If Enoch Pettypiece had been an affectionate husband, then Creelman had gotten it wrong. Maybe Enoch Pettypiece was killed, and his distraught wife was carried off by canoe to Quebec, to be later rescued by missionaries, but died of a strange ailment before she ever got a chance to return home. Very sad.
I reread the gravestone and noticed that the word affectionate had a carved box around it, as if the word had been changed or reworked by relatives after Enoch Pettypiece died. Maybe Creelman was on to something after all.
I tried to think what the original word might have read as I looked at the blank side of the double marker where the details about his wife should have been.
He was a dastardly husband?
He was a penny-pinching husband?
He was a forgettable husband?
If any of that was the case, then his wife would be having the last say for all eternity. Enoch’s family could change the word all they wanted, but she was not going to be buried next to him.
Then again, maybe it was just a typo. Maybe Enoch Pettypiece was a school teacher who was forever correcting spelling mistakes on his students’ homework. When he realized that there was a typo on his own gravestone, he haunted the stone carver until the carver returned to the burial site and corrected the spelling of affectionate so that Enoch could finally rest in peace.
I sat back on my heels, enjoying the different scenarios, any one of which could be true. I decided that if I were to make Enoch Pettypiece a t-shirt, it would read, Dead men tell no stories.
It was some time later, when I stood to stretch, that I noticed the Brigade had left for their coffee break. I walked over to where Pascal was working.
“How’s it going?” I asked.
“Okay,” Pascal said. “At least we’re finally doing some real work.”
Pascal paused from scrubbing.
“I was thinking about the code. Trevor Tower keeps secrets. Twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen. What could it mean?”
I shrugged. “The name sounds like someone around our age. Trevor is pretty modern. Not like Enoch.”
“Enoch?”
“That’s my guy’s name on the gravestone I’m working on.”
Pascal sat back on his heels.
“You’re probably right. Trevor Tower keeps secrets. Twenty-eight, thirty-four, eighteen. Someone our age.”
“I said someone around our age. Trevor Tower could be in high school or even older, like Loyola Louden, for all we know. He might not even be a student. I just meant that he has a name you’d hear today. Not like Enoch.”
“What about the numbers?” Pascal asked. “Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen.”
“I guess we should ask ourselves what has three numbers,” I said.
“Telephone area codes,” Pascal suggested. “They have three numbers.”
“Except that area codes use numbers from zero to nine. These numbers are too big.”
“How about fertilizer? Fertilizer bags always have three numbers.”
“Fertilizer? Really, Pascal?”
“Sure. The numbers tell you how much nitrogen, phosphorus and potassium are in it. Those three things are needed to make plants grow.”
“How do you know that?”
“My mom showed me at the plant store.”
“I still think fertilizer is a stretch,” I said. Then I remembered buying some sunglasses with my dad. “Sunglasses always come with three numbers.”
“They do?” Pascal asked.
“On the inside of the arm of the left temple. The three numbers measure the length of the eye piece, the length of the bridge between the two eye pieces, and the length of the arm.”
“Well, I think sunglasses are just as much of a stretch as fertilizer,” Pascal said. “What could sunglasses have to do with someone named Trevor Tower who keeps secrets?”
He had a point.
“Fair enough,” I said.
We sat in silence for a while, pondering the possibilities.
Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen.
“Doesn’t that sound like a combination lock to you?” Pascal said.
“Yes, actually, it does,” I admitted.
Good grief! Could Pascal be on to something?
“So whoever Trevor Tower is, maybe he has a locker,” Pascal continued. “And where do we find lockers?”
“Schools, mostly,” I said.
“Bingo,” Pascal said. “Trevor Tower must be a student.”
“Only he’s quite a few years older than us because we haven’t heard of him,” I said, confirming my earlier speculation.
“But if he’s from around here, he might have gone to our school when he was younger. I think we should check it out,” Pascal said.
“Check what out?” Merrilee asked.
Somehow, she had sneaked up on us without a sound, vampire-like.
“What do you have there?” I asked, pointing to the bucket she was carrying in an attempt to distract her.
“Some kind of special detergent that’s good for dirt,” she replied. “Check what out?”
I didn’t want to tell Merrilee about our theory. She would probably poke all kinds of holes in it just for sport.
“Check out the gravestone I’m cleaning. It’s blank.”
I shot Pascal a look that said, “Keep quiet.”
He did, but not without a confused tilt of his head.
“Blank?” Merrilee repeated, setting her bucket down.
“Come and see,” I said.
I led her and Pascal over to where I had been working on the double gravestone.
We stood in front of the blank side.
“Looks like Enoch didn’t die happily ever after,” Merrilee said.
“Where is your wife, good sir?” Pascal asked Enoch.
No answer. Just birds singing in the trees.
“Twenty-eight. Thirty-four. Eighteen,” Merrilee said. “Sounds like a combination lock to me.”
“That’s what we were thinking!” Pascal exclaimed, wheeling around to face her.
I shot him a glare, but he was already too busy comparing notes with Merrilee.
“So we need to find out who Trevor Tower is and where he keeps his locker.”
“Agreed,” Merrilee said.
“Just a second now,” I interrupted. “Our plan is to find out who Trevor Tower is and then break into his locker?”
The two stared at me.
“Doesn’t that sound a little crazy to you? I mean, first of all, breaking into someone’s locker must be illegal or something. And even if we do, what are we hoping to find?”
“Who knows,” Pascal said with a shrug. “That’s what we need to find out.”
“There could be anything in a locker,” I argued. “Stolen property. Rotting lunches. His wife’s skeleton,” I said, pointing to Enoch’s grave marker. “Anything!”
“What’s your point?” Pascal asked.
“That’s my point!” I said. I looked to Merrilee for support, but she was studying Enoch’s inscription.
“Merrilee,” I said. “You’re not serious about tracking down Trevor Tower or his locker, are you?”
“Do you think this was because of a typo?” she asked, running her fingertips over the carved box around affectionate.
“Forget about Enoch,” I demanded. “We should think about what we’re doing here.”
“Cleaning grave markers?” she asked with a smirk.
“You know what I mean! Following a secret code that might lead us to someone’s locker. It could be dangerous.”
“True,” she said, straightening up. “Let’s just take it one step at a time. We’ll figure out who Trevor Tower is first. And we won’t open any locker until we’re sure about what we’re doing.”
“Famous last words
,” I muttered.
“Well, you don’t have to help. Pascal and I can continue on our own.”
That got me. I wasn’t keen on getting into trouble, but I didn’t want to be left out, either.
“So you’re saying that you’re not worried. Not in the least?” I asked.
“Curious, yes. Worried, no.”
She returned her attention to Enoch.
“Pascal,” I said, turning to face him. “Think about it. Someone, and we don’t even know who, has been writing secret codes in the margins of mystery books in the library. We’ve stumbled across the codes, solved the last one, and now we think we should figure out who Trevor Tower is. But maybe the codes weren’t meant for us to discover. Maybe the codes were supposed to be for someone else, and all we’re going to do is get in the way. Or worse!”
“Say! Do you think the Brigade has anything to do with the codes?” Pascal asked, clearly unfazed by my dire warning.
“Who, Creelman? Preeble? Wooster?” I asked. “Why would you think that?”
“I can’t figure out why they’re dead set on maintaining this graveyard,” Pascal said. “Year after year, they accept students for cemetery duty, and the work is endless. Maybe this cemetery thing is a sham. Maybe the Brigade really spend their time watching students solve secret codes they’ve set up. In fact,” Pascal said, dropping his voice to a whisper, “maybe they’re watching us right now.”
He and I scanned the gate and the surroundings while Merrilee rolled her eyes. Although there were plenty of people walking along the sidewalk past the cemetery, and a few going in and out of the library across the street, members of the Brigade were nowhere to be seen.
I thought back to the rainy day we first met Creelman, with his ancient yellowed notes and noisy table pounding. He didn’t seem the type to be writing secret codes. And as for Preeble and Wooster, I had barely heard them utter a peep. It was next to impossible to imagine them communicating by any means, including secret codes.
Merrilee cut in.
“None of the Brigade have anything to do with the codes,” she said matter-of-factly.
“How do you know?” I asked.
“I’ve compared samples of their writing with the codes. There’s no match.”
“Samples of their writing,” I repeated. “Where did you get those from?”
“Their clipboards,” she replied. “Their letter a’s look nothing like the letter a in the codes.”
Pascal whistled softly.
“Impressive,” he said.
But I didn’t think it was impressive at all. Merrilee’s quiet sleuthing abilities kept me on edge. And Pascal’s bull-in-a-china-shop approach to everything kept me cringing.
I changed my mind. If I were to make a t-shirt for Pascal, it would read, I do all my own stunts. As for Merrilee, hers would read, Ask me about my evil plot.
“So, you’re dead set on finding out who Trevor Tower is?” I asked, already knowing the answer.
“That’s the plan,” said the bull in the china shop.
The quiet sleuth didn’t answer. She stared intently at the blank side of Enoch’s grave marker. I took her stony silence to mean “yes.”
“Fine,” I said reluctantly, but only because I thought I could steer them to a safe place, at least for now. “Let’s start by asking around our school.”
Five
_____
Sacred Grounds Cafe
I WAS WALKING ALONG Tulip Street, scouting out potential ideas for Mother’s Day, when I spotted Creelman leaving the medical clinic where I had gone for my pink eye. I recognized the trench coat he was wearing from the first day we had met him in the library. His pockets were probably still stuffed with crinkled yellowed notes.
I stopped in my tracks and then stepped behind a florist’s sidewalk display to watch where he would head.
Creelman did not look left or right. Instead, he made a beeline to a nearby trash can and pitched something into it. Then he marched down Tulip Street toward the library and cemetery.
I followed.
When I walked by the trash can, I peered inside. An opened package of cigarettes lay on top of the garbage, its health warning printed in ugly black letters.
So, Creelman was still trying to quit. I wondered if that was why he was grumpy all the time.
We both kept walking along Tulip Street, me trailing about a block and a half behind him and his cane. I don’t know why I was so interested in his whereabouts. Boredom, maybe.
Creelman stopped only a few times along the way — once to tie his shoe, once to look into a storefront window that displayed used books, and once to stand aside to let three kids fly by on their skateboards.
Each time he stopped, I crouched, first behind a mailbox, then a lamppost and then a bicycle rack. And even from the spots where I hid, I could tell he was scowling, his cotton-ball eyebrows a dead giveaway.
At last, he came to the coffee shop near the cemetery. The sign of the shop read, Sacred Grounds Cafe. But he didn’t duck inside like I expected.
Instead, he heaved the door open, spun around to face me and called out, “Are you coming, or what?”
I stayed put and attempted to turn invisible. Maybe he wasn’t talking to me.
“Derek,” he growled. “I haven’t got all day.”
He held the door open.
I slowly stood up from behind the bicycle rack. Good grief!
“Hello,” I muttered when I was in earshot.
Creelman waved me into the cafe.
“Over there,” he said, pointing to a booth in the corner next to the window. “I like the view outside.”
I turned to look at the view. It was Twillingate Cemetery.
I slid into the booth while trying to decide if what I was feeling was embarrassment, terror, fascination or a mix of all three.
A waitress came by with the menus.
“And how’s my favorite customer?” she asked, giving Creelman a wink.
“Hungry,” he replied. “How’s the meat loaf?”
“The same,” she said. “Why don’t you try something new? A nice bowl of lamb stew? A three-cheese omelet? Lasagna?”
“Meat loaf will do,” Creelman said, handing back the menu without even looking at it.
“One meat loaf,” the waitress repeated. She did not bother to write down his order.
“And you?” she said, turning to me with a hopeful smile. “What would you like?”
The only money I had with me was for a gift for Mother’s Day.
“Just water for me,” I said.
“I’m paying,” Creelman cut in. “Have something to eat. Apparently, the lamb stew is good. Also the omelet and the lasagna.”
It did smell good in the cafe. And it had been a long time since breakfast.
“Meat loaf, please,” I said, handing back the menu to the waitress.
Did Creelman just smile? It was fleeting, but I think he did.
“Two orders of meat loaf. Honestly!” she said, shaking her head. “And to drink?”
“Coffee,” Creelman said.
“Chocolate milk, please,” I ordered.
“Aren’t you polite,” the waitress said, and she turned to Creelman. “Is this your grandson?”
“He’s a volunteer at Twillingate Cemetery,” Creelman explained.
“Really?” the waitress said. “But this isn’t Wednesday afternoon.”
“In between shifts, Derek’s a spy,” Creelman said.
Embarrassment. I was definitely feeling embarrassment.
“Oh, my,” the waitress said, lowering her voice. “Well, I’ll be sure not to blow your cover.”
She left to take our orders to the kitchen.
“I wasn’t spying,” I said.
“Not very well, that’s for sure,” Creelman sa
id.
“I was shopping for a gift for Mother’s Day,” I insisted.
“So you do have a mother?” Creelman said.
“Yes. That’s who I was shopping for.”
“I thought you were an orphan.”
“An orphan?”
“Orphans like cemeteries. They spend a lot of time searching for their pasts.”
“And you think I like cemeteries?”
“You signed up for cemetery duty, didn’t you?”
I thought it was best just to shrug. It seemed mean to tell him that cemetery duty was all that was left on account of my pink eye.
“What’s with your t-shirt?” Creelman asked, an eyebrow raised.
I looked down at the one I was wearing. It read, I’m unique. Just like everyone else.
“I collect sayings,” I explained, more sheepishly than I wanted, “and make my own t-shirts.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It’s just a hobby, I guess.”
“Do you want to be a writer when you grow up or something?”
“Well, I like designing words with pictures, like posters or book covers and whatnot.”
“A graphic designer, then?”
“Maybe.”
“Have you read any good epitaphs?”
“Epitaphs?”
“Epitaphs. A phrase or a poem about the deceased, carved in stone.”
“At the cemetery? No. Not yet.”
“I have a book at home. It’s a collection of epitaphs called Famous Last Words.”
I couldn’t imagine reading a book like that. How would it go? Rest in peace. Rest in peace. Rest in peace. Gone but not forgotten. Rest in peace.
Boring. And nothing I could use for t-shirts, that’s for sure.
“Some are pretty funny,” said Creelman.
“Funny?” I repeated doubtfully. “Really?”
“My favorite is I told you I was sick.”
“On a gravestone?” I laughed. “That would make a good t-shirt to wear if you’ve got the measles or something.”
“Some aren’t as funny,” Creelman continued, instantly sobering.
“No,” I said, trying to keep pace with his changing moods. “I bet they aren’t.”
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