Nobody's There

by Joan Lowery Nixon

  “Abbie, be quiet!” Davy answered. “Mom’s in the kitchen making breakfast, but if she hears you she’ll come upstairs. We’ve only got fifteen minutes till she calls us. So start talking. I’ll write it all down.”

  “Get off my legs,” Abbie said. As Davy squirmed to one side of the bed, she sat up and told him about Charlie Merkel. “He took Mrs. Merkel’s rings,” she said, “but I can’t prove it.”

  “Maybe you can when he sells them,” Davy said. “If he took them to make money, he’ll have to sell them.”

  “How would I know who he sells them to?”

  “Crooks,” Davy answered.

  Abbie thought about it. “Maybe pawnshops. If he pawns the rings they’ll be on display for sale.”

  “You could just tell the police,” Davy suggested.

  “I’ve got a better idea. I’ll tell Mrs. Merkel.”

  Davy looked surprised. “She can’t answer you. She’s in a coma.”

  “But she might be able to hear.” Abbie smiled. “Soft music and pleasant words aren’t going to bring Mrs. Merkel around. But knowing her nephew stole her rings might. Mrs. Merkel’s going to have to help me solve this case.”

  Davy looked at his watch, then at his notes. “We’ve got only two minutes before Mom calls us,” he said. “Was there anything else?”

  “Fingerprints on a coffee cup,” Abbie said. She told him about it.

  “Abbie! Davy!” Mrs. Thompson called from the foot of the stairs. “Breakfast is ready!”

  Abbie flew into her clothes, shoved Mrs. Merkel’s notebook into her backpack, and ran down the stairs. “Nobody else in the world has to wake up this early,” she complained to her mother.

  The telephone rang.

  “Except Gigi,” Mrs. Thompson said. “She called you twice last night.”

  Abbie answered the phone, but it wasn’t Gigi. It was Gladys Partridge. “Dolores Garcia was the one who thought of getting your phone number from Officer Martin,” Gladys said. “We’re in such a muddle. We can’t believe that it all happened. We’re hoping you can tell us why.”

  “No one knows why Mrs. Merkel was attacked,” Abbie said.

  “Oh, we’re aware of that. The officer I talked to didn’t say why. It’s the other part we don’t understand.”

  “What other part?” Abbie asked.

  “The part we want you to explain to us,” Gladys said. “Granted, they had their differences, and no one could really blame him for being angry with her after what she did, and—”

  Abbie interrupted. “Mrs. Partridge, wait a minute. I’m not following you. What are you telling me?”

  “I thought you knew,” she said. “His son said something about fingerprints on a coffee cup.”

  Abbie gripped the telephone. “Mrs. Partridge, please! What are you trying to tell me?”

  For a few moments Abbie could hear two voices talking in low tones to each other. Then a stronger, deeper voice than Gladys’s said, “Abbie, this is Dolores Garcia. A few minutes ago the police arrested Jose for attempted murder of Edna Merkel. Why was he arrested?”

  As Abbie finished her conversation with Dolores, she realized that her mother and Davy were watching her intently. “The police arrested Jose Morales for the attempted murder of Mrs. Merkel,” Abbie told them.

  Mrs. Thompson sighed and leaned back in her chair. “Then it’s solved. Thank goodness. Who is Jose Morales? Was he one of those roofers?”

  “No,” Abbie said. “He wasn’t, Mom. He’s an elderly man who was in Mrs. Merkel’s book club.”

  Blinking with surprise, Mrs. Thompson asked, “Why did he try to kill her?”

  “I don’t think he did.”

  “Abbie, surely the police would know more about this than you.”

  Abbie didn’t answer. She wasn’t about to argue the point until she knew more about what had happened. “Mom,” she said, “could I use the car today? Could I visit Mrs. Merkel after school?”

  Mrs. Thompson nodded. “Yes, honey. Bette, in our office, offered to pick me up on days you need the car. I’ll pay her back by giving her rides when she’s in a bind.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” Abbie said.

  “Drop Davy off. You’re both running late,” Mrs. Thompson said. She stood and took her plate and coffee cup to the sink.

  As Abbie followed with her own dirty dishes, Mrs. Thompson said, “Oh, by the way, your father called last night. He invited you and Davy to dinner tomorrow night.” Abbie heard the hurt and scorn in her mother’s voice as she added, “He wants you both to get to know Jamie.”

  “Tell him thanks but no thanks,” Abbie said.

  “He hopes to make it a special evening. He’s made reservations at the Blue Water Beach Oriental Gardens restaurant for six o’clock.”

  How could he? Abbie thought angrily. That was their own special family place. “No way,” she said. “I mean it.”

  Mrs. Thompson rested both hands on Abbie’s shoulders, looking into her eyes. “Go with him,” she said. “Please, Abbie. Politeness and civility are the only way to handle it.”

  “I don’t like her.”

  “Do you think I do?”

  Abbie sighed. “Mom, do you really want me to go out with Dad and that woman?”

  “No, but I must say yes,” Mrs. Thompson said. “As I keep reminding myself, there are some things we can’t change, so we must accept them with grace.”

  Abbie shuddered. “What did Davy say? Does he want to go?”

  “He’s desperate to see his father.”

  “Okay,” Abbie said. “I’ll accept, but I won’t like it.”

  Abbie was surprised when she was called to the office during third period and ushered into the principal’s private meeting room.

  As soon as the door closed behind her, a short man in a business suit stood from behind the table, reached out, and shook her hand. “I’m Donald Wright, an associate in the district attorney’s office,” he said. “I’ve been assigned to prosecute the Merkel case. I need to ask you a few questions.”

  Abbie sat down, but she didn’t speak. She waited to hear what Mr. Wright would say.

  “I was told you are a friend of Mrs. Merkel. Is that right?”

  Abbie explained about the Friend to Friend program.

  “Did you know Jose Morales?”

  “I met him once at the book club meeting.”

  “Did you hear him threaten Mrs. Merkel?”

  Abbie stiffened, clutching the arms of her leather chair. “I can’t remember everything that was said,” she finally answered.

  “Just try to remember what Mr. Morales said to Mrs. Merkel.”

  “He … he was crabby with her, but she—you have to understand—she was mean and rude to everybody. She deliberately tried to get him into trouble.”

  Mr. Wright’s eyes widened. Abbie could see she had said the wrong thing. She felt ill. This wasn’t turning out right.

  “Tell me how Mrs. Merkel tried to get Mr. Morales into trouble,” Mr. Wright said, “and how you knew this.”

  Abbie knew she had to tell the truth. “Mrs. Merkel told me that twice she had informed INS agents that Jose and his son had hired illegal aliens to work on their yard crews. They had to pay fines. She said if it happened a third time, they’d be in terrible trouble. She seemed to enjoy having blown the whistle on them. She certainly enjoyed telling me about it.”

  Abbie leaned forward. “Mrs. Merkel got everybody in trouble; men who claimed to be roofers threatened her; a crook who was stealing numbers from cell phones threatened her. Why do you think Jose Morales is the one who attacked her?”

  Mr. Wright leaned back in his chair, cleared his throat, and began. “As you probably learned from the media, Jose Morales’s fingerprints were on the coffee cup in the kitchen. He admitted being at Mrs. Merkel’s house yesterday afternoon. He said he had come there to talk to her. She had called to tell him that one of his crews had worked in a yard on the street behind her house. There were three faces she didn’t recogn
ize, so she asked one of the men where his green card was. He dropped his clippers and ran, so she knew that some of the workers were illegals. She was going to inform the INS again.”

  “Did Jose say he hit her?”

  “On the contrary. He insists he didn’t.”

  “So maybe he didn’t.”

  “He had motive. He seems to be the most logical suspect.”

  “What was he supposed to have hit her with?”

  “The weapon of attack? Unfortunately, we don’t know what it was. I was hoping you might have some idea about what it could be.”

  Shaking her head, Abbie said, “The doctor said it had two sharp prongs on it. It sounds like some kind of a tool—like roofers would use.”

  “Or gardeners.”

  “What about Charlie Merkel, Mrs. Merkel’s nephew?” Abbie asked.

  “What about him?”

  “I think he stole Mrs. Merkel’s rings.”

  “I don’t have any information about stolen rings. You’ll have to take that up with the police.”

  Abbie didn’t give up. “If a thief stole Mrs. Merkel’s rings, what would he do with them?”

  “He’d probably sell them as quickly as possible for two reasons. One, he’d want to get them out of his possession before they were listed on the bulletin of stolen items that would be sent out to places like pawnshops. And two, he’d want the cash.”

  “If a pawnshop gets this bulletin and sees that they’ve got rings that look like the description of the stolen rings, would they tell the police?”

  “They’re supposed to.”

  “You mean some don’t?”

  Mr. Wright nodded. “There are always one or two. There’s a pawnshop way down on Main the police always visit first.” He tilted his chair back and suddenly asked, “Are you sure you can’t tell me anything more about Jose Morales’s threatening remarks to Mrs. Merkel?”

  Startled by his abrupt question, Abbie said, “No, I can’t.”

  “Maybe you’ll remember better under oath.” He pushed back his chair and stood up. “I’ll call your parents and set a time and place for a deposition.”

  “I can’t this week,” Abbie said. “I mean, I’ve got to visit Mrs. Merkel in the hospital, and—”

  “We’re in no hurry,” Mr. Wright said. “We won’t go to trial until we’ve made our case, done our best to find the weapon, and lined up evidence from the crime lab and reliable witnesses.”

  “There weren’t any witnesses,” Abbie blurted out.

  Mr. Wright leaned across the table toward her. He stared directly into her eyes. “How do you know?” he asked.

  Abbie stepped back. “I thought that’s what the police said. May I go now?”

  There was no point in going back to class, since the bell was going to ring in about ten minutes for lunch. Abbie went to her locker, took the green notebook from her backpack, and walked to the cafeteria.

  Taking a seat in a corner that was farthest away from the cafeteria line, she opened the notebook and began to read.

  It didn’t take long to discover that most of what was written down had to do with somebody named I. C. As Abbie continued to read, comments like “expensive dress,” “M’Lady Dress Shop, 3:30 P.M.,” and “Bank, safe-deposit box” began to make sense. When she came to a notation, “Buck Steaver, not oil. Worked as mechanic, Beaumont Motors,” with an address and phone number, all the scraps of information fell into place.

  It was obvious that Mrs. Merkel was writing about Irene Conley. And now Abbie knew why Mrs. Merkel had suddenly told her it wouldn’t be necessary to hack into Irene’s bank records. She must have seen Irene go into the section where people could open their safe-deposit boxes. Cash could be hidden away in these boxes and not recorded. But why was Mrs. Merkel concerned about Irene Conley’s money?

  Buck Steaver, mechanic. That didn’t sound like a rich man who could leave a fortune to his daughter. What had Mrs. Merkel found out?

  The bell rang, and Abbie put the notebook back inside her locker. During lunch period she listened to Gigi’s chatter, and she smiled across the room at Nick. But her mind was on the notebook and its contents. Mrs. Merkel had bragged about being on a big case. Was this it? Did it have to do with Irene Conley and the bank president’s murder?

  After school Abbie drove to Mrs. Merkel’s neighborhood. A carpet cleaning truck was in Mrs. Merkel’s driveway, and through the open door she could see the crew inside at work. The roar of the motor carried down the street. Charlie was probably on hand too. Abbie was pretty sure he wouldn’t allow the men to work in the house alone.

  This would be a good time to visit Mrs. Merkel. She wouldn’t have to worry about Charlie showing up and interrupting what she had to say.

  But before Abbie drove to the hospital she circled the block, driving past the two houses Mrs. Merkel could see from her bedroom window. Young children chased each other across the front yard of the house that needed painting, while a young woman who was probably their mother shouted at them from the porch. Like a flock of birds, they suddenly made a sharp turn without slowing down, dashing up the porch steps and into the house. The door slammed.

  Abbie stopped the car in front of the second house, studying it with surprise. After seeing the modernization at the back of the house, she had expected similar changes at the front. The entire house was neatly maintained, red brick with cream-colored trim, but the exterior in front probably looked much as it had when the house was new. The old-fashioned porch, wide roof overhang, and small windows fit the modest neighborhood. Although the yard was tidy and well kept, it was nothing like the beautifully landscaped backyard, which was hidden by a high fence.

  Neighbors could see only one face of the house. The expensive furniture, the gorgeous flower beds—these were a secret only the owner of the house would know … and Mrs. Merkel, who could see them from her rear bedroom window.

  Abbie was about to drive on when a woman opened the front door and walked briskly toward her in a direct line. She was tall and blond and wore a knit suit that Abbie knew must be very expensive. Abbie remembered seeing her photograph and knew she must be Irene Conley.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Irene demanded as Abbie rolled down the driver’s window.

  “I was just looking at your house,” Abbie said.

  Irene frowned. “I’ve seen you before. You were with that old bat Edna Merkel while she was spying on me, following me, writing down things about me.”

  “Uh, not exactly,” Abbie answered. “I wasn’t. That is …” Taken by surprise, she couldn’t think of what to say to explain Mrs. Merkel’s behavior.

  “Don’t play dumb,” the woman said. “The two of you even followed me into the bank.”

  “Not really. That is, I mean, Mrs. Merkel …”

  Irene bent down, leaning against the car door for balance, and looked right into Abbie’s eyes. “Don’t make the mistake Mrs. Merkel did,” she said. “If you’re smart you’ll stay out of other people’s business. Somebody out there might decide to put a stop to your meddling.”

  Abbie left the neighborhood as quickly as she legally could. She turned on Main Street and drove south, toward the hospital.

  When she saw Mrs. Merkel she’d tell her about reading her notebook and about Irene Conley’s threat. Or maybe she’d explain about the notebook and not mention the threat. She wasn’t really sure it was a threat.

  Abbie groaned. She wanted to give Mrs. Merkel a reason for recovery. She wanted to tell her something that would jolt her out of her coma and make her recover enough to take a hand in the arrest.

  I’ll tell her about her rings, Abbie thought.

  Charlie had said that his aunt hated the rings, and Mrs. Merkel obviously couldn’t stand Charlie, so the news wouldn’t upset her. Instead, Abbie hoped it would make her wake up from her coma, wanting to solve the theft.

  Abbie thought about what the assistant district attorney had said about a pawnshop on Main as she pulled up to a red l
ight outside a shopping strip. A sign listing the shops on the strip was right on the corner. Among them was the EZ Loan Pawnshop.

  Why not? she thought. She turned right and drove into the lot, parking nearly in front of the pawnshop.

  The small window contained a jumble of interesting items—everything from watches to four Waterford goblets to a set of golf clubs. There were a few rings, but none of them looked like the rings Charlie had described.

  Abbie had to press a button that buzzed back to let her know the door had been unlocked. She grabbed the knob and entered the store.

  “Hi,” she said to the owner, a small, shriveled man, who hunched on a stool behind the counter. “I’m looking for a ring.”

  He studied Abbie, then craned to look out the window at her car. “Go away, kid. I got nothing you could afford,” he said.

  Indignant, Abbie said, “I wasn’t planning to buy a ring with my allowance. My parents will pay for it. It’s … it’s a birthday present. I want an opal ring … um … maybe an opal with a couple of diamonds … with an unusual setting. Have you got something like that?”

  The man quickly threw a black velvet jeweler’s cloth over the glass-topped counter. He reached inside the counter and pulled out a thin gold ring with a tiny blue stone. “I’ll give you a good price on this,” he said. “We give the best prices in town.”

  “That’s not an opal,” Abbie said.

  “Even better—an aquamarine. Five hundred. I might take four-fifty.”

  “But I want an opal, with diamonds.” Abbie looked the man squarely in the eye. “I doesn’t matter how much it costs.”

  The aquamarine ring was whisked away, but the cloth remained.

  “Haven’t got one like that.”

  “Could I see what’s in the counter under the cloth? Maybe I’ll find something else that I’ll like.”

  “No. Nothing here for you. G’wan home, kid. Your mother wants you.”

  Abbie left the store discouraged. Nobody was going to pay attention to a teenager. She wasn’t even good at spying. Irene Conley had noticed her right away. How could she possibly hope to find out anything about Mrs. Merkel’s attacker?