What I leave in the spy pack:
Magnifying glass
Plastic gloves (never a good idea to leave fingerprints)
Roll of wire
Plastic baggies
Mini tool kit
Duct tape (I read a book called 101 Uses for Duct Tape)
Flash cap
I’ll use the baggies to wrap up two BLT sandwiches, so when I tell Mom I’m eating dinner with Becca, it won’t be a lie. I just won’t tell her where we’re eating dinner.
My spy pack feels light on my back as I hop on my bike and pedal for Pleasant Street. It’s only a few miles to Wear-Ever Thrift. The store is at the east end of downtown and backs up into a park with shady trees that will give us cover until we’re covertly inside the store.
As a precaution, I stay off busy streets and wind through random side streets.
I’m not sure how it happens, but suddenly I’m at the edge of downtown, where the houses are older than the paved streets. Driveways are so narrow, cars spill over to the sidewalk or are parked on front yards like lawn ornaments.
From what I can see over fence tops, most yards are too small for a large dog to play fetch in. Thinking of dogs makes me miss Handsome. He loves to chase his Frisbee. I call him a “golden whip” because he’s part golden retriever and part whippet—two very energetic breeds blended into the best dog ever. Even though he’s huge, he used to curl up every night on my bed. When we lost our house, he moved in with Gran Nola. Now I only see him when I visit my grandmother.
I’m a block away from Pleasant Street when I slow down for yellow—not a traffic yield sign, but a fairy-tale cottage with a front yard glorious with sunflowers. There must be hundreds of stalks of golden flowers taller than me.
It’s the most gorgeous garden ever! I stop my bike, balancing on my tiptoes, and admire the flowers. They’re like a crowd of smiling faces, as if each sunflower represents a resident of Sun Flower and they’re gathered together to party.
“Well, don’t just gawk, missy. Come on over,” a crackly voice calls.
I look around but can’t see through the blooming yard. I roll my bike a few feet until I see the tiny, wrinkled woman stepping off the porch. Her face is crinkled with age, but her black eyes shine bright. And she’s hobbling surprisingly fast on her cane. She wears a flowing, mustard-yellow skirt with a white blouse trimmed in tiny brown beads.
“Don’t be shy,” she says sweetly, her amber, tear-shaped earrings dangling as she leans against her cane. The cane’s wooden handle is a carved sunflower. “Come visit with me. It isn’t often young folks stop by, and I get lonely.”
“Um … I can’t stay. I’m meeting friends.”
“There’s always time to find for a chat with Sunflower Mary. Everyone around here knows me and I know more about them than some would like,” she adds with a chuckle. “You’re the baker’s daughter, aren’t you?”
“You know Dad?” I ask, surprised.
“Never forgot the taste of his hot cinnamon croissants. Shame the café closed down. But a skilled baker will quickly find a new job.”
Not so quickly, I think.
“Come closer, dear.” She holds out a gnarled hand, her misshapen fingers glittering with rings.
“I really should go,” I say, my foot poised for a quick pedal kick off.
“Weave the stars with the sun, and this is what you get.” She holds out her clasped hand. “I made it myself.”
Now I’m too curious to leave. She seems harmless and even knows my dad.
I prop up my bike on the kickstand and take a cautious step toward her. She unfolds her fingers and in the palm of her hand is a yarn flower, golden bright enough to make the sun jealous. At the center of the flower, tiny beads shimmer.
No—not beads.
Sunflower seeds.
“Beautiful,” I say with awe, caressing the soft yarn.
“A gift for you,” she says in a raspy voice. “Turn it over, dear. See the clasp? Pin it on your shirt. It’ll never wither like a real sunflower.”
It’s pretty, like an accessory the Sparklers would wear. But I shake my head. “I can’t take it.”
“My yarn flowers are made to be shared. Some people say they don’t know what came first—Sun Flower the town or Sunflower Mary. At one time or another, almost everyone in Sun Flower wore one of my yarn flowers. We’re all one big family here, you know. Some of us just haven’t met yet. Pin your flower right over your heart.”
She’s staring up at me with such eagerness that I can’t refuse. I fiddle with the clasp until I fasten it to my shirt.
“Beautiful!” She claps her wrinkled hands. “Wear it proudly.”
“I will,” I promise, touched that someone I just met would give me a gift. “I wish I had something for you.”
She points to my neck. “Sure would love a shiny necklace like that,” she says with a sly smile.
I touch my crescent necklace. “Oh … I can’t give this away.”
“I would never ask you to do that. I’m sure it means a lot to you. Such a pretty necklace must have a special meaning.”
“It does,” I say. “A friend gave it to me.”
Her silvery brows rise to points. “A handsome young man?”
“No!” I blush. “It’s a club thing. A bunch of us girls wear them.”
“Oh, a club insignia. I do so enjoy clubs … especially secret ones,” she says. “Is your club secret?”
Not this one, I think with a shake my head. “Everyone at school knows about the Sparklers.”
“I love things that sparkle,” she adds like she’s confiding in me, but her gaze is on my necklace. “You take good care of that necklace and your yarn flower too. If anyone asks, tell them Sunflower Mary gave it to you.”
“I will. Thank you,” I say, then push off on my bike.
As I wheel away, I’m not sure what to think of the old woman. Her garden is beautiful, and it was kind of her to give me a gift. But the way she stared at my necklace was creepy—like she wanted to rip it off my neck.
And I get a strange feeling of being watched.
I glance back over my shoulder.
But all I see is Sunflower Mary’s back as she disappears into her house.
Chapter 8
Shadows
Seconds later, I roll my bike up to the back of the Wear-Ever Thrift Store.
The sun is setting, but it won’t be dark for another hour. Still the store looks like it’s already gone to sleep: lights shut off, blinds closed, and an empty parking lot.
I park my bike so it’s hidden beneath a shady tree, then walk around to the back door where I find my friends. Leo’s shoulders are hunched as he fiddles with an alarm panel next to the door. I walk over to Becca. She’s kneeling on the ground, dressed all in black from her laced leather boots to her stretchy, long-sleeved shirt; her long ponytail is the exception, as it’s tied in leopard-print bows.
“What are you doing?” I ask, peering over her shoulder at a stone turtle as big as my backpack.
“Getting the key.” She grabs the brownish green turtle shell with both hands. “It should be under here.”
“Do you need help lifting it?”
“No, it’s hollow so it’s not very heavy.” She reaches beneath the stone turtle, then holds out a small brassy key. “Found it!”
“Yay you,” I say, clapping.
Standing, Becca wipes her hands off on her black jeans; then, she points to my shirt. “You got sunflowered.”
“Sunflowered?” I run my fingers over the soft yarn. “Is that a real word?”
“Around here it is,” Becca says with a chuckle.
“You know Sunflower Mary?”
“Sure. Who doesn’t?”
“Me, I guess,” I admit. “My old neighborhood was too far from downtown, so I wasn’t allowed to bike there.”
“Even I know who Sunflower Mary is,” Leo adds as he turns toward us. “The alarm is disabled. All I need is the key to the door, and
we’re in.”
“Here.” Becca tosses the key, and Leo catches it with one hand. “Anyway, Sunflower Mary is like our town mascot. Before she hurt her hip, almost every day, she’d sit outside the post office and pass out yarn sunflowers.”
“Like this one,” I say with a nod toward my shirt. “Now that you mention it, I do remember hearing about a crazy flower lady.”
“She’s not crazy. She’s nice,” Becca says, sitting down on the stone turtle. “She gave me my first yarn flower when I was six. I wore it for weeks until I forgot to take it off and tossed my shirt in the laundry basket. All that was left was tangled yellow yarn. But the next day, I found a new yarn flower in a box on my porch.”
“How did she know your flower was ruined?” I ask.
“Mom probably told her.”
“Yeah, that makes sense,” I say, but I get a prickly feeling and remember the strange way Sunflower Mary stared at me—like she could read minds.
“Becca,” Leo calls out in a sharp tone. “You gave me the wrong key.”
“Did not,” Becca says.
“The key doesn’t fit,” he insists.
“Of course it does.” Becca goes over to Leo.
“Notice the grooves and size.” Leo holds up the key to show her. “It doesn’t match the door lock.”
“But it has to be the right key,” Becca argues. “Devin told me it would be under the turtle.”
“Yeah,” I agree. “I saw Becca take it from the turtle.”
Leo purses his lips. “Then why doesn’t it fit the lock?”
“Maybe you’re doing it wrong,” I say. “Did you turn it upside down?”
“The direction does not change the fact that it’s the incorrect size,” he says with an insulted sniff.
“Let me try.” I take the key from his hand, poke, jiggle, and shove, but it still doesn’t fit.
Leo folds his arms over his chest and gives me an “I told you so” look.
Becca shakes her head. “I found it exactly where Devin said to look, and there’s only one turtle statue.”
“He must have left the wrong key,” I say.
“Obviously, but that won’t be a problem.” She gives me an eager look. “You can open the door, Kelsey, with your lock picks.”
“Uh … about my picks …” I hang my head. “I don’t have them.”
“Aren’t they in there?” Becca says, pointing.
“They were.” I groan. “But my spy pack gets so heavy, I only brought what I thought I’d need. And you told me we had a key.”
“The wrong key.” Becca twists her ponytail around her fingers. “Now what are we going to do?”
“I might be able to open the lock with a twisted wire,” I say.
Leo steps forward. “Or we can use my key spider.”
“A spider can’t open a lock,” I argue.
“Yeah,” Becca says. “Although spiders are cool. We had a Chilean rose tarantula at the sanctuary for a while. He was soft and gentle.”
“Not a fan of spiders.” I watch Leo as he reaches into his pocket.
When he holds out his hand, I jump back until I realize he’s not holding a creepy spider. His “key spider” looks like a clump of keys melted together with metal twisted out like spider legs.
“I got the idea from your lock picks, Kelsey. Rotating gears spin into different key shapes.” Leo spins a dial on the metal sphere. “Multiple keys in a compact device flat enough to fit inside a pocket. See? I just spin the dial until I get the right key shape. Like this,” he says as he aims for the lock.
Click. The door swings open.
“You did it, Leo!” Becca pats him on the shoulder.
“Great tool,” I say a bit enviously because it works better than my lock picks.
Leo holds it out to me. “Would you like my key spider?”
“But it’s yours. I can’t take it.”
“It’s only the first model. The next one will be improved, and I’ll keep that one so I’m ready the next time I get handcuffed.”
“Thanks.” I bounce the key spider in my hand, pleased that Leo would give me one of his inventions. “A spy can never have too many lock picks.”
Becca opens the door. “I’ve shopped here a lot, so I’ll lead.” She aims her flashlight to shine a path across crowded aisles. It’s still light outside but dark as a tomb in the store.
“Anyone need a flashlight?” Becca asks. “I brought an extra.”
“I’ve got a flash cap.” I point to my sports cap, switching on the light above the brim. “I taped on a light, and it works almost as good as the ones in my spy catalogs.”
“I like it.” Leo approves, then pulls out a pair of goggles from his shirt pocket. “I brought these to see better in the dark. They’re infrared with night vision.”
We all aim our lights forward and enter the store.
“Let’s split up to search for the box,” I suggest.
“Yeah,” Becca agrees. “But the fly mask won’t be in a box anymore. It will be on display. I’ll look in clothing racks.”
“The jewelry table is the logical place to search,” Leo says.
I choose the pet aisle.
My cap’s beam is narrow, so I swivel my head back and forth as I go through aisles, to the left side of the store, where I find a table full of pet accessories—leashes, chew toys, cat climbers, pet carriers, and everything you can imagine for animals. Lots of cute stuff I’d love to buy for Honey. But this isn’t about shopping—it’s a search-andrecover mission.
I dig through shelves of horse accessories: blankets, halters, ropes, curry combs, and even a box of old horseshoes. I find a fly mask, only it’s plain black netting with fringe trim instead of jewels.
“Drats,” I mutter.
I peer around dim shapes of shelves and displays and wonder where to search next. What if the mask was mistaken for a different kind of mask?
Excited by this idea, I head over to the costume corner. I came here last Halloween for a costume and found a wicked monster mask. It was shockingly gross, with scarred skin, a ripped ear, and a bloody hole for a nose. I find a zombie mask that’s even more disgusting on a table heaped with creepy, cute, and every kind of mask imaginable—except a fly mask.
Discouraged, I slump over to Becca in the clothes area. A fly mask doesn’t belong with clothes, but it could be mistaken for a scarf or hair net. We check boxes, shelves, and hanging racks.
But no mask.
When we join Leo, it’s the same thing. So we regroup by the cash register, keeping our lights low, so they can’t be seen through windows.
“According to my calculations,” Leo says wearily, “it will take an hour and thirty-six minutes to search the entire store.”
“I can’t stay that long,” I say. “I have to be home by six.”
“My curfew is before dark.” Becca glances through the storefront window. “Mom doesn’t want me riding my bike at night.”
“I need to go home too, to feed my kitten,” Leo adds.
I frown. “I hate giving up, but I think someone bought the fly mask.”
“Which means I have no way of impressing Caleb Hunter,” Becca says. “Zed will leave and I’ll never see him again.”
“Ask Caleb if you can visit,” I say, trying to cheer her up. “Nevada isn’t that far away.”
“As if my mother will drive me.” Becca scowls. “Thanks for trying to help, but coming here was a waste of time. We might as well leave.”
Keeping my flash cap low, I follow Becca through aisles, toward the back of the store. We’re almost to the back door when there’s a thud from outside.
“Did you hear that?” I whisper.
“What?” Becca asks.
“A thud like … like that!” I know by Becca’s jump and Leo’s gasp that they’ve heard it too.
“Footsteps!” Leo exclaims, pointing to the storefront window.
We swivel toward the large storefront window. Our lights join together to illuminate
the darkened glass, reflecting back to us—but not before a shadowy figure shifts across the window.
Someone is out there.
Chapter 9
Monster Mash
“If we can see him, he can see us!” I warn. “Duck down!”
“Turn off your lights!” Becca adds as we all drop to the floor.
It’s so dark I can barely see my friends crouched beside me. And when I blink in blackness, ordinary shapes seem sinister: a clothes rack towers like a ferocious dragon and a store mannequin grabs for me with skeletal claws.
“Is he still out there?” Becca whispers beside me.
I lift my head toward the front window but can’t see anything except the glow from a streetlight. Leo’s goggles have night vision, so I ask, “Can you see anyone out the window?”
“No one is there,” he answers.
“But that doesn’t mean he’s gone,” I say uneasily.
“He?” Becca questions. “So you think it’s a man?”
“Not sure. I could only make out a shadowy figure distorted against the window—no face, only darkness.”
“It might have been a security guard,” Leo suggests.
“Devin would have told me if there were a guard,” Becca says.
“I’ll go out the back and look around.” Leo starts to rise, but I pull him down.
“Don’t!” I say. “The shadow dude could be armed and dangerous.”
“I’m not afraid,” Leo assures, straining his neck to see over the table we’re hiding behind. “I think he’s gone anyway.”
“Unless he went around the back,” Becca says ominously. “Leo, you were the last inside. Did you lock the door?”
“I was more interested in unlocking it. I’ll check to make sure it’s locked,” Leo says, rising.
“Be careful,” Becca warns.
“I’m always careful.” He hurries down the aisle.
“I don’t think it’s a security guard out there,” I whisper to Becca. “A guard would have a flashlight and keys. It might be a thief.”
Light illuminates Becca’s face when she clicks on her phone. “I’m calling 911.”
The Mystery of the Zorse's Mask Page 5