Don’t worry.
It’s all cool.
Love,
Q
There. That’s good. I set it aside and plan to reread it in the morning. Always set a letter or email aside and let it rest before you send it. Ms. Stillford taught me that.
I feel more relaxed and put my cheek on my cool pillowcase. The next thing I know, it’s morning.
* * *
Mom is adjusting her camera and her shoulder holster when I walk in the kitchen at eight o’clock.
“Wow. I thought you’d be sleeping in,” she says.
“Nope. Too much to do.”
“What’s on your busy schedule?”
“Oh, we’re going to hang out.”
“You and Ella?”
“And Dominic and Ben.” I look to see if she is scowling, but no.
“Ben’s out of school now, too?”
“Uh-huh. Yesterday was his last day.”
“I guess that’s okay.” She pauses like she’s thinking it through. “But not in the evening. After dinner, back in the house. Okay?”
It pains me to do it, but in the interest of Ceil and Edgar’s welfare, I lie. “Okay.”
“Well, while you four are busy hanging out, could you assemble some of my welcome packets?”
I say, “Sure, Mom. Where’s the stuff?” But I’m thinking, I don’t have time for this. “Where are you going?”
“I have to go see Edgar and Ceil, then I have a training session in Rook River. I’ll be back around five.” She dusts her hands like she’s satisfied she’s fully and correctly assembled. “Everything you need is on the dining room table.”
It’s a good thing that she’s wearing her uniform with the gun and camera and whole deal when she goes to see Edgar and Ceil. That should let them know she’s more serious than the guys who laughed at them in Brooklyn.
Then, just as I think Mom’s on her way, she stops. “Where are you headed right now?”
“Right this minute?”
“Yes, Quinnie, right this minute.”
I wonder if she can detect my exponential fibbing. “Ella and I are going to the café for breakfast.”
“Oh, good then.” She gives me a quick hug and ruffles my hair, which I immediately smooth. “Those jeans are looking a little baggy. You should have two cinnamon buns.” Her eyes pan down to my feet. “I thought you’d switched over to flip-flops for the summer.”
I look at my feet. I’m wearing my oldest Top-Siders. They seemed serious enough for a serious day of maneuvers. “Oh, I don’t know. I just didn’t feel flip-floppy today.”
She laughs. “Okay then.”
And she is out the door.
I watch the sheriff’s cruiser back out and head toward the post office. I assume she’s going to deliver the mail before she heads down to meet with Edgar and Ceil. I smile. It’s so funny when the brand-new summer people see the sheriff sticking her hand into the mailboxes.
Rather than starting the day with too many lies to Mom, I text Ella and tell her to walk my way so we can go to Gusty’s. Our biggest goal for the morning is tracking down the sisters, and they are as likely to be at Gusty’s, getting an espresso and a cinnamon bun, as they are going to be anywhere else.
* * *
We’re lucky to get our table by the window—Gusty’s has already filled up. I know Owen Loney would’ve come and gone already. He’s a six-thirty man. But Ms. Stillford might be by the café soon. She usually stops in at a more civilized eight thirty in the summers. No sooner do I think that than she walks through the door.
“Ah, glorious morning, isn’t it?” she says.
We nod like bobblehead dolls.
“May I join you, girls?”
“Sure,” we both say. Ella lets the smallest groan slip. We’d rather be talking over our plan, but we’d never say no to Ms. Stillford.
Ms. Stillford sits down, hangs her tote bag on the back of the chair, and folds her hands as if she’s about to begin meditating. “I know exactly what I’m going to have.” She closes her eyes while she recites her order. “Blueberry pancakes, extra thick-cut maple bacon, Vermont maple syrup . . . and a grande latte.” Her eyes snap open. “Sound good?”
“Delish,” Ella says.
Dad walks up and starts clapping. “A round of applause for the successful completion of eighth grade!” We all clap.
As Dad prepares to take our order, he looks out the window to see Ben and Dominic walking by. “No breakfast for those guys?” Dad asks.
Ella doesn’t hesitate. “Ben is teaching Dominic to sail.”
“I like to see that,” Dad says. “We can always use another sailor around here.”
“Dad, have you seen the sisters yet this morning?” I ask.
“Nope. Not yet. They should be in soon though. I set a couple cinnamon buns aside for them.”
“How’s the espresso machine doing, Gus?” Ms. Stillford asks.
“Fantastico!” he says with a Maine version of an Italian accent. “No, really, once I got the hang of it, I was an experto.” We laugh. “Can I get you a super-caffeinated beverage of your choice, Blythe?”
All this small talk is making me antsy, but what can we do? Nothing, until we locate the sisters.
The café’s getting hot. I think Dad should consider turning off the heat, opening the windows, and letting in the fresh air. The overhead fans are windmilling at their regular, tired pace, moving the smell of cinnamon buns around the room. Ms. Stillford starts telling us about her plans for the summer, which include rug hooking, knitting—she’s going to dye the wool—and making her own pastels for some studies of the Pidgin Beach lighthouse. I don’t tell her that the lighthouse is on my mind too.
A few minutes later, Dad arrives with the food and we all chow down. As we’re eating away, I spot something that makes me finish my milk in one gulp: the sisters’ van, motoring toward the convent.
“Sorry, Ms. Stillford—are you okay if we leave you here at the table alone?” I say. “We need to go.”
“Hmm. Do I detect a bad case of summer vacation fever?”
Ella and I laugh. “I guess you do,” I say.
We give her a quick hug and make a break for the door.
28
Ella and I jog up to the intersection of Mile Stretch Road and Circle Lane, then hold ourselves steady. We know we won’t miss the sisters if we stand right here. If they went to the convent, this intersection’s the only way out. If they went into the little town center by Miss Wickham’s and the lobster pound, they have to come back this way to leave.
“What are you going to tell them?” Ella asks me.
“I haven’t exactly figured that out yet,” I say. I’m kind of making this part up as we stand here.
“I can do it,” Ella says. “I can tell them.”
“Maybe you could sing an Ella Marvell song for them.” I’m only half kidding.
She’s not kidding when she says, a little crazy-eyed, “Yes. Yes. I’ll sing something from Trouble.”
The long driveway to the convent is quiet. We bounce around by the trash bins near the end. I peek into one of them to see if the new director, Sister Cecelia, is sorting her recycling. She is. Mayor Mom would like that.
Soon I hear the familiar sound of the van engine coming around Circle Lane. Ella knows it too. The sisters were either at the lobster pound or the post office. We position ourselves in the middle of the road, hoping that Sister Ethel is driving and going at her usual snail’s pace, rather than Sister Rosie of the Indy 500. They’ll come into view any second.
Whew. Sister Ethel is behind the wheel. She sees us and slows down to a crawl. Two nuns wave their arms out the window of the van like the wings of a struggling honeybee.
“Girls!” Sister Rosie says with a big smile on her face. “What’s your afternoon like? Do you want to come to the lighthouse? We’ve got some projects you can work on with the rescue kitties.”
I walk to Sister Rosie’s passenger-side window while E
lla walks to Sister Ethel’s driver-side window. We have them surrounded.
“We were just headed to Gusty’s,” says Sister Ethel.
I want to kick myself. We should have brought them cinnamon buns. I can’t think of anything more likely to sway the sisters.
“Sure, Sister,” Ella says. “But we need to talk to you first.”
A small wrinkle appears between Sister Ethel’s eyes, and it isn’t caused by her headpiece. “We’ve been recycling over at the lighthouse, you know.”
I can’t help myself—I laugh. “No, Sister. It’s not about recycling.”
Ella leans on the door. “We have a big favor to ask you.”
“Well, let’s head to the café and you can ask away,” says Sister Ethel.
I grab onto the open window frame on Sister Rosie’s side. “We need to talk in private.”
They look at each other and say at once, “Come on, then. Hop in the van.”
The self-regulator voice in my head says, You are not allowed in that vehicle. But what we are about to do in the next twelve hours is going to be a way bigger deal than getting in the sisters’ van. At least as long as Sister Ethel’s driving. So I say okay.
Ella gives me a thank-you look, and in we go.
Sister Ethel points the van toward the cliff above Maiden Rock. When we arrive at the historical marker, she pulls off at the far end, tucks the van behind some trees, and shuts the engine off.
“Now, what’s up?” she says.
“Yes, dears. Do tell, do tell,” says Sister Rosie.
“Sisters,” Ella starts, “we know that you help things in need. You save the cats. And we think that’s so . . .”—she searches for a word—“godly.”
I add, “We really admire that. I mean, helping save the cats.”
Sister Ethel’s right eyebrow lifts. “Alright, no need for the wind-up. What’s this about?”
Ella’s voice trembles. “We need you to help us get my aunt Ceil and uncle Edgar out of town tonight in a boat and take them to the lighthouse so they can sneak away.”
The look on the sisters’ faces is hard to describe. It morphs from What? to Who? to How? to Why us? Finally, Sister Ethel says, “Start again, from the beginning.”
The story tumbles out all discombobulated and filled with constant pleas of “and you can’t tell anyone.”
“So, you want me to take them from the yacht club around to the lighthouse in John Denby’s skiff?” Sister Ethel says.
We both nod.
“Tonight?”
We both nod.
“But these are the people who wrote about kidnapping cats!” cries Sister Rosie.
“Yes, but Sister, the cat was okay in the end. They’re good people. It’s just a story,” I say.
Ella jumps in with something more persuasive: “And they would make a donation to the lighthouse! They would give a lot of money to fix it up and make the clinic better and you could do more neuters.”
The sisters slowly turn and look at each other. This is swaying them.
“It would save so many cats,” Ella says, “and it would give them a chance to prove they respect the work you’re doing.”
“I take it your mother does not know about this?” Sister Ethel asks me.
“Edgar and Ceil swore us to secrecy. You’d have to swear too.”
Sister Rosie harrumphs. “We don’t swear, dears.”
“Not like that,” Ella says.
Sister Ethel, the more financially savvy of the two, says, “Rosie, all she’s saying is that we’d have to keep our peace about it.”
“That’s all,” I say.
“I must tell you, I haven’t sailed in years,” Sister Ethel says. “Although, in my early days, I could snap a jib as quick as anyone. It’s like riding a bike, you know. You never forget.”
Ella and I are afraid to show any excitement until we are sure she is agreeing.
“Rosie, you’d have to drive back to the lighthouse from the yacht club without Margaret seeing you.”
The thought of getting behind the wheel piques Sister Rosie’s interest. “I could do that.”
Sister Ethel turns to me and says, “Tell me a little more about Denby’s skiff.”
29
The sisters drop me and Ella off at the yacht club. As I slide the big van door shut, I hear them talking about how they’ll spend all the money that Edgar and Ceil are going to donate—the money that Edgar and Ceil have yet to find out that they’re donating. That was a stroke of brilliance on Ella’s part. As we walk up to the club’s doors, Ella wonders out loud how much Edgar and Ceil might be willing to give once they learn about the agreement. I have no doubt they will make a very big contribution.
A small weathered sign hangs crookedly on the door: Maiden Rock Yacht Club, Founded 1939. It’s not what you would normally think of when you hear the word yacht. The club’s a big gray barn with a high black roof, white shuttered windows, and double doors that are big enough to wheel a forty foot sailboat through.
I pull at one of the double doors, trusting that Ben has left it unlocked for us. Yes. We slip through and spot a set of open doors at the far end, which leads to the dock.
“This way,” I say and lead Ella around to the right, past the six large sailboat hulls hanging in giant straps. Some are dangling mid–paint job, one is missing a keel, another is tipped on its side like it’s got an aching bow. We make our way past tools, paint cans, spray bottles, and glass jars filled with black and tarry goo that cover a broken-down work bench.
“Watch out,” I tell Ella. “Follow me.” I lead her around a disorganized pile of coiled rope. “There they are.” I point to Ben, who is in the water with the boat, and Dominic, who is standing on the pier.
“What’s Ben doing?” Ella sounds alarmed.
“The boat was anchored in the tidal pool,” I tell her. “So he’s moved it into a watery parking space.”
“Sheesh, why didn’t he turn on the motor and drive it here?”
“Oh, no, that would not be the Ben way. Besides, it’s more fun to swim-pull it in. It’s easy.” I run to the boys, take the rope Ben is handing up, and clove-hitch it to the dock.
Ella picks up Ben’s dry shirt from the dock and hands it to him as he climbs up.
“Oh, man, the water feels great. I’m itching to take the boat out,” he says as he pulls his shirt over his head and rakes his fingers through his hair.
“Will the sisters do it?” Dominic asks.
“They will,” I say. “We’re set.”
“Sister Ethel wants you to text her about the boat, Ben,” Ella says.
Dominic hands Ben’s phone back to him. Wow—these guys are getting to be actual friends.
We sit on the dock as Ben texts Sister Ethel. Ella reads me the deets from over Ben’s shoulder: “Seventeen-foot Jersey Skiff, 60 percent sail, 30 percent row, 10 percent motor. Holds four adults. Can be rowed with the mast stepped when the wind dies. Has four-horsepower motor.”
It sounds like he’s going to go on.
He does: “Originally designed in the mid-1800s for rescue and salvage—”
“Okay, stop,” I say. “That’s enough for now.”
“It’s good to have all the information you can about a boat,” Ben says. “You never know.”
“What’s the boat’s name?” Ella asks as she walks the length of the boat. “Connie Will,” she says, reading the stern. “Who is Connie and what will she do?”
“Connie and Will,” Ben says. “My mom’s name was Connie. My dad’s name was Will. We named her after my parents.”
Ella blushes. I’ve never seen this before. The girl with confidence galore is horrified by what she said.
She reaches over and takes Ben’s hand. “Sorry,” Ella says. “I didn’t know. Being stupid.”
Ben shrugs. “That’s okay.” Ben lets us all off the hook by saying, “At least we can take her around the pool. We’ve got plenty of draft.”
* * *
You w
ould think that the afternoon before we’re about to execute a big plan, we’d be sitting around cross-checking every point, but no. We spend it sailing the Connie Will around the tidal pool until we get a little bored and head into the channel and out to sea.
I am not supposed to sail out of the pool without an adult. And I’m pretty sure Ben isn’t supposed to take the Connie Will out to sea without his uncle, but we’re so full of salty air that we motor through the channel to the mighty Atlantic.
We leave the channel and tack northeast. Ben makes lazy eights while the rest of us lean back. We loll out on the boat in the slow rolling waves for an hour, maybe more.
After a while, I notice that everyone’s noses have roasted to a peppery red. And I remember the fact that you can catch a sunburn on a cloudy day as easily as on a sunny one. I’m about to point and say, Hey, you guys are burned, we should go in, when they look at me and say, “Whoa, Quinnie, you are way burned!”
I touch my face and feel the heat. The breeze has been so steady up to this point, I didn’t notice. “We’d better go in,” I say.
The sails are taut and we’re cutting the water nicely, but Ben agrees with me and steers us to the entrance to the channel, where the wind suddenly whips up and the smooth, rolling water becomes a rough chop. Ben and I ride with it, but Ella grabs the gunwale. Water splashes over us. Dominic’s eyes cross as he tries to calm his stomach.
When we’re back at the dock, Ben and I secure the boat while Ella and Dominic stagger off. Ella’s swallowing like she’s trying to steady her stomach. Dominic’s taking deep breaths. His skin has the sweaty gloss of nausea.
Vampires on the Run: A Quinnie Boyd Mystery (Quinnie Boyd Mysteries) Page 14