The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  The Maypop Kidnapping is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. No one was kidnapped, no Moxie was spilled, and any resemblance to actual persons, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2016 by Cynthia Surrisi

  Jacket illustration © 2016 by Gilbert Ford

  Map design by Ingrid Sundberg

  All rights reserved. International copyright secured. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc., except for the inclusion of brief quotations in an acknowledged review.

  Carolrhoda Books

  A division of Lerner Publishing Group, Inc.

  241 First Avenue North

  Minneapolis, MN 55401 USA

  For reading levels and more information, look up this title at www.lernerbooks.com.

  Backgrounds interior: © Gordan/Bigstock.com.

  Main body text set in Bembo Std 12.5/17. Typeface provided by Monotype.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Surrisi, Cynthia.

  The Maypop kidnapping / C.M. Surrisi.

  pages cm

  Summary: “Quinnie’s teacher has disappeared. Quinnie suspects a kidnapping but her mom, even though she’s the sheriff of their small Maine town, disagrees. So Quinnie teams with her glamorous new neighbor to investigate the mystery” —Provided by publisher.

  ISBN 978-1-4677-5789-8 (lb : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-1-4677-9560-9 (eb pdf)

  [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Kidnapping—Fiction. 3. Maine—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.1.S88May 2015

  [Fic]—dc23

  2015015764

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  1 – SB – 12/31/15

  eISBN: 978-1-46779-560-9 (pdf)

  eISBN: 978-1-51240-467-8 (ePub)

  eISBN: 978-1-51240-465-4 (mobi)

  For Gabrielle, who is a natural-born storyteller, and Michael, whose inquiring mind wants to know how the world works

  1

  Knock-knock. Knock-knock-knock. “Quinnie?”

  Knock-knock. Bang, bang, bang. “Quinnette Elizabeth Boyd?”

  I’m wide awake but I don’t move.

  “Get up. It’s time to face the day.”

  “I don’t wanna.” I slide deeper under my covers. I refuse to acknowledge morning.

  “Come on. Let’s go school shopping. I’ll take you to Rook River for new jeans and a new fleece. How about that?” Mom keeps talking but she doesn’t open the door.

  “No, thanks,” I say with the comforter over my mouth. “You don’t need new school clothes if you’re homeschooled.” Actually, I could use some new jeans, but I’d rather stay home and be miserable.

  “You’re not homeschooled,” Mom says. “You’re tutored. Now come on.”

  Who cares what you call it? “Ms. Stillford doesn’t mind what I wear,” I mumble.

  “Well, Blythe Stillford is your teacher, and I am your mother, and I say you need some new things to perk you up. And you need notebooks and gel pens. You love that stuff. And a new cell phone case. Something nice and bright so you won’t lose it. Let’s go. I’ve got a full schedule today, so I need to be back by noon.”

  “My heart aches.” I hadn’t planned to say this out loud but I guess I did.

  She sighs, and I hear her footsteps on the stairs. I know I have about ten minutes to get in the car or she’ll be back up here, saying how I’m making this more dramatic than it needs to be.

  * * *

  “Why didn’t we take your police cruiser?” I ask from the passenger seat of Mom’s Real Estate SUV.

  “Because this isn’t official Maiden Rock sheriff business, and if we did, you’d have to ride in the back like a perp. I don’t think you’d like that very much.”

  Sheriff and real estate lady are just two of her jobs. She’s also mayor and postmaster. My mom, Margaret Boyd, is “committed to making Maiden Rock, Maine, the jewel of the North Atlantic Coast,” according to her campaign signs. The truth is, no one else would take all those jobs, and like she says, “Somebody’s got to do it.”

  “At least we’d get good parking,” I say. I’m feeling a little better, being up and out of the house. I start imagining cool new jeans with a thready tear just above my knee.

  “I know you miss Zoe,” she says.

  Nice, Mom. And just like that, I’m back in the dumps. “Yeah, well, she doesn’t miss me.”

  “Of course she does, Quinnie.”

  “I don’t think so, Mom. She was smiling so big when they drove off, I thought her face would get stuck that way.”

  “Moving to Scotland is an adventure, Quinnie, you’ve got to admit that. And just think . . . for nine months, we’ll have a famous crime novelist living next door to us in Zoe’s house.” She gives me a big smile. “And his daughter.”

  I shift to stare out the window at the endless blur of spruce and pine trees along the highway. It’s a backdrop for a break-your-heart summer love story. I bury my attention in my phone. I’m halfway through my favorite episode of Sherlock when we take the exit to Rook River. As we drive down into town, I can see the mouth of the river dumping into the gray and white North Atlantic. I consider then reject the idea that our new novelist neighbor will look anything like Benedict Cumberbatch or even be as Maine-cool as Stephen King.

  “I don’t care about the famous crime writer or his stupid daughter.”

  “Well, you say that now. But you’ll be glad you have a classmate. And who knows, maybe Mr. Philpotts will like it here so much he’ll buy a place.”

  Right. A famous author will want to buy a house on a rocky beach north of nowhere.

  “Where’s the mom?” I ask.

  “I don’t have the full story on that yet,” she says, and I can tell she’s already slipped into her realtor dream-state. She gets a certain glassy-eyed look when she imagines driving buyers around and showing them houses for sale and signing the papers and collecting the commissions. I’m not making this up. If you interrupt her while she’s in realtor dream-state, she’ll say, “Just a second, I’m negotiating a mortgage interest rate.” She believes in the power of creative visualization to make her dreams come true.

  * * *

  We are on our way back to Maiden Rock by 11:30 a.m. I have three bags bursting with clothes and school supplies, and I am burning to show Ms. Stillford my new Ouija board phone case; Japanese gel pens; and six-subject notebooks with colored dividers, pocket sheets, and a nine-month homework calendar.

  “Let’s go straight to Gusty’s, Mom. Hurry.”

  “Don’t you want to drop this stuff off at home first?”

  “I want to see if Ms. Stillford’s there.”

  “Relax, it’s lunchtime. The usual gang will be there—I hope.”

  Gusty’s is my dad’s café, which was his dad’s café, which was his dad’s café. It’s the only restaurant in town. After Labor Day, all the winter residents are expected to eat five meals a week there, as Mom says, “or the Maiden Rock economy will falter.” Dad says that what she means is, “or the Boyd family finances will be in deep gull poop.’”

  Mom turns left at Mile Stretch Road and drives past our house at #10, heading straight for the café. Ms. Stillford’s vintage blue Volvo, with the peace sign bumper sticker, is in the parking lot.

  “Look, she’s here!” I pull my packages up from the backseat, whacking Mom in the head with one of them, and grab the door handle. “Sorry, Mom.”

  “Let me stop the c
ar, Quinnette. She’ll still be there in thirty seconds.”

  I wish my Mom wasn’t so snippy about Ms. Stillford. They argue about everything that happens in Maiden Rock, like whether the old Abbott houses should be torn down to make way for condos (Mom’s position) or preserved as historic buildings (Ms. Stillford’s position). Mom says they’re not arguing, they’re discussing. Dad says, “Those two have been quibbling since Moxie was invented.” Moxie is the official soda of Maine. Ms. Stillford says it tastes like root beer, and Mom says it tastes like toothpaste. But even though they go at it, Mom always says, “Blythe Stillford is the best teacher in Maine, and that’s a fact.”

  I jump out of the car and charge through Gusty’s door. Ms. Stillford is sitting at our favorite table, and Owen Loney, the lobsterman, is standing next to her. When I rush toward them, Mr. Loney backs up and bumps into a chair, almost knocking it over.

  “Well, I’ll be going,” he says, but he doesn’t walk away. He just stands there jingling his keys in his pocket.

  “Oh, thank you, Owen,” says Ms. Stillford. “I’d very much appreciate your fixing that screen for me.” She tucks a wisp of her hair back into the thick, gray-blonde braid at the base of her neck.

  Owen Loney is always hanging around Ms. Stillford. He’s kind of a mopey guy. Zoe and I have heard our moms talk about how he has had the hots for Ms. Stillford for forty years. Eek!

  “Okay, then. I’ll be going,” he says and walks away in small steps, like Ms. Stillford might call him back. She waves at him and smiles.

  I’m hopping from foot to foot and willing Owen Loney to go. Go already.

  “Look what I got, Ms. Stillford.” I dump all my bags on the table, and the notebooks and pens spill out. Ms. Stillford catches them before they go over the edge. I flash my cell phone in front of her face. “See, it looks just like your Ouija board.”

  “Goodness, Quinn. What a haul!” She picks up one of the notebooks and fans through it, admiring the pocket parts and the colored tabs. Then she grabs the package of Japanese gel pens and pulls out the purple one.

  “May I?” she asks me. I nod, and she flips the notebook open to the first page and writes in her perfect penmanship:

  Dear Quinnie:

  You are going to have so much fun in 8th grade. I have a whirlwind of learning planned for you—so much your head will almost explode! Ha! We will read wonderful books, write short stories, conduct exciting experiments, and learn about ancient Egypt. We’ll even get to play around with pre-algebra and fractals! You are such a delightful student that you make me want to be the best teacher I can be.

  I lean on the table, reading as she writes. It makes me smile until she gets to:

  And wait! Let’s not forget we have our new cohort, Mariella from New York, to look forward to. I wonder what she will teach us about New York and what we will teach her about Maine? There is so much fun ahead.

  Your teacher,

  Ms. Stillford

  My face falls. She sees it.

  “I know you miss Zoe, Quinn.”

  Why does everyone have to remind me that I miss Zoe?

  I stand up and start putting my school supplies back in the bag.

  “Show me your new clothes,” she says.

  So I take out my new green fleece, and Ms. Stillford runs her fingers over the inside of the hood. “So soft,” she says. “And the color is perfect for your complexion. What would you say the color is? It’s like a Granny Smith apple green or maybe a pistachio green. An excellent choice for that chestnut brown hair of yours.”

  “Thanks,” I say and flop back down into my chair.

  She looks at me with her twinkly eyes and says, “How about a hug?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond, which I am glad for. She just leans over and gives me a huge bear squeeze. Her beaded necklace rattles, and her lobster pin with the red stone eyes presses against my check, making a dent, but I don’t care. We both miss Zoe.

  “So, are we starting bright and early tomorrow morning?” she says and sits up straight.

  “With our traditional blueberry pancake,” I say.

  “Agreed. I will meet you here at 7:00 a.m. sharp for a blueberry pancake, and eighth grade will commence.”

  “Mariella from New York isn’t here yet,” I say. I don’t really care, so I’m not sure why I bring it up.

  “I guess she’ll just have some catching up to do, then,” Ms. Stillford says, “because tomorrow at seven, it’s you and me, kid.”

  2

  “Sit down, Quinnie. Relax,” Dad says.

  I press my nose against the window. It’s the next day, the first day of school, and Ms. Stillford is late.

  “I’m going to walk outside to meet her.”

  “She’ll be here in a minute.” Dad scrapes the grill while he talks. Gusty’s Café breakfast patrons have to be fed no matter what.

  I stretch my neck so I can see all the way up the street. “But she said she’d be here at 7:00 a.m. sharp.”

  “She’s probably just running late,” he says.

  It doesn’t bother Dad one bit if people are late, or if he runs out of the day’s special, or if he doesn’t get his dairy delivery on time. He just makes do.

  I can’t wait any longer. “Back in a minute, Dad.”

  The door bangs shut behind me as I run out.

  I head up Mile Stretch Road. A wispy fog is rolling in across the ocean on my right. It gives me my first real shiver of the season. I’m glad I brought my new pistachio green fleece. I pass the picnic area on the shore of Maiden Rock Tidal Pool on my left. We mostly just call it the Pool. It’s the size of a small lake at high tide. I can see the gulls pecking at the charred remains of a Labor Day cookout at the water’s edge.

  I get to where Mile Stretch Road meets up with Circle Lane and stop. Ms. Stillford could be driving—or walking—from either direction. I wait at the corner for a few minutes, kicking up pebbles. I check my phone. 7:15 a.m. She is now officially fifteen minutes late.

  I find her name on my contact list and tap it.

  Ring. Ring. Ring. Rollover. Her musical voice reaches through the phone: “Hello. You have reached the cell phone of Blythe Stillford—”

  I hang up, and as soon as I do, I decide I should have left a message.

  Instead of calling back, I head toward her house out on the point. I go to the right because it’s shorter, and that’s the way I think she’ll be coming. Yellow-tinged leaves swirl across my path. I hurry by the long, rough driveway that goes down to Our Lady of the Tides Convent. I pass the overgrown path to the high cliff above Maiden Rock, where “sailors were lured by sirens’ calls, and scorned maidens threw themselves to their death”—or so the historical marker says. Rounding the bend, I expect to see Ms. Stillford huffing and puffing in my direction.

  But all I see are tree limbs arching above the empty lane.

  I listen for the sound of her car engine or its tires crunching on her driveway. Nothing. Only crashing surf on the rocks below, screeching gulls, and rustling branches.

  Her birdhouse mailbox has a small sign tacked on its pole: VERY PRIVATE DRIVEWAY. I smile. That sign has caused no small debate at Gusty’s, with my friend Ben’s uncle, John Denby, claiming that Ms. Stillford is inviting trouble, and Owen Loney arguing that she is a “Yankee woman saying what she means.”

  I pull my sleeves down over my hands to warm my knuckles.

  I wonder if Ms. Stillford walked the long way around Circle Lane and we are missing each other. That would be funny. No, no, it wouldn’t. That would be kind of annoying. Besides, she never does that.

  I scrape the gravel at the end of her driveway with a stick and feel the salty breeze across my face.

  I am sure she’ll appear at any second and be totally apologetic.

  Waiting and bored, I flip open her mailbox.

  There’s mail inside. It must be yesterday’s. A couple catalogs advertise autumn specials on their covers. White Flower Farm Herbal Seeds offers her a deal on its “Fall Color
Explosion” and Mulberry Creek Farm Herbals and Medicinals wants her to “Explore Natural Alternatives to a Flu Shot.”

  Hmm.

  Then it hits me that maybe she’s sick—too sick to call me.

  I take off down her driveway at a jog, slowing a bit at the sight of her house. It could be on the cover of Hauntings in Ancient Maine Mansions, one of the beat-up old books on the summer lending library shelf at Gusty’s.

  The windows are dark. I check my phone: 7:30. This is wrong. I wonder again about her having headed the other way and picture her walking into Gusty’s and saying, “Where’s Quinnie?”

  The wind whips my hair, and I brush it out of my eyes.

  I call Dad.

  “Gusty’s.”

  “Dad, hi. Is she there?”

  “No, honey,” he says. “I thought you were walking up to meet her.”

  “It looks like she’s not home.”

  “Come on back here, Quinn.”

  “Maybe something’s wrong.”

  “Don’t make a catastrophe out of this. Come back to the café.”

  I hear him say good morning to Owen Loney as he hangs up.

  I stand at Ms. Stillford’s front door and knock.

  Nothing.

  Pound. Pound-pound-pound.

  Nothing.

  I take a deep breath. The front door is always locked, but she never locks the back door.

  Something brushes my ankle. I yelp, jump back, and swat at it.

  “Spiro! You gave me a heart attack!”

  Ms. Stillford’s skinny black cat arches its back and delivers a mournful meow. I pick him up, and he buries his face in my neck. His whiskers smell of tuna fish.

  I carry him around the right side of the house. The yard opens to the sea, and the wind whistles across it, whooshing up the weathered boards and rattling the windows. A flying leaf bounces off my forehead.

  The dining room drapes are open, which means she’s up. I juggle Spiro and shade my eyes to look in. Straight ahead of me, on the dining room table, lies Ms. Stillford’s cell phone. I fumble my phone out of my pocket and once again scroll to her name.

  Ring. Ring. Ring.

  I watch as the phone’s face lights up and it starts to vibrate around the tabletop.