Bad Times, Big Crimes

by Carolyn Keene

  “Mice are not pets,” Hannah replied matter-of-factly. “Mice are rodents!”

  “Well, it’s my pet rodent then,” Betty said.

  “You, my dear, are going to have your hands full,” said my dad, tugging on my ponytail.

  After everyone calmed down and we put Betty’s pet mouse in a shoe box upstairs, we sat down for dinner.

  Hannah was amazing. She’d managed to stretch a roast chicken for two into a feast for eight. She’d shredded the chicken and made it into a casserole, put together a large salad, cooked some extra beets, whipped up some dinner rolls, and mashed a slew of potatoes.

  “This looks delicious,” said Sylvia.

  “I hate beets,” said Sammy.

  “Sammy, we’re guests in this home,” Sylvia scolded. “Where are your manners?”

  “I want to go home,” Eliza pouted.

  “We don’t have a home anymore,” said Jerome. “Daddy lost it in a card game.”

  “Stop it, Jerome,” said Betty. “It wasn’t Daddy’s fault. Those men cheated. We’re going to sort all this out eventually.”

  “I want spaghetti,” Sammy said. “Mom, you promised I could have spaghetti today.”

  “I did no such thing,” Sylvia replied, clearly embarrassed.

  Hannah stood over the table with her hands clasped behind her back. I shot her an apologetic look. She winked at me. Hannah was a great sport. I couldn’t be any luckier.

  Once they quit complaining, the children started shoveling food into their mouths. It was the craziest thing I’d seen in ages. They ate as if this was their first meal all day. Other than Sammy’s beets, the Smiths’ plates were empty within minutes.

  My father and I exchanged glances. He was thinking the same thing I was, I’m sure—that it was a good thing the Smiths were staying with us.

  “How about those Yankees?” I asked, in an attempt to break up the silence that had fallen over the dining room. “Anyone see the game last weekend?”

  “See the game?” asked Jerome. “Are you crazy? How would we have gotten all the way to New York?”

  “I didn’t mean live, silly. I meant did you see it on TV?”

  “I’ve never even seen a TV,” said Sammy. “Have you?”

  Uh-oh! How could I have forgotten that this was a dinner in 1930? I read a book once on the history of television in the United States. Even though it was invented here in the 1920s, it didn’t become popular until the late 1940s when television started to slowly creep into homes.

  “Nancy is just teasing you,” Sylvia said, coming to my rescue. “We all listened to the game on the radio.”

  “Yes, I was kidding,” I said. “Of course I haven’t seen a television. So who’re your favorite players? Is anyone a fan of Babe Ruth?”

  The children shrugged unenthusiastically.

  Betty dipped Eliza’s braid into her glass of milk.

  “Dad!” Eliza cried.

  “Girls, behave,” said Bob. He’d been really quiet until that point. I guessed he was feeling pretty guilty.

  “Our children’s favorite team is the Dodgers,” said Sylvia. “They can name just about every player.”

  Phew—the Dodgers were a team I could talk about—and not just because I saw them on TV. “I went to a Dodgers game once,” I said. “My friends Bess, George, and I flew to California to visit—”

  Suddenly Jerome cut me off. “What do you mean you flew to California?” he asked. “Who are you, Amelia Earhart?”

  Yikes! I’d done it again. Everyone was staring at me as if I was crazy. Flying wasn’t a commonly used method of transportation until the 1950s. And if I had my history right, Amelia Earhart had just flown across the Atlantic—a huge achievement.

  “Ha! I was just kidding again,” I said, taking a large bite of mashed potatoes. It was a strategic move. If someone questioned me, I figured I could just mumble unintelligibly.

  5

  A River Heights Casino

  Miraculously, I made it through dinner without calling further attention to myself. Afterward the kids went outside to play with their dogs. My dad had some work to finish up. Although he had fewer business cases these days, he had plenty of bankruptcy cases. He disappeared into his study. And I went to the sitting room for tea with Sylvia and Bob.

  “I was hoping you could tell me more about this card game,” I said to Bob. “Where did it take place?”

  “At the new casino, downtown.”

  “New casino?” I asked.

  “I’m surprised you haven’t heard of it,” said Sylvia. “Everyone’s talking about it.”

  “Right now it’s pretty makeshift—a couple of card tables in some rooms at the back of a bar. But they’re raising money to open up a huge place,” Bob explained.

  “How are they doing that?” I wondered.

  “Clay and his wife are in charge of the project. They’ve been talking up local investors. You know, all the people who haven’t been wiped out by Black Tuesday.”

  “Do you happen to know where Clay is from?” I asked.

  “I certainly asked him and his friends,” said Bob. “But they wouldn’t say. I guess that should have been my first clue that things were fishy.”

  “He has friends here? What do they look like?” I wondered.

  Bob shrugged. “Big guys, all in fancy suits. They’re always at the bar together, chomping on their cigars, playing cards, or just sitting around, talking. And Clay’s wife is always hanging around.”

  “Loretta!” I exclaimed.

  Bob gave me a funny look. “Yes. How do you know about Loretta?”

  “Um,” I said, “I’ve heard people talk about her. Some of my friends know her. She stands out, doesn’t she?”

  “She sure does,” said Bob. “She wears a fancy mink stole, a big diamond necklace, ruby earrings—like she’s going to some fancy party, rather than hanging around a dingy bar.”

  “Can you take me to see them?” I asked. “At the bar, I mean?”

  Bob coughed nervously. “I don’t know how to say this, Nancy, so I’m just going to have to say it. The bar is no place for a young lady.”

  I was about to protest when I realized something. This was 1930—it was fashionable to be closed minded about where women should and shouldn’t be. Ugh.

  I decided to play it cool. “Oh, I wouldn’t dream of going to a place like that,” I said. I blinked my eyes in my best imitation of Bess. “I was just curious.”

  It took a lot of convincing, but eventually Bob gave me detailed instructions to the casino. And as if he suspected I might try to go, he insisted that I wouldn’t even be allowed inside.

  I smiled and played along. He obviously didn’t know who he was dealing with.

  “What game were you playing, anyway?” I wondered.

  “Poker,” said Mr. Smith. “At first I couldn’t lose. Every hand they dealt me was a winner. I was up, too. Way up—close to one hundred dollars.”

  Considering the whopping eighteen-dollar bet, I could see how one hundred dollars was an enormous amount of money back in 1930. Maybe it was like one thousand dollars today, or perhaps even closer to what ten thousand dollars would be.

  “So why didn’t you leave when you were ahead?” I wondered.

  “Believe me, I wanted to,” said Bob. “That’s the only way to succeed at gambling—knowing when to quit. Sometimes, though, quitting isn’t so easy. Especially when you’re surrounded by four big guys who don’t want you leaving with their money. I told the guys I had to scram, but they wouldn’t let me. I tried everything—I even said I had to be home, or I’d be in trouble with the missus.”

  I glanced at Sylvia. Her eyes were shiny with tears. I started feeling sick to my stomach as I sensed what was coming next.

  Bob set his teacup down on the coffee table and clasped his hands together. “So we started playing again, and that’s when I started losing. I wanted to go when I was down to nothing. I figured, hey, they won their money back. We all had some fun. Let�
�s just call it a night. So I tried to leave, but that didn’t work. When I got up to go, two of the men blocked the door. They said I couldn’t leave until they said so. They said that gambling in River Heights was illegal. And unless I stayed as long as they wanted me to, they’d turn me in. Of course, I pointed out that it was their game. But they told me it didn’t matter. They would all maintain it was my fault and the cops would believe them. I know it sounds crazy, but you’ve got to understand. At the time I felt like I had no choice. All I could think about was the fact that I have a family to take care of. I can’t go to jail. I had no choice but to play another round. And I kept playing until I’d lost all of our savings—and then some.”

  “It’s a horrible story,” I said, handing Sylvia a tissue, since there were now tears streaming down her face. “And it sounds to me like a scam.”

  “But how can you prove that?” asked Bob.

  Suddenly we heard the sound of shattering glass and a scream.

  Everyone raced into the kitchen.

  When we got there, I gasped. Hannah was in the center of the kitchen, looking even more frazzled than before.

  “What’s going on now?” asked my dad.

  “Frog,” said Hannah. Her voice was shaking. “There’s a frog in my kitchen!”

  “Her name is Daisy,” said Eliza.

  “You have a pet frog?” asked Hannah, in a much calmer tone of voice. It was as if she was so surprised, she forgot to be scared or angry.

  “At least it’s not a rodent,” I pointed out, trying to look on the bright side.

  “How many pets do you have, exactly?” Hannah asked.

  “Just five,” said Eliza. She counted on one hand, starting with her thumb. “There’s Daisy the frog, Ezra the mouse. Er, rodent, I mean. We have the two dogs, Spot and Sniffles, and the cat, who I named Kitty, but Jerome calls her Stinky.”

  “We used to have six pets,” Sammy volunteered. “But the snake got away.”

  “The snake?” I asked. “When did this snake get away?”

  “Over a month ago,” said Jerome.

  “Oh, good,” said Hannah. Seeing the unhappy expressions on the faces of the Smith children she said, “I mean, I’m sorry you lost him. But I’m glad he didn’t escape in our house.”

  “The snake is a she,” said Sammy. Turning to leave the room, his arm brushed against a glass dish on the kitchen counter, knocking it to the ground where it shattered.

  “Oh, dear,” said Sylvia. “I’m so sorry about this! We’ll pay you back. It may take a while, but it’s the least we can do.”

  “Please don’t worry,” I said. “We haven’t had kids living here in ages. Not since I was a kid actually. But tomorrow, when everyone is in school, Hannah and I will take a couple of hours to childproof the house.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said Sylvia. “There’s just one problem.”

  “What’s that?” I wondered.

  “There is no school for them to go to,” Bob said.

  6

  Hooverville Is Haunting

  What do you mean ‘there’s no school’?” I asked.

  “The local government had to shut it down last month,” Sylvia explained.

  Not only was this horrible news, it made no sense. “I don’t understand.”

  “The town couldn’t afford to pay the teacher, so she had to quit.” Bob looked at me with suspicion. “This isn’t exactly news. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

  “I guess I’ve been preoccupied.” Things were so much worse than I’d realized. But something that Bob said struck me as strange. “You said, ‘the teacher quit,’ as if there’s only one.”

  “Of course,” said Bob. “Didn’t you go to the one-room schoolhouse on Lenora Drive when you were younger?”

  I knew exactly what he was talking about. River Heights in 1930 was a really small town—so small that apparently, a one-room schoolhouse worked just fine. The building was on the other side of town. Years later the historical society would use it to house their collection of quilts and antique furniture. I’d known in theory that at one time the structure was used as a school. I just hadn’t realized that now, 1930, was that time.

  “Who is this teacher?” I asked.

  “Miss O’Brian, of course,” Bob replied.

  “It’s not her fault,” Sylvia added. “She worked for free for the longest time, but after she went through her savings, she couldn’t pay her rent, and the landlord evicted her.”

  “Where does Miss O’Brian live now?”

  “Over in Hooverville, I suppose,” said Bob. “Same place we’d be living if it wasn’t for you.”

  I was about to question them further when I noticed Sylvia hide a yawn behind her closed fist. “I’m so sorry. I’ve been talking nonstop, and you’re probably exhausted. Let me show you the guest rooms.”

  Sylvia and Bob gathered their children from outside. It took some time, because Eliza was very upset about leaving the dogs. She wanted to sleep out there with them, but her parents wouldn’t hear of it.

  Once that was settled, I led them all upstairs. We put the boys, Jerome and Sammy, in the small guest bedroom, while their parents got the larger one. I made up the second bed in my room for the girls, Betty and Eliza. They were so small it wasn’t hard for them to share the single bed.

  After everyone was settled, I went to help Hannah with all the dishes. “Thank you so much for putting together such a great dinner,” I told her.

  “Oh, it’s my pleasure,” said Hannah. “I’m always happy to help. That poor family. Did you see how hungry the children were?”

  I nodded.

  “Which reminds me,” said Hannah. “Can you do me a favor?”

  “Anything.”

  “We’re out of milk and eggs, and we could also use a loaf of bread by breakfast.”

  “I’m going to Hooverville anyway,” I said. “I’ll pick them up on the way.”

  “Tomorrow morning, you mean? Better check with your father. I believe he has a meeting downtown.”

  “Oh, no. I’m going now.”

  Hannah gasped. “At this hour? It’s so late!”

  I checked the clock on the wall above the kitchen sink. “It’s eight o’clock,” I pointed out.

  “I know,” said Hannah. “Shouldn’t you be thinking about going to sleep?”

  There was no way I could sleep knowing my hometown was such a mess. This was the United States, where everyone was supposed to be guaranteed a good, free education. Why should all the children in River Heights suffer just because we were in the middle of a depression? It just wasn’t right, and I wasn’t going to stand for it. “I have a lot to do tonight,” I said. “Plus, I’m not tired.”

  “I think you should speak to your father first,” Hannah said.

  Without a dishwasher, doing the dishes with Hannah took twice as long as usual. After we finished, I went to my dad’s study and asked him if I could borrow the car.

  “Sure,” my dad said, without even looking up from his desk. “You can take it first thing in the morning. Just have it back by noon, because I’m due in court later in the afternoon.”

  “Um,” I said, “I mean, can I please borrow the car… now?”

  My dad must have been awfully surprised. He pressed down so hard on his pencil the tip broke off. Frowning, he looked back up at me. “Nancy, it’s so late.”

  “It’s only eight thirty. There’s no way I can sleep. The Smiths told me about Miss O’Brian. I know if I talk to her, I can convince her to go back to the school.”

  “Almost every parent in River Heights has already tried that,” he replied. “The issue is a lot more complicated than you realize.”

  “Please,” I said. “I just can’t sleep knowing things are so bad. Plus, we’re out of milk and eggs. Bread, too. Hannah needs them all for breakfast. I can stop by the store on the way.”

  “Mr. Babson decided to keep his grocery store open until midnight because he’ll do anything to get mor
e customers. That doesn’t mean that you have to go there so late.”

  “Dad, this is important. I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t.”

  Dad worried about me sometimes, but he never held me back from doing the right thing. At least my twenty-first century dad was like that. I just hoped this version of him was the same. I waited patiently.

  Finally he said, “Why do I have a feeling you’re going to go to Hooverville with or without my permission?”

  That was close enough to a yes for me. I was so excited, I leaped into the air. “Thanks, Dad. You’re the best!”

  He held the car keys out to me. Before taking them, I kissed him on the cheek. “I’ll be home before you know it.”

  “I hope so,” he replied. “I’ll be up waiting.”

  Even though Charlie had just filled the gas tank, I checked it anyway before pulling out of the driveway. I was also careful to pay close attention to the streets, straining my eyes against the darkness to make out landmarks along the way. No way was I going to repeat the scene from a few hours earlier.

  The grocery store was in the same place as always, but it sure looked different. For one thing, it was half the size. The shelves were stocked with all the standard products, but there was much less of a choice. For instance, I was used to seeing at least ten types of soap, each one with its own, colorful packaging. Now there were only two, and they were both wrapped in generic, brown paper. The snack aisle was tiny too. Of the three brands of potato chips, all were plain. None of them even had ridges. Sour-cream-and-onion-flavored chips probably wouldn’t even be invented for another sixty years.

  Another weird thing: There was no big, two-aisle freezer section. Only one small ice box. And literally, it was a wooden box, with a flat panel at the bottom for the ice. We had one in the basement at home—Hannah had showed me once. Of course, we didn’t use ours—but that’s because we had a big refrigerator. Apparently there was an ice man who delivered a block of ice to this store every morning, to keep perishable items cold. Bizarro!

  I was wandering through the aisles when I overheard someone speaking with the grocery-store owner, Mr. Babson.