Dad moaned. “Don’t tell me we came all this way and the man we need to talk to is on vacation in sunny Florida.”
Tick craned his neck to look at a window on the second floor. “There’re lights on inside. Someone has to be home.”
“I don’t know—we always leave a light on when we go on vacation—scares the burglars away.” He knocked again, half-heartedly. “Come on, let’s go.”
With slumped shoulders, they started down the porch steps. They were halfway down the sidewalk when they heard a scraping sound from behind and above them, then a low, tired voice. “What do you folks a-want?”
Tick turned to see a disheveled, gray-haired man peeking out of an upstairs window, his eyes darting back and forth around the yard, looking for anything and everything.
“We’re trying to find Norbert Johnson,” Tick shouted up to the window. “We have some questions about a letter mailed from here.”
The man muttered something unintelligible before letting out a little shriek. “Do . . . do you work for Master George or Mistress Jane?”
Tick and his dad exchanged a baffled look. “Master George . . .” Dad said under his breath, then looked back up toward the man at the window. “Never heard of either one of them, but my son got a letter from someone named M.G. Could be the same person, I guess.”
The man paused, his squinty eyes scrutinizing the man and boy below him for signs of trouble. “Do you swear you’ve a-never heard of a woman named Mistress Jane in your life?”
“Never,” Tick and his dad said in unison.
“You’ve a-never seen or worked for a lady dressed all in yellow who’s as bald as Bigfoot is hairy?”
Tick couldn’t believe how weird this whole conversation had become. “Never.”
The man slammed his window shut without saying another word, leaving Tick to wonder if this Norbert guy really had gone bonkers like the old postal worker had suggested.
The front door popped open and Norbert stuck his head out, smoothing his thin gray hair. “Come on in,” he said in a quick, tight voice, looking around the yard again. “I’ve got something for you.”
~
Frazier had pulled to the side of the road two houses down from the one at the end of the street, curious as to what Tick and his dad would learn from the man who lived there. It seemed they merely wanted to discover if the postal workers knew who had mailed the letter they had received, but something about the whole thing seemed fishy.
With his spy equipment—conical sound trapper, thermo-magnetically heightened microphones, and molded earpieces—Frazier had heard every word exchanged in the post office and had found it quite interesting.
Norbert Johnson. The name didn’t ring a bell, but Mistress Jane certainly didn’t tell him about every person she came across in her travels. Maybe she’d interrogated Johnson about the whole affair. That would have been enough to drive any man crazy. The way Norbert had acted at his own house—all nervous and paranoid before finally letting the two strangers in—sure seemed to support the “crazy” theory.
Frazier picked up his eavesdropping gadget and pointed it at the house, then reinserted his earpieces. It took a few seconds to pinpoint the murmurs of the conversation before he locked it in place as best he could, settling back to have a listen. The first thing he heard made his eyes widen. It was the voice of the man named Norbert.
“Here you go. The big lady told me it’s called the sixth clue.”
Chapter
23
~
Bonding with Norbert
Big lady?” Tick asked, holding the yellow envelope like his life depended on it. “Who gave this to you?”
They sat in a messy living room, not a single piece of furniture matching any of the others. At least it’s warm, Tick thought. He and his dad sat on a frumpy couch that leaned toward the middle, facing Norbert on his rickety old chair, where he wrung his hands and rocked back and forth.
“Big ol’ tall woman. Looked like ugly on a stick,” Norbert answered in almost a whisper. “Just about scared me out of my pants, what with her a-coming out of the old graveyard behind my house.”
The mention of a cemetery made Tick’s ears perk up. It can’t be a coincidence . . . It must be related somehow to the fourth clue and where he was supposed to go on May sixth.
“Did she say anything else to you?” Dad asked. “Talk to you at all?”
“Not much.” Norbert’s fidgeting made Tick’s head dizzy. “Told me some real smart kids would come a-looking for me, and I should give that there letter to ’em. Gave me several copies. Don’t know about you fellas, but when an eight-foot monster lady tells me to do something, I’m gonna pretty much do it. So there you go.”
Tick inserted his thumb under the flap and started ripping open the envelope as Norbert kept talking.
“Since that piece of parcel looked just like the ones from the British fella, and since I figured the British fella was an enemy of the Banana Lady, I reckoned I’d be a-doing a good task.”
Tick stopped just before pulling out the white cardstock of the sixth clue. “British? Who was British?”
His dad leaned forward, a surprisingly difficult task that made the pitiful couch groan like a captured wolverine. “Mr. Johnson, I’m more confused than the Easter Bunny at a Christmas party. Could you please tell us everything you know about the letter we got from Alaska and who sent it? Maybe start from the beginning?”
“The Easter Bunny at a—” Tick began, a questioning smirk on his face.
“Quiet, son.”
Norbert finally settled back in his chair and began his story, seemingly relieved that he’d been given direction on how to go about this conversation. Though Tick desperately wanted to read the next clue, he slipped it inside his journal and listened to the strange man from Alaska.
“I’d worked there at the post office in Macadamia for twenty-plus years, and I was just as happy as can be. Well, as happy as a single man in his fifties who smells a little like boiled cabbage can be.” Tick involuntarily sniffed at this point, then tried to cover it up by scratching his nose. Norbert continued without noticing.
“Then they had to come along and ruin my life. It was a cold day in November—of course, every day is cold in November when you live up here, if you know what I mean. Anyway, first this busy little British gent named Master George, dressed all fancy-like, comes walking into my shop holding a box of letters that looked just like the one I gave you.” He pointed at the journal in Tick’s lap. “Goes off about how they need to get out right away, do-da, do-da.”
Tick decided that last part was Norbert’s way of saying “etcetera” and held in a laugh.
“I assured the fella I’d take care of it and he left. Wasn’t a half-hour later when the scariest woman I’ve ever laid eyes upon came a-stomping in, dressed from head to toe in nothing but yellow. And she was bald—not a hair on her noggin to be found. Called herself Mistress Jane, and she was mean. I’m telling you, mean. You could feel it coming off her in waves.” Norbert shivered.
“What did she want?” Dad asked.
“She was a-looking for Master George, which told me right away that the British gent must be a good guy, because Lemony Jane surely wasn’t.”
Tick felt like the final mystery of a great book had been revealed to him. The source of the letters suddenly had a name, a description. He was no longer a couple of initials and a blurred image. M.G. had become Master George. From England. And he was the good guy.
“She threatened me,” Norbert continued. “She was cruel. And I couldn’t get her out of my mind. Still can’t. She’s been in my dreams ever since, telling me she’s gonna find out I lied to her.”
“Lied to her?” Dad repeated.
“Yes, sir. Told her I’d never met anybody named Master George, and I hid the letters under the counter before she could see them. Flat out lied to her, and she told me bad things would happen if she ever found I’d a-done it. And done it, I did.”
/> “So . . .” Tick started, “you quit your job because you were scared of her?”
Norbert looked down at his feet as if ashamed of himself. “You got me all figured out, boy. Poor Norbert Johnson hasn’t been the same since the day I met that golden devil. Quit my job, went on welfare, borrowed money. I been hiding in this house ever since. Only reason I met the tall lady who gave me the letters is because I heard a noise out in the backyard.”
“I thought you said she came out of a graveyard,” Dad said.
“She did. Like I said, back behind my house is an old, old cemetery. Got too old, I reckon, so they built another one closer to downtown.”
“Mothball,” Tick said quietly.
“Huh?” Norbert replied.
“Her name is Mothball. The lady who gave you this letter.” Tick slipped it from his journal and held it in his hand.
Norbert looked perplexed. “Well what in the Sears-and-Roebuck kind of name is that?”
“She said her dad was in a hurry when he named her, something about soldiers trying to kidnap them.”
Norbert did nothing but blink.
“Never mind.” Tick turned to his dad. “Why in the world would she have given him the sixth clue?”
His dad furrowed his brow for a moment, deep in thought. “Well, maybe it’s like I said—I think they wanted us to be proactive and seek out information, not just wait around to find it. Maybe they went back to all the towns they mailed the letters from and gave copies of the clues to the postal workers who would cooperate. They knew if we did some investigating, going to the source would be the most logical step.”
Tick thought for a second. “Dad, I think you nailed it.”
“I’m brilliant, my son. Brilliant.” He winked.
Norbert cleared his throat. “Excuse me for interrupting, folks, but what in the name of Kermit the Frog are you guys a-talking about? You came here asking me questions, but it sounds like you know a lot more than I do.”
Dad leaned over and patted Tick on the shoulder. “My boy here, the one who’s receiving these letters, is trying to figure out the big mystery behind them. We think it was a test of sorts to see if we’d seek you out, which is why you were given the sixth clue to give to us.”
Norbert nodded. “Ah. I see.” He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders.
“Look,” Tick said. “Do you know anything else about Master George, Mistress Jane, Mothball, anything?”
Norbert shook his head in response.
“Well, then,” Tick said. “I think we’ve got what we came for. Dad, maybe we should get going. I can read the clue while you drive.” Tick tried his best to hint that he didn’t feel very comfortable in Norbert’s house.
“Just a minute.” His dad looked at their host. “Mr. Johnson, you’ve done a great service for us and we’d like to return the favor. Is there, uh, anything we can do to help you, uh, get your nerve back and go back to work?”
Norbert didn’t reply for a long time. Then, “I don’t know. It’s awfully kind of you to offer. I guess I’m just too scared that woman is gonna come back for me and string me up like a fresh catch of salmon.”
“Well, let me tell you what I think,” Dad said, holding up a finger. “I agree with you one hundred percent. I think this Mistress Jane person must be evil, because we wholeheartedly believe what M.G.—Master George—is doing must be a noble cause because he wants my son’s help. And we’ve committed to that cause heart and soul, as you can tell.”
“I reckon I can see that. What’s your point?”
“Well, if this . . . yellow-dressed, bald, nasty woman made you quit your job, shun society, and hole up in a house all by yourself, then I think she’s won a mighty victory over the world. She’s beaten the great Norbert Johnson once and for all, and will move on to her next prey.”
Tick liked seeing his dad try and help this poor man and decided to do his part. “Yeah, Norbert, you’re doing exactly what she wanted you to do—give up and be miserable. Go back to work, show her you’re the boss of your own life.”
Norbert looked back and forth between Tick and his dad, his face a mask of uncertainty. “And if she does come back? What then?”
“Then by golly,” Dad said, “stand up to her. Show her who’s in charge.”
“And call us,” Tick chimed in. “By then, maybe we’ll have figured everything out and know how to help you.”
Norbert scratched his head. “Well, I don’t know. I’m
a-gonna have to think about this.”
Dad smiled. “Listen, we’ll exchange phone numbers and keep in touch, okay? How’s that sound?”
Norbert didn’t answer for a very long time, and Tick wondered if something was wrong. But then he saw moisture rimming on the bottom of the man’s eyes and realized the guy was all choked up.
Finally, their new friend spoke. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me that you folks care enough to give me your phone number. I just wished you a-lived up here in Alaska. I could use a friend.”
“Well, hey,” Dad said. “In this world, with the Internet and all that, we can keep in touch just fine.”
And with that, their new friendship was sealed and Tick felt mighty proud of himself.
~
Frazier watched as Tick and his dad stepped out of the house, then shook hands and embraced their new little buddy. They said a few more sappy words, just like they had inside, and headed for their vehicle.
What is this, a soap opera? I might need a tissue for my weepy eyes.
He snickered at his own joke, then put the car into drive, ready to follow, the twilight of midday having long faded into the full darkness of late afternoon.
Frazier pulled out his half of the special device, fingered the big button in the middle of its shiny gray surface.
In just a few minutes, he thought. Just a few minutes and the show begins.
Chapter
24
~
Pedal to the Metal
Norbert stared out his frosty window, watching the boy Tick and his father climb into their rental car, warm it up, then begin their long trek back to Anchorage. Norbert hadn’t felt this good in weeks, like he was doing something right, finally taking a stand against the yellow witch who haunted his dreams. He couldn’t explain it—the boy and his dad seemed to pulse with some invisible force, strong and magnetic. Norbert felt like a new person, as if powerful batteries had replaced his old junky ones, revved him up to face the world like he’d never done before.
The new year could bring a new life. He’d go back to work . . .
His thoughts petered out when he noticed another car pull out into the road just moments after Edgar had driven past it. The black Honda had been parked on the sidewalk, idling, and wasn’t in front of a house, just a blank lot of snow-covered weeds and brush. Something about that didn’t seem right. Not at all.
Then it hit Norbert.
The person in the black car was following his new friends. That couldn’t be a good thing. No sir, that couldn’t be good one bit.
The new Norbert acted before the old Norbert could talk himself out of it. He threw on some warm clothes, a wool cap, and his faded, weather-beaten shoes. He frantically searched for his keys, forgetting where he’d put them since his last venture to town. They weren’t on his dresser, weren’t on his kitchen counter—he couldn’t find them anywhere. After five minutes of hunting, he was just about to give up when he saw them on the floor under the table; he grabbed them and turned toward the garage.
The doorbell rang, freezing his blood solid.
Trying to stay brave, he ran up the stairs to his usual spying window and took a peek. Relieved, he saw it was just a kid girl with a man who looked an awful lot like Master George—dressed in a fancy suit, shiny shoes, the works. But this guy stood a lot taller and had plenty of hair, shiny blond hair slicked back against his skull.
Must be another one of those smart kids looking for their letter.
He bolt
ed back down the stairs, grabbed another copy of Mothball’s golden envelopes (could that really be her name?) and tore open the door. He held out the letter and was just about to drop it into the girl’s hand and close the door when he caught a glimpse of his visitor’s car parked in the driveway. It was much nicer and . . . faster than his. An idea popped in his head.
“You folks lookin’ for a clue from M.G.?” he asked.
The befuddled (Norbert’s new favorite word) strangers nodded in unison.
“Someone’s in a whole lot of trouble—friends of Mothball,” he said, then shook the envelope in front of them. “This is the sixth clue. If you want it, you’ve gotta help me save them.”
~
Driving slowly down Main Street, with a full tank of gas in the car, Edgar settled his bones for the long drive back to Aunt Mabel’s. He looked over at Tick, who was just pulling the sixth clue from its envelope.
“Read it, boy!” he shouted cheerfully. “I can hardly wait. What a trip, huh? What a trip!” He felt so good they’d accomplished something—not just getting the next clue, but perhaps helping poor Norbert get his life back together. Though he’d dared not admit it, Edgar had been scared to death their trip to Alaska would prove a waste, thereby nullifying his value to Tick, who’d had the courage to tell him about everything.
Tick put the white piece of cardstock down in his lap. “Nah, let’s just wait ’til we get back to Washington. What’s the rush?” Tick let out a fake yawn and stretched.
“Professor, these windows do roll down, and I am strong enough to throw you out of one.”
“Okay, okay, if you insist.” Tick read the words out loud, holding the paper up so Edgar could glance at it and follow along as he drove.
The Journal of Curious Letters Page 13