The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  30

  I stop in the doorway of Ella’s room. I almost can’t remember when it was perfectly Zoe. The papier-mâché moose head, the hundreds of black-and-white beach photos, the ukulele—all gone. In such a short time it has become so perfectly Ella: sparkles, crazy shoes, makeup, Ella Marvell posters. Zoe’s room is getting a new life while Ms. Stillford could be losing hers.

  My eyes rest on a book on the bed with a teen girl on the cover. She’s wearing dark clothes and a backpack and crawling out of a window. The title of the book is I Love You, He Lied.

  If the kidnapper is not John Denby or Owen Loney, I think, then he didn’t do it for love. And Ms. Stillford is probably in really, really serious danger. I concentrate on all the puzzle pieces and come up with new pictures.

  Ella is at her desk, applying purple eye shadow in the mirror. She continues as she talks. “Okay. Let me get this straight. If the rockers are robbers, they’re casing the convent for . . . what? Jewel-encrusted Virgin Marys?”

  I look at her in the mirror and think about this and say, “Yes. They’re off-season beach-house burglars.”

  “And that Escalade is full of what? Stolen beach towels and plastic wine glasses?” She raises her left eyebrow and looks at me. “Those cute little grabbers for a hot ear of corn?”

  I flop on her bed and consider this logic. “Okay, well, maybe that’s not it. But why else would they want to look inside the convent?”

  “Maybe they’re cat burglars and they’ve come for the cats. Hallelujah!”

  Okay, that was a little funny.

  I roll a piece of bedspread lint into a ball and prepare to flick it on the floor when Ella says, “Hey, don’t do that.”

  Yikes. I look around. The room doesn’t look so clean that it can’t take a lint ball on the floor.

  “Put it here.” Ella hands me a jar full of colorful threads of cotton and wool.

  “What do you do with it?”

  “I twist it together into a thread and sew it into a hoodie.” She fishes three wads of lint out of the jar and begins to shred and reshape them with her fingertips, rolling and pulling until a single thin thread of red, gold, and green forms. “See?” She loops it around her finger, then stuffs the loop in her pocket. Then she tosses me a blue hoodie that has been hanging on the back of her chair. There’s an S-curve of blended color stitched inside the edge of the hood.

  “Cool,” I say.

  “I’ll do it to yours, if you want.”

  “Sure. Thanks.”

  “Just save your lint.” I can’t explain it, but this makes my eyes well up. Ella turns away and says, “Hey, tell me more about those beach-house burglars.”

  I take a deep breath to refocus on the rockers. “The cigarette butts at Horror House may have been theirs.”

  “Maybe, but who cares if they’re smoking behind an old house?”

  “Ben said the sisters’ van was parked at the Abbotts a while ago. Maybe—”

  Ella finishes my sentence: “—they’re following the sisters around, stalking them for their rosaries.” From her tone, I wonder if she’s making fun of me, but she’s stretching her eyelid and applying glitter at the same time, so I’m not sure.

  “Both those guys were wearing crosses.” I laugh at my own joke. “But the sisters were probably just back there picking herbs for their tea.”

  “Wait, wait, I know—the rockers are in search of a for-giving tea.”

  “If there’s a lot of it, it could be worth something, right?”

  The thought makes me want to know exactly what the rockers are looking for. But mostly, I want to talk to Ben. I want to know he’s okay after the slap down he got from Ella.

  I tell Ella that I’m going to text him, and she says, “Why? It’s late.”

  But I do it anyway: Come to Ella’s up the beach way

  He takes five minutes to reply: Why?

  Just as I thought, he’s pouting. To go with us to investigate the convent

  He replies: Why?

  I want to text him, don’t be a dope, but instead I type: They may want valuable stuff in there

  He replies: What are you talking about?

  This time I text it: Chalices, statues

  Then I realize he’s way behind on the state of our investigation. I stop texting and call him.

  “Hey. Look, those rockers may have been breaking into houses and walked in on Ms. Stillford and had to kidnap her and hide her away. Now I think they’re sniffing around the convent for valuables. We want to investigate it. Will you come?”

  He hesitates long enough for me to know that he’s still a little wounded. “Sure.”

  “Oh, and can you pick some of those leaves on the trampled path behind Horror House?”

  “Leaves behind—”

  “Just some of the leaves—from the bushes—on the path, you know.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  “Meet us on the beach by Ella’s.”

  Saying Ella’s, not Zoe’s, makes me feel a pinch disloyal. I look up to see Ella is rummaging in the bottom of her closet. She looks like she’s been here for a year. When I get another text, I assume it’s Ben trying to weasel out of going with us, but it’s not from him at all. It’s from the mystery texter: Following the little things can send you in circles. Ignoring them can stop you flat.

  “Well, that’s the truth,” I mumble to myself.

  “What?” Ella says in a muffled voice from the closet.

  “What are you doing in your closet?”

  “What?”

  I walk to the closet and lean over. “Look at this,” I say.

  Ella stands up and backs out, pushing me out of the way. “Sheesh, just getting a hoodie. I don’t think we’re both going to fit in there.”

  I hold my phone in her face. “I couldn’t agree more,” she says.

  But I’m sure I’ve caught her this time. “Do you have your phone in the closet?”

  “My phone is water-dead. You know that.”

  “Let me see.”

  She walks to her desk and the hands her phone to me. The screen is black as coal. I press every button and tap the surface. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  “Satisfied?” Ella says.

  “I want to look in your closet.”

  “Be my guest.”

  I crawl around the bottom of her closet and notice even more strange shoes but no other phone. So maybe she isn’t sending the texts.

  “If I had another phone, the text ID would be different,” Ella says. She flops on her bed with her hand out. “Give me your phone again.”

  Together we look at each of the text messages.

  “They all have one thing in common,” Ella says. “They’re brilliant.”

  Then I do the one thing I keep forgetting to do. I check my photos. It’s still there—the picture I took of Owen Loney’s T-shirt. He had a chance to delete it and he didn’t. Not only did he give the phone back, he didn’t poke around in it like a real kidnapper might have.

  * * *

  The gusts coming off the ocean make me wish I’d worn the hoodie that Ella offered me. Maybe the colored thread would’ve worked as a charm against the cold wind. Ella has wrapped a scarf over the fleece that she pulled over a sweater that’s covering a T-shirt.

  “I will never let myself get as cold and wet as I was by that stupid lobster boat,” she says. “I think I’m coming down with something.”

  One of her dad’s many bird binoculars is hanging around her neck. She couldn’t find gloves so she’s pulled her sleeves down and wrapped them around her hands. We are kicking cold wet sand in the dark and waiting for Ben.

  I can’t stop thinking about the text messages. The advice isn’t “brilliant” like Ella says. It isn’t even all that useful. But someone is sending them to help me find Ms. Stillford, and I’m finally convinced they aren’t from Ella.

  As Ella and I hop around to stay warm, I try to think of all the people it might be. Mom. No. Dad. No. Ben. Maybe. But probably not. Owen Loney.
Heck no. Even on a cloudy night, I can still see the lines of whitecaps pounding at the shore. The surf seems noisier in the dark. I can barely hear Ella complaining about the smell of dead seaweed and the stench of stranded crabs.

  A shadowy figure appears at the south end of the beach. It’s jogging toward us.

  Ella raises the binoculars. “It’s him.”

  As Ben gets closer, he waves a plastic bag above his head. “I hope I got what you wanted,” he yells.

  I grab the bag and pull out some leaves, trying to remember if they look like the plants in the potting shed and the botany books.

  “Here, I’ll put it inside.” Ella grabs the bag and starts running to her porch. “I can’t stand it. I’m going to look for my gloves again.”

  While she’s gone, I lean in toward Ben and ask, “You okay?”

  He looks up the dune toward her house and says, “She’s, like, really from New York.”

  I look in the same direction. “Yeah, she is.”

  He doesn’t look like he wants to talk about it anymore, and I’m fine with that, so I count waves breaking at our feet. Three, four, five . . . eleven, twelve, and Ella runs back up to us and claps her hands, which are now covered with huge mittens. “My dad’s,” she says. “Okay, Mainahs, let’s go do this thing.”

  We start jogging toward the convent, and Ben asks me, “What’s this thing we’re doing again?”

  “We’re checking for valuable Virgin Marys, silver stuff, gold stuff, anything that the rockers might want. If those sleazeballs are connected to Ms. Stillford’s disappearance,” I tell him, “we’re going to get one step ahead of them. Maybe they’ll lead us to where they’re hiding Ms. Stillford.”

  We splash through ankle-deep pools of icy seawater and slip on rubbery Irish moss. Ella’s pants are tucked into her sparkle high-tops so her legs are somewhat protected from the cold. I’m wearing boat shoes without socks, and the foam stings my ankles. Ben’s got on jeans, socks, and old running shoes. Even if he’s knee-deep in frigid surf, he’ll never admit he’s uncomfortable. But we can’t stay out here too long.

  Soon the convent looms before us on the crest above the rocky beach.

  Ella stares up at Our Lady of the Tides and shakes her head. Strands of her hair lash her face. “Not going up there,” she says.

  I shudder when I look at the place. A whistling sound pierces the thrashing of the ocean. It takes a second to register.

  The cry of cats.

  A chorus of cats is perched on the rocks above us, watching and hissing out warnings to stay away. I can’t see individual felines, only sets of yellow eyes.

  “Now that’s cool,” Ben says. He snaps a picture with his phone. The flash goes off. I slap him hard on the back of his head.

  “What?” he says.

  “We are sneaking here. Sneaking!”

  The faint sound of a motorboat catches my ear. I spin around and spy a small craft approaching from the south. It has no running lights, but it’s coming fast. Its hull slams the ocean surface and throws up a wide wake.

  Ben points to a pile of boulders at the water’s edge. I beckon Ella to follow us, and together we crawl sideways like crabs across the smaller rocks and through puddles of standing water. As the boat bounces its way toward the shore, the three of us slip between two rocks, pressing our fingertips into the crevices.

  The motor glub-glubs as the boat bobs and lurches and rolls. If the craft comes any closer, if it crosses the breakers it risks scuttling on the rocks. To be safe, it will have to beach closer to the open shoreline or moor in deeper water.

  After about a minute, the motor dies.

  “Who it is?” I ask Ben.

  “Two guys. That’s all I can see,” he says.

  In front of me, Ella is trying to focus the binoculars using the thumbs of her oversized mittens.

  “Is it Skullfinger?” I ask her.

  She shrugs her shoulders—she can’t tell. I swipe my thumb across one of the lenses.

  “Not helping,” she says and wipes the lens on her sleeve like I smeared it.

  The figures are dark. Dark jackets with dark hoods. Wisps of their conversation blow ashore.

  “Yo . . . man . . . anchor . . .”

  “. . . can’t . . . find . . .”

  “. . . free . . . zing . . .”

  I feel something vibrating near my shoulder and turn to see Ben’s phone moving in his pocket. He yanks it out. Uncle John shows up on the screen. Ella slaps her mitten over the phone to cover the glow of the display and sends it flying from Ben’s hands into the tangle of seaweed behind us. “Hey!” Ben snaps.

  “Stevie! Get in . . . water,” one of the men in the boat yells at the other.

  “Ain’t no way,” Stevie yells back.

  No doubt about it now. It’s Skullfinger and his buddy.

  “See, I told you!” I whisper.

  “A couple of idiots,” Ben says. “They can’t figure out how to get out of the boat.”

  “Even if they get to shore, I don’t see how they think they’re going to be able to get away with any stolen stuff,” I say.

  We watch them struggle until they give up, restart the motor, and head back down the coast. Ella sniffles in my ear the whole time.

  “Now I’ve got to find my probably-smashed phone,” Ben says. He doesn’t look at Ella. I can tell he’s mad.

  We crawl over the wet, slippery rocks, looking for Ben’s phone with no success.

  “Quinnie, call Ben’s phone with your phone,” Ella says. “Maybe it will light up.”

  I do, and it does. Ben scrambles over to the phone and fishes it out of a knot of seaweed.

  He’s wiping sand off the screen when he says to Ella, “That was a good idea.”

  “Sorry I wacked it,” she says and wipes her nose with her big woolly paw.

  “Sorry I butted in about your name. At Gusty’s.”

  She shrugs.

  He holds out his hand to help her across the rocks.

  31

  Ella takes Ben’s hand and—groan—doesn’t let go right away. And just like that, they’re friends again, and it’s them and me. I hear Ms. Stillford say, “Name the feelings, Quinn.” And the only words that come to mind are heart pain.

  “Hey, you’re shaking all over,” Ben says to Ella.

  “Big surprise. It’s freezing out here.” Ella sneezes. “I feel feverish.”

  Ben gives me a pressing look. “I’m thinking maybe we should go back.”

  At that exact moment, the lights snap on from the top of the convent and flood the beach.

  “Those guys may be coming back any minute,” Ella says.

  “I don’t think so,” I say. “Not with all this light. Plus, I don’t think they can manage the boat.” I glance up at the solarium windows. If one of the sisters looks out now, we’ll be center stage. “Come on, let’s get out of here. I don’t think anybody will be sneaking in the convent tonight.”

  Down the coast, there’s not a boat in sight, just whitecap after whitecap. “They’ll come by land tomorrow. They’ll get Mom to take them right to the house. That’s where we need to be.”

  * * *

  When we get back to the Philpotts’, I fix Ella a mug of boiling water with a couple of cough drops plunked in it. That’s the best I can do. She leans her face over it and breathes in deeply. Then I tell her and Ben what we’re going to do.

  “Tomorrow morning, before Mom and the rockers show up, Ella and I are going to sneak into the convent and poke around.”

  “Can you wait until I get back from school?”

  “Sorry. We have to get there before Mom and the rockers.”

  “I’m going to need three more of these cough-drop drinks if I’m going on a break-in that early,” Ella says.

  The bag that Ben brought from the marsh is on the table in front of us. I grab it and pull out a few leaves. “Maybe I can make you some relaxing tea.”

  The leaves look like what I saw on the seed packets in Ms.
Stillford’s shed. Shiny with pointy tips. I bruise them and start to sniff. Phew—I throw them back in the bag. “You better stick to the cough-drop brew.”

  * * *

  I toss and turn in my sleep, refining the plan and continuing to guess who might be sending me texts. John Denby. No. Zoe. No. Officer Dobson. Ha, ha—no.

  At six the next morning, Ella’s dad is snoring so loudly he wakes us up. We’re dressed and packing for our reconnaissance when I get a text message from Mom: Q—Taking clients to convent but see you at cafe for lunch. Hey how do you make a heart on these things?

  I show it to Ella. “Bingo.”

  “Aren’t you going to tell your mom about the rockers being on the beach last night?”

  I imagine how the conversation would go. I’d tell her that her big real estate clients may have kidnapped Ms. Stillford. She’d look at me like she brought the wrong baby home from the hospital. Then she’d act calm and ask me why I think that. And I’d be forced to tell her that it’s a hunch.

  Oh, and if I told her about Skullfinger and Stevie on the boat last night, she’d have plenty of questions for me, like what I was doing out there, and would I swear in court that it positively was the rockers. And I’d have to say I couldn’t absolutely swear it in court because it was dark, but I’m pretty sure, and basically, Mom would ground me for life, and I would never be allowed to go anywhere ever again, not even to college . . .

  “No,” I say and resume packing. “I’m not going to tell her.”

  “What if something goes wrong?”

  “My mom’s the sheriff. She’ll be right there—with them most of the day.”

  “What if they kidnap your mom?”

  “Now that would be really dumb.”

  “Monroe Spalding says, ‘If they were Einsteins, they wouldn’t be gangsters.’”

  I roll my eyes. “Keep packing.”

  * * *

  We go over my checklist: black pants, black T-shirts, black hoodies—Ella’s has a silver sequin heart on the front, so I make her turn it inside out—dark shoes, black binoculars.

  “Why exactly are we going noir?” Ella asks. “It’s daytime.”

  “It’s dim in the convent,” I reply. “I’m thinking black is better than sparkle. Doesn’t Monroe Spalding go low profile in dark spaces?”