Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  I shrugged and looked down, toeing a line in the sidewalk with my high-top.

  “So who's this?” he asked, ruffling the fur behind Captain Patch's ears. And since he was looking at the dog, I stole a look at him. Flip-flops. Swim trunks. A thin towel hanging around his neck. Swimmer muscles.

  More swimmer muscles.

  And tan, tan everywhere.

  “Uh, his name's Captain Patch,” I said, but it came out all cracked and funny sounding, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “I walk him for Mrs. Willawago.”

  The second it was out of my mouth, I knew it was the lamest thing in the world to say. I mean, who in the world is Mrs. Willawago to a shiny-haired, almost-junior-in-high-school swim star, anyway? So real fast I point back toward the railroad tracks and sputter, “She lives on Hopper. Had foot surgery. Needs to take it easy…”

  He stops petting Captain Patch and asks, “On Hopper? In one of those old houses they're going to tear down for the rec center?”

  I blink at him. “How do you know about that?”

  “Coach Yabi's on the development committee. It sounds like it's going to be great.” Then he grins at me and says, “So, how's Heather?”

  Now, something about him jumping topics like that really bothered me. I mean, okay. There's a definite demolition quality to Heather, so maybe it wasn't actually that much of a mental leap, but the idea of tearing down someone's home didn't even seem to come into play. He was also acting like it was a done deed. Like even though they were still standing, in people's minds the houses on Hopper Street were already gone.

  But before my tongue could untie enough to say anything to him about Mrs. Willawago not wanting to sell her house, not for a million bucks, he said, “Or should I ask, how's her brother?”

  Mrs. Willawago vaporized from my mind. And if I was red before, I was purple now. I knew who he meant, too, but what came out of my mouth was, “Her brother?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I heard you were going out with him.”

  “Going out with him?” All of a sudden my tongue cut loose. “We're not going out! We're just friends! You know, people who know each other. And talk to each other. That's it! That's all. No hand holding, no kissing, no hanging out behind the gym.” I scowled and actually looked straight at him. “Who told you that, anyway?”

  Like I didn't already know—his blabbermouth cousin and my best friend, Marissa.

  He shrugged and shook his head a little. “It's not like it's a crime.”

  I reined in Captain Patch because he was sniffing Brandon's leg. “What is a crime is spreading rumors that aren't true. What is a crime is being someone's best friend and talking about them at family pool parties, or whatever. What is a crime is betraying someone's trust, and believe me, I trust Marissa not to spread rumors about who I'm going out with! Especially when I'm not!”

  “Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up. Casey's a cool guy and I was, you know, happy for you.”

  “Well, don't be!” I said, then leaned toward him and added, “He's Heather's brother,” like, You chow-der-head!

  Now, with the way I'd railed on him, I wouldn't have blamed him for just saying, Later! and walking his tan swimmer muscles back up the walkway and out of my life for good. But he didn't. Instead, he laughed and said, “You better come to the pool party on the Fourth! It won't be any fun without you!” Then he walked his tan swimmer muscles back up the walkway, calling, “See ya!”

  No fun without me? Yeah, I'd gone to their Fourth of July party the year before, and yeah, I'd put up a big fight against Brandon's team playing water hoops, but …no fun without me?

  I just stood there like an idiot. Of course. That's how I always act around Brandon McKenze. Well, unless I'm laying into him about who I'm not going out with. Then I go on and on about that like an idiot.

  Anyway, after he disappeared inside the pool complex, I let Captain Patch drag me along some more. Up McEllen we went to Cook, where he hung a right and powered past the fire station and police station. And since he was on the trail of something awfully sniffing good, he would have just charged into the traffic on Miller Street if I hadn't yanked him back. “Maniac mutt,” I grumbled, and pulled him south along Miller, past the courthouse and baseball fields, all the way to the lawyer's office on the corner of Miller and Hopper. Patch was still zigzagging all over the place, sniffing every stick and stone in sight, but then he caught whiff of the lawyer's sign. To humans it may read:

  LELAND HAWKING, ESQUIRE

  ATTORNEY-AT-LAW

  But to dogs? I think it must be like their society gossip page or something. No dog can seem to walk by without sniffing the daylights out of it and then adding his two cents, of course.

  I find the sign pretty entertaining myself. It's the esquire part that cracks me up. I mean, an esquire? In Santa Martina?

  Please.

  But Mrs. Willawago was right—he had put a lot of work into remodeling it into an office. It used to be one of the little houses on Hopper Street, but when they'd fixed it up and added rooms, they'd changed the entrance so it faced Miller Street instead.

  Anyway, I tugged Captain Patch away from the sign before he tried to throw his two cents in, then turned right onto Hopper and walked along the hedge that divides the office from what's left of the street.

  The hedge is only about waist height, so it's easy to see over. And it's not like I was spying over it or anything, but I did happen to look, so I did happen to see the blue car that was parked behind the office.

  I did a double take because in all the times I'd walked Captain Patch, I'd never seen a car parked back there. There were often cars parked out front, but not behind the house. And it's not like a car parked at a business is any big deal—Leland Hawking, Esquire had to have clients, right? But it was the way this car was sucked up against the house, hiding in the shadows of a big tree, that made me look again.

  And then I noticed the license plate: CNCLOWN.

  So okay. I'm a sucker for personalized plates. I always try to figure out what they mean, partly because it's a puzzle, and partly because lots of times they sum up a person for you, which saves you a lot of time trying to figure them out for yourself. I mean, if a person has a plate that is, say, BABMGNT, well, there you go. Might as well say BIGJERK. But if it reads HI-TOPZ, I'd probably shake my foot and give them a thumbs-up as they cruised by.

  Anyway, the car caught my eye, and my brain got busy trying to figure out the plate. And I'm going, Seen Clown? Seein' Clown? wondering why someone with a car that was trying a little too hard to say luxury would want to advertise anything about clowns. You know the kind of car I'm talking about—spoked hubcaps, hood ornament, velour seats…. People who drive cars like that just don't seem to fit with circus creatures like clowns.

  But then I realize that the O is a Q. It's really CNCLQWN. And that's when it hits me what the license plate says.

  I pull back on Captain Patch and stop.

  There's no way I can just go by — I've got snooping to do!

  FIVE

  CNCLQWN wasn't Seein' Clown at all. It was CNCL QWN.

  Council Queen.

  This was Coralee Lyon's car.

  Not that I knew anybody else on the city council, but from the two minutes I'd been exposed to her, I knew— ol' Blue Butt was the sort of person to crown herself queen, even if no one else wanted her to be.

  Just like Heather Acosta.

  I pulled Captain Patch in tight and snuck around the hedge, my mind zooming with questions: Was she really trying to hide her car? Or was she just after a little shade. Was she visiting a lawyer's office for legal reasons? Or was this another one of her courtesy visits. After all, it was the last house on Hopper Street, even if the entrance had been changed so it faced Miller.

  But why would you tuck your car way behind the house like that if you were just there to tell someone to start collecting packing boxes? And if she was there for legal services, why this lawyer? I mean, t
here was a whole barracks of lawyers over by the mall — why use one that had his office on land you were planning to take over?

  No, something about her car being parked that way smelled sneaky.

  Sneaky like stinky feet.

  So I kept Captain Patch close and made my way over to the car as inconspicuously as I could. There was a blue pillbox hat decorated with red and white feathers on the seat, and next to the hat was a pair of white gloves. A pill-box hat and gloves? Good grief. But I could just picture ol' Lyonhead wearing them. The whole package said patriotic like her car said luxury.

  Anyway, there wasn't much else inside— just a stack of clipboards and a map and a Diet Coke can in the cup holder. So I told Patch, “Shhh,” and led him over to a small open window at the side of the house.

  Now, looking inside someone's house — or office, even—is a little more dangerous than looking inside someone's car. Even if the house is small and you can see straight through the windows like you can with a car, it's not the same as looking in a car.

  Not even close.

  So my heart started doing a bit of ka-booming as I peeked inside the window. And it was supposed to be like a warm-up. You know, check out the kitchen, see no one, move up to the next window, see nothing, move up to the front-room window, see something. Kinda like they warm up big bells and gongs. First they give a little rumble, then they go for the big whack—it helps prevent cracking or exploding parts.

  Trouble is, looking in the small window was like going straight for the big whack. Coralee Lyon was standing right there. I'm talking right there. If there hadn't been a screen in the window, I could have reached right in and pinched her patriotic butt.

  I jerked back and held my breath, trying to contain my exploding heart. Then I heard the faint clink of a spoon and Coralee laughing. “Oh, Leland, you worry too much. She can't stop it. You know that!”

  “But what about the Stones? I thought you said they'd jump at the chance.”

  “Well, yes, they are the one surprise in all of this. But don't you see? This is good for us!”

  “But if they fight too hard, aren't you worried how it'll reflect on you?”

  “On me? Oh, darlin', you're not worried about me. But have faith, would you? Everything will be fine. But be more forceful. You've been much too reserved!”

  What I was hearing didn't seem to make any sense at all. It seemed like the opposite of what she should be saying.

  I inched an eye back over the windowsill. Leland Hawking was jetting around the small kitchen, moving things in and out of the refrigerator, pouring coffee, wiping up a spill…. He sure didn't look like a lawyer, at least none of the ones I'd seen going in and out of the courthouse. I mean, lawyers always look pressed. Like they've got some secret lawyer facility where they can go right before court to get sharp lines steamed into their slacks and shirtsleeves. This guy's clothes were rumpled. Not quite like he'd been sleeping in them, but close. And they were tan.

  Real lawyers never wear tan.

  Coralee checked her watch and put down her coffee cup. “I'd better go, darlin'. Lots to do before tonight.”

  I hurried off the property and hid behind the vine-covered fence that divides Leland Hawking, Esquire's office from the little square stucco house next door. The vines were really dense, so I crept along between the fence and a graveyard of old washer and dryer parts that were stored alongside the stucco house's driveway. And when I finally found a place to peek through the fence, there was Coralee, sneaking out the back door.

  I watched her scurry to her car and check over her shoulder as she unlocked the door. But just as she's pulling up on the door handle, Captain Patch lets out a ferocious growl, straining to my right against the leash. Coralee's head snaps toward the fence, mine snaps toward Captain Patch, and Patch is snapping at a man with biker written all over him—long scraggly hair, long scraggly beard, tattoos, and a gut the size of Milwaukee. “Hey!” he shouts at me. “Whatcha doin' back there?” But before I can come up with an answer, he says, “Oh, Patch! Hey, dude, mellow out,” and produces a dog biscuit from the pocket of his faded black sweatpants.

  In an instant, Captain Patch turns from guard dog to glutton. And while he inhales the biscuit, Coralee's car zooms away and the biker dude says, “He had to take a dump, huh?” He gives me a bushy grin. “Don't sweat it. Dogs are like that. When they gotta go, they gotta go. Just kick some dirt on it, would ya?”

  So I turn around and kick some dirt on a pretend doo-doo while he gives Captain Patch another biscuit and says, “Sorry if I scared ya, boy. I thought you was some poachers messin' with my stuff.”

  I almost choked out, Poachers? I mean, that'd be like calling gulls at the landfill thieves. But whatever. I just smiled at him and said, “Thanks for not being mad.”

  “Like I said, don't sweat it.” Then he adds, “So, uh … you're friends with Annie, huh?”

  Now, I could tell there was a reason he was asking me this and that he had more questions lining up in his head, depending on what my answer turned out to be. But before I could figure out what to say, a beer-bellied woman with long scraggly hair and tattoos comes out the front door, calling, “Andy? Your loser son's on the phone. You want me to tell him to go to hell?” Then she notices me and says, “Who the hell are you?”

  Andy gives me a sheepish look. “Sorry 'bout that. My old lady gets kinda possessive.” Then he calls over, “She's walking Patch. He had to take a dump.”

  “Ah,” she says, like, Well, okay then. “So are you hanging up on PeeWee, or am I?” she says to Andy.

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “I'll do it.”

  So I left Andy the Appliance Guy and his Old Lady and hurried back to Mrs. Willawago's. And after I let Captain Patch loose in the backyard, I went inside through the French door, saying, “Guess what!”

  Mrs. Stone was still there, and she and Mrs. Willawago both turned to look at me but didn't say, What?

  Did that stop me?

  No way!

  I blurted out, “That lawyer on the corner is in cahoots with Coralee Lyon!”

  Mrs. Willawago blinked at me. “In cahoots? What are you talking about?”

  “They had a secret meeting! I spotted Coralee's car parked behind the house, and when I peeked in the window, there they were, having a little chitchat about how nobody will be able to stop these properties from being taken over and how you guys fighting them is a good thing.”

  They both squinted at me. “What?”

  “I know. It doesn't really make any sense to me, either, but for some reason Coralee wants him to be more—what did she say? Oh yeah, forceful. She told him to be more forceful tonight.” I cocked my head a little. “What's tonight, anyway? Is there a hearing or a meeting or something?”

  “Wait a minute,” Mrs. Stone said. “You're talking about Leland Hawking? The lawyer on the corner?”

  I nodded. “That's right.”

  She looked at Mrs. Willawago. “I thought you said he was against the project.”

  “That's what he told me!”

  “When?” I asked.

  “A month ago! Right before my surgery, when they sent around that appraiser! He told me not to worry— that he was a lawyer and knew just what to do.” Mrs. Willawago shook her head. “Surely you're mistaken. Surely you misunderstood.”

  “I don't think so.” So I told them the whole thing, right from the personalized license plate straight through seeing Coralee sneak out the back door. And when I was all done, Mrs. Willawago's eyes were wide, but Mrs. Stone's were hard and narrow. “You went right up and looked in the window?” she asked.

  I shrugged and kind of pulled a face, and Mrs. Willawago came to my defense, saying, “She saw how upset Coralee had made me….” She turned to me and smiled. “I think it was very brave of you, and you're a saint for trying to help.” Her face sort of fluttered as she added, “But maybe the bits and pieces you overheard weren't meant to be put together the way you've put them together? Maybe Coralee
was really there for the same reason she was here?”

  “I know what I heard, and it wasn't bits and pieces.”

  “Well, it certainly is odd …”

  Now, inside I'm getting sorta steamed because I can tell she still doesn't believe I heard what I heard. And why doesn't she believe me?

  Because I'm a kid.

  Then all of a sudden she says, “Oh! Your grandmother called while you were walking the Captain—she wants you to go see her as soon as possible.”

  Grams had called? In the three weeks I'd been walking Captain Patch, this was a first. But before I could ask, Was anything wrong? a wave of acid flooded my stomach.

  Of course something was wrong!

  I'd killed a bird.

  Cut school.

  Forged a note.

  There was no doubt about it—Grams knew.

  Grams and I have a deal. I don't lie to her, she trusts me. But on my way home from Mrs. Willawago's the little voice in my ear was back, telling me that this deal I had with her was just not fair. Why should you tell her the truth about everything when she keeps secrets from you? Important secrets. Like who your dad is…

  Yeah, I told myself, good point! And by the time I was sneaking up the fire escape of the Senior Highrise, I'd convinced myself to do what Grams and Mom always do—plead the Fifth. Change the subject. Fake an illness.

  Lie.

  Why should I tell her that I'd killed a lovebird. Hid in a closet. Ditched class. Forged her signature.

  Well, she obviously already knew about the forged signature part, but the rest of it concerned her a lot less than who my father was concerned me, right?

  So I braced myself as I tiptoed into the apartment. I'd find some way around the truth. I didn't exactly know how, I'd just have to wing it.

  “Grams?” I whispered. “I'm home.”

  “In here, sweetheart!” she called from her bedroom.

  Sweetheart? Was this a new tactic? Or did she really not know?

  I went into her bedroom and found her clipping her toenails. “Hey,” I said, trying to act casual as I sat on the edge of her bed.