“Yeah, what for, Dinah?” someone said over my shoulder.
“My friend Talbot St. John is lost, possibly kidnapped by a bald —”
Having just registered the sound of that last voice, I paused. I turned and saw Talbot St. John grinning at me.
“Hey, don’t tell me you were worried about me, Di.” His dark brown eyes were teasing and pleased, all at once.
“Okay, I won’t. But what happened to you?” I demanded of Talbot. “One minute you were in front of me on the bridge, and the next …”
“And the next, ‘the fog crept in on little cat feet,’ ” Talbot finished.
Like Mother, Talbot was given to bursting into quotations. Was there no getting away from these poetry spouters? His theory was that the more poetry and lyrics you read, the better you’d write them yourself. And he loved writing songs. He carried a notebook around with him at all times in case a song came to him.
I glared at him. “This is no time to get literary,” I informed him.
Talbot laughed. “When you said you wanted to talk to Itchy, I remembered who’d have Councillor Cordes’s home number. My mom! She works at Vancouver City Hall as an executive assistant— and has access to all kinds of vip phone numbers. So I scooted off the bridge to a pay phone and gave her a buzz.”
Talbot waved his notebook at me. “Phone number and address of the Cordes family.”
“Good work,” said Pantelli, joining us. He held the Styrofoam container with Talbot’s lunch, or what was left of it, inside. Handing the container to Talbot, he uttered a loud belch — Pantelli’s version of a friendly greeting.
When I got back to the Urstads’, Madge was sketching on a large pad.
“Got a new mural idea?” I inquired.
“I think so. We’ll see … So what’s up?”
I told Madge about Pantelli’s, Talbot’s and my adventures at the Capilano Suspension Bridge. To my surprise, she listened without rolling her eyes or asking me to leave. She was genuinely interested.
“That was very resourceful of Talbot,” Madge observed. “He’s a good researcher. No wonder he does so well in school.”
Talk about spoiling a mood.
Madge then became even more boring and older-sisterly. “Naturally, I forbid you to go over to the Cordeses’. The last thing I need is to have you confront the councillor and Itchy and try to ‘grill’ them, as you unattractively put it. You’d probably be brought back here in a police car.”
Cool, I thought, imagining what a dramatic entrance that would be. But I kept the thought to myself.
“Isn’t it ironic,” Madge mused. “Here I am trying to paint a lively scene, and you head off, day after day, and live out one.”
She had that dreamy-eyed look again.
“Madge, if you’re going to babble…” I said witheringly and left the dining room.
ROWENA PICKLES: THE FILE
Pantelli peered doubtfully over my shoulder at the piece of paper I’d attached to a clipboard. “Dinah, you’re not organized enough to keep files,” he objected.
We were standing on Rowena’s porch. I’d just pushed the doorbell, which was held in place by two layers of Scotch tape. “I don’t have to be organized,” I informed Pantelli scornfully. “I have a system. Anything I want to keep, I toss in the laundry basket. When Mother or Madge goes through the basket on laundry day, they find my stuff, and put it somewhere sensible.”
“Uh-huh.” Pantelli was still doubtful, I guess because he himself had an extremely efficient filing system for all his notes — his “findings,” he called them — on trees.
Rowena appeared. She got the wary, slightly hunted look she always had when I showed up at her door.
“I’m checking on the prank situation, whether there’ve been any in the past few days,” I smiled.
This wasn’t really what I was up to, of course. I knew quite well there hadn’t been any pranks, not since, come to think of it, Zoë had promised me she’d talk to Councillor Cordes about Itchy. I was here because I was determined to see inside Rowena’s house, specifically the brassbound trunk she was so secretive about.
“Nothing’s happened,” Rowena assured me. She had the door ajar only a crack.
Dang. I’d hoped she’d feel obliged to invite us in. Well, I’d have to try the subtle approach.
“Could we come in?” At her stare, I invented wildly, “Pantelli isn’t feeling well.”
Both Rowena and Pantelli, who was busy emptying a bag of m&ms into his mouth, gaped at me.
“No, you cannot come in,” Rowena replied in a rather sharp tone.
The door shut.
“Rowena could be a spy,” Pantelli remarked suddenly. He was in the process of capturing yet another of my pawns.
We were playing chess in the pool. Yes, the pool. Why not? You put the board and pieces on an inflatable cushion, and you’re all set.
“After all,” said Pantelli as I frowned at the board in frustration — he was a much better player than I was — “spies carry top-secret papers around. When they’re not getting caught and having to eat the papers in a hurry, that is.”
I considered this possibility. But not for long. While capturing my knight, Pantelli knocked my queen off the cushion. Plunk! Down to the bottom of the pool she sank.
Listen, I didn’t say a swimming pool was the ideal place to play chess.
Chapter Ten
The Quay to a Disastrous Lunch
Mother phoned and suggested we meet for lunch at Lonsdale Quay. A Galloway girls’ reunion, you might say.
Now, I don’t mind quality time with the maternal unit. But watching her and Madge slide raw oysters down their throats at the outdoor café was totally gross.
“What are you two, contestants on Fear Factor?” I asked as Mother and Madge proceeded to squeeze lemon over more oysters gleaming in their shells. I could swear the oysters wriggled.
“At least we’re elegant in our dining choices,” Madge observed. She gave a scornful glance at the lunch I’d ordered: a mega-cheeseburger, bacon, tomato and heaps of onions, and wedge fries. Later I planned to order a huge piece of the butter crumb cake I’d glimpsed on the dessert trolley.
Then she glunked down a huge oyster, whole.
“Elegant” was Madge’s favorite word. Since she used it day in, day out, I ignored her. Instead I reached for the ketchup bottle and splattered ketchup all over my food. The bottle, which was plastic, made a tremendous fthlwp! sound, just like — well, like you know what. People at other tables shot us distasteful looks.
Which made the Lonsdale Quay experience, in my view, complete. There we were, at a table in the sun, with Burrard Inlet sparkling next to us, jugglers performing nearby, and the bright colors and yummy scents of the market all around.
And the heaviness in my heart about having offended Jack. I hadn’t thought he’d continue being mad about the day at the hatchery. But he wouldn’t answer the phone messages I kept leaving at the soac office. They were great messages too — long, emotional and very moving.
Chomping a huge bite out of my cheeseburger, I removed a pencil and a crumpled paper from my shorts pocket. I started writing.
Memo to Jack
All the Things I’ve Done for You,
or Why You Shouldn’t be Mad at Me.
1. I introduced you to Madge.
2. I am amusing and entertaining.
3. I always lend a sympathetic ear.
Beside number three I drew an ear, as a way of proving number two. Back at the Urstads’, I’d fax this gem of a memo to Jack at the soac office.
Mother leaned over to see what I was writing. “Um,” she said, “is the mountain air maybe a bit rich for you, Dinah?”
“Di’s offended Jack,” Madge tattletaled, smacking her lips over the final oyster. She withdrew a compact from her purse, cracked it open, then moved her face this way and that, checking her porcelain skin. “Mother, at what age should one start using anti-wrinkle cream?”
�
�Madge, you’re seventeen. Now, Dinah, what did you do to Jack? He’s so nice and easygoing. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to offend him.”
“Dinah could offend a saint,” Madge commented, still examining herself in the mirror. The usual self-satisfied smile was beginning to crook the edges of her lips.
Perfect Madge, who never did anything wrong. All at once I was furious. If I’d stopped to think, I would’ve realized it was the Jack situation that had me upset, not Madge and her perfection.
But I rarely stop to think. It slows the momentum, I find. I lifted the ketchup bottle again. “Here’s some anti-wrinkle cream for you,” I said, aiming.
Sssppplllaaattt!
I missed out on the butter crumb cake. I got sent home in a cab.
Well, not home home. The Urstads’. I sat on the curb, chin in my hands, half-wishing I’d never come to North Van to keep Madge company. All the visit had got me was a cheesed-off future brother-in-law and a wrecked, stolen turtle. Zilch, in fact.
I grew progressively sorrier for myself until tires scraped the pavement in front of me. A small pink convertible pulled over and parked to my right. From the driver’s seat, Zoë Klapper twisted round, a smile wreathing her doll-like face.
“Why so glum?” she called.
I shrugged. “Nothing, except that I have enough family problems to go on Oprah.”
Zoë laughed, a tinkly sound, like music at a carnival. “I’ve brought something.” Getting out of the car, she reached into the backseat and picked up a balloon-patterned gift bag with curly white ribbons tumbling out the top. “For you,” she said.
I brightened. Who wouldn’t, at the sight of a gift-wrapped package? Plus, Zoë fished another pair of cupcakes from her bag and handed them to me. I unwrapped and stuffed my face at the same time. “This is very nice of you,” I said somewhat indistinctly. I was glad Mother wasn’t there. She would have told me to refuse the gift since I didn’t know Zoë that well.
Maybe I was still in fairy-tale mode after that chase through the Grimm-like forest, but Zoë reminded me of some magical character. Glinda the Good Witch, maybe. (When I was little, Dad, a mega-fan of Judy Garland, had played lots of her cds and movies for me. Now I was a mega-fan too. I must’ve seen The Wizard of Oz twenty-three times. So far.) Like Glinda, Zoë always arrived just when I needed cheering up.
Underneath the ribbons was a rectangular, clear plastic packet with green showing through. I tore the packet open. The green unfurled — an inflatable turtle!
“Wow,” I said, gulping down the last of the second cupcake. “Thanks!”
“Read the card,” Zoë urged.
I untangled a small envelope from the ribbons. Inside was a silver card with stilted writing:
Sorry about the crash into the pool. Sorry for scaring you. Sorry I wrecked your turtle. Hope this replacement turtle makes up for it.
— Rock Cordes, Jr.
p.s. Sorry.
Zoë explained, “I told the councillor about the pranks and your turtle. He spoke to Rock Junior. We’re all very — ”
“Please.” I held up a sticky hand. “I don’t think I can handle another apology. Anyhow, this is really nice of you guys. I can spend the rest of the afternoon floating on my new turtle and reading Deathstalkers Conquer Jupiter.”
“Er— right,” Zoë said uncertainly. Then her doll-like smile twinkled back. “I have a gift for you too, Dinah, because I know how much you like hang gliding.”
She handed over another envelope. Inside, not, as I’d feared, another apology, but — wow. A pass for two to a High Spirits Hang Gliding show, July 17 on Grouse, where, as the pass said, High Spirits’ own instructors will swoop and dive for your viewing pleasure. Not only that, but there’d be food as well: barbecued hot dogs, salad buffet, French fries and make-your-own sundaes.
“Double, triple wow,” I exclaimed.
Zoë patted my shoulder. “You choose a friend to bring along, and I’ll take you both there myself. And you’re not to worry about Rock Junior. He’s been told to stay away from this street. He’s caused you and your neighbors enough trouble!” She teetered off on her spike heels to the pink car.
“Wait,” I said as she prepared to take off again, Glinda-like, in a swirl of pink. “Do you happen to know if Rock Junior, has a buddy who’s bald?”
Zoë stared. “A bald buddy,” she repeated, puzzled. “No, I can’t say that I do. But then Rock Junior would hardly confide in me about his social life.”
When Madge got back and let me in, I faxed my memo off to Jack. Then I tried out my new turtle.
“Bombs away!” I shouted at an incoming hang glider. But the fun had gone out of the game for now. I was too bothered about Jack.
What if he went the rest of his life without speaking to me? Suppose he and Madge had kids. Jack would refuse to introduce them to me. One day little Madge Junior might paw through a box of family photos and find a snap of a pudgy, bespectacled, red-haired girl.
Who’s this, Dad?
Oh, that’s Aunt Dinah. We don’t mention her name in this household.
And r-r-rip! Jack would tear up the photo.
By now tears were flowing down my face and onto the turtle. I did the only thing I could do when I felt miserable. Tumbling off the turtle, I swam over to pool’s edge, climbed out and sang.
Without you, dear,
I don’t know what I’d do-hoo-hooooo …
That song was in my head a lot these days. Not only because Talbot was adapting it to electric guitar. I kept remembering how Dad sang it to his Sweet Sue, Mother.
The hedge rustled. Too big a rustle to belong to a cat. I switched to humming. I tiptoed over to the jittery leaves. Stopped humming and listened.
“Isn’t it fantastic?” A young man’s voice, whispering. “No way I’m gonna give up now. We’ll have her outta here in no time!”
I wrenched leaves and branches apart. Just as I thought: Bald Guy! I’d caught him scheming into his cell phone about the pranks against Rowena. He was set on driving the poor woman from her house. Dang, and we’d thought the pranks were over.
Seeing me, he paused in mid-gloat. “Er … I’ll get back to you,” he mumbled into the cell and shut the power off.
“Uh, look, Dinah —”
“Don’t Dinah me, you wiener,” I fumed. Make that mega-wiener. He must’ve been eavesdropping like crazy to know my name. I pointed a well-hedge-scratched finger at his cell phone. “I bet the person you were talking to was Itchy, right?”
Bald Guy regarded me oddly. “It’s hard to tell over the phone.”
“Not ‘itchy.’ Itchy,” I explained. “Rock!”
“Rock? Naw, I don’t want to talk about Rock to you. What I’d like to know is —”
I let go of the leaves. They closed over his face. “Prankster!” I yelled through them. “Trespasser!”
Pantelli strolled round the side of the house. “Hey, cool! I talk to plants too, Di. According to Junior Botanist magazine, chatting with plants encourages ’em to grow. I don’t know about insulting ’em, though,” he finished doubtfully.
“One of Rowena’s pranksters is behind the hedge,” I said loudly, so Bald Guy would hear.
“Gee, I dunno, Di. Maybe instead of hollering you should be phoning the police.”
From the other side of the fence, crackle! crunch! Bald Guy was fleeing.
We ran round to the front. There was always a chance we’d glimpse Bald Guy climbing into a car and be able to memorize his license plate.
Some chance. In true Bald Guy fashion, he’d vanished into thin air.
Rowena, however, was bicycling toward us, her long gray hair flying out from under her helmet. The bike’s wicker basket was loaded with bags from the market. She sure grocery-shopped a lot, I thought. Holy Toledo, the woman must eat almost as much as I do.
Brrring!-ing her bell, Rowena waved to us. The next moment, braking by the curb, she tossed us each a Granny Smith apple.
Her cheeriness fade
d when I told her about Bald Guy.
“I hope you didn’t try to follow him, Dinah,” she said worriedly.
“Bald Guy’s too wily to be followed,” Pantelli replied. “He’s slick as maple syrup. Speaking of maples, Rowena, I notice that one of yours is developing a case of —”
“I’ll tend to it,” Rowena interrupted. “At least, someone will. And soon.”
“Are you converting to the neighborhood’s tidy-garden routine?” I asked. “What about the virtues of being starkly different?”
I’d meant this as a joke, but Rowena didn’t laugh. Instead, at a fast clip, she bundled her bags up the porch steps and into her house.
Pantelli and I checked Rowena’s front and back yard for crudely lettered signs, which seemed to be Bald Guy’s calling card. Nothing today.
“Guess we scared him off,” I told Pantelli.
Chapter Eleven
You Mean Trespassing Is Illegal?
Okay, so Madge had forbidden me to go to the Cordeses. But she’d said “you” couldn’t go, that is, me.
She’d never said “you plural” couldn’t go, that is, me and two friends.
It’s amazing what good grammar can do for you.
Talbot, Pantelli and I trudged up Capilano Road to the address Mrs. St. John had provided: 28 Antinucci Road. It was farther than we thought. By the time we turned right on Antinucci Road, we were practically limping.
Number twenty-eight was a red-brick house with white trim. Pantelli eyed the arbutus tree in front. “They’re overpruning that,” he said critically. “Next year the leaves may be too traumatized to bud.”
He marched up to the tree, took out his cracked magnifying glass and examined the bark.
Talbot and I shrugged at each other. Stepping up to the door, I crashed the door knocker, a brass angel, against the white-paneled door several times. Wham! Wham! I used all my strength. This was fun. Wham! I couldn’t understand why Mother refused to get a door knocker for our house.
The door whipped open. “Do you mind?” demanded a stocky woman in a beige pantsuit. “We’re trying to entertain our guests, not deafen them.”
Summer of the Spotted Owl Page 8
