The will was signed and notarized at the bottom.
“Man, that is one bitter lady,” I said.
“And here it is,” Beamer said, holding up a videotape. “This was in the file, too.”
“Great! I saw a TV in the bedroom. Maybe she has a VCR, too.”
“You want to stay here and watch a video? Are you totally out of your mind? Franny, she could come home any minute!”
“But this could be important! It could be evidence!”
“Then let’s take it. We’ll watch it at home.”
Beamer looked at his watch. “Oh, cripes!” he said. “It’s almost four-thirty. We’ll never get back before my grandpa goes to the pool to pick us up.”
“Call him and say we were invited over to a friend’s house. We’re having dinner there and we’ll get a ride home.”
“How are we going to manage that? The ride home?”
“I don’t know, Beamer. Just call.”
I handed him the phone. He set it on the floor between his legs and punched in the number.
“Hi, Grandpa?” Beamer said. “Sorry to interrupt you, but . . .”
He told his story pretty convincingly, I thought. He even made up a name for this imaginary friend who had invited us over for dinner—Marshall. I wondered where the heck that had come from. I’d never met anyone named Marshall in my whole life.
I was standing there listening to his end of the conversation and looking around at the stuff in I. M. Fine’s office when I thought I heard the clunk of a car door shutting.
“Beamer!” I whispered, waving at him wildly to get his attention. “Hang up!”
“Grandpa?” he said. “Marshall’s mom needs to use the phone now. See you tonight.”
“What?” he asked, scrambling to his feet.
“A car door. It might not be her, but we need to get downstairs—now!”
We crept out onto the landing and started down the stairs.
Just then, I heard the back door slam. I heard footsteps in the kitchen. I heard a dog bark.
“Oh no, Beamer—the dog!”
Suddenly, the dog was running up the hall to the front of the house, his tags jingling, his nails tapping on the hardwood floor. Then there he was at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at us. He was a medium-sized dog, not any regular breed. He had black fur everywhere, except for his floppy ears and long, pointed nose, which were honey brown, and his feet, which were white. He looked like a very nice dog. Just as I was thinking this, he began barking ferociously and dashed up the stairs like he wanted to rip our throats out.
“Quick!” I said, grabbing Beamer’s sleeve and pulling him back toward the unused bedroom. We got there just before Jake did.
Jake clawed at the door and barked. I could hear Ida May coming up the stairs. “Jake?” she was calling, “What’s the matter, boy?”
“In the closet,” Beamer hissed. “Now!”
The closet wasn’t very big and it was full of winter clothes and extra shoes. We managed to get inside and shut the door.
“You still have the tape?” I whispered.
“Yes,” Beamer said. Outside, the dog was barking steadily and beating on the bedroom door.
“Stop it, Jake,” I heard Ida say. “You be a good dog.”
But Jake kept whining and clawing at the door. “What?” Ida said. Her voice was really close now. Then she must have opened the door, because Jake thundered into the bedroom and ran straight for the closet. He was sniffling at the crack under the door, inches from my feet. I squeezed Beamer’s arm.
Ida was quiet for a minute while Jake used his most eloquent dog language to tell her that there were intruders inside that closet, sitting on her winter shoes. The quiet was ominous. It meant that she knew we were in there—well, she knew someone was in there—and she was trying to decide which of several unpleasant things to do about it.
Suddenly, the door swung open and Jake was in our faces, barking. I was too scared of the dog to look at Ida; I just put my arm across my face and curled up into a ball.
“Good, Jake! That’s a nice dog. Yes, you’re such a pretty boy. . . . Yes, you are.” This was Beamer, dog lover of the world. Jake was putty in his hands. I sat up and saw Beamer stroking the dog, who was sniffing him in a friendly way and licking his arms and face. With his other hand, Beamer passed the tape to me behind his back.
Ida was standing there with her arms crossed, glaring at us with a mixture of rage and curiosity.
“Nice doggy,” Beamer said.
“You stay right where you are,” Ida said, her voice like ice. “Because I’m going to call the police.” She pointed at the dog and backed toward the door. “Stay, Jake!” she said.
Beamer was still petting Jake and muttering sweet endearments. The minute Ida was out of the room, we made a dash for it, down the stairs to the front hall. Even with the time it took us to unlock the door and free the safety latch, we were still faster than Ida. We were down the sidewalk and into the park in seconds.
I looked back then, just before we plunged in among the trees and bushes. Ida stood there on the front porch, one hand shielding her eyes from the light, her hair glowing like fire in the afternoon sun.
19
Getting home was a nightmare. We were covered with mud and scratches from cutting through the park. We had to huddle in the doorways of nearby shops while waiting for the bus—which took forever—because we were afraid a police car might drive by and spot us. Then, by the time we finally made it back to Harper’s Mill, the pool was closed and we couldn’t get our tote bag. So we cleaned up as best we could in the bus station rest room, then walked all the way back to the house.
I felt really ragged. I was tired from our great escape and the long walk. And being scared had done something strange to my body chemistry. Floating over all that was a dark cloud of guilt.
The fact is, I’m not cut out for a life of crime. I had to keep reminding myself that we had done what we did for a good reason. Ida May Fine had caused Allison to throw herself into a swimming pool and those Boy Scouts to get lost in the woods—not to mention sending my sister to the hospital. And she had more tricks up her sleeve. We were just trying to stop her. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.
I let Beamer make up a story for his grandparents about playing touch football in Marshall’s backyard and getting all scratched up. Actually, I didn’t hear the whole thing. I disappeared into the guest room, tossed the video onto the bed, and took a long, hot bath. I guess I sort of lost track of the time, because after a while I heard Mrs. Gordon’s voice outside the door, asking if I was all right. “Just tired,” I said.
I emerged from my bath a little more relaxed and a lot cleaner than when I had gone in. I got dressed and went to look for Beamer.
I found him at the computer, checking his e-mail. He had made a huge bowl of popcorn, and now he was alternately scarfing it down, licking the butter and salt off his fingers, and typing on the keyboard.
“Eeew, gross, Beamer,” I said, grabbing a handful of popcorn for myself.
“I was starving,” he said by way of explanation.
“Yeah. Too bad we ate at Marshall’s.”
“What did you do with the video?” he asked, closing out the e-mail program and leaning back in the chair with another handful of popcorn.
“In my room,” I said. “On the bed.”
“I think we ought to wait till they’re really and truly asleep before we play the tape.”
“Yeah, I agree. So what do you think’s on there?”
“Who knows?” Beamer said. “I hope it’s a confession, because then we can just take it to the police.”
I sighed. “I’ve been thinking about that. You know, that tape wouldn’t be admissible in court. The police couldn’t use it.”
Beamer turned and stared at me. “Why not?”
“I saw it on Law and Order. We stole the tape, Beamer. We broke into her house and stole it. You have to have a search warra
nt to look for evidence in a person’s house.”
Beamer gave me a stricken look. “You mean we did all that for nothing? Practically got ourselves arrested?”
“No. Not for nothing. We found out a whole lot, and the tape is going to tell us more. I mean—the message she wants to give the world after her death? It has to be important.”
“Yeah, but if we can’t take it to the police, then we’re just exactly where we were when we started. We may know more, but we’re not any closer to stopping her. Plus, we can’t go back and talk to her again, because she’ll call the cops.”
“I know,” I said. “We need a different approach. And here’s what I was thinking in the bathtub: Let’s say you overheard DeeDee saying she had some evil plans—she was going to blow up the school or something. What would you do?”
“DeeDee blowing up the school? That’s pretty far-fetched.”
“Don’t worry about whether it’s realistic. Just tell me what you’d do.”
“I don’t know—call her parents, I guess.”
“Exactly. Tell her family. If we could find one of Ida’s relatives, then maybe they could stop her before things get really out of hand. And if the tape is as good as we think it’s going to be, we can use it to convince them we’re not making this up.”
“Franny, she may not have any family. Her dad is dead—we know that—and her mom probably is, too. I mean, Ida left her money to her dog, remember?”
“True. But that may not mean anything. Her mom might still be alive, only Ida didn’t put her in the will because she’s so much older. Or maybe Ida’s just crazy about animals. We’re talking about a pretty twisted person here.”
Beamer scraped up a handful of half-popped kernels from the bottom of the bowl. It sounded like he was cracking his teeth as he chewed them.
“Even so,” he said (crunch, crunch), “how would we find these relatives?”
“I’m getting to that—Irving Fine’s obituary! It’ll have the mother’s name and Ida’s brothers’ and sisters’, too, if she has any. Once we get the names, we can look them up on the web.”
“You want to spend the next two weeks in the library?”
“Well, actually, I was thinking we could try that website we found last spring. Remember? That one where you can spy on your neighbors?”
“That’s for people who are alive, Franny. Not people who died fifty years ago.”
“Are you sure? Don’t people use the Internet to look up their family trees and stuff? Great-uncle Henry who died out in California during the gold rush?”
“I think that’s something different. But if you really want, we could try.”
After about twenty minutes of fruitless surfing, we found a site called Superspy.com. It wasn’t the one we’d found before, but it had tons of options: a Regular Search for $12.95, a Supersearch (“Regularly $39.95! Right now, half price!”), and an Exhaustive Super-search for $47.95.
We scrolled down to see what else was offered. There was a Criminal Record Search, an Instant People Locator Search, an Instant First Name Search, an Instant Family Name Search, and—last but not least—for $12.95, a search called Instantly Determine if Someone Is Alive or Deceased.
“Wow,” Beamer said. “That might work. It’s bound to have the death date, if we can find him.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “But how are we going to pay for it? We need a credit card.”
Beamer thought for a minute. “I’ll ask my grandpa. I’ll promise to pay him back. He might not even ask what it’s for.”
“Go for it,” I said.
Beamer got up and went into the living room. About a minute later, he was back with a Visa card.
“What’d he say?” I asked.
“He looked me straight in the eye and said, ‘I trust you to use this carefully.’ Emphasis on the word trust.”
“What are they doing?”
“Still reading.”
He sat back down and clicked on the last option. A form came up on the screen.
In the space for a name, we typed, “Fine, Irving.”
“‘State of Death’—what does that mean? What state the body was in?” I asked. “Like ‘Decomposed’?”
“No, stupid, what state he died in, like ‘Pennsylvania.’”
“Oh,” I said. “Sorry. So should we put Pennsylvania, then?”
“Well, he died on his way back from Washington to Pennsylvania. He might have been in Maryland when the wreck happened.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Maybe we should put ‘All states’ to be on the safe side. How about ‘Approximate Date of Birth’?”
“Oh boy—let’s see. If he’d finished college and had a Ph.D. when he died, plus he’d worked at a job for a while, then he must have been in his late twenties at least. Maybe even thirty.”
“It says we can do it plus or minus five years. That ought to cover it. So let’s say he was twenty-eight. So subtract that from 1953. . . .”
I had to do it on paper, math whiz that I am. It came out that if he was twenty-eight when he died in 1953, he would have been born in 1925.
We entered Mr. Gordon’s credit card number and clicked on the send button. Then we sat there, staring at the screen, and waited. After about a minute, the results came up: “Fine, Irving, PA, 12/27/23—2/19/53.”
“Yes!” I said. “Now we can find the obituary. It’ll be easy! Let’s ask your grandma if we can get a ride into Philadelphia with her tomorrow so we can go to the library.”
“And what will our reason be?”
“I don’t know. To do some research.”
“In the middle of the summer?”
“Uh . . . no. I guess not.”
We both sat there thinking, not coming up with anything at all.
Mrs. Gordon stuck her head around the door.
“How are you two doing? You looked a little green around the gills when you got home.”
“We’re fine, Grandma,” Beamer said, handing her the credit card. “Could you give that to Grandpa? Tell him thanks. I’ll pay him back.”
“I wouldn’t worry about that, sweetie, unless you charged a Ferrari on it.”
“Hey, I didn’t think of that. Let me have it back!”
Mrs. Gordon grinned and started to shut the door.
“Oh—Grandma, wait,” Beamer said. “Could we go into Philly with you tomorrow?”
“Oh, sweetie, I really can’t get away from the office tomorrow, but if you want to see the sights, we could do it next week.”
“Well, that would be fun, too, but we want to go to the library. We can hang out there all day. There’s lots of stuff to do. You wouldn’t have to take off work.”
“What—avoiding Marshall, are we?”
Yes! The perfect excuse! I nodded vigorously.
“Well, of course, I’d love that,” she said. “But you need to be ready by eight-thirty. Do you have an alarm clock?”
“I do,” I said. “We’ll be ready.”
Mrs. Gordon had just shut the door, when the phone rang. We heard Mr. Gordon pick up in the kitchen.
“This is the Gordon residence,” he said.
There was a pause. “Harper’s Mill . . . Yes . . . Yes, that would be my grandson, Scott, I would imagine. . . . Yes, Franny, she’s our guest. . . . Of course. Just a minute.” Then, louder: “Scott! Telephone for you.”
Beamer picked up the extension. “Hello?” he said.
I had this weird feeling. When Beamer’s eyes went wide and his jaw dropped, I knew.
“How . . . how did you find us?” Beamer stammered. I leaned over and angled the receiver so I could hear, too. It was a woman’s voice. I heard the word redial.
Oh, man—of course! One glance at the office would have told her everything, beginning with the telephone still sitting on the floor. It was obvious we had used it. All she had to do was wait till we got home and then press the redial button. And Mr. Gordon had helpfully provided her with his name and the name of the town.
�
��I believe you have something that belongs to me,” Ida May said, her voice hard.
“Y . . . yes,” Beamer said softly.
“So tell me,” she went on, “just out of curiosity. What made you think you had the right to break into my house and go through my files and steal my belongings?”
“I’m sorry,” Beamer said. “It’s just . . .”
“Oh, skip it,” she said. “I don’t really want to know. I’d rather tell you what I’m going to do about it. Wouldn’t that be more interesting? See, first, I’m going to tell that very nice grandfather of yours what his sweet little grandson and his adorable little guest were up to this afternoon. I imagine that will disappoint him a great deal, don’t you? Then, of course, I will call the police.”
“Oh, please don’t.”
“Please don’t? Please don’t? Then perhaps you’d like to return my tape. Right now.”
“We can’t right now,” Beamer said, sounding desperate. “It’s nighttime. We don’t have any way to get there.”
“I don’t want to see you, you moron. I’ve seen quite enough of you already. What I want is the tape.”
“But how—”
“Listen to me. I want you to put that tape in an envelope. I want you to seal it. I want you to address it to me at One four oh seven Pleasant Hill Road. I want it postmarked before noon tomorrow. Is that clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Because if you don’t, you are going to be in more trouble than you can possibly imagine. Breaking and entering, burglary—that’s pretty serious stuff. And we’re really tough on crime these days, you know. You look old enough to be tried as adults. . . .”
“We’ll do it,” Beamer said. “I promise.”
“Good. Now one more thing. You have no more right to watch that tape than you had to take it. Got that?”
The Mysterious Matter of I. M. Fine Page 9