to Sue, brought the saxophone that he played in his school band. It was a perfect summer’s afternoon. Sophie had just finished icing several birthday cakes, and Mac carried them to public view on the Mess Hall tables.

  “Can’t put these gorgeous cakes on the Can-You-Name-This Shelf, can we?” Mac said. He was enjoying the fun as much as anybody.

  D. V.’s saxophone solo was not very professional, nor was Katy’s rendition of Juliet, but at least they added to the merriment. The Intermediates and Juniors played a far-flung game of hide-and-seek, fanning out over hill and meadow. Then they played baseball, while the Seniors looked on with dignity and the younger campers had their naps. Sue, the guest of honor, admitted she felt thrilled at attaining the age of twelve.

  “Now it’s only a year to wait until I enter my teens,” Sue said. Mountaineer or not, she had tied a ribbon in her hair today.

  There was still an hour to go before suppertime when the campers sat down in the grass to hold a sing.

  Just before suppertime, Mr. Purdy trotted into camp with his small camera slung around his neck. Aunt Bet escorted him to the big singing circle.

  “Yes, there’s still plenty of light to take pictures,” Cherry heard Paul Purdy say. He waved at the children, who called hello’s to the oddly garbed little man.

  Pep looked like an amiable pixie in his beret and thick-soled sandals. The lines in his face, Cherry noticed, spelled something else again. Was Purdy older than one would suppose? Ill? Worried about something? But he seemed in good spirits as he threaded his way toward Sue and her cronies.