Outside again the sky had clouded over and cast the cemetery in shadows that threatened to dampen her mood. True, research in the library was not her preferred means of investigation, but they had made a breakthrough. Even Samuel had to admit it. Alice, Ten Years Old didn’t matter. It was just a front. It even explained why Mr. Jones had been taking such good care of that particular stone: so the spies could easily identify it. Though if she were Mr. Jones, she would put flowers on some of the other graves, too, as if it were part of one big project of flowering Pauper’s Field. Then she would tell her spies, “Don’t forget, Alice’s favorite color is orange,” and they would know just where to go.
Making sure Mr. Jones wasn’t near, she ducked around to the door of the mausoleum. The stone was wet, as if it were weeping water. It moved a little more easily this time. The can of tuna was just where she left it. She scooped it up as she stepped inside the mausoleum. The air inside was warmer than the outside and smelled as old as dry leaves. They would need some candles. Carefully, she placed her bag of canned vegetables next to the wall. She wasn’t sure how much food they would need; they would be on rations for sure, like back during World War II when you could only buy certain things with stamps and everyone had a Victory Garden to grow their own vegetables instead of buying them at the store. Her grandmother had told her about those. It was too bad that her grandparents were all the way down in Florida. She hoped they had the sense to make their own fallout shelter.
Peeking outside to make sure the coast was clear, she reemerged.
With a shove that took her whole body, she closed the door to the mausoleum. She took a deep breath of the damp fall air, and it felt just like breathing in new life. She was so close to finding the proof she needed, she could taste it.
She followed the meandering paths to the edge of the cemetery far from Alice’s stone. This was Soldier’s Field, where those who had died in combat were buried. Her dad had told her that not every stone had a body under it; some people were buried overseas or their bodies had never been recovered. Hazel didn’t understand why they had headstones, then, but her dad explained that people liked to have a place to go to still feel like they were with the person who was gone. Hazel knew this was true because people were always coming to the cemetery and sitting and talking and crying—in fact, the Wellehans were at the grave of their son at that very moment—but it still didn’t make a lot of sense to her. The grave was just the grave. Still, she did like Soldier’s Field and the way the graves were dotted with tiny American flags. She liked to see the flags all in rows, like the soldiers were still standing at attention. There were two newer graves, not even four months old, for two boys from town who had been in Korea and died just before the war ended and the troops were called back home.
One of the boys was Archie Winslow, whose sister Annabelle had been in Hazel’s class the year before. She’d cried for three days. The other was Bobby Li, whose family had come to Vermont from China and had a Chinese restaurant in town. Hazel had the menu memorized because they went there at least twice a month. People said it was funny that Bobby went back home to fight against the Koreans, but Hazel knew that was wrong, because China and Korea were different countries, and anyway, Bobby had been born here just like her. He used to give her chopsticks that he’d bind together with a rubber band so she could use them like pinchers when she ate. Hazel knew it was sad that the boys had died no matter what, but it seemed especially sad that if they had only made it a couple more weeks, they’d be home and probably working in the factory or in the restaurant instead of being buried in Memory’s Garden.
Someday, Hazel realized, someone like Samuel might come along and try to find out their story. She ought to write down some more information so that whoever it was could get the whole story and get it right.
Just at the turn of the fence stood one of her favorite climbing trees, and she scrambled up the trunk, reaching for the familiar first branch and heaving herself up. She kept climbing until she got to the crook, a perfect place to sit and contemplate, sheltered by orange and red maple leaves. She could see out, but others couldn’t see her.
Her mind wandered to school that day. Triangle people. Maryann and Connie didn’t mean that she was well balanced or pointed or the base of a pyramid. No, they meant that she was not cut out to do anything more exciting than chime the triangle at the end of the song, and they all knew she couldn’t even do that well. She didn’t know the words to the skipping rope songs, and on the one occasion when she’d been asked to join in—prompted by their third-grade teacher, Mrs. Messing—she’d tripped over the rope anyway. She’d asked her mom to buy her a rope, but with just her and Becky Cornflower, it hadn’t worked so well. They’d tied one end to a tree, and Becky spun the other while Hazel tried to jump, but Becky got bored and Hazel never got any better.
The problem, Hazel knew, was that she was a remarkable person trapped in an unremarkable package.
If only I had a glockenspiel, she thought. I’d show them.
When she solved the case, then they’d know just what she was capable of. In the stories, one clue led to another so easily. She and Samuel had a theory now, but finding hard evidence against The Comrade was proving far more difficult than she’d originally imagined, especially using Samuel’s methods.
A breeze blew through the tree, rustling the leaves. They seemed so fragile, orange and ready to fall, but they held on.
A snapping sound came from below her. She leaned forward and peered through the branches. Mr. Jones was in Soldier’s Field straightening the flags.
This was her chance to observe him without his knowing it.
He was carrying a shovel in one hand and was using it like a cane, swinging it out in front of him with each step. The point tapped into the dirt with each long, loping stride. Hazel knew there weren’t any soldiers being buried, so once again he was in the wrong place with his shovel. He looked at his watch. Maybe he had a rendezvous with one of his associates. She could watch the whole thing go down. They might be exchanging money, or information, or maybe the associate was coming to tell him that the investigators at the factory were getting too close and they would have to call off the whole mission. Hazel didn’t want Mr. Jones to leave before she had a chance to expose him as a Russian spy.
He walked a few more steps, then stopped in front of a grave. Hazel counted the gravestones to remember where it was, but just as quickly he moved on.
She held on tightly to the branch, wondering what he would do if he found her spying on him. She wasn’t spying, of course. He’d come into her space, and she’d just been minding her own business, in her own thoughts. But he wouldn’t see it that way.
He crouched down like a wolf, ready to pounce. Maybe he sensed her in the tree. She tried to make herself as small as possible, pulling herself right back against the trunk. She took a deep breath, then pressed her lips together to hold it in.
Mr. Jones stood up, placed his hands on the small of his back, then tilted his head up toward the sky. Then he did the strangest thing. He walked a bit more into Soldier’s Field, bent over, and picked up one of the flags. He tucked it into his back pocket and started on his way. Hazel was just about to let out her breath when he stopped and looked over his shoulder, right at the tree.
As soon as he was gone, Hazel rushed into her house and took out her Mysteries Notebook. She wrote:
Stole flag from cemetery.
What, she wondered, could he be doing with it? She imagined him breaking the tiny flagpole, stomping on the flag. Maybe he would even burn it. A tiny pit of anger curdled in her stomach. He had to be stopped.
Anti-American activity observed.
She turned the page back to her questions. Next to Who is Alice? she wrote:
Alice Winthrop, secretary. Headstone is potential drop point. Must prepare stakeout.
14
Chopsticks
“Hazel!”
Hazel’s mom’s voice boomeranged up the stairs and into h
er room, where she was flopped back onto her bed reading a Kay Tracey book. Knowing Hazel liked Nancy Drew, her grandmother had picked up one of the Kay Tracey books at a yard sale, but it just wasn’t the same. Nancy was a far superior sleuth and had all-around better adventures.
“Hazel, put your school clothes back on! We’re going to Li’s!”
Hazel sat up straight in bed. Li’s was her favorite. She had to take a minute, though, or her mom would know she hadn’t ever changed out of her school clothes in the first place. She stood on one foot for as long as she could, then stood on the other. When she decided enough time had passed, she skipped down the stairs.
Her mother’s hair was tied up in a loose, messy bun. As the family drove into town in their old Ford that made a clunking noise whenever they turned to the right, Hazel found out the reason for their trip: the seed company had mailed the wrong kind of bulbs and they needed to be planted this week. “We didn’t have enough savers last year, and if we want to expand the line all along the front edge …” Her mom shook her head. Her mom had spent the whole afternoon trying to get it sorted and had forgotten all about dinner. Again.
Someday people would be able to just push a button and any kind of food would appear in their refrigerators. That would actually be too bad, Hazel thought, because she loved Li’s. They had dark red velvet curtains with gold pom-poms as trim. Each table had a pink tablecloth and a little white china bottle for soy sauce and a little glass jar of the spiciest relish in the whole entire world. Plus Mr. and Mrs. Li were just about the nicest people you could ever meet. Mr. Li did most of the cooking, and Mrs. Li was out front, and she always seemed to have a pitcher of water so your glass was never empty. Maybe in the future they would still have restaurants. You’d just be able to get to them by teleporting.
They parked around back and walked to the front, and it was Hazel who saw the window first. She stopped. Instead of red curtains, the window was covered with a sheet of plywood.
“Hazel,” her mom said, annoyed, but then she saw the plywood, too. “What on earth is that about? There isn’t a storm coming, is there?”
Hazel’s father shook his head. “It’s broken,” he said. “See, around the edges.”
They pushed open the door and Mrs. Li greeted them, but she wasn’t as happy to see them as she usually was. She’d been sad since Bobby died, but this was different. This was like someone had soaked her with water, then wrung her out before throwing her on the floor still damp.
Neither of her parents said anything about the window, so Hazel spoke right up. “Who broke your window, Mrs. Li?”
“Hazel,” her dad said, his voice quiet but stern.
Mrs. Li shook her head. “Just a bunch of juvenile delinquents.”
Mr. Li stood by the kitchen wiping his hands on his apron. He said something to Mrs. Li in Chinese, and she shook her head again. Hazel didn’t speak Chinese, but she felt pretty sure that Mr. Li thought it was something other than juvenile delinquents. His eyes sparked fire.
“That’s terrible,” her dad said. “Just terrible.”
“We’ll fix it,” Mrs. Li said.
“No. We’ll leave it!” Mr. Li called to her. “Leave it and let people see.”
“Right this way,” Mrs. Li said, and led them to their usual table.
When they sat down, they didn’t pick up the menus that were cased in red leather with gold tassels; they always got the same thing.
“Why would someone smash in the Lis’ window? That doesn’t make any sense. Why not the window at the drugstore? Mr. Nitz is always chasing away kids.”
“That’s no reason to break a window,” her father told her. Of course it was no reason to break a window; Hazel knew that. But if you were the type of person who wanted to break a window, wouldn’t you do it to someone who was mean to you? Not someone who made delicious pork dumplings. “I don’t think it was juvenile delinquents.”
“Hazel,” her mom said. “Just let it go.”
“It doesn’t make sense, and Mr. Li doesn’t think so, either. There has to be another reason.”
“You don’t think—” her mom began, but let her thought go unfinished.
Still, her dad seemed to know just what she meant to say. “No. Well, then again, I suppose it is a possibility.”
“What’s a possibility?” Hazel demanded. The candle in the tiny glass votive holder flickered.
“It’s nothing you need to worry about, honey.”
But Hazel was worried. There was a marauding band of vandals raging through her town. Their first stop might be the Lis’ window, but maybe the next stop would be the cemetery. Why, they could be there right now turning over headstones and ripping out flowers.
The tinkle of chimes came from the door, letting them know that someone had arrived. It was Mrs. Switzer, the owner of the Switzer Switch and Safe Factory, and right behind her was Samuel. Mrs. Switzer’s gaze flitted around the room like a butterfly in a steel plant, looking for a place to land. When Mrs. Li came over, Mrs. Switzer shifted her eyes to the window, and then back to Mrs. Li: quick, but Hazel picked up on it.
Hazel waved her hand. “Samuel! Hey, Samuel!”
When Samuel saw her he smiled, and Hazel stood up to go say hello, and so did her parents. Her mother reached Mrs. Switzer first, extending her hand. “Mrs. Switzer, I’m not sure if you remember me, I used to babysit—”
“Lydia Tenley,” Mrs. Switzer said, voice as tight as razor wire. “Of course I remember you.”
Hazel thought her mom ought to be embarrassed at the way Mrs. Switzer was talking to her. It was the way Mrs. Sinclair sometimes talked to Otis when he was being particularly bothersome. Hazel’s mom just said, “This is my husband, George Kaplansky, and this is my daughter, Hazel.”
Mrs. Switzer gave her a quick once-over, gaze lingering on her scuffed saddle shoes. “Memory’s Garden. Thankfully I haven’t a need for that place yet.”
“We’ve got your plot waiting for you when you do. Planted new grass seed just last year,” her dad said.
Hazel’s mom elbowed her father hard, but his comment got a sly smile out of Mrs. Switzer.
“Are you eating here, Samuel?” Hazel asked. “You have to have the dumplings and the moo shu pork. You should sit with us. We get a bunch of things to share.”
“We’re not staying,” Mrs. Switzer said. “I was called in for a meeting at the factory, last minute, you see.” She looked at Mrs. Li and then away. Hazel had a hunch. It was such a strong hunch that she leaned forward on her tippy toes. Mrs. Switzer seemed like the kind of woman who wouldn’t be afraid to stare down a six-headed fork-tongued demon, but she wouldn’t look Mrs. Li in the eye. “Samuel tells me he is fond of Chinese cuisine, so I told him we’d pick up some food and he can bring it to the meeting.”
“Alone?” Hazel asked. That seemed like the saddest way possible to eat Chinese food.
“He’s brought some books,” Mrs. Switzer said. “My office at the factory is quite comfortable. There’s even a settee should the meeting run late.”
“Why doesn’t Samuel stay and eat with us,” her mother said. “We could bring him home after.”
“I’m not sure just how long this meeting will last. With recent events, the board is looking for a strategy.”
Recent events. She had to be talking about the spies at the factory. Hazel got a tingle of the hunch again. She rocked back on her heels. She’d been so interested in her hunch, she’d missed the obvious question right in front of her: What was Samuel doing with Mrs. Switzer?
“We can take him home with us. If the meeting goes on too long, we have a spare room.”
Mrs. Switzer looked at Samuel and the Kaplanskys. Samuel gave a little nod. “If you’re sure it’s no trouble, I’m sure my grandson would find it enjoyable,” Mrs. Switzer said.
“No trouble at all,” Hazel’s father replied.
Mrs. Switzer didn’t hesitate. She took down the Kaplanskys’ telephone number, thanked Hazel’s parents, and was
on her way. Hazel led Samuel right over to their table. She wished the two of them could sit together and she could tell him what she saw with Mr. Jones and the American flag and ask him why he’d never told her that Mrs. Switzer was his grandmother.
“So you’re a Chinese food aficionado?” her dad asked as they sat down.
“My mom likes it a lot. She’s not much of a cook.”
“My mom’s a great cook so long as it comes out of a can.”
Hazel’s father laughed but tried to make it look like a cough by covering his mouth with his hand. “Your mother is a fantastic cook,” he said.
From her seat, Hazel could see the boarded-up window, the way the plywood buckled a little bit at the middle.
While they waited for their food, they sat in silence. This wasn’t unusual for her family, but it felt awkward with Samuel there. Samuel was the one who broke the silence. “So, who do you like for the World Series?”
Her dad cleared his throat, and then said gently, “The Series already happened this year. The Yankees took it.”
“I’m talking about the next one. 1954.”
Her father smiled. “Are you asking me to predict the future?”
“Baseball is just a numbers game. Entirely predictable if it weren’t for the players.”
“Is that so?” Her father chuckled.
“It is. My money is on the Giants.”
“The Giants? They haven’t won in decades.”
“Of course, it will depend on any off-season trades.”
Hazel’s father grinned and said, “Come this summer, we can put money on it.”
Mr. Li brought their food, each plate covered with a metal dish that he ceremoniously pulled off: dumplings, moo shu pork, General Tso’s chicken, and her mother’s favorite: lucky tofu. They were serving themselves and starting to eat when Samuel asked, “How long have you been in the cemetery business?”
The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill Page 8
