It’s good that she wasn’t expecting it, because I sure wasn’t doing any jumping. “But Grams...”
She just shoots me down with her eyes, and before you know it she’s whipping that wool around, her fingers flying in between those clicking needles like mice teasing a crocodile. She says, “This is called casting on,” and in no time she’s straightening out a row of stitches, looking very pleased with herself. “Come here,” she says, so I scoot a quarter of an inch closer. “Come here,” she says again, so I scoot over.
She shows me how to knit and she shows me how to purl and before you know it I’m holding those needles, knitting and purling about as fast as a swimmer in mud. After a while Grams says, “See there? You’re doing fine.”
I just roll my eyes at her.
“You wait and see. In a few rows you won’t want to stop.”
She opens the other bag and pulls out an embroidery project. You know, the kind that’s all sealed up in thick plastic with a picture on the front of what you wind up with when you’re all done. Those pictures aren’t really accurate, though, because they never show any blood spots on them.
Anyhow, I probably would’ve just stuck to my swimming in mud and ignored the picture of Grams’ project altogether if she hadn’t flipped it over so fast. Real fast. Like she didn’t want me to see it.
I stopped swimming. “What’s that?”
“Oh, just a project I thought I’d start on to keep you company.” She pulls out the instructions and pushes the picture aside.
“Let me see, Grams.”
She waits a second, then says, “It’s just something I decided to make for St. Mary’s bazaar this year.”
“Well what is it?”
She flips it over and says, “Striking, isn’t it?”
I’m expecting flowers poking out of a vase like she made last year, but what do I see? A fence post with a pair of cowboy boots resting on it. And since it doesn’t seem like the kind of thing Grams would like, I ask her, “Are you feeling all right?”
She laughs. “I’m just tired of doing the same old thing.” She goes back to reading the instructions, and after a minute I go back to tangling wool. And when we’ve both worked for a little while, she sighs and says, “I sure wish we had some of those pecan shortbreads in the house, don’t you?”
Now you can have pecan shortbreads. They taste like the crumbs from the bottom of a toaster, all scrunched together. But Grams wanting some was all the excuse I needed. I tossed down my needles and said, “So do I. I’ll go down to Maynard’s and get some.”
Grams looks at me. “Really?” Then she shakes her head and says, “No, no. It’s getting too late...” but you can tell—she’s got her heart set on toaster-crumb cookies.
I check the clock. “Maynard’s’ll still be open. Really, Grams, I don’t mind.”
“But—”
“And Mrs. Graybill’s probably in for the night so you don’t have to worry about her. I’ll be right back!”
“Okay! We’ll have cookies and tea and work on our projects. It’ll be fun!”
* * *
T.J. was holding the phone with one hand and ringing up a customer with the other, so he was too busy to notice when I walked in. And when I found the shortbreads I kind of hung out in an aisle and listened while the other customer left. T.J. says into the phone, “No, man. I got it covered. As long as I’ve got it by tomorrow....That’s cool with me....I’ll get it to you by the end of next week at the latest....Yeah, man. Later.”
He lights a cigarette, so I go up and put the cookies on the counter. “Your dad coming back soon?”
He blows smoke in my face. “What’s it to you?”
“Just wondering.”
“Well, go wonder someplace else, would ya?” he says, and gives me my change.
“Just looking forward to seeing a friendly face in here.” I smile because everyone knows—Maynard’s the grumpiest guy on earth.
“Funny. Very funny. Now scram!”
I take the shortbreads and I’m heading home when I decide that it wouldn’t hurt to run over to Hudson’s and ask him a quick question.
So I take a little detour down Cypress Street and there he is on the porch, watching the world go by. I wave and run up his walkway. “Hi, Hudson! Got a minute?”
“Sure, Sammy. What a nice surprise! I was just going to cut into a chocolate cake I baked this afternoon. Care for some?”
“I can’t. I’ve really only got a minute.”
Hudson eyes my cookies. “On an errand?”
I nod. “I’m supposed to be learning how to knit right now.”
He laughs. “Knit? You?” He cuts me a piece of cake anyway. “So what’s the burning question?”
“I’ve got two of them. First off, what are pork bellies?”
“You considering investing in pork bellies?”
“Hudson! I don’t even know what they are. Look, T.J. was on the phone the other night talking about pork bellies—”
He shoves over the slice of cake. “Maynard’s T.J.?”
“Yeah. He was talking about pork bellies and coffee beans and oranges. He seemed pretty upset—like he’d lost a bunch of money.”
Hudson shakes his head. “Poor Maynard. That boy is going nowhere fast.”
“So what are pork bellies?”
Hudson cuts himself a piece of cake. “Sounds to me like the man is playing the commodities market. Maybe futures, maybe options. Whichever, it’s a surefire way to lose a bunch of cash in a hurry.”
“What do you mean?”
“I consider it to be a sucker’s game. Options brokers will tell you that you can double your money overnight—and sure, sometimes it happens, but by and large you lose money. With futures you can lose big money—more than you put in.”
I take a big bite of cake. “I don’t get it.”
“Okay. Let’s say your broker calls you up and tells you that the price of, say, silver has never been so low, and that you could make a quick buck by investing in silver options. He tells you that in all of human history, you could never get silver for less, and he’s sure that because of some happenings in, let’s say, Japan, the price of silver will go through the roof by the end of the week. He tells you that if you invest five thousand dollars at the present price of silver, when the price skyrockets later that week, you’ll be set for life. Then, later that week when the price of silver drops, he comes back to you and says you’ve got to invest some more—it’s never been this low, it’s impossible that it’ll go any lower. So you wire him some more money and pretty soon you’ve lost your shirt.”
“That sounds like gambling.”
Hudson nods. “Just like gambling. Some people win; most people lose.”
“Wow.”
“So T.J.’s up to his ears?”
“I think so. And I think it’s Maynard’s money.”
Hudson shakes his head. “Maynard should’ve given him the boot years ago. The boy’s a leech.”
So I’m sitting there eating chocolate cake, thinking, and my brain’s getting all tangled up. Why had the hotel thief looked familiar? Was he wearing a disguise? Was it T.J. under all that hair? I tried to put T.J. in a beard and bushy wig, but all I came up with was a big maybe.
“What’s troubling you, Sammy?”
“Hmmm? Oh. Oh, nothing.”
Hudson takes a bite of cake. “Well, then, what was the other question?”
“Oh. Right. I was just wondering...how much do you know about that guy who lives in your rental?”
“Bill?” Hudson shrugs. “He’s a little unusual, but I think he’s a decent fellow. Rommel seems to like him.”
“What about the purse?”
“The one Rommel found?”
“Yeah.”
“What are you driving at, Sammy?”
I take a deep breath and say, “I bumped into your renter at the mall. He was carrying all these packages. It was about an hour after someone broke into the Heavenly Hotel.”
<
br /> Hudson wipes up cake crumbs with the back of his fork and says, “You think Bill’s the thief?”
“Well, Officer Borsch says all the crimes around here are connected. I mean, what was that purse doing in your trash can anyway?”
Hudson puts up a hand. “Hold on, young lady. First off, we don’t know that the purse was in the trash can. Rommel might’ve found it just tossed over the fence. Second, Bill has no need to steal money. He has a well-paid job.”
Just then Bill comes walking through the gate, wearing a windbreaker and baseball cap, as usual. He’s carrying a briefcase and his nose is pointing straight down, as usual.
Hudson calls, “Evenin’, Bill!”
Bill just pulls his ball cap and grunts, as usual.
When he’s gone I whisper, “Who would ever want to hire him?”
Hudson chuckles. “Ah, Sammy. That’s a good one. Who might you expect would hire a man like Bill Eckert?”
“I don’t know...a place that needs an accountant?”
Hudson throws back his head and laughs. He shoos a moth from his boot and says, “My dear, things are not always what they appear.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks out at the stars. “Ever listen to KRQK?”
“Sure.”
“Have any favorite DJs?”
I shrug. “Marissa’s crazy about Rockin’ Rick.”
Hudson smiles and hitches a thumb toward his garage. “Marissa’s crazy about him.”
My jaw about drops through the porch. “You’re kidding! He’s Rockin’ Rick?”
“One and the same.”
“No way.”
He laughs. “Way.”
“That’s amazing!” I sit there for a minute, shaking my head, then I stand up and say, “I’ve got to get home. Grams is probably getting worried.”
Hudson nods at the cookies. “So the lady likes shortbread.” He looks at me and smiles. “With tea, I suppose?”
I laugh. “Exactly.”
“I’ll have to remember that.”
“For the next time she comes over?”
One of his eyebrows arches up. “She told you about that?”
“Nope. I saw you myself. From the roof of the mall.”
“Well I never.” He leans forward and says, “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Hudson wraps up a piece of cake and says, “Here. Give this to your grandmother and tell her I hope she’ll stop by again soon.”
So I run home, and before Grams can say anything about me taking so long I give her the piece of cake and say, “Hudson says hi and he hopes you’ll stop by again soon.”
“Cake?” She starts to take it, then says, “You go ahead. I prefer the shortbreads.”
So I had a second piece of cake, and for the rest of the night Grams made me work on my knitting and purling. And you’d think time would go by real slowly, but it didn’t. Knitting makes you think. Your fingers are busy pushing yarn around and pretty soon your brain starts wandering, looking for something else to do.
I thought about Hudson and Rockin’ Rick and about things not being what they seem. And I thought about other people I know—like Mrs. Graybill and Officer Borsch—and wondered again why they were the way they were, and if maybe they had secret lives as nice people. I also thought about Gina and T.J., and what being them would be like.
But after a while I started thinking about having to go to school the next day, and what I was going to do about Heather Acosta. And the more I thought about Heather and her stupid Help Heal Heather Fund, the more I wanted to get back to school and straighten things out.
Trouble is, I didn’t have a clue how.
SIXTEEN
The minute I got to school I could tell Heather’d been doing a lot of talking. While I’d been home putting knots in wool, she’d been busy burning up the phone lines, telling everyone what a monster I was. Kids would see me and stop to whisper to their friends, or point and cover their mouths.
And since Marissa hadn’t shown up yet, I was walking around all by myself feeling really dumb. Then this brown-haired girl with studs and loops loading down her ears comes up with a couple of friends and says, “Heather happens to be my best friend, and if you ever touch her again...” She looks around a minute, thinking.
“What? You’ll pin me down and machine-gun my earlobes?”
Just then Heather shows up.
Now Marissa had told me Heather’s nose was taped up, but I guess I wasn’t expecting to see what I saw because I took one look at her and busted up. I mean, she’s standing there with ten hoops in her ears, and she’s looking at me over the top of this enormous cast on her nose. It was so big I wanted to grab a pen and sign it.
But all that gauze and tape plastered on her face didn’t stop her mouth from working. She gives me the evil eye and says, “C’mon, Tenille. Let’s go before she breaks your nose, too.”
So Heather and her groupie leave and I’m left standing there with the feeling that something’s not quite right. When Marissa finally shows up I say, “Didn’t your cousin break his nose once?”
She parks her bike. “Brandon? Yeah. Doing a back dive off the edge of our pool, remember? Why?”
“Did they tape up his nose?”
She shakes out her hair. “Yup.”
I can see Heather at the tables, talking to Tenille. I nod in that direction and say, “Did it look anything like that?”
Marissa takes a look. “Wow! It’s even bigger than it was yesterday! You must’ve really nailed her!”
The bell rings for homeroom, and while we’re all standing there mumbling the Pledge my eyes shift over and stare at that mountain of tape on Heather’s face. And pretty soon I’m wondering: what’s gauze doing on her nose? I mean, if I broke it, I broke it on the inside. There’s no reason to put gauze on the outside unless it’s cut, and I know I didn’t cut it.
Then I start thinking about how the tape on Brandon’s nose had been smaller and kind of skin-colored. Heather’s nose was buried in athletic tape, the white stuff they wrap your ankle with when you sprain it in sports.
Then it hits me. Her nose isn’t broken at all. She’s just putting on a show to get people to hate me. And it’s working.
* * *
I hadn’t missed much, being suspended. Miss Pilson was still talking to herself in Old English, Mr. Tiller was still moving X around the chalkboard, and Mr. Holgartner showed the second half of another video that had more static than socks on polyester pants. And when lunchtime finally rolled around I still hadn’t figured out what I was going to do about Heather.
That is, until I heard her in the lunch line, standing a little too close to Danny Urbanski, telling him, “...and Dr. Gant says I can’t take it off until Friday. It is so embarrassing! He says I really should be home taking it easy, but I just can’t afford to miss that much school. That brat Samantha only got suspended for one day and I have to wear this all week. It’s so unfair, don’t you think?”
Marissa whispers, “Brother! Don’t you just want to—”
“Pop her in the nose?” I say, and then we both laugh. Marissa won’t admit it, but she’s had a crush on Danny Urbanski for ages. A major crush. And watching Heather move in on him was steaming her potatoes.
She turns to me. “You’re right, she’s faking it. If only we could prove it!”
I go digging through my pockets and Marissa asks, “What are you looking for?”
“Some change.” I pull out a few coins and give her a little smile. “I’ve got an idea....”
“What is it?”
“I don’t know if it’ll work but it’s worth a shot. Stay here. I’ll be right back!”
I found a pay phone right outside the office, and I got lucky—the girl using it was just hanging up. I hunted through the phone book until I found him in the yellow pages—Bertram Gant, MD.
By now my heart’s beating like crazy so I take a deep breath, pop in the coins, and say, “Hi, this is Heather Acos
ta,” when someone answers the phone. “I came in a couple of days ago with a nosebleed?”
The receptionist says, “Oh, Heather. Yes, I remember.”
“May I speak with Dr. Gant? Or maybe a nurse?”
“The doctor is in with a patient right now—let me pull your chart and see if one of the nurses can help you.”
I say, “Okay,” and let me tell you, my heart’s beating in my ears and I’m having a lot of trouble breathing.
Finally a lady comes on the phone. “Hello, Heather, this is Mary. How can I help you?”
“Well, I was wondering if you could call the school for me.”
“Call the school? Why?”
“Mr. Caan—our vice principal? He’s making me wear a bandage on my nose.”
There’s a long silence on the other end of the phone and for a minute I thought I was wrong.
Finally she says, “A bandage? For a simple nosebleed? Why on earth...?”
Well, that’s all I needed. I started sniffling like I was trying not to cry. “It’s so embarrassing! He says I have to wear a bandage just in case it was broken or fractured or something. He says that if anything happens to it in P.E. he doesn’t want the school to be liable or something. I don’t understand it....All I know is that all the kids are making fun of me and I just want to die!”
Now Mary wants to get this straight. She takes a deep breath and says, “You’re telling me that your principal—what is his name?”
“He’s the vice principal—Mr. Caan.”
“Mr. Caan insists that you wear a bandage on your nose because he doesn’t want to be responsible if you get injured again?”
“That’s right. He made me put gauze and tape over the whole thing and he says I can’t take it off until Friday.”
“What?”
“Can you please just call the school and talk to him? Tell him it’s not broken and that I’m fine—that it was just a little nosebleed and I don’t need to wear these stupid bandages?”
“I most certainly will!”
I look up the school’s number real quick and give it to her. Then I hang up the phone and race back to the lunch line to find Marissa.
I grin at her and she whispers, “Where’d you go?”
Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief Sammy Keyes Page 10