Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway

by Wendelin Van Draanen

  “I don't know.” I turned my back on Grams' door and whispered, “I only said that because I was feeling trapped.”

  “But why cement?”

  “Well, Captain Patch keeps digging a hole in the same spot, and Mrs. Willawago can't fix it herself, and—oh, Hudson! Somebody threw a rock through her French door! It said ‘sell or suffer!’ Actually, it said sell or sufer, but the point is, it was a threat. Her neighbor got one, too. And get this—there was a reporter from the Santa Martina Times at her house when it happened. He saw the whole thing and said he might be able to get their story on the front page!”

  “Say! That might really help them in the court of public opinion….” Then he said, “Did you tell Annie your theory about Coralee Lyon owning part of Hopper Street?”

  “I didn't have a chance. First the rock came crashing through the house, then the police were on their way, so I just got out of there.”

  “Hmmm,” he said, then seemed to decide. “Why don't I come pick you up. We'll go to the hardware store and get some cement, then pay Mrs. Willawago a visit. If the police are still there, we'll work on plugging Captain Patch's hole, and when they leave, we'll tell Annie about your theory and what we've unearthed so far. I think we should wait to hear from my friend before we make any official accusations, though, okay?”

  “Sure!”

  “Okay, then. Go downstairs, I'll be right over.”

  So I got off the phone and headed for Grams' bedroom to tell her I was sorry about our spat, but before my knuckles hit the wood of her door, I stopped. Grams wouldn't let me just apologize. I'd have to explain. And just thinking about what it was going to take to patch things up with her exhausted me. And how could I do it in the few minutes I had before Hudson showed up?

  Then the little voice was back, whispering in my ear, Forget it. Just go. You can deal with her later, and this time I listened—I called, “I'm taking off to pour cement. Bye.” And before she could say anything back, I hurried out of the apartment and down the fire escape.

  But the truth is, I felt sick inside. The lies. The spats. The deceit. As much as I tried to ignore it, the dark spot on my heart was growing.

  Spreading.

  Rotting.

  And the awful thing is, I didn't know how to stop it.

  NINE

  It didn't take us long to stop at the hardware store, toss a couple of sacks of cement in Hudson's trunk, and haul them over to the Train House. And since the police and the reporter were gone, we wrestled them right up to the base of the cowcatcher.

  “EZ-CRETE? Is that cement?” Mrs. Willawago asked when she saw the sacks. She reached out, held my cheeks, and said, “Oh, you angel!”

  I hate to admit this, but it felt really good that she'd called me that. It also went a long way to making me forget that she hadn't believed me before.

  She turned to Hudson and said, “And Hudson! How nice of you to help out. You have no idea what a lift this is. It has been such a rough day!”

  “Sammy told me about the broken window and the problems you're having with your property being seized.” Patch was at the door now, and Hudson gave him a ruffle behind the ears. “This fella digging holes is probably the least of your worries.”

  “But it is a problem. My neighbor came over and filled in the hole, but Captain Patch dug it out again.” She rolled her eyes a little. “At this point he thinks it's a game, so I'm having to keep him inside.” She opened the door wide. “Come in, come in! Can I offer you some refreshments before you get started?”

  We both went inside, and Hudson said, “That's not necessary. But there is something Sammy and I would like to share with you.”

  “Oh?”

  So Hudson started laying out our theory, and when he got to the part about Coralee possibly owning some of the property on Hopper Street, Mrs. Willawago's jaw dropped. “That would be just like Coralee!” Then she looked at me and said, “Oh, Samantha …I am mortified that I doubted you. Please, please forgive me!”

  So much for being miffed at Mrs. Willawago.

  “What do we do now?” she asked Hudson. “How can we find out?”

  So Hudson explained that his friend was checking into the Earl Clooney Management connection and that he hoped to learn more soon.

  “Is it possible to get the information by Monday night?” Mrs. Willawago asked. “That's when the city council's reconvening.”

  “That doesn't give us much time, but we'll do our best.” Hudson pointed to the French door. The glass was all cleaned up, and there was a thick piece of white plastic taped onto the door frame. “That's where the rock came through?”

  She nodded. “Someone from the glass shop will be out tomorrow—it was too late for them to do anything about it today.”

  Now, I could tell that even though Hudson was trying to keep his mind on rocks and conspirators and eminent domain, being in the middle of a house full of cool train stuff was distracting him. So I said, “Hey, Mrs. Willawago, I'm gonna go outside and do the cement—would it be all right if Hudson saw your parlor car? And the caboose? He would love that.”

  “You're going to do the cement?” she asked.

  I laughed. “Piece of cake.” Then I added, “Believe me, I have experience.”

  But Hudson said, “No, no, I'm going to help with that.”

  “Hudson …,” I warned, “I'm not a little kid. Take the tour.”

  One look at my face and he knew better than to argue.

  Then I added, “You won't believe the parlor car—it's amazing.”

  Hudson turned to Mrs. Willawago. “Is it really an old Pullman?”

  “Well, half of one,” she said, leading him toward it. “But the interior is all authentically restored, and you'll see the luxury in which passengers on the Union Pacific line traveled.”

  So off they went to the parlor car, and off I went to haul around cement. And yeah, the sacks were heavy and dusty and hard to manage, but I waddled them into the backyard through the side gate and flopped them next to Captain Patch's lovely hole. And to tell you the truth, it felt good. Physical labor always seems to help me feel better when I'm mad or upset or just plain worried. And in this case it was doing wonders to edge out the dark-hearted feeling I had inside.

  I didn't need much in the way of tools. A shovel, some water… that was it. And since there was a shovel standing in the Stones' compost heap, I reached right over the fence and snagged it.

  First, I shoveled dirt back in the hole, which wasn't as easy as you might think because Patch didn't leave me a big heap of dirt—he sprayed it everywhere. But when I'd scraped together as much of it as I could, I ripped open the EZ-CRETE bags and dumped the powder in a trough I'd made along the fence line.

  Ta-da!

  All I needed was water.

  Trouble is, I couldn't find a hose. Anywhere. I looked in the front yard, the backyard, the garage … no hose. But when I peeked over the fence into the Stones' backyard, I spotted a nice long one near their sliding glass door, easily long enough to reach over the fence.

  And since I didn't want to interrupt Mrs. Willawago and Hudson and have them think I needed help when all I needed was a hose, I went out the side gate and around to the Stones' front door and knocked.

  Nobody answered.

  I rang the bell a bunch and knocked some more.

  Still nobody answered.

  Finally, I decided to go into the backyard through their side gate and just use the hose I'd seen. Like they would care, right? I mean, after all, I was doing them a favor, too.

  But the gate was locked. So I looked around a minute, then decided what-the-heck and climbed the fence.

  No big deal.

  I walked along the house to the backyard, turned left, and headed for the spigot. But when I got near the back porch, I stopped short. Mr. Stone was sitting in a chair, getting ready to put on his boots.

  Now, maybe I should have just snuck out of there and rung the bell some more, but I was standing right there. I'm
talking close enough to see the trucker symbol on his hat and the filthy toes of his socks. His socks looked like vanilla ice pops where just the tops had been dipped in chocolate.

  So leaving without being spotted seemed almost impossible, and besides, if he saw me jetting out of there, it would look like I was guilty of something, and really, all I wanted to “steal” was a little water.

  So I said, “Uh, Mr. Stone?”

  He looked up and froze.

  “Sorry, but I rang the bell a bunch and knocked and everything. I just need to borrow your hose.” I pointed to the fence. “I'm putting cement in the hole Captain Patch dug. Your wife was pretty upset about him maybe digging under and getting to your garden.”

  “Get out of my yard!” he says, his voice honking through his moustache like an angry goose.

  “But … I'm just trying to help…!”

  Does he care?

  No!

  He grabs a hoe that's leaning against the porch and comes chasing after me in his dirty-toed socks, honking, “Get out!”

  So I take off like Peter Rabbit escaping Farmer McGregor, only instead of squeezing under the gate, I scramble over it. And when I'm safely on the other side, I cut over to Mrs. Willawago's house quick. Mr. Stone, though, doesn't even bother to come out the gate.

  So great. All that for a little water, which I still don't have. And I was just deciding to break down and ask Mrs. Willawago where she hid her hoses when what do I hear?

  Whistling.

  So I look up Hopper, and there's a mailman weaving through Appliance Andy's graveyard of washers as he flips through a stack of mail. He's wearing shorts and a safari hat, and his hair is long and blond, pulled back in a ponytail. “Here you go. Sorry it's late!” he says, cutting toward me and handing me a small bundle of mail. “It's my first day on this route!”

  So now I've got no hose, two magazines, and four letters. This is really helping get the job done. But whatever. I head inside to unload the mail, only then I notice that one of the letters is addressed to Marty Stone. It's not junk mail, either. It's a check.

  A government check.

  Which I recognize because it looks a lot like the social security checks that Grams gets.

  Only Marty wasn't old enough to be getting social security. So I'm thinking, What is this? Welfare?

  And yeah, I got snoopy. I didn't open it or anything—I know that's some big federal offense. But I did sort of tap it around and peek in the address window and hold it up to the light.

  Maybe just a little federal offense.

  Anyway, what I discovered was that Marty Stone got paid a lot of money for his “long-term disability.”

  Yeah, right. Like his bad back had stopped him from chasing me with a hoe?

  Whatever. There was no way I was going back to the Stones', even if it was to deliver money. I'd leave that to Mrs. Willawago. Instead, I went inside the Train House, put the mail on the kitchen table, and said, “Hello?” a couple of times. Nobody seemed to be around, and since I didn't want to go traipsing through the house looking for them, I went out to the backyard to make one last search for a hose.

  But the second I'm out back, a voice calls, “Hey, there.”

  I turn, and there's Mrs. Stone, looking over the fence near Captain Patch's hole.

  “Hey, there,” she says again. “I hear Marty ran you off with a hoe!”

  I move toward the fence.

  “I'm so sorry! He didn't know who you were.”

  “But I told him what I was doing. And he's seen me before!”

  She lowers her voice as I get closer. “Ya spooked him. But here,” she says, then holds up the spray-nozzle end of a hose. “Is this what you were after?”

  “Yes!” I laugh. “I've never had so much trouble finding a hose.”

  So I pull on the hose until I've got enough slack, but when Mrs. Stone sees that I've already emptied the cement bags into the hole, she says, “You can't just dump cement and water together like that! You need a wheel-barrow and a hoe and some sand!”

  I smile at her and turn the sprayer on the cement. “Not when you use EZ-CRETE.”

  “EZ-CRETE?”

  Cement dusts into the air as the spray hits it. “Designed to just add water.” I let the water puddle for a while, then I shut off the sprayer and say, “Hey, would you mind doing this while I mix it in? The directions say it works better if you stir a little.”

  She takes the hose and says, “How's a girl your age know so much about cement?”

  I laugh and start jabbing at the wet layer of EZ-CRETE with the shovel, driving the water in deeper. “You don't want to know.”

  She laughs. “Oh, now I really do!”

  “Go ahead and spray some more,” I tell her. And while she moves the water across the cement, I say, “I learned about EZ-CRETE when I was trapped in a basement on the West Side—some gang guy tried to kill my friend and me, so we knocked him out and cemented his tush to a wheelbarrow before escaping.”

  She stares at me a second while the water gushes out. “I'd accuse you of jokin', but I don't think you are.”

  “Nope.” I nod at the sprayer. “That's enough, thanks.”

  So she cuts the water and kids me with, “Remind me not to mess with you!”

  I laugh. “I'm just hoping this'll stop Captain Patch from messing with you.” I jab at the cement until all the water's seeped in, then take a step back and rest on the shovel handle. “I sure hope he doesn't move down and start another hole.”

  “Well, if he does, I guess I know how to fix it, huh?” She sticks out her hand and says, “Your name's Sammy, right?”

  I shake her hand and say, “And you're Mrs. Stone.” She smiles. “Teri.” But all of a sudden the smile vanishes from her face and she shouts, “Hey! Mind your own business!” across Mrs. Willawago's yard.

  I whip around but don't see a thing.

  “Hey!” she shouts again. “You think I don't know you're there? Quit slinkin' around!”

  Andy the Appliance Guy's head pops over the far fence. “Who you talkin' to?”

  “You! This is the third time I've seen you nosin' around!”

  “Nosin' around? I'm in my own backyard, trying to find some parts!”

  “You think I'm stupid?” She shoots a finger his direction. “I'll bet you're the one who threw the rocks!”

  He squints at her. “Well, at least now I know why them cops asked me all them nosy questions. Thanks a lot, neighbor. I'll be sure to return the favor!” Then he heads back for his house.

  “Good-for-nothin' bum,” Mrs. Stone grumbles.

  “Do you really think he threw the rocks?”

  She gives a little shrug, a scowl, and a shake of the head. “Marty told me that bum's already gone and spent the money he thinks he's gonna get for that place. He inherited it and all the junk that went with it from his daddy. Claimed he was gonna fix it up and sell it, but all he's done for the past year is watch TV.”

  Now, just as I'm thinking that she seems to know a lot about Appliance Andy, Hudson and Mrs. Willawago come outside through the back door of the caboose. “How are you doing?” Hudson calls across the yard.

  “Just about done!” I hurry to finish the job by scraping together some dirt and covering the cement with it.

  “That was quick!” Mrs. Willawago says, and Mrs. Stone nods and tells her, “This girl could make a fortune sellin' people on this cement—I'd never even heard of it.”

  I spear the shovel over the fence, jabbing it hard into the compost heap. “EZ-CRETE, fast and neat!” Then I pick up the empty cement bags and say, “It should be set up in no time.”

  “Here,” Mrs. Stone says, reaching out for the bags. “I'll throw those away for you.”

  I hand them over, telling her thanks, but just as Mrs. Stone's turning to leave, Mrs. Willawago stops her with, “Oh, Teri, this is Hudson Graham. He and Sammy have an interesting theory that would explain what Sammy overheard yesterday.”

  Mrs. Stone turns back
. “What's that?”

  So Mrs. Willawago explains about Coralee Lyon maybe owning some property on Hopper Street. And the more she explains the theory, the wider Mrs. Stone's eyes crank and the farther her jaw drops. Finally, she cries, “This is wonderful!”

  “It's a theory at this point,” Mrs. Willawago hurries to say, “but the good Lord willing, we'll have proof before the council meeting on Monday.”

  “But if it is true … why, that's crooked as all get-out, isn't it? That's called a …” She snaps her fingers a bunch of times, and Hudson comes to her rescue, saying, “A conflict of interest?”

  “Yeah!” she says, doing a combination snap-point at Hudson. “That's exactly what it is! And when word gets out about that, there's no way they're plowing my house down!”

  “But, Teri,” Mrs. Willawago says, “we have to keep this under our hats until we have proof.” Then she adds, “No sense charging Hell with only a bucket of water.”

  “Got it!” Mrs. Stone says, putting a finger to her mouth. “Got it, got it!” But all of a sudden her face clouds over. “Now what?” she grumbles, looking toward Mrs. Willawago's back fence.

  Hudson, Mrs. Willawago, and I look, too, but we don't see a doggone thing.

  But Mrs. Stone is already hurrying around her compost heap, shouting, “Hey! Put your hands up!”

  Put your hands up? Like she's got what for a weapon?

  Empty cement bags?

  But, very slowly, hands come up over the back fence.

  Then arms.

  Then a face.

  And when I see who it is, well, my jaw drops, my eyes pop, and I hate to admit it, but I about choke on a gasp of surprise.

  TEN

  “See if she has any rocks!” Mrs. Stone shouts across to us.

  That snaps me out of it. “She's not the one who threw rocks!” I run over to the back fence. “Marissa, what are you doing here?”

  Marissa crosses her arms and gives me a really hard look. “Trying to figure out what was sooo important that would make you hang up on me.”

  “Marissa, I'm sorry, I—”

  “So I track you down and find out that what's sooo important is some little hole and a bunch of old people.”