Until today.
I was walking back from Rose’s, after helping her with some last-minute packing, and found myself stopping at the halfway point between our houses. I don’t know why my eyes were drawn to the green ivy or the brick chimney or the old shingled roof. Or the tall trees leaning dangerously over that roof. Or the bushes, the flowers, and all those plants. But they were.
And the pieces suddenly came together.
Back at my house, I call both of my friends. I ask them to meet me halfway between my house and Rose’s. But before I leave, I open the box and retrieve two items. I slip the mood ring in my front pocket and the black-and-white photo into my back one.
Less than half an hour later, we’re standing on the street in front of Mrs. Hale’s house.
“Okay, I know I promised but don’t be mad.” I’m looking at Rose, not Ally as I pull the black-and-white photo out of my back pocket.
“I thought we weren’t doing this anymore,” Ally says.
“You did promise,” says Rose.
“I know. I know I did. But hear me out. Please.”
It takes a second but Rose says, “Okay.”
“I wasn’t looking. I swear. I put the box away. I was even going to bury it again after … you know. But…” I hold out the photo and place it in Rose’s reluctant hand. “But look.” I point to Mrs. Hale’s house. To the eight windows and the three trees and the chimney in exactly the right place. “Why didn’t I see it before?”
“Cuz that yard’s like a bird’s nest and that ivy might as well be digesting the house,” Ally says. And I feel a bit better because she’s right. It’s hard to believe the house in the photo could actually be this house in real life.
As we look back and forth from the photo to the house, nobody says anything until Rose sighs. “Yeah, I guess this is it.”
I want to pump my fist I’m so happy, but I choose to suppress it. Instead I look at Rose and Ally sincerely and say, “We don’t have to go in. It can be enough just to know we found it.” I’m lying of course. But in a way I’m not.
Ally’s eyes turn toward the house while Rose’s baby blues plant themselves on me. “I can’t believe I’m going to say this. But come on. Let’s go solve this thing.”
* * *
I ring the doorbell while my friends stand behind me on Mrs. Hale’s front porch.
When the door creaks open and Mrs. Hale appears, she asks, “Yes?”
“Hi, Mrs. Hale,” I say. “We were wondering if we could come in for a minute?” We came up with a plan between the street and Mrs. Hale’s front porch. Once we get inside, Rose and Ally will distract Mrs. Hale while I sneak upstairs to find the room with the squeaky floorboard. Yeah, I’m going to do that.
“What? Wait. Hold on a minute. Come in. Come in.” Mrs. Hale disappears and slowly, I push the front door open and step inside.
It’s not what I expected.
Unlike the outside of the house that’s in a general state of overgrown disarray, the inside is orderly and quite beautiful. Stepping onto the polished hardwood floor, we gaze at the ornate entryway, the old paintings, the Chinese vases, and the curio cabinet containing delicate figurines.
Mrs. Hale reappears from around the staircase, her hands to her ears. “Now I can hear you,” she says brightly. “I’m so bad about wearing these things.” And I realize she just put her hearing aids in. She smiles at us. “Please come sit down. To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit?”
As she leads us into her living room, with the elegant rug and the wall-to-ceiling bookshelves, I realize something else, too. She doesn’t answer me when I speak to her not because she’s mean or a racist. She doesn’t answer me because she’s practically deaf.
We line up on her sofa like three little peas and Mrs. Hale sits across from us in a regal red chair. “Birdie, I know.” Shocker, she knows my name. “And Rose.” Then she looks at Ally. “What’s your name, dear?”
“I’m Ally,” Ally says happily. If she had a tail, it would be wagging.
“Where are my manners? Would you like something to drink?” she asks.
“No—” I start to say before Rose cuts in. “That would be lovely, Mrs. Hale.”
“Wonderful. I was just going to make some tea,” Mrs. Hale says and shows off what is actually a very nice old lady smile. “I hear you’re moving back to London soon, Rose.”
“In two days.”
“Oh, so soon! I’m sure we’ll all be sad to see you go. Especially your friends here. The three of you seem to be thick as thieves.” The hint of a far-off look makes me think she’s remembering her thick-as-thieves friends from long ago. “You’ll be drinking lots of tea over there,” she says. “In England. The English people drink an extremely large amount of tea, you know.” She stands. “Be right back.”
As she leaves the living room, we huddle together and start whispering.
“She’s really nice,” Ally says.
“Really nice,” Rose says. “How come we didn’t know that?”
“So that’s great. She’s nice.” And truly, under other circumstances, I would have taken the time to marvel over this unexpected development. But I’ve got a mystery to solve. “When she comes back with the tea, I’m going to make my move. All you have to do is distract her.”
“Would you girls like some cookies?” Mrs. Hale calls from the kitchen.
“Yes, please,” Ally yells back, then leans in and whispers, “I’m not so sure this is a good idea after all.”
“It was never a good idea, Al,” says Rose. “Nothing about that has changed. But we’re here.”
Mrs. Hale walks back into the living room and places a tray carrying old-fashioned tea cups, a small pitcher of milk, a bowl of sugar cubes, and a plate of cookies on the coffee table in front of us.
“Tea won’t take long,” she says and leaves us again.
Ally grabs a sugar cube and pops it in her mouth. “Why don’t we just ask her about clue box girl—”
“Girl Detective,” I correct her. And for the first time since finding the house, I start to wonder how Mrs. Hale and Girl Detective might be connected.
“Whatever,” Ally garbles. “Let’s just ask her.”
“What if she’s dead,” I whisper because we really don’t know that part yet. “She still might be dead.”
“Ruthie’s not dead,” Rose whispers back. “Girl Detective’s not dead.”
“Either way, we’ll show our hand,” I say.
“Our hand of what,” Rose says and rolls her eyes.
“Tea!” Mrs. Hale sails back in holding a teapot. She fills our cups and we awkwardly lift cups and saucers from the tray. Ally rests hers on the coffee table and scoops out six sugar cubes with her fingers (and the tongs are right there!) and plops them into her cup.
“You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Hale,” Rose says.
“Why, thank you, Rose. It’s full of years and years of stuff. A lifetime’s worth.” Mrs. Hale pours her own cup of tea and sits back down in the chair. “One day you girls will have a lifetime of stuff. But always remember, stuff is nice but it’s not what’s really important.”
“No, it’s not,” Ally says. And I know she’s thinking about her dad.
I clear my throat. “May I use the restroom, Mrs. Hale?”
“Yes, of course, Birdie.” She points toward the entryway. “It’s just on the other side of the stairs.”
I can see the stairs from here. So can Mrs. Hale if she looks in that direction.
Rose pinches the back of my arm and I shoot her a look. Carefully, I place my cup and saucer on the coffee table and get up from the sofa.
“I bet the neighborhood has changed a lot since you’ve been here,” Rose says lightly, calling Mrs. Hale’s full attention her way. As Mrs. Hale answers, I walk toward the bathroom, peek over my shoulder, then tiptoe onto the stairs. The third step creaks but I keep going, hoping that even with her hearing aids, Mrs. Hale is hearing challenged. I don’t breathe until I’ve m
ade it to the top.
Reaching into my pocket, I pull out the mood ring and slip it on my finger. Somehow it connects me to Girl Detective. If she’s with me, even in spirit, maybe I won’t get caught.
The stairway leads to an upstairs hallway. I look down at my sneakered feet, beg them to tread lightly and start walking. The door to the first room on the right is open. It looks like a guest room, beautifully decorated like the rest of the place. It occurs to me that this is a very grown-up house. Maybe a kid has never lived here. And suddenly, I’m filled with panic. What if I’ve got it all wrong? What if this isn’t Girl Detective’s house at all?
I can hear Rose’s reassuring voice in the background, deep in conversation with Mrs. Hale, while I picture Ally eating cookie after cookie and nodding her head.
As I approach the second door on the right, the words of the last clue echo in my brain:
Upstairs. Second on right,
Creaky floorboard by the bookshelf.
The door is closed. It feels weird, kind of wrong, to open a closed door in a strange house. As my hand wraps around the knob, I hear Mrs. Hale’s voice from below. “I think I have a photograph of that upstairs,” she says, and I can hear her walking toward the stairs.
“No! That’s okay,” Rose calls out. “You don’t need to go upstairs for that!” Her voice rises on the word upstairs in warning.
“No trouble at all,” Mrs. Hale says, and I hear her footsteps begin climbing the wooden stairs.
I can almost see the top of her head when I turn the doorknob to the second door on the right and fling myself inside. Quietly, I close the door behind me and lean against it, my heart pounding like a jackhammer.
The clicking sound of Mrs. Hale’s shoes approaches and my whole body clenches. What if she finds me?! I close my eyes and listen as she passes by the door. After a moment, the clicking stops and everything goes silent. I dare not move. Then the clicking returns and it stops right outside my door. “Now where is that?” I hear her ask herself quietly. My eyes are glued to the doorknob. For any sign of it turning. She’s on the other side of the door, just standing there. I can almost hear her breathing.
“Oh, I know,” she says again, and the clicks continue. Soon she calls out, “Found it!” and the clicking heels head back downstairs again.
I exhale and lean back on the door like I might die. Finally, I open my eyes.
And discover that a girl lived here after all.
There’s a twin bed with a pink-and-blue flowered bedspread and stuffed animals piled up against a pillow. There’s a small desk with lots of different colored pens in a large pencil holder. And shelves and shelves of books.
Tiptoeing around the bed, I momentarily lose myself in all those books. Most I recognize from later editions but some I do not. They’re carefully organized, alphabetically. Just like I do it. I see James and the Giant Peach, then scan further down to find A Wrinkle in Time.
This was Girl Detective’s bedroom. I know that now. I examine the floorboards between the bed and a bookshelf, and gently press down on one with my sneaker. No squeak on the first one. No squeak on the second one. Then, squeak. Kneeling down, I touch the third floorboard with my hand. It squeaks again but I can’t pull it up.
Hurrying to the desk, I find a letter opener among the bunch of pens. It feels like a dagger in my hand as I carry it back to the squeaky floorboard. Slipping the letter opener between the planks, I try to pry it open, but the floorboard doesn’t shift. I move to the other side, slip it in just right, push in and pull up at the same time and …
There. It lifts open. I remove the piece of flooring as quietly as I can and uncover a small compartment underneath containing only one thing.
A small yellowed envelope.
I set the board gently on the floor beside me and reach inside. The envelope feels like a sacred artifact in my hand. I should put it in my pocket and make for the door, because no one could be in a restroom for this long. But I don’t. I feel like I’m supposed to open it here. Open it now. And after all, I have a letter opener in my hand.
I slip the dagger beneath the fold of the envelope and run it through, creating a slit, exposing the letter inside. My fingers reach in and pull out a folded white letter. The mood ring on my finger has gone purple, and the way I feel now, purple must mean happiness because I’m here. I’ve found what I’ve been looking for. I’ve reached the end of the line. I can feel it.
This is where Girl Detective has been leading me all along. I unfold the note and press it out flat on the floor. This is what it says:
Dear Detective Paulson,
Congratulations. You did it!
You are smarter than you look!
By now you must know that Martin Smith killed Ruthie Delgado.
I know this because I saw him stalking her on more than one occasion.
When she disappeared,
When she never showed up at the Allman Brothers concert,
I knew what happened.
Why didn’t you?
I am dead now. Martin Smith killed me, too.
Because I went looking. I went asking.
Why doesn’t anyone ever believe a twelve-year-old girl?
I hope you feel just a little guilty now.
And I hope you had to work extra hard to find this final clue.
Otherwise, I’m a better detective than you are.
Would you please hightail it over to Smith and Sons and arrest Martin Smith?
I’ll be watching.
Yours Truly,
A Certain Dead Girl
“Excuse me,” a voice says, and I turn toward the door, the clue and the daggerlike letter opener in my hand. A woman is standing in the doorway with an odd expression on her face. Her curly red hair is pulled back and her blue eyes are searing a hole through me. And I realize I’m looking at a certain dead girl.
I should be scared. I should want to run. But I don’t. I just stare at her as the words slowly form in my brain:
Hello, Girl Detective.
37
IT’S THE weirdest moment of my life. I’m looking at a grown woman who’s been a girl—and probably a dead one—in my head all summer.
Also, she’s caught me red-handed. There’s no doubt about that. But she doesn’t make a move to call the police. She just looks at me and I can tell words are slowly forming in her brain, too.
I hold up my hands, surrendering, like in an old western movie. My right hand clenching the clue, my left hand wrapped around the letter opener.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she utters.
I shake my head slowly. “No, I’m pretty much not.” We search each other’s eyes. Then I ask, “You’re her, right?”
“Yeah,” she says slowly. “Yes, I am.” The corners of her mouth curl up slightly.
“This was your room.”
“Uh-huh.” She sits down on the bed and reaches out to me. “Let me see it.”
I hand her the letter and watch as she reads it through. “I’d almost forgotten about this.” Her eyes turn to me. “And my ring!” she says with real delight. I pull the mood ring off my finger and hold it out. She takes it (like it’s a sacred artifact), slips it on her ring finger, and lets out a burst of laughter. “It doesn’t fit anymore. Of course it doesn’t.”
“I knew it was a kid’s ring. Right when we found it.”
As she gazes at the ring, I realize this is not just Girl Detective from my dream, with the waving hair and the blazing blue eyes. This version of her, the current one, looks familiar. Not dream familiar, real-life familiar. But where have I seen her before? Who is this G.D.?
She notices me staring. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“I don’t know. Don’t I know you? I mean, now. In real life?”
“Hmmm. I don’t think so,” she says. “Are you a reader? Do you go to the local library?”
“All the time.” And then it hits me. “You’re the mystery writer! The lady on the poster! You’re h
aving a signing—”
“Today. I had a book signing today. At the library. That’s why I’m here.” With everything going on, I completely forgot about the book signing at the library. Then she adds, “But I also came to visit my mom.”
It takes a second for this to sink in. Mrs. Hale wasn’t always old. She was probably my mom’s age when Girl Detective was twelve. The timeline fits. Of course it does. I just couldn’t see it until now. “Mrs. Hale’s your mom?”
Girl Detective smiles. “And you got past her to find the final clue. Good job, Nancy Drew. What’s your name?”
“Birdie. Birdie Adams.”
“Nice to meet you, Birdie Adams. I’m Emily McAllister.”
I so badly want to call her Girl Detective but instead I say, “Nice to meet you, Ms. McAllister.”
“Oh, call me Emily. Everybody does. And besides, I think you’ve earned the right.”
That feels kind of weird because she’s a grown-up but I say, “Okay.”
“You couldn’t have found the first clue,” she says, “because I mailed that to Detective Paulson at the police station. So … you found … the box?”
I nod.
“Which was the second clue.”
“I thought it had to be the second clue,” I say. “Because how could anybody find it otherwise.”
“How did you find it?” she asks. “You must be some detective.”
“I’m a terrible detective!”
Girl Detective, I mean Emily, grins at me. “As it turns out, so was I. Nobody killed Ruthie. Nobody killed anybody.” She pauses. “Does it make me a bad person that I was a little disappointed when I realized that?”
Mrs. Hale is surprised to see us walking down the stairs together. “When did you get home, Emily?”
“Not long ago,” Emily says. “I was showing Birdie something upstairs.” What an excellent liar. I love this woman already!
If Rose and Ally could see themselves—their gaping mouths and surprised eyes—they would bust up laughing. As we walk into the living room, I look at my friends and announce, “Meet Girl Detective!”
“Who’s Girl Detective?” Emily asks as we sit down, joining them.
“It’s a long story,” I say, and Rose, Ally, and I start telling them of our adventure. Of finding the clue box on the island and finding the next clue in the Gillans’ mailbox. Of going to Smith and Sons and seeking out Mr. Smith in the nursing home in Decatur.
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