by Robin Yardi
Harriet’s house was an old cabin. Plain but pretty. Her white truck was parked perfectly in line with a tiny shed where Harriet did all her carpentry. The shed door was open, but the interior was dark. Mattie couldn’t tell if the shed’s walls were empty or crammed full of tools.
Everything was quiet.
Until out of nowhere a circle saw screamed up into the air. Mattie flinched in the tree. Then, in a noisy whoosh, about ten turkeys came flying out of the scrub to land on the top of the fence. They gobbled at the screaming from the shed like a family of neighbors complaining about noise.
The trespassing turkeys looked silly perched there on the fence. The big blue-headed tom gobbled so hard he nearly fell. And soon enough Harriet Hargrave stopped her sawing and came out to glare at them. Her dark eyes glinted under her patchy gray eyebrows. Mattie wasn’t sure if Harriet was one of those people who’d shoot a wild turkey and eat it for dinner. But she looked like she might be.
Mattie ducked back behind the prickly oak branch and dropped out of sight.
Okay. Hermit Harriet was definitely still on the list.
When Saturday morning came, Aunt Molly still didn’t have any donuts in the case. No Chocolate Rainbows. No Golden Galaxies. Not even the plain Old Fashioned Owls. Still, Molly was at Owl’s, same as always, this time scrubbing it from top to bottom. After Mattie said good morning, Molly shooed her off and told her to have some cereal. Cereal!
Mattie let herself out the back of the shop but paused when she saw a beat-up tan Corolla slide into the parking lot. A man stepped out, and Mattie’s heart dropped. It was Mr. Slug, coming for a donut. It wasn’t even Sunday, so he couldn’t be there expecting Slug Bars. He walked quickly to the front of the shop, peering at the notices slapped into the windows.
For a flicker of a second, Mattie wondered if the man could help somehow. He’d been a friend of Grandma’s, after all.
“We’re closed,” Mattie said.
“I heard, but I had to come see for myself.” He brushed his hands down the front of his yellow-checked shirt, looking flustered. Like his day was ruined.
“I’m sorry if that messes up your weekend,” Mattie said. “I know you like the Sunday special. I’m sure we’ll have Slug Bars for sale next week. Like usual.”
“Of course you will,” Mr. Slug said, but his eyes flicked over to the notices in the window again. He didn’t actually look like he believed her. “Lillian would . . .”
Mr. Slug shook his head with a hard look in his eyes and didn’t finish.
Mattie guessed he couldn’t.
She turned and headed back to the trailer. She didn’t want to watch him drive away or ask him for help he probably couldn’t give. It would be too sad. What if there were never any Sunday Slug Bars again? Grandma Lillian would certainly have wanted Mattie and Aunt Molly to do everything they could to make sure that didn’t happen. But . . . Mattie wasn’t sure she could.
She would do almost everything.
Just not the one thing that might help the most.
Later that Saturday morning, Sasha and Beanie came over. Mrs. Little had asked them to go play somewhere else so she could get everything ready for Beanie’s birthday party. They brought bagels. Mattie nudged hers aside, not wanting to ask where they came from. The three girls sat cross-legged on Mattie’s bed.
Sasha took a giant bagel bite and licked some cream cheese off her thumb. Mattie’s stomach gurgled. Fine. She unwrapped her own bagel and took a bite. It was good. No way as good as a donut but better than a bowl of cereal.
Sasha kept saying all they had to do was get on that bus, hop off when they got to Monterey, and take her camera to the drug store. Then they could maybe clear Molly’s name.
Mattie tried convincing Sasha that they should send the click-camera by mail instead.
“No way,” Sasha said. “Right on their website, they say that they are not responsible for lost or damaged photographs. This is our only proof. We can’t put it in the mail!”
Sasha crossed her arms.
Mattie knew she was right.
She just wished there was another way.
“What if those pictures are too blurry to prove anything?” Mattie said, feeling queasy. “The guy from the disposal company already told officials from the county that Aunt Molly dumps her oil with them twice a week, the right way. But that didn’t even help. She still has to pay all these cleanup fees, because our shop is right here and there aren’t any other suspects. Plus Mrs. Mantooth is making a huge deal about getting the well water tested.”
Mattie pulled at a stray thread from her duvet cover: a purple embroidered butterfly that had been slowly unraveling all summer. As she tugged, the last lavender strand came away.
“I’m starting to think maybe it was Mrs. Mantooth again,” Mattie said. “Maybe she’s not just after a new well. Maybe it’s some weird plot to make Aunt Molly sell her land. She hates sharing her driveway with the donut shop. It definitely could be her.” She shook her head. “But maybe it’s not. We have to find out who really did it.”
Sasha gave Mattie a you-know-we-have-no-choice look, but she didn’t say anything about Monterey. She was still waiting, all patient and smug and sure.
“I bet you the owl knows something,” Mattie said. She could just see the big scraggly redwood out her window.
Why wasn’t that owl helping?
Was it mad at her?
Where was he?
“Maybe the owl was just hooting to hoot when you woke up that first time,” Sasha said. She hadn’t gone back to saying that Mattie was lying about the owl, but it was kind of obvious that she thought Mattie had at least dreamed that part.
“Maybe the flowerpot and the clump of gloop are just coincidences,” Sasha continued. “That makes more sense, Matt.”
But nothing made sense.
Sasha and Beanie crinkled up the empty tinfoil from their bagels, hopped off Mattie’s bed, and went home to get ready for Beanie’s birthday party that afternoon.
At the birthday party, about a dozen kids from Sasha and Beanie’s school—Mattie’s school too, in a few days—were playing on the basketball court at the Littles’ campground. Mattie already knew most of them. Pacific Valley Elementary was pretty small. But seeing the kids made her feel less and less sure she was really going to be able to board the school bus on Tuesday morning.
Sofi, one of the other almost fifth-grade girls, smiled and said hi when Mattie arrived. The bright purple of her shirt looked like the icing on one of Aunt Molly’s Boysenberry Beauty donuts, which made it hard for Mattie to smile back. So Mattie mostly stared at her shoes. Sofi’s mom nudged her daughter, like come-on-you-can-say-more, but Sofi squirmed and said she was going to get some chips.
Then Sofi’s mom and somebody else’s dad looked at Mattie and sighed. Mattie could tell Sofi’s mom was getting ready to say something. About how sorry she was about Mattie’s mom or maybe just about how excited she was that Mattie would be starting school with Sofi and Sasha and Christian.
Which felt kind of like the same thing.
Mattie escaped before either could happen. She sidled up to the snack table and stuffed her mouth with chips and guacamole. A couple of seats away, Sofi grabbed a chip, dipped it, and shoved the whole thing in too. They crunched next to each other, not saying anything. Which was okay.
Better than the weird things grown-ups think they have to say.
Then there was a hula-hoop contest. That saved Mattie from figuring out how to do something with Sofi besides crunch tortilla chips. And after about an hour of silly party games, Mrs. Little brought out a cake with blue frosting covered in sour jelly beans. Everyone but Beanie thought it looked pretty gross, but Aunt Molly had made it to match an old drawing that Beanie had made of her dream cake. Mattie didn’t glare at Christian, even though he came to the party and sat on the other side of Sasha when they sang happy birthday.
As Mrs. Little cut the cake, Mattie noticed a few of the grown-ups whispering t
o each other at the edges of the party. Were they making fun of the weird cake Aunt Molly made? Mattie’s neck got warm. She wanted to explain about Beanie’s drawing. Maybe Mrs. Little should have said something. But then her neck got hotter. Those parents were probably whispering about the shop being closed, not a silly cake.
Mattie didn’t blame Aunt Molly for not coming.
Surrounded by those kids from the Big Sur school, Mattie wished she felt excited about fifth grade. This was it. She’d wanted to be with these kids, with Beanie and Sasha and Christian and Julian and Sofi and that little kid that everybody called Booger, but now she didn’t care. Not with Aunt Molly’s shop shut down. What would happen if Owl’s couldn’t reopen?
Beanie started opening her presents. Curled ribbons went whizzing through the air, wrapping paper ripped, cards were discarded. But the party didn’t feel like fun to Mattie.
After Beanie lifted up her final gift, a Magic 8-Ball, Mr. and Mrs. Little each grabbed an armful of shredded wrapping paper and boxes to cart off to the closest recycling bin. The other kids started playing a game with Beanie’s new squirt guns, and Mattie slipped away from the basketball court, collecting a handful of ribbons and tissue paper on her way out. She drifted toward the Littles’ recycling bin, on the deck behind their cabin kitchen.
Mrs. Little didn’t hear her come up the path.
She and Mr. Little were squishing all the wrapping paper down into the bin by the kitchen door.
Mattie hovered at the edge of the deck steps.
“If she has to stay closed past Labor Day, I can’t see how Molly’s going to make it,” Mrs. Little said. “Not on top of those fees. Even without them, it’d be rough. I figure Molly’s only got enough in the bank for the new well pump or the cleanup fees. Not both. And Monday’s her biggest day of the year until Memorial Day. If she misses it . . .”
Mattie pressed her back against the slats of the deck stairs, trying to breathe more quietly. Her handful of ribbons and tissue paper wasn’t making the quiet thing that easy, but Mattie was starting to feel like an expert at snooping.
Monday was two days away. She had to do something to help Aunt Molly before then. If she didn’t, Owl’s might be closed for good. How could that be?
“She told me that real estate agent came sniffing around again,” Mrs. Little continued.
“Molly should take the offer,” said Mr. Little.
Mattie heard Mrs. Little gasp. “She should not.” It was nearly a shout. Mattie could imagine Mrs. Little standing with her arms crossed and nodding her head with every word, just like Sasha.
Mattie left her scrunched-up armload of ribbons and tissue paper in a quiet pile near the deck steps. Of course Adelaide Sharpe had decided to stick her nose into things. But Mattie hadn’t thought Aunt Molly would ever take the real estate lady’s offers seriously.
She scanned the trees, searching for orange polka-dot eyes and gray feathers. Nothing. Well, not nothing: two jays and a funny crested titmouse. In the distance, she heard a turkey gobble. But no owl.
She heard all the kids over at the party. Saw Beanie whapping Christian over the head with a new pool noodle. Everybody was laughing. Even Sasha.
So Mattie went home.
She wondered if she should just tell Aunt Molly about the disposable camera, even though Sasha didn’t want to get in trouble for being out on the highway. But what if there was nothing good in those pictures? Or . . . nothing bad? Nothing in focus?
Sasha would be in trouble. Mattie wouldn’t have a best friend. And Aunt Molly would have gotten her hopes up. For nothing.
She needed to find Aunt Molly and ask her about Adelaide Sharpe. That was the next step. Mattie had to know more about this new offer. Even if she was a little afraid of what she’d find out.
The Velvet Vampire
A bloodred buttermilk cake donut laced with fang-white cream cheese icing
Back at the donut shop, there was only one car in the parking lot. A ladybug-red Fiat. As Mattie crossed the blacktop, the door to the shop opened. Which was weird, because Aunt Molly still had the closed sign up.
Mattie hovered at the edge of the shop, peeking around the corner.
Adelaide Sharpe slid out the donut shop door, wearing a silky blue shirt with a floppy bow tied around her neck. Aunt Molly followed her outside, and Adelaide adjusted a leather folder in her hands. Adelaide Sharpe always ordered a Velvet Vampire donut. She was the kind of person who thought they were hiding their craftiness behind pure white icing, sleek clothes, and a shiny smile, but Mattie saw it easy.
She’d always thought that Aunt Molly had seen it too.
Mattie had been so worried about suspects that she hadn’t worried about people like Adelaide. Too fancy to be a glooper, she thought, but still their own kind of sneaky. Always hanging around and waiting for you to crack.
Adelaide smiled, and her teeth were shiny and perfect. “Just let me know how you want to proceed,” she said, hovering beside the shop door. “Call any time. My client’s offer is truly excellent—and the timing couldn’t be more perfect for you. I’d love to help you out, Molly.”
Adelaide held out her card. Something Mattie had seen her do maybe ten times before. Aunt Molly usually waved Sharpe away. She never took one of those tiny white cards.
Until now.
Aunt Molly fiddled with the card and waved Adelaide off with a tight, polite smile. The real estate lady clicked across the parking lot in her shiny heels, slipped into her bright car, and swung the door shut.
As soon as Aunt Molly went back inside the shop, Adelaide Sharpe’s glittery smile disappeared. Her red car eased out of its spot, but before leaving the lot, it stopped at Mrs. Mantooth’s driveway. Mattie saw Mrs. Mantooth walk over and say something to Adelaide. Mattie narrowed her eyes. Why was Mrs. Mantooth hanging out in her driveway today? There sure weren’t any customers to yell at. And what would Mrs. Mantooth have to say to a real estate agent?
Was she the client Adelaide had mentioned?
Maybe Mrs. Mantooth really was the glooper. That mess in the ditch could be a trick to shut the donut shop down. She’d have her driveway all to herself then.
Mattie yanked at the donut shop door, but Aunt Molly had already locked it. She banged on the glass until Aunt Molly’s face popped up from behind the counter.
Mattie stabbed her finger toward the real estate agent’s car and Mrs. Mantooth.
Aunt Molly rushed to unlock the door. But by then, the bright red car was gone and Mrs. Mantooth was peering into her mailbox like nothing had happened.
“Why are you banging on the glass, kiddo?” Molly asked. “You know better than that.”
Mattie stared at the sidewalk. She was so flustered she’d never be able to explain her suspicions about Mrs. Mantooth. But that wasn’t the most important thing.
“I know what you’re doing,” Mattie said, not meaning to say it so loud.
Not meaning to shout.
“Nice to see you too,” Aunt Molly said. “What do you mean, Mattie?”
“I saw you with that lady,” Mattie said. “I know why she’s creeping around.”
“Mattie . . . I don’t know what else to do. If I take the check from Sharpe’s client, I can pay all those fees. We could move the trailer, find another place to stay . . . Like Grandma always said, it’s got wheels. That’s what’s important. We could move the Airstream over to the campground for a bit. Mr. Little told me so. You could still go to school with Beanie and Sasha, at least for a while.”
Mattie’s mouth fell open.
How could Aunt Molly even think of selling Owl’s? Of moving the trailer? This was where they lived. Didn’t Aunt Molly remember? Mattie didn’t care about school starting. Not anymore. But the donut shop was different. It was the only home she had left.
“Just don’t do it,” Mattie said.
“Mattie . . .” Aunt Molly started, but Mattie didn’t want to listen.
She turned and ran across the parking lot, into the tr
ailer, slamming the door behind her so hard the sound echoed through the trees. So hard that even a sleeping owl could hear it.
Once the hazard tape went up, Alfred had sworn he wouldn’t involve himself any further. His greatest concern had been the river. That was solved rather neatly. Rain hadn’t washed the sticky ooze into the Big Sur River just yet, and the bustle below his roost made him certain all would be handled well before the next storm.
The true culprits had not been caught, and this did tug at Alfred’s sense of justice. But his home was no longer in jeopardy.
And then things began to look bad and worse for the proprietor of the donut shop. Alfred was admittedly fond of her strawberry iced donuts, but did that warrant risking his life and privacy? No. Not in the slightest. The remaining bakeries within his range left out other passable sweets.
But . . . well.
There were his unfortunate sympathies for Mattie to be considered. How on Earth he’d come to care for that awkward little girl was beyond his comprehension, his better judgment, and his dignity.
But there it was. He cared about Mattie and he couldn’t stop.
He’d tried.
Alfred had watched the girl’s aunt flipping through tall stacks of papers late into the night. Watched her count and recount the contents of the money drawer. He’d guessed the shop was teetering upon collapse. The look on her face through the window said as much. And his heart went out to her. But he had not been swayed.
He’d heard Mattie and Sasha arguing about their plans—buses, photographs, things far beneath an owl’s concern. And he had not been moved. He was intrigued, and that was all. The midnight misdeeds were over, he told himself. But then he overheard an argument of another sort. Mattie’s voice carried perfectly across the parking lot. Her anguish echoed into his hiding place, and he felt ashamed at having hidden. Thinking of the girl and her trailer moving away was too much. Once the wheels started rolling, those trailers never came back.
