by Larry Parr
“We’re not really looking for anything,” I said, fingering the gold coin Mr. Bell had given me. “We’re just digging a hole so someone will think we were looking for something.”
“Ah,” Alan said as if that answered everything. “I’m glad you cleared that up. Now I understand everything perfectly.”
“Well I don’t!” Jennifer said, exasperated. “I don’t understand anything that’s going on. What are we doing?”
“We’re trying to make someone think we’ve found the place where the stolen coins were buried. And we want them to think that the whole area is going to be dug up for a time capsule.”
“A time capsule?” Alan said. “Why would we want to bury a time capsule? And what are we gonna put in it?”
I let out a breath, exasperated. I knew it wasn’t their fault that they didn’t understand. After all, I hadn’t explained things to them yet. But it was still exasperating. Everything was so crystal clear to me I couldn’t understand why they couldn’t just grasp it all in one big gulp like I did.
“We’re not really going to bury a time capsule. We just want people to think we are.”
“Oh,” Alan said. “Once again you’ve made everything as clear as glass.”
“Not to me!” Jennifer said, her voice totally exasperated. “I don’t get it at all! Just let me ask one question. Do I have to do any of the digging? I just got my nails done, you know.”
“No,” I laughed. “You can stand guard and watch for the ghost.”
“Oh,” Jennifer said quietly. “I guess that’s O.K.”
Chapter 23
Details, details
I felt a little bad about the way I had treated Jason, but not bad enough to lose any sleep over it. I was up at seven and feeling great. I showered and got dressed and came downstairs for breakfast.
My Dad’s a mailman, and every third Saturday he has to be at the post office early. This was one of his early Saturdays, so it was just Mom and me for breakfast.
Mom and I get along all right, but I’ve noticed that we don’t have as much to talk about any more as we used to. I’m not interested in hearing about her bridge club and how many cents she saved on laundry detergent by using double coupons—and she’s not all that interested in the stuff my friends and I do, so breakfast is usually pretty quiet. Not a bad quiet—a good quiet.
But today was going to be different.
“Mornin’, darling,” Mom said. She was dressed in her warm-ups, which meant she was about to go for one of her infrequent jogs. She used to jog every morning. Then it was three mornings a week. Then one. Now it’s just whenever she feels like it. “There’s scrambled eggs in the pan. Make yourself some toast. There’s milk and cereal if you want it. I hope you like the cereal. I got it on double coupon.”
“I’m not all that hungry,” I said perfunctorily. “Eggs’ll be fine. I’ll get some juice. You go ahead and jog. I’ve got things to do today.”
“Things, darling? What things?”
What things? Mom never asked me questions like that. I knew instantly that something was up. I answered slowly and carefully, looking for the trap. “Oh, you know, kid things. Did you say there was cereal?” I didn’t really want any cereal, I just wanted to change the subject. Unfortunately that strategy didn’t always work.
“One of your teachers stopped by last night.” She said it very matter-of-factly, as if it were a throw-away line. But I wasn’t fooled. Not for a second.
I sat down at the table, pushed my plate away, and folded my arms. I refused to rise to her bait; I just sat there with a frown on my face, waiting. Mom was good at this. She stretched the silence out just long enough, then said: “It was Mr. Greenwald. Your science teacher.”
My stomach was suddenly tied up in a small ball, and my whole body went ice cold for two or three seconds. I did my best not to show any emotion and not to let any come through in my voice. “Oh? What’d he say?”
My Mom finally turned and looked at me. She had a worn look on her face, as if she was also getting tired of these little games we played. “He says you’re investigating the ghost that’s supposed to haunt your school.”
“Oh, that.” I said it as if I had already dismissed it. “I’m helping Wesley do some research for his history project. He’s writing a paper on the ghost.” Technically that was true. At least if I could make him write the stupid paper I wanted him to write it would be true. I pulled the plate of eggs back in front of me and quickly downed two large bites.
“Mr. Greenwald seems to think there’s more to it than that. He said there are certain people in town who don’t want the ghost investigated and that you could be in some danger.” She sat down across from me and reached her hands across the table. She waited until I stuck my hands out so she could hold them. I don’t know where she got this ritual, but I really thought it was dumb. “I don’t want you doing anything that could get you hurt,” she said. She said it with deep feeling and she looked me in the eye as she said it. “Now I want you to promise me you won’t do anything dangerous.”
I did my best to smile at her. “Of course I won’t do anything dangerous. You know me. Chicken Patsy. Cluck, cluck,” I said, hoping to keep things light. The truth was, I was a bit of a chicken most of the time. It was just that some times I didn’t know the things I was doing were dangerous. That’s not my fault, is it?
Mom smiled, let go my hands, stood up and began doing some stretching exercises. “So, what’s on your agenda for today?”
“I thought I’d ride my bike down town. I’ve got some things to check out. Then I thought I’d go to Wesley’s and help him with his ghost report.” I took two more quick bites of egg so I wouldn’t have to say any more.
Mom stopped her stretching exercises and looked at me. “You will be careful?” she asked.
“I promise,” I said around a mouthful of eggs.
She looked at me as if deciding whether or not to believe me, and then turned and jogged to the back door. “Don’t be too late!” she said as the door closed behind her.
I quickly washed my dishes, then went out the back door myself. I don’t ride my bike all that much any more. Usually I walk or get a ride from someone. But today I needed to do a lot of stuff and the bike was my best means of transportation.
My first stop was Mr. Greenwald’s house. I left my bike on his front lawn and knocked on the door. You know, it’s always a little strange seeing a teacher away from school. There’s something about being in a classroom that makes a teacher seem—I don’t know—different from other people. Then, when you see them in a grocery store or something, walking around like everyone else, plopping milk and eggs and bread into a shopping cart and then waiting at the check out just like an ordinary person, it’s just kinda weird.
Well, it’s even weirder to see them at home, standing at the door in a T-shirt that says JERRY GARCIA LIVES and not wearing any shoes. He also wasn’t wearing his glasses, which made him look totally different. It took me a moment to find my voice. “Mr. Greenwald? I hope I’m not—”
“Patsy! I didn’t expect to see you today. Come on in.”
Mr. Greenwald’s house was pretty much the way I’d pictured a bachelor’s house. It wasn’t filthy or anything. There wasn’t any food lying around. It was just untidy. I guess I’m used to homes with a woman in them. I know that sounds sexist, but women generally care more about housekeeping than men.
“Mr. Greenwald,” I said as I sat down on his couch, “I want to apologize for running away yesterday like that. I-I just didn’t want to answer a lot of questions right then—and you always ask a lot of questions.”
“That’s true,” he said, smiling down at the floor. “I guess asking questions is an occupational hazard for a teacher. I’ll try not to ask too many questions today. But I do have a few.”
I didn’t say anything. I just waited for him to speak. He was silent for a moment, then he said: “Could I get you a milk, or juice, or a Coke or something?”
I shook my head. “No. Thanks. I’m fine.”
“I guess you know I spoke to your mother last night. I felt I had to after Ben Thompson attacked you. What do you think he would have done if I hadn’t been there?”
“I don’t know,” I answered truthfully. Actually I’d almost forgotten the entire incident. Too many things were happening too quickly for me to keep track of all the details. “Thank you.”
“That’s not why I brought it up. I want you to back off on this ghost thing. Certain people are getting very upset. And when they get upset, things happen. Bad things.”
“But doesn’t that mean I’m getting close to an answer?” I said excitedly. “I know how to catch—”
“No!” He stood up and paced around the room. “I want you to stop. I mean it. This isn’t some game. A man was murdered, and the person who did the crime has nothing to lose if he murders again. I don’t want to see you dead. Do you understand?”
I’d never thought about it like that before. It had never dawned on me that my life might actually be in danger. The whole thing started off as sort of an exercise, just to see if I could figure out the mystery. But now it was more. A lot more. I didn’t think I could drop it, even if my life were in danger. “I’m not going to stop,” I heard myself say. “If I stop now, then that means I let the bad guys win. I’d have to live with that the rest of my life. I can’t do that.”
He started to speak, but this time it was my turn to stand and hold up a hand to stop him. “You don’t have to help me. I wish you would, but you don’t have to. But whether you do or not, I’m going to continue trying to catch the ghost. If anything happens to me, it’s not your fault.” I turned and started walking toward the door.
“Wait!” I turned. Mr. Greenwald sat back down and looked at his feet. “How can I help?” he asked.
I quickly crossed back to the couch and sat down. “I need you to get the principal to announce that a time capsule is going to be buried at the edge of the quad, right behind the principal’s office.”
“Why? And why there?”
“Because that’s where the coins are buried, and that’s probably where your cousin is buried, too.”
He suddenly sat forward. “Are you sure? Are you sure about that?” It was a lot more than just a question. It was a plea.
“No. I’m not one hundred percent positive, but I’m pretty sure. I think I’m sure.” I could feel myself cracking under his intense gaze. This was more than an exercise to him and his family; this was the answer to a ten year nightmare. “Look, Mr. Greenwald, I’m pretty sure that’s the general area where the stolen coins are buried. I’m just guessing that your cousin’s body is buried there, too. I mean, if I were a murderer and I was hiding a body and a bag of gold coins I sure wouldn’t want to dig more than one hole and risk drawing any more attention.”
Mr. Greenwald relaxed and sat back in his chair. “That makes sense, I suppose. I won’t ask why you think that’s the spot where the coins are buried.” He hesitated, then pursed his lips and said: “I guess I’ll just have to trust that you know what you’re doing.”
“Then you’ll do it? You’ll get the principal to announce that a time capsule will be buried behind his office at noon on Friday? And you’ll make sure he announces it first thing Monday morning?”
Mr. Greenwald blew air out of his mouth and frowned. Then he looked at me and said: “I’ll do my best. It’s not going to be easy—but I’ll do what I can.”
I stood up and smiled. “Don’t look so glum,” I said teasingly. “We’ll win. You’ll see! This might even be fun!” I opened the door and started to step out.
“Miss Hoyle? Be careful. Be really careful.”
“I will.” I closed the door behind me.
It was all coming together. If everything went well, the ghost would be caught and August Wallenberg’s killer would be behind bars in less than forty-eight hours! I sat on my bike for a moment and fantasized about how great it would be to prove that Mayor Thompson robbed his own store for the insurance money and murdered August Wallenberg to cover up the robbery. I could see it now, the newspapers, the TV—I would be on CNN! Me! On CNN!
O.K., O.K., let’s not get ahead of ourselves, I said to myself. I need to take some time and really think about this . . . make sure there aren’t any holes in my plan. Timing was critical. For my plan to work, everything had to be done in exactly the right order and at precisely the right time.
If anything were off—even a little—the whole thing could fall apart. Most people are terrified at the thought of failure—but the idea thrilled me! I felt a tremendous exhilaration! Without the possibility of failure, without the chance of loss, what was the point? Where was the thrill? I suddenly thought this must be the way a gambler feels when he stakes everything on one turn of the cards.
Suddenly my day dreams were interrupted by a nagging voice in my head. It was a voice that had been trying to get my attention all morning, but I had been purposely ignoring it, hoping it would go away. But it wouldn’t go away. Instead, it was getting louder and louder.
I sighed and resigned myself to the voice. I had something I needed to do—and I couldn’t put it off any longer.
* * *
I stood at Jason’s door for at least a minute, debating with myself whether I really wanted to see him or not. Finally I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and knocked.
Jason’s father answered the door, wearing ratty shorts, a stained undershirt, and black socks but no shoes. He held a copy of the Daily Racing Form in his hand. He looked at me as if he didn’t know who I was. I tried to smile. I knew how tough everything was since Jason’s mother died a couple years ago—but I still felt uncomfortable around Jason’s father.
“Hi. Is Jason home?” I asked in as cheery a voice as I could manage.
Mr. Benson looked at me with a sour expression, then turned around and yelled at the top of his lungs: “Jason! Get your butt down here! You got a visitor!”
He then turned back to me, frowned, stepped back from the door and motioned me inside with the racing paper. “Come on in. He’ll be right down.” As I stepped through the door, Mr. Benson turned again and yelled, “Hurry up, you lazy, good-for-nothing bum! It’s a girl!”
Mr. Benson sat down on the couch and spread the racing paper out on the coffee table in front of him. I got the impression he had forgotten about me completely. I stood as still as I could in the middle of the room, wishing Jason would hurry.
When Jason finally did meander down the stairs it was obvious he was in no hurry. It was also obvious that he was not happy to see me. He nodded at me as he reached the bottom step. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I answered back. “Um, could we maybe go for a walk or something?”
He had the look on his face of a man who knew he was being led to the gallows. He sighed and said: “Sure.”
Jason walked out the front door without speaking a word to his father. I looked at Mr. Benson, wanting to be polite and at least say ‘good-bye’, but he was so totally absorbed in the paper that I don’t think he even knew I was in the room.
Jason waited outside, his back to the house. He didn’t turn as I walked down off the porch and stood at his side. I hesitated a moment. I wasn’t sure what to say. It suddenly dawned on me that I would probably be a lot better off if I anticipated situations like this better and actually planned what I was going to say in advance. Maybe rehearsed it once or twice in front of a mirror or something. Unfortunately I didn’t do that this time. Live and learn. “I get the feeling you’re not really very happy with our situation.”
He didn’t look at me. He put his hands in his pockets and looked at the ground. He began to walk slowly toward the street. “I thought you were the one who wasn’t happy,” he said.
“I don’t think either of us is all that happy,” I answered softly.
We walked in silence for a couple of minutes. The street in front of Jason house is a fairly wide and busy street. Cars whizzed by
us as people began going about their day. I was afraid Jason might say something quietly and I wouldn’t hear him over the drone of the cars. But when he spoke he spoke quite clearly.
“Why don’t you like me?”
“I like you. You’ve been acting like a real jerk lately, but I still like you.”
“Not the way I like you.”
So there it was. He’d said it. Now I really didn’t know what to say. We got to the corner and he sat down on a bus bench. I sat down next to him. “I’m sorry, Jason,” was all I could say. This was really hard. It was even harder than I ever dreamed it would be. I could feel waves of hurt pouring off him. For an instant something inside me made me want to hold him and comfort him and tell him everything would be all right. But I knew I couldn’t do that. “Can’t things just continue like they’ve been going?” I asked.
He leaned forward and looked at his shoes very hard, as if he was memorizing every scuff mark. “I don’t know. I-I feel funny now every time I see you talking to another guy. I-I know I’m going to lose you and—”
“Jason! You’re my best friend in the whole world. You’ll never lose that, I promise.”
Jason stood up and turned his back to me. “Of course I will! You’ll start going out with some other guy and he won’t want you hanging out with me!”
I put my hand on his shoulder. The hurt and the pain coming off Jason were almost more than I could bear. “You’ll start going out with other girls and they won’t want you hanging out with me, either. But we’ll work it out. We’re pals. We’ll always be pals.”
Finally he turned around and looked at me. Tears were running down his face. “Why can’t you feel the same way about me that I do about you?”
Now it was my turn to look down at my feet; it just hurt too much to look into his tear-filled eyes. “I don’t know,” I said softly. “I’m sorry.”