Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “So you do think she’d pay it?”

  “She’s not real stable when it comes to that dog.” Vera swatted some fur off her pants with the dog towel and laughed. “Maybe she just needs some grandchildren.”

  I tried to picture the Crocodile as a grandmother, but I couldn’t see her shaking any kind of rattle that wasn’t on the end of a snake. I sighed. “Vera, I have to find that dog. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

  Vera scowled. “Half this town could’ve. Who wasn’t at the parade?”

  I shook my head. “How am I ever going to find her? I’ve got nothing to go on!”

  Vera started sweeping up. “Maybe Lilia’s bluffing. Or maybe she’ll cool off.”

  I watched her flick hair across the floor. “What about people who hate her?”

  Vera threw back her head and laughed. “Land sakes! That’s got to be a long list. And you can add me to it. After that noise about revoking my license …!”

  I could feel a little tingle dancing around my brain. “It must’ve been real important for her to have Marique in the parade.… I mean, it doesn’t sound to me like she lets that dog out of her sight much.”

  “True …”

  “And having Marique jump off the float right in front of the judges would’ve been really embarrassing if the cats hadn’t kind of covered that up for her.”

  She studied me and said, “What are you getting at, Sammy?”

  “I’m not sure.…” I looked up at her and asked, “Where’s Mr. Petersen’s print shop?”

  “Mr. Petersen! Why do you want to talk to that pill?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe he has some ideas. About the other dog owners. They didn’t seem too crazy about Marique being the star. Maybe one of them’s behind this.”

  She picked up the dustpan and said, “His shop’s out on West Main—six or seven blocks down. I don’t think he works Sundays, although we are gettin’ close to Christmas so he might be there. Why don’t you call first?”

  I grabbed the broom and helped her pick up the dog hair. “No, I think I’ll just walk over there and check.”

  She gave me a worried look. “Why don’t you take Holly with you? She went out to get some Jell-O and soup for Meg, but she should be back fairly soon.”

  “Meg’s still sick?”

  “She’s on the mend now, but that was one nasty bug.” Vera scooped up the dustpan of hair and said, “Why don’t you have a seat? Holly’ll be back in a bit.”

  Now, I’m not very good at sitting and waiting, so I said, “I think I’ll just head over there.”

  “I’d feel better if you waited.”

  “You’re not afraid of him, are you?” I laughed and said, “I mean, how seriously can you take a guy who looks like a stinkbug?”

  She practically spilled the dustpan. “A what?”

  “A stinkbug. Didn’t you think he looked like a stinkbug last night with those tails and that hair slicked back?”

  All of a sudden she just busted up. And she laughed so hard that she wound up sitting on the floor with tears running down her cheeks. “A stink … a stinkbug!” She pushed the tears away and said, “I’m never ever going to be intimidated by Royce Petersen again. The next time he starts bossing me around I’ll just tell myself … he’s a big stinkbug!” That started her laughing all over again, so I said ’bye and clanked out the door.

  The whole way up Main Street I tried to put a finger on that tingle in my brain, but it was like chasing an itch in the middle of your back—you scratch all around it and it kind of fades away, but you never really get it.

  Now, the seven-hundred block was farther than I’d ever walked. Down West Main, anyway. And it’s not that seven blocks is a long way to go, it’s just that after about Melvin’s Jewelers in the one-hundred block, West Main starts going downhill in a hurry.

  All along Main there are dingy little one-room shops. Carpet stores and bridal shops and travel agencies—and you wonder, who goes there? I mean, there are big carpet stores and bridal shops and travel agencies right up the street in the mall—who’s going to get their wedding dress at a place where the mannequins are missing fingers and noses?

  Petersen’s Printing wasn’t hard to find. It was the first shop past a service alley in an old two-story brick building. The windows were kind of milky with dirt and covered with burglar bars, and there were bamboo window shades resting cockeyed on stacks of books and papers.

  The sign propped up in the window was dusty and torn, and said Closed. But there were some fluorescent lights on, so I tried the door anyway. It was locked. I whacked at the window with my knuckles and waited. I did it again, and waited some more. Then I peeked past the shades, but all I could see was a desk buried in papers. I decided to see if there was a back door somewhere.

  The service alley didn’t look too inviting. I mean, even though it was the middle of the day, no sunlight was getting in, and garbage seemed to ooze up through the gravel. And I had almost convinced myself to just try back later when I noticed a car parked in front of a roll-up door. I took a few steps down the alley, and when I got a good look at the car, I knew right off—it belonged to Mr. Petersen. It was shiny black with edges that were kind of rounded and side panels that half covered the wheels. It looked like a giant stinkbug.

  I circled the car, wondering what a guy who worked in such a messy place was doing with such an immaculate vehicle. The bumpers were like mirrors, and the body didn’t have a fingerprint on it.

  I didn’t mean to touch it. And I swear I only brushed against the bumper, but all of a sudden that car starts wailing and beeping like an ambulance. I jumped a mile in the air, and before I’d even had a chance to come down, the roll-up door whips open and there’s Mr. Petersen, leveling a giant handgun right at my heart.

  I threw my hands up in the air and said, “I’m sorry! I swear! I didn’t mean to touch it!”

  His eyes pinched closed a bit and he lowered the gun. “Well, well, well. If it’s not the brain surgeon that lost the dog.” He unlocked the car and turned off the alarm.

  I guess my adrenaline was pumping pretty good, because my mouth popped off with, “Me? Who’s the guy who kept right on driving?”

  “Hey! Watch your mouth!” He tucked the gun inside the belt of his pants and muttered, “Like I don’t get enough of this from the Wicked Witch.”

  “Uh … that would be Mrs. Landvogt?”

  “You didn’t hear that from me.”

  “What’s she doing? Threatening to put you out of business, too?”

  He eyed me like I was a guppy swimming around his toilet. “She’s already pulled that one on me. What are you doing here, anyway?”

  I ignored the question. “But you’re still in business.”

  He kept eyeing me. “If you call slaving here twenty-four seven being in business, then yeah, I guess I am.” He shook his head. “Look, kid, I don’t know what you’re nosing around here for, but if you got any brains at all you’ll leave and not come back.”

  My brain was racing, trying like crazy to put some pieces together. “I’m … I’m not really nosing, it’s—” All of a sudden something clicked. “It’s just that anyone could figure out she’s got something on you.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  I scratched the back of my neck. “How else does a pedigree wind up on the cover of the Santa Martina calendar?”

  I could tell by the look on his face that I had hit the bull’s-eye. And it about made him short-circuit, because he says, “That witch sent you here to harass me! That’s what you’re doing here! Well, you can tell her it’s a sad day when you have to send a kid to do your dirty work. You can also tell her it’s not going to work. I’m not caving in to her anymore!” He went back inside, and I could see the grip of his gun sticking out of his waistband as he reached for a large chain dangling from the door. He yanked on it, and as the door rumbled down he yelled, “Get away from my shop, you hear me? And don’t ever come back!”

&nb
sp; As I watched the door clang closed, I realized that any chance I’d had of getting information out of him was gone.

  Royce Petersen had just flushed me down the drain.

  SIX

  I thought about going back to the Pup Parlor to tell Vera what had happened, but there was so much stuff jumbling around in my brain that I needed a minute to think. So instead, when I got to Broadway, I looked both ways for Officer Borsch, then jaywalked across the street.

  I cut across the grass to the Senior Highrise and started up the fire escape, and for the first two flights I thought about Mr. Petersen and his temper and how scary he looked with that gun in his hand. But the farther away from him I got, the safer I felt, and by the time I was on the fifth floor, my stomach wasn’t flipping with fear anymore, it was hungry.

  So my brain was busy putting together a gigantic ham and cheese sandwich when I got to our hallway and remembered—no Mrs. Graybill to worry about. For once I got to go trucking down the hall and open the apartment door like I lived there.

  Grams was still dressed in her church clothes. She whispered, “Hello, Samantha,” over the receiver of the phone, then said, “That’s why the gal in Outpatients switched me over to you.” She listened for a minute. “Well, when is he supposed to be in?… When do you think he’ll return?” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Fine. I’ll try around two o’clock.”

  She got off the phone and said, “They’ve lost her. Nobody seems to have any idea where she is.”

  “Who?”

  “Daisy!”

  That sounded like good news to me.

  Grams looped an apron over her head. “I’ve been on the phone for forty-five minutes and all they can tell me is that she’s been released. They won’t give me any details because I’m not family, and they don’t seem to care that a friend might want to see how she’s doing.”

  “A friend?”

  “Oh, Samantha, come now. The woman was hurt—the least I can do is check in on her.” She tied the apron behind her and said, “Maybe she’s on her way home now.”

  I didn’t want to tell her that the last thing we needed was for Mrs. Graybill to come home. I mean, Mrs. Graybill would probably sign over her Social Security check to Mrs. Landvogt if it meant getting rid of me. And the more I thought about it, the more I knew that I really couldn’t tell Grams about anything. If I let on about us being the entrée on La Croc’s supper menu, she’d go into hyper-worry and self-destruct before the day was out.

  And thinking about the mess Grams was in because I had to live with her, well, I kind of lost my appetite for that gigantic ham and cheese. So when she dug a can of chicken gumbo out of the cupboard and said, “Sound good?” I just nodded and got busy making toast.

  And I was hanging over the toaster, watching the wires glow, thinking about what Grams and I would do if Mrs. Landvogt did turn us in, when the phone rang.

  Grams picked it up, and for the longest time she just stood there with her eyes expanding to fill up her owl glasses. Finally she said, “Lana, Lana, slow down! NBC? Okay! That’s wonderful. We’ll tune right in.” She got off the phone and cried, “She did it!”

  Grams rushed into the living room to turn on the TV, but I froze. I mean, Lady Lana had dumped me at Grams’ because she didn’t feel like being a mom anymore. She felt like being a movie star. And in the beginning when she’d call and say she’d come back soon, I couldn’t wait. I missed her. But it didn’t take long to figure out that soon meant later and that she didn’t really care about being with me. She cared about being a movie star.

  And I’d gotten used to living with Grams—used to the couch and hiding my clothes. Used to sneaking in and out. Even used to Mrs. Graybill. And all of a sudden it hit me that I’d rather have to sneak past ten Mrs. Graybills every night than leave Grams to go live with my mom. And watching Grams flip the channels on the TV, I realized that this was it. It didn’t matter what Mrs. Landvogt did to me. My mother had made it, and my time with Grams was up.

  I stumbled into the living room, feeling like the air was too heavy to breathe. “Is she in a movie?”

  “No, a commercial! She says there’s great money in commercials and seems to think it’s a real foot in the door.” She beamed at me. “Isn’t this exciting? Your mother’s going to be on TV!”

  I sat down on the couch, trying to remember the last time I’d seen Grams so excited. “What’s it a commercial for?”

  “She wouldn’t say. But she says it’s okay to laugh—that it’s supposed to be funny.”

  I didn’t feel like laughing. I felt like crying. Grams sat next to me and patted my knee. “Are you all right?”

  I forced up the corners of my mouth and nodded, and we sat there together, staring at the TV.

  And then all of a sudden there she was, for the first time in over a year, my mother. She walked toward me on TV and smiled like only Lady Lana can smile. Then she stopped, and what came out of her mouth was, “Everybody gets gas.”

  I held my breath and covered my face with my hands. And as I’m peeking through my fingers, she says, “But sometimes when gas pressure gets too much, I can feel like this …” and there goes her body, blowing up like a hot air balloon. “When that happens, I take GasAway, and feel better.” She holds up a box of GasAway, shrinks back to normal, then smiles at the camera and says, “Try it, when you feel like this …” and her body blows up like a zeppelin again, “… and you’ll feel better!” She shrinks back, and then all of a sudden she’s gone.

  Grams and I just sat there, blinking at the television. Finally Grams says, “Well, I suppose it’s a start.”

  I got up and turned off the TV. “My mother, the GasAway Lady.”

  “Samantha, come on, now. She’s been working hard to get a part.”

  “In a movie! In a sitcom! Even in a soap. But in a commercial for GasAway?”

  The phone rang. Grams took a deep breath and said, “That’s probably her now. Let’s be positive, all right? She’s very excited about it and I don’t think we should discourage her. She understands the business better than we do, and who knows? Maybe she really can parlay this into a part in a movie or a TV show.”

  Grams went into the kitchen to answer the phone, and I snuck out the door. There was no way I could congratulate the GasAway Lady—not with the upset stomach she’d just given me.

  * * *

  I wound up at Hudson’s. Not to talk, just to sit on his porch and try to forget. Trouble is, you can’t really space out when you’re with Hudson. To him, spacing out is like using a Swiss army knife to dig holes.

  Hudson took one look at me and said, “Ooooo. You’ve had a rough one.”

  “I’m not talking about it.”

  He pulled on an eyebrow.

  “I’m not.”

  “Well, have some tea, then, and tell me what you’ve decided to do about Heather.”

  “Heather! I haven’t even had a chance to think about Heather. What I’m going to do about her is nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  I threw my head back and groaned. “What can I do? What’s it matter, anyway? If she’s got nothing better to do than throw cats at floats, that’s her problem.”

  Hudson dusted off a boot. “Wow, you must be in a stew.”

  “You can say that again.”

  “I mean a real stew. For you not to care about Heather?”

  The truth is, I did care. But I hadn’t had time to think about her, and compared to the other monsters in my life, well, she seemed like the runt of the litter. I sighed and said, “What can I do about it, anyway?”

  Hudson smiled into the distance. “Oh, I don’t know …”

  I studied him. “What are you thinking?”

  “Oh, nothing. Nothing that you’d be interested in, anyway.”

  “Hudson!”

  “So …?”

  “So all right, I’m interested! I just don’t have any time.”

  He laughed. “This wouldn’t take any time.”


  I sat up. “So, let’s hear it.”

  He smoothed down an eyebrow and eyed me. “Ever hear of ‘The Tell-Tale Heart’?”

  I groaned. “By Edgar Allan Poe?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “Heather hasn’t got a conscience.”

  “Sure she does,” he said with a chuckle. “You’ve just got to help dig it up.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  He smiled. “Be her conscience for her. Remind her with everything you do that you know what she’s done. A guilty soul cannot keep its own secret.”

  “She hasn’t got a soul, either. Besides, she probably doesn’t even care if I know or not.”

  Hudson chuckled. “She would if she thought you were plotting revenge.”

  “Revenge? Hudson, you don’t understand … I don’t have time to plot revenge.”

  He gave me that smile again. “The revenge will take care of itself. All you have to do is set the stage.”

  “Hudson!”

  “Okay. Tell me this—what’s your demeanor when you’re around Heather? Are you friendly? Are you hostile?”

  “I usually just avoid her.”

  “You’re not confrontational?”

  “No.”

  “Sociable?”

  “No. I just try to steer clear of her.”

  He smiled. “What if your behavior toward Heather changed radically? What if you were, for example, really nice to her?”

  I thought about this a minute. “She’d probably wonder what I was up to.”

  “Now let’s play with the opposite scenario. What if you acted like you were plotting to get her? Really get her.”

  I laughed and said, “That would definitely make her nervous, but c’mon, Hudson—she’s not going to admit she catapulted cats just because I make her a little nervous.”

  “Remember ‘The Tell-Tale Heart.’ ”

  “That’s only a story.”

  He went back to tugging on an eyebrow. “It’s your job to make it reality.”

  I took a deep breath and looked out at the sky. “I’ll think about it.”

  “Thatta girl!” He filled up my tea and said, “So how’d it go with Elyssa today?”