Summer of the Spotted Owl

by Melanie Jackson

  “Oh, you’re one of those bright children,” Sylvester groaned, rolling his eyes. “Just my luck. I ask for a towel and I get theories.” He sneezed. “I’ll tell you what I really need, though.”

  “A dry Kleenex?”

  “A crooked politician.” Tucking his steno pad under an arm, Sylvester wrung out his dripping bangs. Luckily Madge had covered the Urstads’ gleaming pinewood floor with plastic. “Where are the crooked politicians when you need them? How long do I keep getting assigned stories about pranksters? Where’s my big break in journalism?”

  “Try searching for it outside,” said Madge acidly. She’d entered the dining room quietly to find out, I guess, what was taking me so long. When there was food available, I didn’t normally keep her waiting.

  “We don’t approve of intruders,” Madge informed Sylvester, her blue eyes narrowed and dangerous. She held up one of the Urstads’ portable phones. “Get out, or I’m dialing 911.”

  “Madge, meet Sylvester Sloan,” I said hastily. “Sylvester shows up when anything disastrous happens.”

  Madge’s brow cleared. “Oh, a reporter. Well, we have no disasters happening here, unless you count my failed attempt at a mural, so if you wouldn’t mind —”

  “I’d never mind,” Sylvester breathed. Gaping at my sister, he whispered, “Aphrodite, rising from the foam,” and gave a heavy lovesick sigh.

  Huh? Foam? Madge had been in the pool, that was all. She had a thick white towel wrapped round her bathing suit, and her burnished red hair was tied up in a wet ponytail. Comparing Madge to a goddess was a bit of a stretch.

  I waved a hand in front of Sylvester’s goggling face. “Do you read me … Repeat, do you read me…”

  Startled, Sylvester stepped sideways — and into the puddle he’d created by wringing out his bangs. He slipped, and— splat! Sylvester hit the wall’s wet paint. Now he had a fat white stripe down one side.

  “Sylvester, you look like a confused skunk,” Madge observed, and she and I burst into unkind laughter.

  Bored by yet another gawky admirer, Madge returned to the pool. However, I felt a bit sorry for Sylvester, so I walked him out to the Bugle car. It was the least I could do.

  Some kids playing hockey on the street jeered at him; a couple of cars slowed so their drivers could stare and snicker.

  “Maybe Mom was right: Journalism isn’t the career for me,” mourned Sylvester, tossing his steno pad on the driver’s seat. It landed with a squelch! “I toldja how she always thought I should go into insurance. Y’know, selling door-to-door.” He slid into the car, transferring a good portion of his white streak onto the driver’s seat.

  “But then you’d have to wear a business suit and look smooth and efficient,” I pointed out. “Somehow I can’t picture you being smooth and efficient.

  “Anyhow,” I continued, leaning on the open driver’s window, “you do have a talent for showing up after disasters.” I surveyed his drenched hair and smothered a laugh. “When not actually participating in them.”

  “That’s true.” Sylvester cheered up a bit. “Every time something happens at Rowena’s, I’m on it like an ant on picnic food.”

  A slow ant sometimes, I thought, but didn’t say this aloud. Instead I remarked, “You also showed up the time something happened at the Urstads’. ” I could tell Sylvester yearned to leave. He was fidgeting with the car keys, and his Adam’s apple bobbed agitatedly. But I didn’t want him to go, not yet.

  “The hang-glider crash, for example,” I elaborated. “That happened at the Urstads’. ”

  “Huh? So there was a hang glider. Well, it was supposed to happen at Rowena’s,” Sylvester said crossly. He shoved in the ignition key.

  “‘Supposed to’?” I reached over and pulled the key out. I’m one of those behaviorally challenged kids. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the high-pitched tipster,” Sylvester said crossly. He grabbed the key ring and we had a mini-tug-of-war. “He, she, or, Lord knows, maybe it, informed me that a hang glider was about to miss the landing field and come down into Rowena’s backyard by mistake. That I could get a great picture not only of the smashed hang glider, but of how disgracefully messy Rowena’s garden was.”

  I was so surprised I abruptly let go of the ignition key. Sylvester’s head struck the steering wheel. “Owww!”

  “You’re saying the hang glider was supposed to miss the landing field?”

  “No, I’m saying, ‘Owww.’ ” Sylvester clutched his head. “My skull is permanently dented, I’m sure of it.”

  “Let me see, Sylvester.” I slid farther in for a proper look. “What a fuss! Your head isn’t even bleeding.”

  Then, in my excitement, I hopped up and down beside his car. “You know what this means, don’t you? Itchy is definitely connected to the people playing pranks on Rowena. Think how tidy and well-pruned this posh neighborhood is. I myself noticed it from day one. Then think how a Bugle photo of Rowena’s ultra-messy backyard would’ve prompted tons more demands that she move.”

  “I don’t want to think,” Sylvester complained. “I want to be home with some hot lemon tea, aspirin and leaflets on how to register for an insurance-selling course.”

  I stopped hopping and mused, “I still don’t get why Itchy, an expert navigator, crashed into the Urstads’ pool rather than landing expertly on Rowena’s dandelions.”

  “Yeah?” Sylvester floored the accelerator. The engine roared. He didn’t go anywhere because the gearshift was still in Park. Sylvester was definitely having a bad day. He wrenched the gearshift into Drive.

  “Wait,” I objected. “We gotta figure out why all this is happening —”

  But Sylvester vroomed down the street. The kids playing hockey screamed and leaped out of the way.

  Their net wasn’t so lucky. Sylvester’s car plowed into the net, scooping it up. Sylvester careened round the corner, the net bobbing in front of him.

  Chapter Seven

  Fishy Business at the

  Salmon Hatchery

  Awater-filled red balloon shot across the stage. Darwood King, the host of Tomorrow’s Cool Talent, caught the balloon — it didn’t break. Already covered with a lemon meringue pie, Darwood called off-camera, “Ha! Foiled ya this time.”

  He announced, “And now, a singer from North Toronto!”

  On-screen, wild applause. Offscreen, I booed loudly.

  Jack switched the tv off. “Why torture yourself, Dinah? You know you’re better than any Tomorrow’s Cool Talent contestant. You’ll make it without the show’s help.”

  “Yeah, but with the show’s help, some contestants get record contracts and tv appearances and stuff,” I muttered grumpily.

  Hearing our voices, Madge came in from the dining room. Her smock was free of paint splotches — which meant that, for yet another day, she hadn’t thought of a subject for her mural.

  She plopped down beside Jack and they exchanged a kiss. No doubt this would have been a longer and gooier kiss if I hadn’t been there, eyeing them. I tolerated only just so much lovey-doveyness.

  “It’s me you should be giving the pep talk to, not Dinah,” Madge told Jack. “Dinah has tons of confidence.”

  Yeah, but you have tons of beauty, I thought, pressing the remote’s on-switch again. Why, I wondered, as I often did, couldn’t I have got a smidgen, just a smidgen, of Madge’s good looks?

  “Whereas I have painter’s block,” Madge was sighing. “Mrs. Urstad wants a bright, cheerful scene of nature. This morning I outlined a couple of perky bluebirds on top of a white picket fence. More greeting-card stuff. Yech!”

  Jack grinned. “I take it the perky bluebirds have been whitewashed?”

  “Savagely.” Madge had been snuggling into his shoulder; now she sat up and regarded him with curiosity. “Hey, you’re here early. I thought you had a staff meeting every day at this time.”

  “I was summoned by a rare and glorious event,” Jack informed her. “Your sister left a message at the soac offic
e, pleading, the receptionist said , for me to take her to a meeting of the Young Scientists’ League this afternoon.”

  Madge stared at him, then me. “The Young Scientists’ League … my sister?”

  “Yes,” I said brightly. “While you’ve been painting, Madge, I’ve been nurturing a love of all things scientific. And when I found out that the Young Scientists were meeting just down the road, at the Capilano Salmon Hatchery, I — well, I just knew I had to join them.”

  I made my eyes very round and sincere behind my glasses. When Jon Horowitz directed me in The Moonstone, he’d told me my hazel— that’s a nice way of saying green blotched with muddy brown — eyes were expressive. The bad news was that the next time I appeared in a play, I’d probably have to wear contacts. Yech!

  “Salmon hatching,” said Madge. Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “More likely mischief hatching.”

  “Aw, leave the kid alone,” said Jack, amused. “If our Di has even a salmon-egg-sized interest in the goings-on at our local hatchery, the trip will be worth it.”

  “I do, I do,” I said and slid the Bugle article I’d ripped out—Egg-Citing: Councillor Cordes To Greet Young Scientists At Hatchery Today—into my pocket and safely out of sight.

  My plan was to corner Itchy’s dad and tell him his son was involved in the threats and pranks against Rowena Pickles. Subtle, or what?

  Predictably, Madge and Jack then started in on the subject of my somewhat low science marks. I responded by turning the volume up on Tomorrow’s Cool Talent. Darwood King was listing the acts that had been selected for the next week’s show.

  “…the singing Butterwick family from Mississauga!” the host shouted, dodging a cream pie.

  Mississ–er, whatever, was a suburb of Toronto. What was with this show? Did the rest of Canada just not exist?

  A second cream pie flew. Splat! “Aaagghh!” Darwood yelled.

  The yelling continued. It took us a moment to realize that yells were now coming from outside the front door. We ran out on the porch to find out what the excitement was.

  On the sidewalk, Pantelli, who’d be joining Jack and me in our salmon hatchery visit, was pointing to Rowena’s house. “Bald Guy!” he shouted. “I just saw him! He put down another sign and zoomed off!”

  “Where’d he zoom?” Jack demanded.

  Pantelli flapped his cracked pocket magnifying glass in the direction of the canyon. “He ran past Rowena’s, and then I heard a loud crackling sound, like he was somersaulting through the underbrush.”

  Just like Itchy, I thought. Whatever happened to dignified getaways?

  While Jack peeled round the side of Rowena’s house, Madge, Pantelli and I checked out the latest sign. Yup, another witchy one. Depicted in rough strokes of black paint, a wild-haired woman was skyborne on a twiggy broom. Several cats were perched behind her on the broom. GO AWAY, WICH, read the crude black letters underneath.

  “Our bald friend is nasty and a bad speller,” observed Madge. She held up the sign distastefully between thumb and forefinger. “However, unlike me, he obviously isn’t having any trouble with painter’s block. He seems to churn these out quite easily.”

  Rowena poked her head out from an upstairs window. Her long gray hair dangled, Rapunzel-like, over the sill. “Never mind about these silly signs. Have I told you, Madge, about the history of women accused of being witches? Fascinating subject—”

  “Er, Rowena,” I interrupted hastily, “we’ve just had another sighting of Bald Guy. I really think you should call the police.”

  Rowena drew back. Her rosy, lined face closed up as it always did at the subject of the police. “Never mind about doing that. I understand you mean well, Dinah, but …”

  Her voice trailed off, leaving me with the uncomfortable impression that in fact she thought I didn’t mean well at all. That she thought I was a busybody.

  At that moment, Jack reappeared, Napoleon trotting adoringly at his heels. “No Bald Guy,” he reported. “The canyon swallowed him up.”

  The salmon hatchery was a walk away — or more like a lo-o-ong descent away. Through the towering firs, we walked down a thousand steps or so to the very bottom of the canyon. “Just think, we’ll be climbing all the way back up,” Jack said cheerfully. He paused to remove some of Napoleon’s orange hairs from his T-shirt. “Doesn’t anyone ever groom that cat?”

  “Rowena’s too busy being mysterious,” I said.

  This wasn’t quite fair. Our neighbor spent a lot of time caring for her cats, not to mention baking organic fruit pies for Madge and me. But I was feeling grumpy at the prospect of struggling up the side of the canyon again, especially after Jack had sounded so smug about it. “She’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Have you guys noticed that, though she pops over to visit Madge and me a lot, she’s never invited us to her place?”

  “No,” Jack and Pantelli replied together. Pantelli slid through the wooden stair rails to examine a tree stump. Huh! Some help they were.

  I told Jack about seeing Rowena through a window, and how she’d looked so guilty while opening her brassbound trunk. “Maybe she has stolen property in there,” I suggested.

  “Or maybe dirty laundry,” returned Jack. “Maybe she hadn’t done a wash in a few weeks, and she was feeling embarrassed about it.”

  Pantelli had lagged behind, squinting through his cracked magnifying glass at every bit of the tree stump. I raised my voice to include him in my reply to Jack.

  “Nevertheless, there’s something really weird about this situation,” I belted out.

  Too late I realized that we’d reached the end of the path. A crowd of kids was gathered. Heads swiveled toward me.

  “To continue,” harrumphed Councillor Cordes. He was standing on a small portable wooden stage in front of the Young Scientists. Contrasted against his white suit, his carrot hair flamed like a lit match. “On behalf of the District of North Vancouver, I am delighted to welcome you, the members of the Young Scientists’ League.”

  He made an expansive gesture round at the crowd, which consisted of solemn-looking kids my age laden with binoculars, cameras and notepads. Councillor Cordes looked smooth and confident, nothing like his panicky son.

  “So many of today’s youth scorn their studies in favor of mindless tv shows and video games,” Councillor Cordes was saying. “It’s a rare pleasure to be able to welcome true scholars such as yourselves!”

  I pushed to the front of the crowd.

  “True scholars know all about salmon — unlike most of the riffraff in our schools,” Councillor Cordes boomed. He smiled down at me. In my wide-eyed state, I must’ve looked very admiring.

  “You, for instance, young lady,” the councillor said heartily. “I bet you know which way salmon swim, right?”

  The Young Scientists, Councillor Cordes and a petite, heavily made-up, chestnut-haired woman behind the councillor stared at me, waiting for a reply. The only sound was the murmur of nearby Capilano River.

  “Um.” I glanced around. Behind the Young Scientists, Jack, trying not to laugh, pointed upward. Oh, I got it.

  I turned back to Councillor Cordes. “Sure, I know. Salmon swim headfirst.”

  After that, an official from the salmon hatchery hurriedly stepped forward to lead the Young Scientists on a tour. First stop: A display case just inside the hatchery.

  “Fascinating,” Pantelli murmured, peering through his cracked magnifying glass.

  “Are you a salmon specialist?” a girl asked him.

  “No, a tree specialist. The paneling behind this display case is just starting to develop wormwood.”

  With an odd look, the girl edged away from Pantelli. Meanwhile, a beanpole-ish boy with glasses even thicker than mine was gazing curiously at me over the top of his clipboard. “And what chapter of the League are you with?”

  “I’m here on investigative work,” I informed him and glanced round for Councillor Cordes.

  Itchy’s round, pink dad was easy to spot, even in the di
mly lit hatchery. Now by the entrance, he was rapidly jabbering at the petite, chestnut-haired woman. She was just as rapidly taking notes.

  “You haven’t investigated salmon very thoroughly,” Beanpole commented. “Salmon swim upstream, as any self-respecting League member should know.”

  I sidled away from him to look through a large window at the fish ladder. I watched salmon swimming up the steps to lay their eggs. The salmon struggled so hard, yet looked so graceful. Up, up they went—well, if they can keep trying, I thought, I have no right to wimp out when I have to do challenging stuff. Like practicing scales over and over and over.

  I elbowed my way closer to Councillor Cordes and the chestnut-haired lady. To my annoyance, Beanpole followed me. With a slight wriggle of his lips, he said, “The fact is, I haven’t seen you before, and there’s the question of yearly dues. One can’t just gate-crash one’s way into the League, you know.” He brandished a pen over his clipboard, which held a Young Scientists’ League membership form. “Name, please?”

  I was about to say something rude when Councillor Cordes’s words boomed through the hatchery’s soft gray light. “Have you got all the papers ready? There’s no time to waste, hon.”

  “What?” I murmured.

  “Watt,” Beanpole scribbled. “Given name?”

  “No dillydallying,” Councillor Cordes told the petite lady. His assistant, I assumed. How awful to have to listen to that booming all day!

  “That’s why I fired the person before you,” the councillor boomed on. “Dillydallying!” He barked with laughter.

  I strained to hear. Which papers was the little assistant not supposed to dillydally over?

  “Given name,” Beanpole repeated.

  “I’d… uh … ” I mumbled, wishing Beanpole would go away.

  “Ida,” Beanpole said with satisfaction and wrote it down. “Well, Miss Ida Watt, I need twenty-five dollars from you for official membership in the Young Scientists’ League.” He glared at me through his thick lenses. “We can’t have hangers-on, you know.”