Abruptly, she left her lunch and books and pressed through the crowded room after Abby. She heard Susannah call to wait, but kept on, determined to confront Abby. About what? She wasn't even sure, but she had a sense that she must follow.
"Hey, Mandy!" Susannah's voice was louder this time. Miranda wheeled around, finger to her lips, and waited for her friend to catch up. Together they paused by the door leading outside into the courtyard.
"Now where'd she go?" asked Miranda, and she hurried outside into the freezing air. She saw Abby's footprints in the new dusting of snow on the path and followed them.
"Will you tell me what in the world you're doing out here?" cried Susannah. "We're not allowed out here at lunchtime, as you know perfectly well. And it's freezing cold and we don't have our coats, and—"
"Shut up!" Miranda hissed, grabbing her friend's arm and pulling her along. "I've got to see where Abby's going. She's got her bag stuffed with something all of a sudden, and you know what? I think it might be food. I saw her in line and the bag was empty, but now look!" She pointed to where, up ahead, Abby darted out the school gate and crossed Main Street. Her large beaded bag thumped against her side.
"Now it's full," said Susannah. "But so what? Maybe she bought a lot of bags of potato chips or cartons of yogurt or something."
"But she's not allowed to leave school, and yet look at her. She's running away!"
"I don't get you, Mandy," said Susannah, still hurrying along behind her friend as Miranda strode on along the snowy street. "Why risk getting in trouble because Abby's cutting school? What's the big deal?"
Half a block ahead, Abby stopped and turned back as if checking to be sure she was not being followed. "Quick!" Miranda grabbed Susannah's arm and pulled her down behind a snow-topped hedge bordering the schoolyard. "Don't let her see us." Miranda peered around the hedge and watched as Abby slowly turned and trudged down the street. Her head was bent against the wind, the beaded bag slung over one thin shoulder. Miranda pulled Susannah out onto the sidewalk again, and they fell into step a block behind Abby. "Go on back to school if you want," Miranda whispered to Susannah. "But I'm going to see where she's going. I don't know why—but something's really weird about her, and I want to know what it is."
"If you ask me, something's weird about you, Mandy!" Susannah, hands on hips, stared at her friend. "I've never seen you acting like this. I am going back. Gosh, I never thought I'd be looking forward to geometry, but the classroom is so overheated I might thaw out by the end of the period."
Miranda hardly listened. As Susannah ran back the way they had come, Miranda moved on, following Abby at a distance, passing the little cluster of shops, a dry cleaner, the post office. When Abby stopped again, Miranda darted behind a tree.
Abby peered over her shoulder, then ran across the street and into the corner grocery store. Miranda waited, stamping her feet and rubbing her hands, then blowing on her fingers to warm them. Her teeth were chattering.
Only a few minutes had passed when Abby stepped outside again, her arms full of several loaves of bread and a big jar. She huddled against the wall of the building for only the second it took to stuff the food inside her beige coat and hitch the heavy, beaded satchel onto her shoulder again. Then she sprinted down the first side street.
As Miranda stepped out from her shelter of branches, the store clerk appeared in the doorway across the street. He looked to the left and the right, then saw her. "Hey!" he called. "You see a little girl in a dirty white coat come out? She ripped me off! I can't believe it!"
Miranda crossed the street. "She stole the food?" She wasn't surprised.
"Sure did!" He frowned, hands on hips. "Now, which way did she go?"
The man looked down at the snow and grinned. "Ha! That little sneak won't get far in this snow. I can follow her tracks as easily as if she'd left me a map." He opened the door to the shop and called inside, "Hey, Ralph! Watch the register, will you? I'll be back in a few minutes. Soon as I catch a thief!"
Miranda moved after him down the side street. Abby's footprints were the only ones in the fresh snow. They were small and narrow compared to Miranda's prints. The man was grumbling as he strode along. "Damn hoodlums. What do they come around here for, anyway? Why can't they stay in the cities?" They rounded the corner, but there was still no sign of Abby.
They pressed on another half a block, but when an icy wind whirled the snow up off the sidewalk, the man stopped and shook his head in disgust. "Damn kids! Damn snow!" he growled. "It's not worth freezing my tail out here." He started stamping back to the corner grocery. Miranda watched him go.
She stood there uncertainly. For a second she wondered what in the world she was doing out in the snow, a mile from school, with no coat or gloves, trailing a girl she didn't even like. But then the moment passed, and she resolutely marched on, following Abby's tracks. At first they were widely spaced, as if Abby had been running. After a block and around a corner they came closer together as if she had slowed to a walk. Miranda scuffed the prints as she walked, obliterating them. And then, around the next corner, she came to an abrupt halt. She sucked in her breath. What—?
The footprints were gone. Just like that.
The new-fallen snow on the sidewalk, snow that had been broken only by Abby's small prints and by her own as Miranda tracked her, stretched ahead fresh and unmarred. It was almost, Miranda thought, as if Abby had somehow disappeared into thin air.
What had happened to Abby? Miranda looked all around but could see no sign that Abby had gone into one of the small houses. Could she have climbed up into a tree? Miranda lifted her head to search the bare branches of a towering elm. Nothing. By now she was shivering hard and her hands and feet were numb.
She had come farther than she realized, and it took her nearly twenty minutes to get back to school. As she walked, Miranda was surprised at the blaze of anger she felt toward Abby. The anger warmed her. At last she slipped through the side door of the school and headed for the girls' bathroom. The period was nearly over, and she'd already missed so much of her English class there was little sense in going. She'd have to think of some excuse to give Ms. Taylor.
When the bell rang, Miranda joined the crush of students in the hallway and was borne along to her world history class. She was nearly inside the door, when she felt a hand on her shoulder. "Miranda Browne? Where were you last period?" It was Ms, Taylor, the usually smiling young English teacher.
"I—I was in the bathroom. I felt sick." Miranda, unused to lying, felt her face flush.
"Now, Mandy, I know that isn't true. I sent a student to check the bathrooms. We were searching for you because people had seen you at lunch. If you were sick, you would have gone to the nurse to lie down."
Miranda bowed her head. "I'm sorry. I won't cut again."
"I hope not! This goes on your record, you know. I've already reported it to Mr. Raphael. Cutting once means you have an extra essay to write. Please see me after school to get your assignment."
Miranda said she would and stumbled into the world history classroom. The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. She heard hardly anything her teachers said. She was humiliated at having been caught and furious at Abby for leading her on such a wild goose chase in the first place. What a creep! Miranda tried not to think about the way those footprints had vanished.
After school she went straight to her locker to get her coat, books, and flute without waiting for Susannah or Dan. Next she stopped at Ms. Taylor's classroom to write down the extra homework. Then she raced outside into the snow, heading for the little white house on Elm Street where she had a music lesson with Mrs. Wainwright.
Normally Miranda loved her weekly lesson. Eleanor Wainwright, Dan's great-aunt, had become a close and trusted friend of Miranda's the summer the Brownes moved to Garnet. She was getting old, but still had more energy than many younger women. She was spritely and cheerful, always waiting with an after-school snack for her music students and full of questions about their
families and friends. She joked that, as President of the Garnet Historical Society, she was just as interested in her students' ancestors as she was in the children themselves. She wore brightly colored silk scarves at her neck and long, dangly earrings. Her music room, too, was ornamented with colors. There were cut flowers in vases, baskets of magazines, miniature collectibles on every bare surface; dolls in international costumes atop the bookcases in the living room, china animals on the piano in the music room.
Miranda declined Mrs. Wainwright's offer of cookies and milk, preferring to get the lesson over with so she could go straight home. She felt too grim to chat with Mrs. Wainwright as they usually did before each lesson and busied herself instead with fitting her flute together and adjusting the sheets of music on her stand. But she had to smile when she saw Dan's ugly pink pig displayed smack in the middle of the collection on the piano.
She played poorly, her notes faltering, her runs stumbling. After the lesson, Mrs. Wainwright looked at her appraisingly. "There's no sense in my telling you how bad that was. You know exactly how bad it was. Vivaldi would be rolling in his grave. I'm hoping you'll be my star pupil in the spring concert, you know. And April will be here before we're ready if you don't buckle down."
Miranda nodded. "I'm sorry. I guess I just wasn't concentrating."
Surprisingly, Mrs. Wainwright grinned. "I know you've been busy with the Prindle House fund-raisers. And you know I appreciate that—the whole Historical Society appreciates it. But there already are enough people concerning themselves with the old Witch House." She frowned. "In fact, we've just had to change the locks on the doors. Seems some prowlers are around. Of course, the house is mostly empty now, but once we finish setting up the new exhibit, there will be antiques and old documents to protect." She sighed. "Now, Mandy, you've got to keep your mind on your music. And I don't suppose Dan helps one bit, does he?"
"Excuse me?" Miranda looked at Mrs. Wainwright blankly.
She laughed. "Yes, you and Dan do make a lovely couple, dear. But you mustn't let my handsome great-nephew interfere with your music."
For a moment Miranda could only stare at her in confusion, but then she realized Mrs. Wainwright was offering her not one, but two excuses for her poor performance. She had to grin back, grasping at the excuses with relief. "We have been working hard. And I like Dan an awful lot."
"Ah, young love." Mrs. Wainwright sighed.
Miranda started to pack her flute back into its case. "I should go now," she said. "I'm meeting my mother at her office for a ride home."
"Very well. I'll count on seeing a vast improvement by next week. Agreed? I want you to promise me you'll keep your mind off that handsome boy."
"I promise I'll try," Miranda hurried out into the dark street and began walking back to the town center. She had played terribly and she felt badly about that. But she had been thinking, as she had been all day, not of Dan but of Abby. She's beginning to haunt me, thought Miranda in annoyance. And she felt like kicking herself for cutting class in order to follow Abby. So what if the girl were a thief? That was a problem for the police, for the school, and for Abby's parents. It was none of Miranda's business.
But how could anyone just disappear like that?
Miranda crossed the common, chilled from the wind and from the uneasy feeling that Abby had been playing cat-and-mouse with her.
When she tramped into her mother's waiting room, Helen was just putting on her coat. "There you are! How was your lesson?"
"Okay." Miranda sank into a chair while Helen said good night to her receptionist.
They walked together to the parking lot. As she unlocked the car door for her daughter, Helen put her hand on Miranda's arm. "Mandy? I'm afraid I've still been worrying about Abby Chandler. Did you get a chance to ask her where she lives?"
Miranda climbed into the front seat and fastened her seatbelt. She stared out the window for a long minute, watching sleet fall through the streetlight. "I asked," she said finally, "but she wouldn't tell me."
Chapter Three
THE NEXT MORNING as Miranda and Dan were walking to their first class, Miranda stopped abruptly outside the principal's office. "Wait a sec, will you?" She peered around the door to make sure Mr. Raphael himself was not there. Puzzled, Dan followed her inside as Miranda, smiling brightly at the secretary, asked for Abby's home address.
"You'll need to ask her yourself, dear," said the woman, looking up briefly from her word processor. "I'm quite busy now."
"But I have a letter I need to send her," lied Miranda. "It's a surprise. If I ask for her address, she'll know something's up."
Now the woman looked interested. "A Valentine's surprise?"
"That's right," Miranda improvised. "She's new in Garnet and doesn't have any friends yet, really. I thought it would be fun to surprise her."
"Why, isn't that nice, now?" The woman beamed at Miranda. "So many times cards are only exchanged between boys and girls. I think it's real sweet for girlfriends to say how much they like each other." The secretary opened a file and flipped through some computer printouts. Miranda held her breath as the secretary wrote down an address on a scrap of paper. "Here you go, honey. And you have a nice Valentine's Day yourself now."
"Thank you. You, too." Miranda hurried out of the office with Dan behind her, the paper clutched in her hand. She glanced down at it with satisfaction. 16 Grove Street.
"What was that all about?" Dan frowned at her.
"I needed her address. My mom still wants to check with her family that she's okay."
"I've never heard you lie before, Mandy. I hope you really are going to send a Valentine's Day card."
Probably I should, thought Miranda. She felt vaguely ashamed of lying. But her interest in the girl was so strong now, she knew that even if her mother didn't want to check out where Abby lived, Miranda would go on her own.
"All right, this shouldn't take long," said Helen that evening after dinner. "At least the snow has stopped. Maybe we'll even get a thaw."
She and Miranda climbed into the car and headed down the hill. Miranda held Abby's address in her gloved hand. "I think Grove Street is over near Mrs. Wainwright's."
The streets were quiet. The street lamps made circles of soft light in the drifts at the sides of the plowed roads. The lights from the houses they passed shone out warmly into the night. Only the old Prindle House was dark. They passed the vacant lot and turned onto Grove, and soon pulled up before a compact white bungalow.
"Sixteen Grove Street," said Miranda. "This is it."
"This shouldn't take long," said Helen, as she got out of the car and stepped over the snowbanks left at the curb by the plows.
They knocked on the front door and waited. The porch light went on and the door opened. "What can I do for you?" A burly man in a bright yellow sweater smiled at them.
Helen introduced herself and Miranda. "We've come about your daughter. Just to be sure she's all right after her fall."
The man looked puzzled. "How could you know that my daughter fell down?"
Helen explained hastily about the near-miss with the car. "I can't tell you how worried I've been about Abby."
But the man was shaking his head. "Whoa, let's slow down on this one." He held the door open for them to step into the small hallway. Miranda could smell pizza through the closed door to the left of the staircase. "My daughter didn't fall in front of any car. She's eleven months old and just starting to walk, and yesterday she toppled over and bumped her cheek on the coffee table. She's got a little cut, but that's it." He paused. "And her name is Maggie, not Abby. I'm Jim. Jim O'Shaughnessy."
"But isn't this Sixteen Grove Street?" asked Miranda. This wasn't making sense. She knew it was number sixteen. The number had been painted on the porch by the mailbox.
As the man nodded, the door by the stairs opened to reveal a young woman carrying a red-haired baby girl. The baby had a bandage on her cheekbone and was clutching a thick pizza crust in one chubby fist. "Jim? What
is it?" asked the woman.
The baby waved the crust at Miranda and gurgled.
Helen explained they had made a mistake. "We must have been given the wrong address, that's all."
"It's the address the school gave me," said Miranda. "Maybe Abby lives next door."
"Well, we know everybody on the street," said the woman, shifting the baby to her other hip. "And I've never met a girl named Abby. Is she your age?"
"I guess so. But she's thin, with long blond hair."
"Sorry." The woman shook her head. "I'm sure I'd know her if she lived around here. We're always looking for baby-sitters."
Miranda and her mother looked at each other. Then Helen thanked the couple and apologized for interrupting their dinner. They said good-bye, and Miranda and Helen trudged back to their car in silence. Once inside, Helen turned to Miranda. "Well, I'm going to call the school tomorrow. I hate to seem to be meddling, but this worries me."
Miranda felt torn between wanting to shrug off the whole mystery of Abby and wanting to know, needing to know.
"Probably the secretary just gave you the wrong address," mused Helen, turning the key.
"Or else Abby gave her the wrong address in the first place."
"Oh, really, Mandy!" Helen glanced at her sharply. "Why would she do that?"
Miranda shrugged, remembering again the disappearing footprints in the snow.
At lunchtime the following day, Miranda and Susannah stood in line at the back of the cafeteria, trying to decide between caramel and strawberry toppings. The menu every Friday featured "Make-Your-Own Sundaes." Even the students who brought their lunches from home delighted in this sort of institutionalized food. Dan joined them and pressed his tray gently into Miranda's back.
"Hey, can you come over for dinner tonight?" His voice was low in her ear.
"Well, what are you guys having?"
"What way is that to respond to a dinner invitation?" Dan cried indignantly. "I'm doing the cooking. And you know what that means, don't you?"
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