Amalia’s face lit up. “Fun!”
Luke looked suspicious, so Abby decided to put him at ease. “I’ll start by telling Luke something,” she said. “Then you can tell Amalia something,” she continued. “Okay?”
“Fine,” said Luke.
Abby leaned over and whispered in his ear. “Once I let my sister be punished for something I did,” she said.
Luke looked at her. “Really?” he asked.
“Really,” she said. “Now you tell Amalia something.”
She pretended not to listen, but she thought she overheard something about “chocolate bunny,” and she smiled to herself. Luke was confessing some childhood crime.
Amalia giggled. “Now I tell you something,” she said to Abby. She leaned over and whispered wetly into Abby’s ear, “I love Barney.”
Abby tried to hide her smile. “Okay,” she said, hoping she’d succeeded in putting Luke at ease, by having him tell Amalia a secret first. “Now let’s turn it the other way. I’ll tell Amalia something, and we’ll go around that way.” She bent down to Amalia’s ear. “I love the tooth fairy,” she whispered.
Amalia giggled some more. Then she turned and whispered in Luke’s ear. This time, Abby overheard something about “Mommy.” Amalia was loving the game.
“Okay, Luke, now you tell me something,” said Abby. “Remember, it should be something you’ve never told anybody. Something you’ve been keeping secret.”
Luke looked at her. Then, suddenly, he pushed his chair back. “This is a dumb game,” he announced, standing up and grabbing his empty glass. He put it into the sink. “I’m not playing anymore.”
Abby sighed. She’d been so close! She had a feeling that Luke really wanted to let go of his secret, but couldn’t. “Come on, Luke,” she said teasingly. “You can trust me.”
Luke met her eyes, just for a second. Then he dropped his gaze to his feet. “But you’re a baby-sitter!”
“I —” Abby began, confused by his response. Just then the phone rang. “I’ll answer it!” she said. She took the call, which was for Mrs. Martinez, and wrote down a message. By the time she’d hung up, Luke and Amalia had moved into the living room. Luke had plugged in a video game — he was allowed to play for half an hour a day — and Amalia was pulling out her paper doll collection. Abby decided to let matters drop. She’d tried hard, but Luke was no nearer to opening up with her than he’d been with any of the other BSC members.
Abby began to tidy up the room, piling books and magazines on a coffee table and tossing toys into a chest in the corner. Luke’s game beeped and buzzed, filling the room with sound. Amalia sang to her dolls.
Abby bent down to pull one more book out from under the couch. “Here’s your notebook, Luke,” she said.
He glanced around. “Not mine,” he answered. Then he went back to his game.
“Allie!” said Amalia.
Abby looked up, figuring that Amalia was talking to one of her dolls. But she was looking at the notebook Abby held. “What?” asked Abby.
“Nothing,” said Luke, turning again to glare at Amalia. “She’s mixed up.”
Abby shrugged and took a closer look at the notebook. Of course it wasn’t Luke’s. She should have known that right away. On the front it said Stoneybrook Day School, and Abby knew very well that Luke went to Stoneybrook Elementary. Besides, the lines were too narrow for a kid his age. Abby flipped through the pages, but there were no notes. Just one page covered with hearts, with the initials “B.R.” inside them.
“Hmmm,” said Abby, flipping it shut. It was just a notebook, but she had a feeling it might also be some kind of clue. She decided to bring it up at that afternoon’s BSC meeting.
“Any other business?” Kristy asked at our meeting that afternoon. We were all gathered in Claudia’s room, including Abby, who had just finished her job at the Martinezes’. Stacey had already collected our dues, since it was a Monday, and Claudia had already dug a bag of marshmallows out of her closet and passed them around. (Stacey was ignoring the marshmallows and munching away on some pretzels instead.)
“Well, I’d like to report that Luke completely opened up to me today,” began Abby. We didn’t let her continue. We were all too excited. Everybody started to talk at once.
“You’re kidding!” cried Mal.
“He did?” asked Jessi.
“That’s, like, totally excellent!” exclaimed Claudia.
“Awesome!” said Stacey.
“How did you do it?” asked Kristy.
“What exactly did he tell you?” I asked.
“Whoa, whoa, slow down, guys,” said Abby with a giggle. “I didn’t say that Luke did open up to me. I just said I’d like to report that he did. But I can’t — because he didn’t. He acted the same way he always has, and I didn’t find out a thing.”
Suddenly, the room was a lot quieter.
“Oh,” said Kristy finally.
The rest of us were silent. I, for one, was really disappointed, but also, in a way, just a little bit glad. I think I’d secretly hoped that if Luke ever did open up, it would be to me. After all, I’m the one who’s known for being sensitive and a good listener. I was still hoping I could somehow draw him out, help him climb out of that shell he seemed to be trapped in.
“It’s so frustrating!” said Stacey, echoing my thoughts. “I mean, something really fishy is going on, and it looks more and more as if it’s all connected — the fire, Fowler, everything. It would be great if we could convince Luke to talk, but we can’t. So what do we do?”
“I think we should try to find out more about that fire at the Martinezes’ on our own,” said Kristy, smacking her fist into her hand. “Since we can’t seem to find out the truth from Luke, we’ll have to find it ourselves.”
“You know, you’re right,” said Stacey. “I’m sitting over there tomorrow. Maybe I can do some investigating then.”
“I’ll come over, too,” said Kristy. “As long as it’s okay with the Martinezes. I’ll call them later and ask.”
“If they say yes, I’ll go, too,” I said. “Maybe we can find some clues if we look hard enough. But you know, I don’t think checking out that fire is enough. I think we also have to keep trying to find out more about Fowler,” I continued, remembering what Dawn had said. “We need ammunition for that town council meeting, especially if we can’t prove he’s responsible for the fire.”
“I’m sure the people at the Historical Society would love it if we could dig up some dirt on Fowler,” said Stacey. “I heard that they’re putting together a report for the meeting, about how important Ambrose’s Sawmill is as a historical asset to the town. But I have a feeling that won’t be enough to convince the town council.”
Claudia leaned back on her bed and sighed. “So in other words, we’re all back to square one.”
“Well, not totally,” said Abby. “I mean, we did find out about those Wolfer twins who were born on the same date as Fowler. That seems like a lead to me.”
“Maybe it is,” said Mal. “But what do we do about it?”
“Find out more,” replied Jessi, speaking into the floor. She was doing one of her ballet stretches, the kind that always looks (to me) as if it would be incredibly painful. Her legs were stretched out wide, and she’d bent her whole upper body down so that her nose was nearly touching the floor.
“More about what?” I asked.
Jessi straightened up. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “More about the twins? Maybe if Fowler really does have a twin brother we should locate him. He might be able to give us some information.”
“Or maybe the twin is the one who’s been up to no good,” said Stacey slowly. She sounded as if she were working something out as she spoke. “Remember the night you were arrested?” she asked, turning to me.
I nodded. How could I forget?
“Well, when you told Sergeant Johnson you saw Fowler out by the old sawmill, he said you couldn’t have —”
“— because Fowle
r was in San Francisco!” I finished, excited. “And you’re saying that maybe the person I saw was Fowler’s twin!”
Stacey grinned and nodded.
“Whoa!” said Claudia. “Now that’s an interesting idea.” She leaned forward, and her eyes were sparkling. “It sounds like something out of a Nancy Drew book. ‘The Case of the Treacherous Twins!’ I can see it now.”
“I’m confused. You’re saying that we’re actually dealing with Reginald Fowler’s evil twin brother?” asked Abby.
“They’re both evil,” I said. “I mean, we know Fowler has no respect or caring for Stoneybrook. So he’s no good guy. But maybe his twin does some of his dirty work.” I nodded. This was really an interesting idea.
“So we have to track down the twin,” said Mal.
“Both twins, actually,” I said. “We don’t really know which one is which. So we need to find out everything we can about both —” I grabbed the mystery notebook and flipped to the right page “— John and Samuel Wolfer.”
Just then, the phone rang, and I think we all jumped a little. I’d almost forgotten we were in the middle of a club meeting, and I think the others felt the same way.
Kristy answered the phone and we snapped back into BSC mode. It was Mrs. Braddock, one of our regular clients. I checked the record book to figure out who could take the job. Claudia and Jessi were the only ones free. Jessi said she had a special ballet class that day, so Claudia ended up with the job. Kristy called Mrs. Braddock back, and as soon as she hung up, the phone rang again. From then on, the meeting was a busy one, and we didn’t have another chance to talk about what to do next.
At six, when the meeting was officially over, we all stayed an extra five minutes in order to make a plan. We agreed that Kristy, Stacey, and I would do some detective work at the Martinezes’ the next afternoon. Also, we’d try to come up with some ideas for investigating the Wolfer twins.
It was a pretty loose plan, but after dinner that night, when I started to think about it, I came up with an idea. What about that development project we’d read about, the one in Lawrenceville? Why had they chosen that town? Maybe, I thought, because one or both of the Wolfer twins lived there!
How could I find out if I was right? I knew we didn’t have a Lawrenceville phone book in the house, and it was too late to go to the library. On an impulse, I dialed directory assistance.
“What city, please?” asked the operator.
“Lawrenceville,” I answered, glad that my dad and Sharon had gone out and couldn’t overhear what I was doing and ask questions. It wouldn’t be easy to explain.
“Name?” asked the operator.
“Wolfer,” I said. “W-O-L-F-E-R. Samuel Wolfer.”
“I have no listing under that name,” she reported.
“Thank you,” I said. I hung up, disappointed. What a dead end. Then I shook myself. I’d forgotten to ask about John Wolfer. I dialed again — and, just in case I reached the same operator, I disguised my voice by pinching my nose.
“What city, please?”
“Lawrenceville,” I replied, sounding as if I had the worst cold in the world.
“Name?” she asked.
I couldn’t tell if it was the same operator or not, so I kept pinching my nose. “Wolfer,” I told her. I spelled it out again. “John Wolfer.”
“No listing,” said the operator. Did she sound suspicious, or was it just my imagination?
“Thanks,” I said, hanging up. Bummer. That hadn’t worked either. I sat and thought for a second, and then jumped up and ran for a pencil and some paper. I sat down again and made a list of possible names, ones that were close to Wolfer. Then I made a few more calls, working my way from Wolfman, Samuel to Wolfstein, John. For each call, I put on a different accent. I was starting to crack myself up.
Finally, one call (I was using a French accent) hit paydirt. “Why, yes,” the operator said. “I do have a listing for a Samuel Wolf in Lawrenceville. The number is —”
I barely listened. After all, I didn’t really need his phone number. All I needed to know was that he existed, and that he lived in Lawrenceville. Was Samuel Wolf really our man? In order to know for sure, I’d have to find out his birthdate. How could I do that?
I looked around the living room, glancing at the bookcases that line one wall. Then my eye lit on a burgundy-colored book shelved next to my dad’s law texts. “Perfect!” I said to myself, recognizing it. I pulled it out. “Who’s Who in Southern Connecticut,” I said out loud, reading the title. My dad had shown me where his name was in that book, and once when Kristy and I were browsing through it we’d also found an entry for Watson Brewer. Just about anyone who was involved in politics, law, or business in our area is in that book. I sat down with it, crossed my fingers, and turned straight to the Ws. Then, suddenly, it popped out at me: “Wolf, Samuel.” Just what I was looking for! Or was it? Quickly, I read the beginning of the entry. “Born January 2nd …” It was him! It had to be.
I read on. The short biography didn’t reveal much about the man, but it did mention that he was a twin, and it gave the basic information about his childhood and his parents. Both were dead: The mother died one day after the twins were born — how tragic — and the father died (I quickly did the math) when they were seven.
The most interesting thing I found was that the “childhood home” of Samuel Wolf was a “small, rustic cabin.” And, believe it or not, that cabin was in Stoneybrook, Connecticut — on a little lane that is now part of Miller’s Park!
It meant something. I knew it did. But what?
The events Stacey recorded in the mystery notebook sounded pretty strange, and they would have sounded even stranger if I hadn’t been there myself to see what had happened.
As we’d planned, Kristy and I showed up at the Martinezes’ on Tuesday, not long after Stacey arrived. It turned out that Mr. Martinez had come home that afternoon. He still needed a sitter, though, since his plan was to spend a few hours grading a pile of papers. He didn’t mind if Kristy and I came over, as long as we kept the kids occupied so he could work in peace. He was more than happy to hear that our plans included a garage clean-up.
Luke did not seem at all thrilled to have three baby-sitters on hand, but Amalia was in heaven. “Staceee! Kisty! May Anne!” she crowed, hugging each of us in turn.
Stacey had already explained to Luke that we’d planned to work on cleaning up the garage (that was our cover story for the investigating we wanted to do) and that we’d need his help. He wasn’t overjoyed, but he agreed, probably because he didn’t want to let us out of his sight. Amalia didn’t seem to care what we did, as long as one of us carried her around piggyback-style.
We headed into the garage, and Stacey showed Luke a pile of old magazines that needed sorting. Some of them had been damaged by the fire, but some of them were salvageable. Mr. and Mrs. Martinez wanted to save the good ones for use in their classrooms. Luke seemed happy to have a job to do, and he took the magazines out into the driveway where he could sit while he sorted. Although the big roll-up garage door was closed, the regular-size door next to it was open, and he kept an eye on us through that.
Once he was settled in, the three of us began to prowl around the garage, looking for clues. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was searching for. It wasn’t as if the person who started the fire would have dropped a business card or anything. But maybe, even if we couldn’t figure out who had started the fire, we could find out more about the fire itself.
“Like, maybe there are some matches lying around, or a lighter,” Kristy had said, as she and I were riding bikes (she’d borrowed Dawn’s, which is still stored in our barn) to the Martinezes’ that day. “If we can figure out how the fire was started in the first place, that might lead us to other clues.”
The Martinezes’ garage was very neat, so it didn’t take long for us to realize that there were no matches lying around. There weren’t any gasoline cans, either, or any other clues as to how the fire had started. I w
as disappointed.
“We’ll never figure this out,” I said quietly, so Amalia wouldn’t hear. “There isn’t a clue in sight. Maybe this was a totally innocent fire. Maybe it has nothing to do with Fowler.”
“Maybe,” said Kristy doubtfully. “But I bet it does. Don’t forget that he has a big motive.”
Stacey, who was carrying Amalia on her back, gave her a little boost to put her in a better position. Amalia giggled. “Uppy, uppy,” she sang happily, laughing and leaning her head back so she was staring at the ceiling while Stacey jounced her.
The three of us laughed, too. Amalia’s giggle was contagious. For a second, I forgot how frustrated I was by this mystery. I leaned my head back, too, just to make Amalia laugh again. “Uppy, uppy,” I said, copying her. It worked. She laughed some more, so I kept it up. “Uppy — whoa!” I said, staring harder at the ceiling. “Hey, guys. Check it out!” I pointed to the ceiling. They followed my gaze.
“So?” Kristy said, after she’d taken a look.
“See the sooty streaks?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Stacey. “They’re from the fire.”
“Right,” I said. “But Mrs. Martinez told me that the garage door was open at the time of the fire.”
Kristy was looking at me closely. “Uh-huh,” she said. “What are you saying, Mary Anne?”
I was excited. “Look at the garage door now,” I said. “It’s closed, right?”
Stacey and Kristy looked at me as if I were speaking another language. “Well, duh,” remarked Stacey. “But so what?”
I walked to the garage door, bent over, and yanked on the handle. The door rolled up to reveal Luke, who was sitting cross-legged on the driveway, sorting magazines. I waved at Luke and turned to my friends. “If the door had been open,” I explained, “there wouldn’t be any soot on the ceiling. See?” I pointed to the ceiling, which was now covered by the rolled-up door.
Mary Anne and the Silent Witness Page 6