by Pete Hautman
“The island down by the convent?”
“Yeah. Big old sandbar hanging off the end of the island. Catches lots of driftwood and junk. Even after that storm we had the water’s still pretty low. You could probably wade out there. If you don’t mind leeches.”
“Roni!” Nick hollered from out in the hall.
“Thanks. Gotta go.” Roni turned off the cell phone, shoved it in her pocket, and tumbled out of her closet just as her mom pushed open the door.
“What are you doing?” her mother asked. She was dressed for work, her purse hanging over her shoulder.
“I thought I’d take advantage of my incarceration by cleaning my closet.”
“You haven’t gotten very far.”
“I’m working out a plan.”
Nick raised her eyebrows in disbelief, then shrugged, apparently deciding that pretending to believe her daughter was easier than getting into a confusing argument. “I have to go down to city hall for a few hours. I assume I don’t need to tell you that you are to stay here.”
“I’m going to be very busy with the closet. I don’t see how I could possibly leave.”
Her mom stuck her head in Roni’s closet. Roni took the opportunity to slip the cell phone back into her mother’s purse.
Nick emerged, saying, “You’ve got some work ahead of you.”
Roni thought of her latest plan. “I think you’re right.”
As soon as the door closed behind her mother, Roni dove back into the closet, this time searching for a pair of leech-proof tights.
42
imelda
“Brian?” Bruce Bain peered in through the doorway to Brian’s room.
“Hey, Dad,” Brian said. He had been checking his e-mail for the umpteenth time. Lots of spam. No Roni.
Mr. Bain stepped over a terrarium containing several small amphibians, waded through a morass of slightly smelly clothes, detoured around a nest of computer cables and partially disassembled peripheral devices, and looked down at the river map spread across Brian’s unmade bed.
“How is your research going?”
“Good. I’ve been trying to figure out where a boat might end up if it got torn loose in that storm we had.”
Brian’s father leaned over the map. “Show me.”
Brian had placed several chess pieces where he thought a small boat might have been docked, and at spots along the river where it might have run aground.
“What is the likely point of origin?” his father asked.
“Wolf Spider Island,” said Brian, touching the black queen.
“How large a boat?”
“Probably not very big.” Brian moved his finger down the map. “Assuming that the boat was set adrift here . . . ” He moved his finger downstream to the white bishop. “There is a sandbar here at Point No Point.” He moved his finger again, to the black rook. “And here we have this small island.” He moved his finger again. “Or it might have gone all the way to the lock and dam at Alma.”
“Which would you say is most probable?” Mr. Bain asked.
Brian stabbed his finger at the black rook. “The island.”
“I agree. I would give that a probability of somewhat over 80 percent.” Mr. Bain frowned. “Why did you want to know all this, son?”
“Just curious.”
“Oh.” That was good enough for Mr. Bain, who spent his life in pursuit of obscure, pointless facts.
As far as Roni knew, no nuns lived on Nun’s Island. It got its name because it was just offshore from the convent, eight miles south of Bloodwater.
Eight miles was a long way to walk. And she only had about four hours before Nick returned home. She picked up the house phone and called Brian. The phone rang about eight times before she gave up. She was on her own.
Minutes later, Roni was riding through downtown Bloodwater on Imelda, her ancient Huffy Princess with the pink frame, pink tires, and a pink vinyl seat. She had left her trenchcoat at home, replacing it with a black leather jacket that was a size too small. A fluorescent orange helmet and an enormous pair of sunglasses completed her outfit.
She prayed no one she knew would see her. At least she’d had the good sense to scrape the Mary-Kate and Ashley sticker off her bike.
Making a wide detour around city hall—it would not be good to run into Nick—she made her way through town to the highway and followed it south. By the time she passed the turnoff to Wolf Spider Island her legs were throbbing and her butt was numb. Oh well, she thought, maybe I’ll lose that three pounds.
“You actually saw one? A Migglebruster Spattertail?”
“I think it was a Spattertail,” Brian said. “It looked like a Spattertail.”
“That would be very strange indeed,” said Mr. Nestor.
They were a few miles south of Bloodwater on Highway 61, driving past the turnoff to Wolf Spider Island.
“A Migglebruster Spattertail . . . at this time of year! So far north! Remarkable! And you saw it where?”
“Just down the road a few miles. By the convent.” Brian felt terrible about lying to poor Mr. Nestor, but he hadn’t been able to think of another way to get to Nun’s Island. What he should have done was to call his mom and tell her what he suspected. Why hadn’t he done that? Brian didn’t want to think too hard about that question. He knew the answer. He wanted to be the one to solve the case. Roni Delicata had infected him with the investigative reporter virus.
“My goodness! Some young people certainly do dress oddly!” said Mr. Nestor.
Brian looked out the window. A bicyclist wearing a bright orange helmet, oversize sunglasses, a black leather jacket, black sneakers, and blue tights was hunched over the handlebars of a pink-tired pink bicycle, pedaling furiously.
Almost there. Pedal a hundred more times, Roni told herself, then coast for a while. One, two, three, four . . .
A dark green Jeep went flying past. That wasn’t so bad. It was the semis that really scared her. Roni kept counting: twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight . . .
It was the tenth time she had forced herself through the one-hundred-pedal routine. It helped to have little goals with a promised rest at the end. She was getting closer, almost halfway to one hundred—forty-seven, forty-eight, forty-nine—
BLAM!
Roni’s heart shot into her throat as Imelda skidded to the left. She corrected just in time, braked to a stop, then jumped off and stared forlornly at the shredded remains of her back tire.
43
sister louise
Mr. Nestor, happily running and jumping through a field of goldenrod, had already forgotten Brian’s existence. Brian turned toward the river and considered his options.
The easiest way to get to Nun’s Island would be to walk down the long driveway past the convent. But Brian didn’t want to get too close to the nuns. He wouldn’t know what to say if he ran into one.
He decided to cut straight through the woods to the river. He waded into the weeds at the side of the road and plunged into the woods. Arriving at the water’s edge with only a few scratches, he looked up and down the river.
Nun’s Island was visible a few hundred yards downstream.
He made his way along the shore, weaving through thickets of river willow, climbing over tangles of dead trees, and crashing through stands of purple loosestrife. He soon had a clear view of the island. His calculations had proven correct—the island was a trap for floating objects: fallen trees, driftwood, scrap lumber, soda bottles, and plastic bags. And there, at the far end of the island, was something that looked like a small cabin cruiser, jouncing and bobbing in the waves.
Roni pulled some dead branches over Imelda to hide her—then wondered why she bothered. Who would want her?
Walking was easier on the butt than riding the bike, but she was still a mile from Nun’s Island. After walking for twenty minutes, Roni revised her estimate—maybe it was more like two miles. Or three. And her tights were starting to bind. This was not good.
Roni
was thinking dark, self-pitying thoughts when a white minivan pulled over to the shoulder. A young woman stuck her head out the window.
“Do you need a lift?”
Looking at the woman’s smiling, open face, Roni decided to risk being abducted. She ran to the passenger door and jumped in.
“Where’re you going?” the woman asked.
“The convent,” Roni told her as they pulled back onto the highway.
“Oh, are you a communicant?”
“Um, I don’t think so.” Whatever a communicant was, Roni was pretty sure she wasn’t one.
The young woman laughed. “I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Sister Louise.”
“You’re a nun?”
“Yes, I’m a nun.”
“You don’t look like a nun.”
“I’m in mufti.”
“What’s mufti?”
“It means I’m out of uniform.”
“Oh.” Roni took a closer look at the nun’s clothing: long flowered skirt, white blouse, and clunky shoes. Not exactly a fashion plate. “They let you wear anything you want?”
“Within reason. Of course, we don’t often dress as, er, creatively as you young people.” She gave Roni’s blue tights and black leather jacket a sideways look.
“I know, I look like a clown. You should’ve seen me when I had my helmet on. But I always thought those head things you wear were kinda cool.”
“Our wimples? Actually, they’re kind of hot. I mean literally hot.” The nun-in-mufti laughed at her own joke. “Why are you going to the convent?” she asked.
“Looking for something.”
The sister nodded and turned off the road down a long driveway. “Most people who come here are looking for something.”
“I mean I’m literally looking for something. A boat.”
“A boat?”
“A boat that got away,” Roni said.
44
the cap’n arnold
Nun’s Island rose out of the water less than forty feet from the shore. It looked easy to wade out to, but the underwater boulders were slick and hard to see in the silty river water. Brian slipped and fell twice on the way there, completely drenching himself before he got to shore.
The island was only about three hundred yards long and a hundred yards wide, but it took Brian nearly half an hour to pick his way through the prickly, poisonous underbrush. He reached the far end and found the boat, a small cabin cruiser, only about twenty-five feet long. The prow had ridden up onto a half-submerged log; the stern was bobbing low in the water.
There was ten feet of water between Brian and the boat. He would have to get wet again. Brian looked down at himself and shrugged. He couldn’t get any wetter, that was for sure.
He stepped into the water. His feet sank ankle deep into ooze. He half slogged, half swam through the water and grabbed the gunwale near the stern. Lifting one leg over the gunwale, he hoisted himself up. He did an unintentional somersault into the boat, cracking his elbow on the deck. After checking himself over for broken bones, he stood and looked around.
The boat was old, with lots of wood and nice detailing, but it was in terrible condition. Several inches of water pooled on the floor. The vinyl captain’s chair was slashed open, and the control panel looked as though someone had taken a hammer to it.
Ted Thorn had said his stepdad’s boat had been vandalized. This could be it.
A small door, slightly ajar, led to the area under the front half of the boat. Brian peeked inside. There was more water sloshing around, and a strange smell, like bilgewater mixed with perfume.
He pushed the door all the way open, ducked his head, and went in.
Sometimes things just worked out. Sister Louise insisted on giving Roni a ride out to the island in a small rowboat.
“No point in getting your remarkable outfit all wet.” Sister Louise laughed. She laughed a lot. Roni hadn’t known that nuns laughed ever.
“Well . . . thanks.”
“We saw that boat out there after the storm,” Sister Louise said as she used an oar to push the rowboat away from the dock. “We called the marina in Bloodwater, but they said nobody there was missing a boat. Is it yours?”
“No. But I think I know the owner.” She had decided not to tell Sister Louise what she suspected about the boat. Roni wanted to solve this mystery on her own.
“There it is,” said the sister.
As they approached the cruiser, Roni made out two words in script on the back of the boat: Cap’n Arnold.
“That’s the one,” Roni said. It was obviously Arnold Thorn’s craft. What a story this would make.
Sister Louise asked, “How long do you think you’ll be? I have afternoon prayers in about twenty minutes.”
“I might be a while,” Roni said. She liked Sister Louise, but she didn’t want her looking over her shoulder as she investigated. “I’ll be okay on my own.”
“Are you sure? How about if I come back for you in an hour or so?”
“That would be great,” Roni said. “Thank you.”
She grabbed the small ladder attached to the back of the boat and climbed on board, then watched as Sister Louise rowed back toward shore. Standing alone on the swaying, creaking old boat, Roni suddenly felt very vulnerable.
Brian, ankle deep in bilgewater, looked around the cramped sleeping quarters. He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but he quickly figured out where the weird smell was coming from—a big bunch of flowers rotting in a tipped-over vase. Faint voices drifted in from outside. He heard a thump, and the back of the boat sank a few inches. His heart began to pound. Someone had climbed aboard. But who? Arnold Thorn?
He tried to think. Worst-case scenario—it was the culprit returning to the scene of the crime. Worse-than-worst-case scenario—it was his mother.
He looked frantically around the small cabin. No place to hide. He flattened himself against the bulkhead. Maybe whoever it was would just glance into the cabin and not notice him.
The door to the cabin opened. Brian held his breath.
“Yoo-hoo!”
He knew that voice. He let his breath out quietly and grinned. Some crazy girl with a notebook and a phony nose ring was about to get the scare of her life.
“Any ghosts down there? Any dead bodies?”
It was all Brian could do not to laugh.
“Any rats? Any snakes? You better hide, ’cause here I come!”
He heard her footsteps, then saw her black sneakers and blue tights and suddenly realized that the oddly dressed girl on the pink bicycle had been Roni. Again, he had to fight down laughter.
He waited until one millisecond before she would have seen him, then shouted, “Rat snakes!”
It was better than he could have imagined.
Roni let out an eardrum-shattering squeal. Her feet flew out from under her and she skidded down the last two steps, landing on her butt in the bilgewater.
A laugh burst out of Brian, but when he saw the look on Roni’s face he clamped his hand over his mouth. He hadn’t taken two things into account.
Number one, Roni was quick to recover.
Number two, Roni was quick to anger.
Brian backed up as fast and as far as he could in the cramped cabin. Roni came after him like an angry mother cat.
“Wait! It’s just me!” But Roni already had him by the shoulders and was bouncing him off the wall.
“I”—thud—“know”—thud—“it’s”—thud—“you!”
Suddenly she stopped shoving him. Brian stared at her face. It was not a nice face at all. Gasping for breath, with her hair all wet and straggly and the black leather jacket and tights and the ferocious scowl, she looked like a crazy killer bimbo from some ultraviolent comic book. He hoped she wouldn’t start hitting him. In a situation like this there was only one thing to do.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
45
rotting roses
“Are you mad because you didn’t get here first?” Bri
an asked.
Roni gave him the meanest look she could muster. He so didn’t get it. She said, “No, Stink Bomb, I’m mad at you because you’re an immature jerkball.”
They were on the upper deck, sitting on opposite sides of the boat, trying to dry off. Roni had hung her leather jacket over the starboard running light. Brian took off his mud-filled shoes and rinsed them in the river.
“I said I was sorry.”
“I don’t like being scared like that.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t like getting shoved around. Especially by a girl.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.”
Roni decided to ignore the little twerp. About thirty seconds passed. It was a long time for Roni to go without talking, but she was really, really mad.
“Anyway,” said Brian, “we found it.”
Roni shrugged. She was a bit miffed that Brian had beat her to it. First he beats her to Alicia, now this. Not that a few minutes’ difference mattered. They were partners. Or they used to be, before the stupid freshman pulled his “rat snakes” bit. She shuddered.
“What do we do now?” Brian asked. “Call the police? Call the FBI? Call the Army Reserve? Call waiting?”
Roni tried and failed to control the smirk that jumped to her lips, but she quickly squelched it and continued to ignore him. After a few seconds Brian got up and went back down to the sleeping cabin.
“I think we might have contaminated a crime scene,” he shouted up from the doorway.
Roni couldn’t resist. “And whose fault was that?”
Brian was looking carefully at the door. “The door’s been kicked open.”
“Well, duh!”
“Did you notice that smell? It’s coming from a bunch of rotten flowers in a vase.”
“Flowers?” Roni was still mad at him, but this was business. She went to the top of the steps and looked down. Brian picked something up and held it up to her. The blossom was a soggy mess, but the thorny stem was enough to identify it as a rose.