The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  Several people flock around Ms. Stillford, and pretty soon there is hugging and hand-shaking and folks slapping Owen Loney on the back. I hear “Congratulations!” and “That’s wonderful” and “About time.”

  “What happened?” I ask to no one in particular.

  A woman walking past our table says, “They’re married.”

  My brain goes zzt zzt zzt. Ms. Stillford and Owen Loney are married? What about John Denby? I look at him and he’s still smiling! Zzt zzt.

  Mom is as shocked as everyone else. I hear her say, “But Blythe, why the secrecy?”

  The crowd quiets while everyone listens for the answer.

  Owen Loney says, “Out of respect for John. We were waiting for the right time to tell him.”

  “Which was not necessary,” John Denby says and waves his hand. “But I appreciate the thought.”

  More people walk over to congratulate the happy couple.

  All this time, Ella’s dad is sitting at the counter scribbling in a notebook. I assume he’s jotting ideas for his next novel. Maybe Monroe Spalding will learn a thing or two from the Mainahs in Maiden Rock.

  I find my way to Ms. Stillford, and she puts her arm around my shoulder.

  “Big news, yes?” she says.

  “I don’t know how much more big news this town can handle.”

  She leans back and looks at me like she’s trying to decide if I’m happy for her or not. “Name the feelings, Quinnie.”

  “When did you get married?”

  “We got married about three months ago in Rook River.”

  I lean my head on her shoulder. I am happy for her, but I want to know that things won’t change with us. I want to ask that, but I can’t find the exact way to do it. I say something I really believe.

  “I think he’s a nice man.” I don’t mention anything about the lady I overheard calling him an old coot because I think that might hurt her. Or maybe she would laugh—I’m not sure.

  She squeezes my shoulder.

  “He thinks the world of you, too.”

  “He does?” I’m shocked. “Even after the gaff hook? And the boat? And his shirt?”

  “What about his shirt?”

  “Uh, never mind. I’ll explain it all later.”

  “I’m not going to be any different as a teacher, Quinn. School won’t change.”

  That’s when I notice that she’s wearing the ring that I saw on her dresser, the one I thought was from John Denby twenty years ago. I realize that if she’s been married to Owen Loney for three months, then all summer she’s been the same Ms. Stillford to me. But I have to tell her about a flaw in her statement.

  “There will be one change.”

  She turns to face me. “Can you give me a hint?”

  “Just wait until you get to know Mariella Philpotts.”

  She laughs—a little nervously. “Oh?”

  “She’s not Zoe, but she’s . . . cool. Very different but cool.” I grin, and she ruffles my hair.

  Now that I know Owen Loney no longer thinks I’m a fool girl, I really want to ask him about the blood on the shirt and his taking the laundry out to sea. Still, I figure that can wait for later, since this has turned into a wedding celebration. But he walks up to me and says, “Quinnie, you handled yourself pretty well in that kitchen.”

  “I’m sorry about taking your gaff hook off the boat and thinking you were a maniac psycho-killer lover.”

  He nods and reaches in his pocket and hands my phone to me—again.

  I’m stunned. “Where . . . ?”

  “In the convent’s upstairs hallway. I saw it when we all left.”

  “Thanks.” I look at it and see fifteen missed calls and ten text messages. I scroll the text messages—Ben, Ben, Ben, Ben . . . Anonymous.

  Sometimes you’ve got to trust before you know the truth.

  I glance at Ella, and a moment later, she is at my side. “I’ve got something for you.”

  She sticks her hand out to offer me a small nail-polish bottle filled with a deep-purple lacquer. “Goth Goblet Grape.”

  She’s smiling. She should do that more often. It shows off the blue of her eyes better than eye makeup. “Tell the truth. You sent the texts, didn’t you?”

  She nods her head. “Guilty.”

  “What about the one when we were in your room?”

  “So, there’s this way to write texts and then tell the app when to send them.”

  “But why anonymous? Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Uh, hello, I tried. But you were convinced that neither Monroe Spalding nor I had anything valuable to add to your investigation.”

  I think back on all the times I rolled my eyes. “Fair enough.”

  It isn’t long before everyone in the café is busy talking about Ms. Stillford and Owen Loney’s upcoming wedding reception and the new Spiritual Center. Ben says he has something to tell me and pulls me over to the corner.

  He leans in close and drops his voice in a secret-telling kind of way. I feel a little dizzy.

  “That blood on Owen Loney’s T-shirt? A shark jumped in his boat, and he had to club it to death. He took the clothes into Rook River, to a laundromat, because he didn’t want to get caught washing his clothes in Ms. Stillford’s house.”

  Here I thought Ben was going to kiss me, but instead he’s giving me detailed information about the case. But for some inexplicable reason, I’m not disappointed. Actually, up close like that, I notice a couple lone hairs growing on his upper lip. Almost like a catfish. And he smells of soap. And he doesn’t smell of soap in an I-want-to-kiss-him kind of way. Maybe, for now, I’m happy to be more like a cousin.

  “I just thought you’d want to know,” he says.

  “You’re right. I did want to know,” I say.

  Ben doesn’t step away, but he tilts his head to watch Ella. She’s talking to the cute guy who came with Miss Abbott. He hesitates a second, then walks across the café and joins their conversation. And snap, I miss Zoe. But I also admit I’m looking forward to being snowbound this winter with the blue-eyed, blues-loving girl from New York City. At the very least, Maiden Rock will be cosmetically colorful.

  Acknowledgments

  Thanks to my family, and especially to Chuck Hanebuth and Magda Surrisi for generous reading and commenting on early drafts. To VCFA, the entire faculty and administration, and especially to my advisors Matt de la Pena, Tim Wynne-Jones, Rita Williams-Garcia, and Tom Birdseye. To my writer buddies, especially The Magic Ifs, my magic critique group; Sue Cowing, Patricia Godfrey, Lin Oliver, Lynne Wikoff, Tammy Yee; and my VCFA and SCBWI tribes. To my reader buddies, especially Kaye Walsh, Beth Worrall Daily, and Amy Spooner-Apa.

  Gratitude to Greg Hunter, who enriched this book with editorial wit and wisdom and helped it find an audience. To my agent, Linda Pratt, who is my friend as well as my champion. To Ingrid Sundberg, who created a map that matches my imagination. To Gilbert Ford, who put the perfect face on Maiden Rock.

  About the Author

  C. M. Surrisi lives in Asheville, North Carolina, with her husband Chuck, two rascal Cavalier King Charles Spaniels named Sunny and Milo, and Harry, the Prince of Cats. She is a graduate of the Vermont College of Fine Arts MFA program in Writing for Children and Young Adults. The Maypop Kidnapping is her first novel. It draws from her memories of summers in Maine.