Charlie and Frog

by Karen Kane

  “Sure!”

  Millie came back with water. Charlie drank the entire glass as Frog shoved a book into Charlie’s free hand.

  Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure by D. J. McKinnon. A girl stared at Charlie from the front cover: arms crossed, eyes in a steely-eyed squint, ready to solve a mystery.

  “Frog loves those books,” Millie told Charlie as Frog focused on her notepad. “Dorrie is Deaf and she solves mysteries. Frog wants to be a detective. I do, too! Did you know my dog Bear is a Newfoundland? Newfs are one of the biggest dogs in the world.”

  Frog showed Charlie what she had written.

  Read this book!!! Learn some sign with Millie before you leave!!! Meet me at the library tomorrow at 11:00 a.m.!!!

  Geez, Frog sure means business, Charlie thought. And she sure loved exclamation points.

  I will!!! Charlie wrote.

  Frog showed Charlie how to sign “I will.” She moved a flat hand from the side of her chin straight outward. “I will.”

  Charlie started to copy what she signed, then stopped. He realized he was using his left hand when Frog was using her right. Did it matter?

  Frog shook her head. It doesn’t matter. You’re left-handed, so just do the opposite of me. Whatever my right hand does, you sign with your left. Whatever my left hand does, you sign with your right. Now show me!

  Charlie signed, “I will.”

  Frog shook her head and scowled. Clearly Charlie was doing it wrong—“wrong” Charlie signed in his head. Finally Charlie must have done it right because Frog nodded and motioned for them to go downstairs.

  Oliver was right. Frog was not a patient teacher. Though Frog had said she was patient with Miss Tweedy. As he walked behind Frog and Millie, Charlie practiced the sign “I will.” He hoped he wouldn’t forget it. He had a feeling Frog would be quizzing him later on.

  • • •

  Vince Vinelli’s Worst Criminals Ever! was not on TV that night. Grandma and Grandpa Tickler watched a baking competition show instead. Charlie sat on the sofa with the book Frog had ordered him to read: Dorrie McCann and the Mystery of the Secret Treasure by D. J. McKinnon.

  Charlie leafed through the book. Then he tossed it aside to practice the signs Millie had taught him.

  “Ice cream.” That was easy to remember. It looked like someone licking an ice cream cone. Tomorrow he would show Frog the new signs he had learned. Frog would be impressed—Charlie was certain.

  “Irving! That angel food cake looks too flat, don’t you agree?” Grandma Tickler shouted during a commercial.

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler agreed.

  Yvette, who was cleaning up the kitchen, strolled into the living room.

  “He didn’t beat his egg whites enough,” Yvette said. She went back into the kitchen. The contestant who baked the angel food cake was voted out.

  “It should have been fluffier,” Grandma Tickler said. “It didn’t look good.”

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler said.

  As usual, Grandma Tickler understood immediately Grandpa Tickler’s “ayuh.” And in this case, she disagreed.

  “How can a cake be good if it doesn’t look good, Irving?” Grandma Tickler demanded.

  A commercial came on. Grandma Tickler stretched her arms and did a little twist in her E-Z chair recliner. She noticed Charlie sitting on the sofa.

  “We haven’t done much for Charlie since Alistair and Myra left,” Grandma Tickler said to Grandpa Tickler. “Didn’t we do things for Alistair when he was Charlie’s age?”

  “Ayuh,” Grandpa Tickler said.

  “I thought so,” Grandma Tickler said. “Yvette! Does Charlie need us to do anything?”

  Yvette came out of the kitchen.

  “He’s right here, Irma. Charlie, do you need anything?” Yvette asked, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.

  Yes.

  Yes, he needed things.

  He needed lots of things.

  He needed a new toothbrush.

  He needed new socks.

  He needed parents who wanted him along as they helped.

  He needed grandparents who wanted him to stay.

  “No,” Charlie said.

  “There you go,” Yvette said. The baking competition show came back on. Yvette turned to go into the kitchen.

  “Yvette?” Charlie said.

  “Yes?”

  Charlie looked over at his grandparents. “Do you think people can be like that angel food cake? They may not look good, but they could still be good?”

  Yvette eyed Grandma and Grandpa Tickler.

  “In my experience, Charlie,” Yvette said, “what you see is what you get.”

  The cat was sitting by the front door of the library. Mr. Dickens eyed Charlie with disdain.

  “Say good morning to Mr. Dickens,” Miss Tweedy called, “otherwise he gets in a mood.”

  Mr. Dickens looked like he was already in a mood, but Charlie reached down to pet him nonetheless. “Good morning, Mr. Dickens.”

  “No petting!” Miss Tweedy screeched as Mr. Dickens swiped his claws at Charlie. “Mr. Dickens only likes to be petted in the afternoon,” Miss Tweedy explained. “Feel free to pet him after one o’clock.”

  “Okay,” Charlie said. He would not be petting Mr. Dickens any time of day. Charlie approached the circulation desk.

  “Miss Tweedy, do you have grandchildren?”

  “I have not been so blessed,” Miss Tweedy said. “I have, however, been a grandchild.”

  “Did your grandparents do things with you?” Charlie asked.

  “Oh, yes!” Miss Tweedy said. “I have the most marvelous memories of my grandfather reading to me. I remember one book quite vividly.”

  “Which book?” Charlie asked.

  Miss Tweedy walked over to a pile of books and plucked one out. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

  The book was yellowed and musty. But Miss Tweedy smiled so fondly at it (and the author’s name was Charles) that Charlie decided to try it.

  “Library card, please,” Miss Tweedy said. Despite typing the library card for Charlie only yesterday, Miss Tweedy inspected it thoroughly. Only then did she check the book out to Charlie. He had just settled into a worn overstuffed armchair in the front of the library when Frog strode through the door. Mr. Dickens peered around the corner and eyed her with vigilance.

  The daisy diamond brooch from yesterday was gone. Today, cherry-size rubies hung from Frog’s ears. She pulled out a pen and notepad from the leather bag slung across her body, and flopped into the armchair next to Charlie’s. The rubies shimmied. Frog breathed in deeply and smiled.

  I like the smell of the library, Frog wrote. Did you read Dorrie McCann yet?

  You just gave it to me yesterday! Charlie wrote back.

  Well, make sure you read it ASAP! Frog settled into her chair. Now show me the signs Millie taught you.

  Charlie had been waiting for this. He carefully signed: “dog,” “cat,” “yes,” “no,” “good,” “bad,” “can,” “can’t,” “tree,” “flower,” “grass,” “water,” “ice cream,” “cookie,” “mom,” “dad,” “hearing,” “Deaf,” and the numbers one through ten. Charlie even made sure he signed the numbers one through five with his palm facing toward him, and then turned his palm outward for the rest of the numbers.

  Frog stared at him with an incredulous look.

  Wait. He had forgotten one sign—“happy.”

  There. Why wasn’t Frog saying anything? Charlie wondered.

  What’s wrong? he wrote.

  How are those signs good for solving a murder mystery?!

  Millie’s six! Charlie wrote. She didn’t know how to teach me! So finally I asked her how to sign some words I thought a six-year-old would know! And can’t we just call it a mystery?

  Frog glanced up toward the ceiling with a look that said “Why is my life so hard?”

  She grabbed the pen and wrote: Now learn these signs: “blood,” “kill,” “poison,” “st
ab,” “shoot,” “hide,” “body,” “library,” “investigate,” “who,” “what,” “when,” “where,” “why.” You already know “dead” and “wrong,” so I suppose you should learn the signs “alive” and “right.”

  Frog started with the sign for “blood.” Palm facing in, she brushed her right index finger down her lips. Then she opened her right hand, and wiggled her fingers downward over her left open hand.

  When Frog was satisfied with how Charlie had signed everything, she wrote: Ready to start our investigation?

  “Yes,” Charlie signed. See? Millie had taught him some useful signs.

  Good! Let’s see if there is a dead body in the library.

  Charlie and Frog climbed the oak staircase to the children’s section, a large sunny room overlooking Main Street. They checked under fat pillows and behind a stuffed lion. They explored four other high-ceilinged rooms crammed with books, peering into chimneys, searching under tables and armchairs. They continued their investigation downstairs. When they reached the section Aggie had gone to when she first entered the library, Charlie stopped Frog.

  Frog’s eyes scanned the shelves:

  Nonfiction 929-956 Genealogy, Ancient History, World History…Reference 000-999…Nonfiction 327-339 Political Science, Economics, Financial Planning…Nonfiction 340-364 Law, Military, Criminology…

  Frog pointed to “Criminology” with a knowing look. She wrote: Aggie signed “dead.” Crime books usually involve death. It makes sense she was looking here.

  But if Aggie had been looking for a book in the criminology section, how would they know which book? They examined some of the titles: Enemies Within, Inside the Criminal Mind, Why Good People Go Bad. Nothing seemed obvious.

  Maybe, Charlie wrote, Aggie signed “dead” because she was upset someone she loved just died. Maybe someone rich. She was looking for a book to help her.

  In criminology?!

  Charlie pointed to a book in the financial planning section: Suddenly Rich! What to Do When Someone Leaves You a Pile of Money.

  Frog took a minute to answer. How does that connect with the secret she told? And fixing what she did before theft or destruction or worse happens? And that Dex and Ray are looking for her because she knows where “it” is?

  It doesn’t, Charlie admitted.

  Frog signed the letter Y, and then moved her arm downward from her elbow.

  This sign means “that.” In English you could say, “That’s what I mean!”

  Charlie copied the sign. “That.”

  Charlie then showed Frog the window where Aggie had climbed out. Like Charlie, Frog was impressed Aggie had made the jump.

  Miss Tweedy was the next stop in their investigation. She had pink lipstick on her front teeth again. Unlike Charlie, Frog immediately pointed this out. Miss Tweedy rubbed her teeth with her finger.

  Charlie watched their exchange carefully. Miss Tweedy did use her hands and body to tell her version of what happened, but even Charlie could tell she was not using American Sign Language.

  Miss Tweedy’s hands swooped and swelled. They fluttered and flurried. She danced on her tiptoes over to the front windows and gestured fiercely. She tapped her collarbone, pointed at Mr. Dickens, and jabbed a finger at Charlie. She ended her story with a leap and a pirouette. The out-of-breath Miss Tweedy bowed. She tapped her collarbone once more, and went through the door behind the circulation desk.

  Same thing you told me, Frog wrote.

  You understood that? How?

  I’ve known Miss Tweedy my whole life—I’m fluent in TSL. She went to visit Mrs. Murphy and left you to run the library.

  Frog’s eyes searched the library and landed on the portrait of the pink-shirted man hanging above the fireplace.

  Mr. Woo was the librarian, Frog wrote.

  Frog paused meaningfully.

  Until he died last month. Suddenly.

  That’s awful!

  Frog agreed. That could be the reason Aggie came to the library! Maybe Aggie knows a secret about Mr. Woo—a secret he shared with her! Now Mr. Woo is DEAD. How did Mr. Woo REALLY die? We need to check the morgue!

  Or, Charlie wrote, Aggie came here for a book. She did come to a library, after all. Charlie was not going to the morgue. He just wanted to find Aggie and make sure she was okay.

  Frog sighed and thought for a moment. She made a decision.

  Blythe and Bone Bookshop. That’s where we go next to investigate books AND the possible murder of Harold Woo.

  “Okay,” Charlie signed. He did not ask why. At least it was a bookshop and not a morgue.

  And we look for Aggie, Charlie added.

  “That,” Frog signed. That’s what I mean.

  Charlie hoped so.

  The villagers of Castle-on-the-Hudson sure loved coffee. Charlie noticed café after café as they walked: Coffee Cup, Coffee Pot, Coffee Cake, Coffee & Cream.

  Frog wrote: We’re famous for the most coffee shops per square block!

  Frog inhaled the coffee-scented air and kissed the back of her fist. Charlie peered into each café window searching for Aggie. He made sure his key was still in his pocket.

  “What?” Frog signed.

  It’s my key, Charlie wrote. Just in case.

  Frog understood. Vince Vinelli. She nodded. Good idea.

  Frog pointed to a store called Junk and Stuff. A silver-haired woman wearing huge diamond earrings was writing a note to the clerk inside. The clerk read her note and shook his head. The silver-haired woman frowned and snatched the note back. Charlie looked past the woman and the clerk. Yep—lots of stuff, most of it junk.

  Frog peered in as well.

  Love her earrings! This store is where I buy all of my statement pieces.

  Statement pieces?

  My fantastic jewelry! Frog pointed to her ruby earrings. They make a statement about me!

  They do?

  Of course they do! They say I’m unique!

  Charlie did not need jewelry to tell him that Frog was unique.

  You should consider a statement piece, Frog told Charlie. Wear special sneakers or some kind of T-shirt.

  Right, Charlie wrote.

  How do you decide what to wear every day?

  I reach in my drawer and pull something out. I put it on.

  That’s no good. We need to find your style.

  We need to find Aggie, Charlie wrote.

  • • •

  As they walked, Charlie practiced signing. Frog corrected Charlie’s mistakes while steering him around dog bowls and benches. In between correcting and steering, Frog managed to say hello to most of the village. She knew everyone—the three kids riding bikes, the shopkeeper sweeping the sidewalk, the boy on the skateboard, the woman watering the flower baskets hanging on lampposts, the girl jumping rope. If they were Deaf, Frog signed. If they could hear, Frog either signed or gestured or wrote notes. Frog told Charlie that besides saying hello, which was only polite, she was also asking if they had seen Aggie.

  No one had.

  Frog stopped in front of an ivy-covered cottage with a purple front door.

  DESDEMONA FINKELSTEIN, F.T.E.

  CASH ONLY

  OPEN 10–4

  (UNLESS THE UNIVERSE TELLS ME DIFFERENTLY)

  Desdemona may have information for us, Frog wrote.

  Frog tried the brass doorknob. Closed.

  What kind of information? Charlie asked.

  Vital information, Frog answered.

  What does that mean?

  Vital means important, Frog wrote with a smug look.

  I know what “vital” means! What kind of vital information? Who is she?

  Frog ignored Charlie’s question.

  Instead she wrote: We’ll come back when she’s here.

  When’s that?

  How should I know? Desdemona only works when the universe tells her to work.

  Charlie stopped asking questions.

  • • •

  Blythe and Bone Bookshop was a state
ly brick building. A young woman with a cloud of curly hair was arranging books in the large front window. She spotted Frog and grinned. They signed to each other as Frog stood on the sidewalk and the woman knelt in the window display. Charlie liked that it didn’t matter if one person was outside and the other person was inside. As long as you could see each other, you could carry on your conversation.

  When Charlie and Frog opened the shop door, a lamp flashed on and off at the desk where an old man was writing. The man looked up when the lamp flickered on. Then he scowled and returned to his papers.

  Blythe and Bone Bookshop, unlike the Castle-on-the-Hudson Library, was orderly and elegant, with neatly shelved books and polished wood tables and chairs. Coffee and tea brewed behind the counter. Customers sipped from porcelain cups as they browsed and read. Charlie recognized the young couple from the gondola yesterday. The woman was flipping through a book on country castles. The man was engrossed in a book called Gondolas: Transportation or Terror?

  Frog hugged the woman from the window display, pointed to Charlie, then fingerspelled his name. The young woman turned to Charlie and stuck out her hand. On her brown skin was a tattoo of a little girl reading a book. Underneath were the words “You are not alone.”

  “Nice to meet you, Charlie. I’m Matilda Blythe. And that grumpy gentleman over there is my grandfather, Thelonious Bone.” Matilda jerked a thumb toward the man sitting at the desk, whom Frog was now approaching. “Frog wants to talk to Bone about Harold Woo. This should be interesting. Don’t worry, I’ll interpret.”

  Frog pulled up a chair and sat across from Bone. Bone would not look up. Finally he glared at Frog out of the corner of his eye.

  Frog immediately signed, “Do you mind if I ask some questions about Mr. Woo?”

  Matilda interpreted Frog’s question in a sweet voice because right now Frog did look very sweet. And very un-Frog-like.

  Bone snapped his hands at her. “Yes, I mind, you impertinent child!” Matilda made her grandfather’s voice sound raspy and gruff.

  “But it’s important,” Frog insisted. “You’re the one who found Mr. Woo. I need to know exactly how Mr. Woo died.”

  Bone waved Frog away with a flick of his hand.