Dawn Schaffer Undercover Baby-Sitter

by Ann M. Martin

  On to the next memory picture: my sister, best friend, and fellow BSC member, Mary Anne. She was sitting on the end of Claudia’s bed, next to Stacey. I saw her laugh at something Kristy had just said, and her whole face lit up. Snap! That’s when I took my picture. Not that I really need one of Mary Anne. We’re so close that she’s always in my heart.

  Mary Anne, by the way, is the club’s secretary, and she does an awesome job. She keeps track of all our schedules and could tell you immediately which of us would be free for a sitting job from two-thirty until five a week from next Thursday.

  In fact, Mary Anne swung into action as I was watching her, when Kristy answered a call from a new client, a Mrs. Cornell. She needed a sitter that Saturday afternoon for her two children, and she told Kristy she lived at 159 Green House Drive, which is in Kristy’s neighborhood. She called the place “Livingston House.”

  Mary Anne found that Kristy and I were the only club members available, and Kristy said she had plans for that day, so Mary Anne signed me up for the job and Kristy called Mrs. Cornell back. That’s the BSC in action. Simple, no?

  These days my official position in the BSC is as an honorary member. I used to be the alternate officer, though, which meant that I would cover for any other member who couldn’t make it to a meeting. That office is now held by the newest member of the BSC, Abby Stevenson. She and her twin sister, Anna, moved to Stoneybrook after I moved away, so I don’t know either of them too well. I do know that they came here from Long Island with their mom, and that their dad died in a car wreck when they were nine. Anna’s not in the BSC; she’s way too busy with her music. I hear she’s awesome on the violin.

  My memory picture of Abby would show a laughing girl with deep brown eyes and long, curly, thick, dark hair. Abby’s full of fun, but I sometimes see a sadness in her eyes. I guess it’s because she misses her dad.

  Abby doesn’t talk about him much. Instead, she talks about everything else — at a mile a minute. She’s always cracking jokes, lots of which are at her own expense. For example, she likes to make fun of her allergies and asthma, which are actually serious business (she had to go to the emergency room for an asthma attack not long ago). She doesn’t like to take her health problems too seriously, though, and she definitely doesn’t like to let them slow her down. She’s great at sports; Kristy says she’s a natural athlete.

  Abby and her sister recently turned thirteen, which makes them the same age as most of the rest of us in the BSC. The only younger members are Jessi Ramsey and Mallory Pike, who are both eleven. They’re our junior officers, which means they mostly take afternoon jobs. They’re not allowed to baby-sit at night except for their own families.

  My memory picture of Jessi would show a slim African American girl with dark hair and eyes and long, strong arms and legs. Jessi’s a very advanced ballet student, and it shows in her elegant bearing. But she’s also a regular girl, one who loves to read horse books and giggle and tell secrets to her best friend, who happens to be Mallory.

  I guess my memory picture would probably show the two of them together, since they’re rarely apart. That day, for example, they were sprawled on Claudia’s rug together. So, next to Jessi my picture would show a girl with curly chestnut hair and blue eyes framed by glasses. Mal has a great sense of humor, but she often looks serious. Maybe it’s because she’s thinking about her writing. Mal loves to write, but it’s hard for her to find a quiet moment for it; she has seven younger brothers and sisters! (Jessi, on the other hand, has only two: a younger sister and a baby brother.)

  There are two other members of the BSC, Shannon Kilbourne and Logan Bruno (Mary Anne’s boyfriend), but neither of them was in Claudia’s room that day. They’re associate members, which means that while they don’t come to meetings regularly, they are on call if we need extra help. My memory picture of Shannon would show a blonde girl with high cheekbones, and the picture would probably be blurred, because Shannon’s always on the run. She keeps very busy with clubs and other after-school activities; even during the summer she’s usually pretty booked up. Logan’s picture would show an athletic, funny guy — and naturally he’d be holding Mary Anne’s hand.

  As you can see, my memory album is well filled. I’ll carry those memory pictures of my BSC friends with me when I go back to California, and I have the feeling they’ll be carrying memory pictures of me, too.

  Oh, one last thing about the meeting that day. A sort of weird thing. We received another call toward the end of the meeting, from a Mrs. Keats. She was looking for a sitter for her three kids for Saturday afternoon — and she gave us the same address that Mrs. Cornell had given us! At first we were confused. Were two members of the same family calling by mistake? Or did they really need two sitters for simultaneous jobs at the same house? Since Mrs. Keats said she had three kids and Mrs. Cornell had mentioned two, we figured there were two different groups of kids, so in the end Kristy took the second job, giving up her plans for the day. I was glad; having her there would make the job even more fun. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait to meet our new clients.

  I looked over at Kristy, and she looked back at me. She raised her right eyebrow about an eighth of an inch.

  I know Kristy very well, well enough to translate her eyebrow-raises. That one meant, “This is majorly weird.” I gave her the tiniest nod, to show I agreed.

  The two of us were seated in a pair of humongous, overstuffed armchairs, which faced each other across a room full of other humongous, overstuffed furniture. We were in Livingston House, waiting to meet our newest clients.

  We’d arrived on time (of course), and as we stood on the wide marble front steps I felt a little nervous. I wondered if Kristy did, too. She’s used to living in a fancy neighborhood, but Livingston House is quite a few steps above Watson Brewer’s place. I mean, this place looks like a certain large white house we’ve all seen pictures of. You know, the one at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, in Washington D.C.? Well, Livingston House may not be the home of presidents, but it sure is impressive. It’s this enormous white structure, with pillars and two-story-high windows all along the front. The grounds — you can’t call that much land a yard — are awesome, too. Rolling green lawns, flower beds bursting with blooms, perfectly manicured shrubs — the whole bit. There are statues everywhere, and I saw two fountains spouting water. Kristy told me she’d heard about an Olympic-sized pool out back, with a pool house bigger than most people’s regular houses.

  Anyway, we knocked on the oversized red door, using the brass knocker, which was shaped like the head of a lion. I heard footsteps approaching from inside, and I wondered whether Mrs. Cornell or Mrs. Keats would answer the door.

  Neither one did.

  Instead, the door swung open to reveal a really cute older guy with dark hair, dark eyes, and a neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache.

  He looked at Kristy, then at me, and raised his eyebrows. “Yes?” he said.

  “We’re — uh —” I began. Somehow the words wouldn’t come out right.

  Kristy tried next. “Is Mrs. — um, Mrs. —” Obviously, the guy’s dark gaze was affecting her as well, which was unusual for Kristy. She couldn’t even remember her client’s name!

  Just then, the guy finally cracked a smile. “You must be the baby-sitters,” he said, nodding at the decorated Kid-Kit we each carried. (I had a feeling he’d known that all along, and was just giving us a hard time.) “Come on in.”

  He stepped back from the door and motioned us into the foyer, which was about as big as the living room of my Stoneybrook house.

  “Some front hall,” Kristy muttered under her breath. I noticed her looking around, taking in the black-and-white-tiled floor, the fancy red and gold chairs against the wall, the immense brass coatrack.

  “This way, please,” said the dark-haired man. He led us through one of the many doorways leading off the hall and ushered us into the room with the humongous furniture. There was a fireplace, too, lots of oriental rugs, and a bunch of spindl
y but very expensive-looking little tables.

  Hanging above the fireplace was a huge portrait in a fancy gold frame. A nameplate on the bottom of the frame identified the person pictured as Arthur Livingston. It was a good thing the picture had a caption. It was the ugliest painting I’d ever seen, and if I hadn’t been able to read that it was a picture of a man I might never have figured it out. He looked like a cross between George Washington, Whistler’s Mother, and the Elephant Man. The colors were awful, the background was a mess of blurry brush strokes, and the artist clearly hadn’t known very much about how to paint noses. Or hands. Or mouths. I looked at the painting, fascinated with its repulsiveness. Kristy was staring at it, too.

  “It is rather ugly, isn’t it?” observed the man who had let us in. “There are dozens of portraits of Mr. Livingston around the house. He had one painted every year of his married life.” He looked at the painting again and grimaced. “This is probably the worst of them all,” he said, shaking his head. “Now, where are Mrs. Cornell and Mrs. Keats?”

  Just what I’d been wondering.

  As if on cue, we heard footsteps in the hall and then the door to the room swung open and two women — both around my mom’s age — entered the room. They were tall, with reddish-brown hair and clear blue eyes. Though they had come in together, there seemed to be some almost-physical force keeping them at arm’s length. Each seemed alone because of the way they barely acknowledged each other.

  “Ah, you must be Dawn,” said one, at the same time that the other one said, “Welcome, girls. Which one of you is Kristy?”

  They stopped and glared at each other, each waiting for the other to start speaking again.

  As Kristy said later, it would have been funny if it hadn’t been so awkward.

  Neither of us knew what to do, so we just stood there. Finally, one of the women — the one who had mentioned my name — said, “I’m Mrs. Cornell. And this is Mrs. Keats.” She gestured vaguely toward the other woman. “And I see you’ve already met Mr. Irving, our butler.”

  Butler? I saw Kristy’s eyebrow twitch, and I knew exactly what she was thinking. I was thinking the same thing. How could such a young guy be a butler?

  “Please, call me John,” said Mr. Irving with a smile.

  Mrs. Cornell shot him a cold glance. She didn’t seem to appreciate his friendliness.

  Hoping to head off any unpleasantness, I jumped right in. “I’m Dawn Schafer,” I said, “and this is Kristy Thomas.”

  “Baby-sitters Club, at your service,” added Kristy, grinning.

  Neither of the two women returned her smile, but both of them nodded to us.

  Then Mrs. Keats spoke up. “My sister and I are here in Stoneybrook to straighten up our late father’s estate.” She looked up at the portrait of Arthur Livingston. “He passed away about a year ago.”

  Kristy and I glanced at each other. So, the two women were sisters. That made the kids we were going to sit for cousins.

  “Our husbands are home, working, so while we’re here,” Mrs. Keats continued, “we are going to need qualified, responsible baby-sitters for our children. I must say that your club came highly recommended.” She sniffed. “I hope you’ll live up to your advance billing.”

  I had the feeling she doubted that we would. Nothing like being judged before you even begin a job.

  “In any case,” she concluded, “we would appreciate it if you would keep our children apart while you are sitting. It will make things easier for all parties involved.” She gave another sniff — one that sounded slightly accusing, to my mind.

  “Don’t the children like to play together?” I asked, without stopping to think. After all, they were cousins. You’d think they’d be friendly.

  “I think you’ll find they prefer it this way,” said Mrs. Cornell, who was glaring at her sister. “Some of the children are prone to arguing at times.”

  “Only if they’re provoked!” snapped Mrs. Keats.

  “Well,” said Kristy, stepping forward. “We’d love to meet our new charges.” I could tell she was trying to head off an argument.

  Both women stepped back a little, and nodded. “Of course,” said Mrs. Keats. “Why don’t you come with me, Kristy?”

  “And you can come with me,” Mrs. Cornell said to me.

  Kristy and I exchanged one more glance, and that was the last I saw of her until our job was over and we met downstairs in the foyer.

  Later, she told me everything that had happened.

  Apparently, the sisters had divided the house into two parts for the duration of their stay. It wasn’t hard to do, since the place was so enormous. Basically, the wing to the left of the front door belonged to the Keats family, while the wing to the right was where the Cornells were camped out.

  Mrs. Keats led Kristy up a wide staircase, down a hall, and up another staircase. On the way up the second set of stairs, they passed a woman who looked a lot like Mrs. Keats and Mrs. Cornell, only younger. The two women nodded to each other, but didn’t stop to talk. When Kristy and Mrs. Keats reached the top of the stairs, Mrs. Keats explained that the woman on the stairs was their younger sister, Amy, who had been living with their father until just before he died. (Kristy didn’t see Amy again for the rest of the day. Neither she nor John, the butler, seemed to have any part in the care of the children.)

  Mrs. Keats then showed Kristy into a large, sunny playroom, and introduced her to the kids: Eliza, nine, Hallie, seven, and Jeremy, the youngest, five. They all had their mother’s reddish hair and blue eyes.

  Kristy reported that the kids seemed normal, despite all the weirdness in the house. They were playing Pogs when she showed up, and they invited her to join in. As soon as Mrs. Keats left the room, they began to bombard Kristy with questions about their cousins.

  “Did you see them?” demanded Eliza.

  “What are they like?” asked Hallie.

  “Are they mean?” asked Jeremy, a little timidly.

  “No, of course not,” said Kristy, even though she hadn’t met the Cornell children. “They’re just like you.”

  “Then why did we fight with them?” asked Eliza. “Mom says that the last time we were together, we had a huge fight. I barely remember it. I can hardly remember my cousins at all, except for maybe Katharine. She’s the older one.”

  Kristy had a feeling that if there had been a fight, it had been fueled by the feuding sisters. Otherwise, wouldn’t the cousins remember what they’d fought about?

  Since she couldn’t answer any more questions about the Cornell kids, Kristy diverted the three Keats children by showing them the contents of her Kid-Kit, and the afternoon passed with no further incidents. But Kristy couldn’t help thinking, as she watched the three kids playing happily together, how great it would be to introduce all the Livingston grandchildren to each other — with no angry adults around.

  I was thinking the same thing, over in the Cornell wing. I’d met Katharine, who at nine was the same age as Eliza, and Tilly, who was six. Both of them had what Kristy and I were realizing was the “Livingston look”: tall, with reddish hair and blue eyes. They were great kids, and they wanted to know all about their cousins.

  When Kristy and I talked about it later, we tried to figure out some way to bring the cousins together. Kristy even considered suspending the BSC rule about having two sitters for more than four children. If the BSC sent only one sitter to Livingston House, the kids would have to play together, whether the sisters liked it or not. But, as Kristy pointed out, that rule is there for a reason. It’s really not safe for one sitter to watch five kids. Still, there had to be a way. It just didn’t seem right to deny the kids the fun of playing together because their mothers couldn’t act like a family.

  Normally, I become very bored very quickly when adults stand around talking and talking and talking in that endless, monotonous way that only adults can manage.

  But listening to my stepfather Richard’s conversation with Lyn Iorio was a different matter. I didn
’t tune out. I didn’t roll my eyes up to the sky. I didn’t stand there wishing I had my Walkman. Instead, I listened to every word. Why? Well, because they were talking about a topic that interested me — a lot. They were talking about the strange happenings at Livingston House.

  It was that same Saturday, and Kristy and I had just said good-bye to our new clients. Kristy had run home for dinner, and I headed for Richard’s car, which was parked across the street from the long driveway leading to Livingston House. He had come to pick me up, and, as always, he was on time. As I neared the car, I saw that he was leaning against it, talking to a woman with a perfect blonde pageboy hairdo. She was dressed in sweats and running shoes, and it looked as if she’d just finished jogging. She was sipping from one of those plastic water bottles, and her face was pink.

  Richard looked up and saw me approaching. “Ah, there she is,” he said, smiling at me. “Lyn, this is Dawn. Dawn, this is Lyn Iorio. She’s a neighbor of your clients.”

  “Nice to meet you, Dawn,” said Ms. Iorio, sticking out her hand.

  I shook it. “Nice to meet you, too.”

  “Lyn is a lawyer,” said Richard. “A very good one, too. We’ve worked together many times over the years. Right now she happens to be working for the same people you are.”

  I wasn’t sure what he meant. “You’re working for Mrs. Cornell?” I asked.

  “Sort of,” she answered with a smile. “Actually, I’m working for her father, even though he has passed away. I’m the executor of his estate, which means I have to make sure that his will is carried out exactly as he wanted it to be.”

  “You knew him quite well, didn’t you?” Richard asked her.

  “I was close friends with Mrs. Livingston,” she replied. “I think Arthur liked knowing that I had a personal connection to his family.”

  “So you know Mrs. Keats and Mrs. Cornell?” I asked. “And Amy Livingston?”

  “Sure,” said Ms. Iorio. “I’ve known them since they were little girls. They never did have a great relationship, even then.” She lowered her voice. “And from what I hear,” she added, “the squabbles they used to have as children are nothing compared to the fights they’re having now.”