We all stopped breathing for a second and strained to hear what he and Beau would say to each other. The words came through loud and clear.
“Good. You’re here.”
“Yes, sir.” That was Beau’s voice.
“Ready to do that job for me?”
“Yes, sir,” Beau said again.
“Good. What I want you to do is torch this place.”
“The cabin?”
“Right. The cabin. Do it tonight.”
“How do I —?”
“There’s a container of gasoline outside in my car.” Footsteps. The man was preparing to leave. I gasped. Now what? Fowler was supposed to show up any minute. Our whole plan would be blown if the twin left now.
Beau must have been thinking the same thing. “Uh, sir?” he asked, plainly trying to stall the man.
“What is it?”
“Um — do you have a brother?” Beau sounded desperate.
Silence. The footsteps stopped, as if the man had stopped in his tracks. “A brother? No, no. I don’t have —”
Just then, another car pulled up. Reginald Fowler had arrived. Before he could enter the cabin, his twin brother opened the door. The two men stared at each other in silence. They looked exactly alike. I couldn’t believe it. And both of them wore identical frowns. They did not seem at all happy to see each other.
My heart was pounding hard. Could they hear it?
Finally, Fowler spoke. “Samuel. I should have known you were in town. Who else would try to sabotage all my plans?”
“I just didn’t want you to destroy this town, John,” said the twin.
“It’s Reginald now,” said Fowler. “Reginald Fowler. John Wolfer no longer exists.”
“I see,” said Samuel. “I changed my name, too. More than once. Trying to escape the past, I suppose. These days I call myself Samuel Wolf.”
“Well, Samuel Wolf,” said Fowler with an unpleasant smile. “What’s it to you if I destroy this town? What has it ever done for us? I’ll be happy when it’s destroyed, along with all the memories.”
Samuel shook his head. “You have it all wrong,” he said. “It’s not the town’s fault our mother died. And ruining the town isn’t going to bring her back to life. Somehow your mind has become twisted over the years.”
“And yours hasn’t?” snapped Fowler. “You, who sneak around like a petty vandal, trying to set me up for failure?”
Samuel hung his head. “I suppose there might have been better ways of going about it,” he said. “But I was desperate. I just wanted to stop you, and I knew you wouldn’t listen to reason. After all, I am your twin. I know you better than anyone does. And anyway, I never did the actual vandalism. I hired somebody else for the dirty work.”
Just then Sergeant Johnson stepped out from our hiding place. “Thank you for your full confession,” he said, flashing his badge as he handcuffed Samuel. Reginald looked as if he were about to run off, but three other policemen stepped out of the shadows and he froze.
“You can’t arrest me,” said Fowler. “I haven’t done anything illegal.”
“That may be true,” said Sergeant Johnson. “But I think the people of Stoneybrook have a right to hear what your plans are for their town. Why don’t you come along with me and tell them?”
Fowler frowned, but didn’t resist as Sergeant Johnson walked him out of the clearing.
We watched them go, and then stepped out of our hiding spot to follow them. Meanwhile, the other police officers were reading Samuel Wolfer and Beau (whom they’d gone into the cabin to find) their rights. As we passed them, I realized that one of the policemen was Officer Cleary, and I smiled at him.
He nodded at me. “We’ll bring these two down to the station,” he said. “But then I think I’ll join you at the meeting. It’s going to be an interesting evening down at Town Hall.”
The meeting room was packed. By the time we arrived, every seat had been taken and lots of people were standing along the back wall. We squeezed in, finding places to stand. There was a buzz in the air, a tense feeling. Seven men and women — the town council members — sat at a long, horseshoe-shaped desk in the front of the room, facing the audience. There was a man setting up a video camera on a tripod. The town council meetings are broadcast live on the local public access channel.
I spotted Mr. and Mrs. Martinez and Luke (they must have found a sitter for Amalia) in the third row of seats, and I waved. All three of them grinned and waved back.
Reginald Fowler sat near the back, next to a glowering Sergeant Johnson. Fowler looked trapped — and angry.
Suddenly, I heard a loud knocking noise, and I turned to the front and saw that one of the council members was banging a gavel on the desk. The crowd fell silent.
The gray-haired woman who had banged the gavel stood up. “Welcome to tonight’s meeting,” she said in a friendly voice. “We realize we have a controversial subject to deal with this evening, and we’d like to ask for your cooperation. Let’s keep our emotions under control. Remember, we welcome all public input, but you may only speak when the chair — that’s me! — recognizes you.” She smiled around at everyone. Then she sat down and opened the meeting.
What happened after that was pretty much a big blur. First there was some boring stuff; lawyers presenting proposals, other lawyers presenting counter-proposals, things like that. The big question was whether Miller’s Park should be “zoned for phase three development” or, instead, be named an official historic landmark. Then the chair recognized Fowler, and he gave this whole totally phony speech about how he only had the best interests of Stoneybrook at heart. Kristy was shaking her head and looking furious, and I had to hold her back so she wouldn’t start a scene.
After Fowler spoke, a whole lot of other people raised their hands and spoke. Some talked about how they supported Fowler, and thought the development of Miller’s Park would be good for Stoneybrook. Others spoke about why they opposed the idea. The best speaker was a man from the Historical Society, who talked about why it was important to preserve places like the old sawmill.
I’d noticed Luke’s hand sticking up for quite a while before he was recognized. I knew he and his parents had brought the map that showed Fowler’s horrible plan, and I knew that it was an important piece of evidence. I was worried that the chairwoman wouldn’t see Luke, but finally she did. “Yes?” she asked. “The boy in front, here.”
Luke stood up. “I brought something I found at Ambrose’s Sawmill,” he said, in a voice that was only slightly shaky. I was proud of him. “It’s a map,” he continued. “A map and a plan. Of what Mr. Fowler really wants to do to our town.”
“Why don’t you bring it up here?” asked the chairwoman.
Luke squeezed his way down the row of seats, walked up to the front, and handed the rolled-up map to her.
“Thank you,” she said. She unrolled the map, gazed at it briefly, and frowned. Then she passed it along to the other council members, and turned to face Reginald Fowler. “Mr. Fowler, what can you tell me about this document?” she asked.
Fowler’s face was white. “It’s not — it’s just a preliminary — that’s my private property, and it was stolen!” By the time he finished, he was yelling and his face had turned from white to red. Sergeant Johnson put a hand on his shoulder, as if to calm him down. Fowler shrugged it off. Then he stood up, shoved his way out of the row of seats, and stomped out of the room.
That was the most dramatic point of the evening. After that, it quieted down a lot. The council members discussed the map, listened to more testimony from the audience, and finally, after about an hour and a half, the chairwoman declared the public part of the meeting over.
“I think we have all the information we need to make our decision,” she said. “Thank you for coming. Our decision will appear in tomorrow’s paper.”
* * *
Guess what? We won. It’s true! It was the lead story in the paper. The council decided to turn down Fowler’s proposa
l. And that’s not all. They also decided to designate Miller’s Park and Ambrose’s Sawmill official historic landmarks, which means nobody can ever develop or change them.
At our BSC meeting the next day, we toasted the decision with punch that Claud had made by combining ginger ale with raspberry-apple juice. She’d also laid out a huge spread of junk food: Twinkies, Ring-Dings, Ranch-Style Doritos, Cheetos, and Smartfood, just for starters. (She’d put aside some Snickers bars for “dessert.”) She’d also provided pretzels and fruit, for Stacey and anyone else who wanted it.
“Here’s to Miller’s Park!” said Stacey, holding up her cup. We all “clinked” our cups.
“Here’s to Luke,” I added, and we clinked again.
“Here’s to the BSC detective team!” said Claudia. Another round of clinking.
“And here’s to Reginald Fowler,” said Kristy.
We all stared at her. “What?” I asked. “Are you out of your mind?”
She shrugged. “Well, he’s the one who made all this excitement possible.”
We cracked up, and clinked one more time.
Just then, Claudia’s sister Janine poked her head into the room. “Congratulations,” she said. “I thought you might want to see this.” She held out a white envelope, and Kristy stood up to take it.
“It’s from the mayor’s office!” exclaimed Kristy, after she’d examined the envelope. “Hand-delivered, too. There’s no stamp.”
“Open it!” said Abby. “What are you waiting for?”
Kristy tore the envelope open and shook out a letter. She unfolded it and began to read. “It’s from the head of the Stoneybrook park system,” she said. “It says, ‘Dear Members of the Baby-sitters Club. In honor of your help in preserving Miller’s Park for posterity, we’d like to notify you that the area surrounding Ambrose’s Sawmill will be renamed Baby-sitters Walk.’ ”
“Cool!” said Jessi.
“Awesome,” said Abby. “We’ll be part of an official historical landmark.”
“Excellent publicity,” said Kristy.
“Wow!” I said. “That’s so nice of them.”
“Interesting,” commented Janine, who was still standing in the doorway. “Very interesting.”
“What do you mean, interesting?” asked Claud. “Don’t you think it’s great?”
“Actually, I find it rather peculiar,” said Janine.
“Peculiar? Why?” asked Stacey.
“Because Stoneybrook doesn’t have a park system,” said Janine.
“It must!” I said. I grabbed the phone book from Claudia’s bed table and checked the “Town of Stoneybrook” listings. Janine was right. There was no park system. “Is this some kind of joke?” I asked.
“Let me see that letter,” said Claudia. Kristy handed it over, and Claudia examined it. “Look at this signature,” she said. “A.F. Nilter. What kind of name is that?”
I looked over her shoulder. Then I gasped. “Read it backwards!” I said. “Nilter equals Retlin! This is Cary’s work. He must be out for revenge, because I accused him of being involved in the fire.”
“But what does the A.F. stand for?” asked Mal.
“I think I know,” said Abby, with a little smile. “April Fool!”
“Oh, ha-ha,” said Kristy. “We’ve been tricked once too often by Cary Retlin. This is the last straw. No way are we going to let him have the last word. This means war!”
The author gratefully acknowledges
Ellen Miles
for her help in
preparing this manuscript.
About the Author
ANN MATTHEWS MARTIN was born on August 12, 1955. She grew up in Princeton, New Jersey, with her parents and her younger sister, Jane.
There are currently over 176 million copies of The Baby-sitters Club in print. (If you stacked all of these books up, the pile would be 21,245 miles high.) In addition to The Baby-sitters Club, Ann is the author of two other series, Main Street and Family Tree. Her novels include Belle Teal, A Corner of the Universe (a Newbery Honor book), Here Today, A Dog’s Life, On Christmas Eve, Everything for a Dog, Ten Rules for Living with My Sister, and Ten Good and Bad Things About My Life (So Far). She is also the coauthor, with Laura Godwin, of the Doll People series.
Ann lives in upstate New York with her dog and her cats.
Copyright © 1996 by Ann M. Martin
Cover art by Hodges Soileau
All rights reserved. Published by Scholastic Inc. SCHOLASTIC, THE BABY-SITTERS CLUB, and associated logos are trademarks and/or registered trademarks of Scholastic Inc.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher. For information regarding permission, write to Scholastic Inc., Attention: Permissions Department, 557 Broadway, New York, NY 10012.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
First edition, April 1996
e-ISBN 978-0-545-79230-1
Mary Anne and the Silent Witness Page 9