Tru and Nelle

by G. Neri

  Big Boy threw his hands up. “Well, for gosh sakes, will someone please tell me before I lose my mind?”

  Truman placed both of his hands on Big Boy’s shoulders. “Congratulations, Inspector. You may have just solved the crime!”

  28

  Stakeout

  Truman knew Sonny was inside the Boular house. All he had to do was talk to him and get his confession.

  Truman, Nelle, and Big Boy staked out the mystery house after school, but they didn’t dare get close. For some reason, Sonny’s father, Mr. Boular, did not go to work as usual; instead, he sat glumly on a bench on his front porch, staring at the trees.

  The sky was dark and gloomy—a storm was coming. The wind kicked up the leaves, sending the trio ducking behind Blind Captain Wash’s fence. Since he was blind and deaf, they could spend all day in his front yard and he would never know.

  Because it was Halloween, the Boular house reminded Nelle even more of an old graveyard. Surrounded by spooky trees and a rusty bent fence, the house was built of dark wood and was rumored to be haunted. It was foreboding and sagged in the middle like it was on its last legs. The yard was an overgrown tangle of scuppernong arbors and wild pecan trees. If you hit a ball into ol’ man Boular’s yard and he was home, you could consider that ball lost forever.

  “I think he knows I took his pecans,” said Big Boy. “He’s just waiting for us!”

  “Why would he be waiting for us?” said Truman. “That makes no sense. Sooner or later, he and his wife will leave and then we’ll go in there and talk to Sonny and get to the bottom of this. Even if I don’t have my deerstalker cap.”

  That was Truman’s plan. Exactly how they would do this, nobody knew.

  “What about his daughter Sally?” Nelle asked. Truman just ignored her.

  Hours passed. Mrs. Boular came out a couple of times and spoke to her husband. But he just continued to sit there glumly.

  The trio of detectives passed the time playing tic-tac-toe on Captain Wash’s fence with a pencil. They took turns on watch. On Big Boy’s turn, he perked up when he heard a horse and wagon coming around the corner. But then he saw it wasn’t a horse and wagon; it was Edison, dressed as a cowboy and clapping two wooden bowls together to make hoofbeat sounds. He neighed just like a horse too. Big Boy was amused until he started heading their way.

  Big Boy ducked down.

  “Who you hiding from?” asked Nelle.

  The horse sounds grew closer. “Just some horse.”

  “You’re hiding from a horse?” asked Truman. He popped his head up and saw Edison coming his way. Edison stopped as soon as he spotted him.

  “Hiya, Trooman! Whatcha doing?” he said too loudly.

  Truman ducked behind the fence. “Nothing, Edison. Just . . . playing games.”

  Next thing he knew, Edison was peering over the fence at them. “I like games.”

  Nelle panicked. “Get down before Mr. Boular sees you!” she hissed.

  He spun around. “Where?”

  She grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and pulled him over the fence in one haul. She was strong for a girl.

  Edison toppled over her onto the grass. “Whoa! Is this some kind of Halloween game?”

  “It’s . . . a trick-or-treat game,” said Truman, checking to see if Mr. Boular had noticed. Luckily, he seemed to be asleep on the bench.

  “Look, Edison, here’s how it is. We’re hiding from Mr. Boular. He can’t know we’re here. You neither, okay?”

  “What if he catches us?” he asked, excited.

  “Then there’ll be no treats,” said Truman. “And we don’t want that. So if you want to play, you’re going to have to go and hide. Somewhere else.”

  Edison nodded.

  “I liked your horse sound,” said Big Boy. “You sure had me fooled.”

  Edison smiled. “What if I go hide in the barn behind Captain Wash’s? Then I could still be a horse.”

  “That sounds fine, Edison. Just don’t stay there too long. After a bit, you can return to being a horse and buggy and collect your candy.”

  Edison made a face. “I was a horse cart, Truman.” He shook his head. “City folk . . .”

  And with that, he stealthily disappeared over the back fence.

  “Whew, that was close,” said Nelle.

  The afternoon faded and the sky turned to dusk as the end-of-day sawmill whistle blew. As workers headed home and children began to emerge in their Halloween costumes, Mrs. Boular came out to join Mr. Boular, and together, they walked down the front steps of the porch.

  “They’re leaving! I guess they don’t want to stick around to give out candy,” said Big Boy. “Speaking of candy, when are we going trick-or-treating?”

  Truman and Nelle craned their necks up from behind the fence and saw the couple leave through the front gate and lock it. As soon as they walked around the corner, Truman stood up.

  “This is better than candy, Big Boy,” he said. “When’s the last time you felt this scared on Halloween?”

  Nelle was frustrated. “What exactly are we gonna do, just go up there and knock on the front door and say, ‘Hiya, Sonny’?”

  “We’ll make it up as we go. Just remember, if he tries to grab you, run,” said Truman. “I’m not afraid of him or anything, but you haven’t seen him up close like I have.”

  They made their way across the street and over to the outer fence of the Boular house, slinking along like spies. No trick-or-treaters dared approach the place. Kids knew a real haunted house when they saw one.

  Nelle felt some drops of rain on her arm. “Great, now we’ll get soaked too.”

  As the rain started coming down, she scanned the grounds, looking for signs of life. They all heard the front screen door creak open, and they quickly ducked back down behind the fence.

  Nelle peered through the slats. “There’s someone on the front porch,” she whispered. “Look, in the shadows.”

  “Maybe it’s the sister?” asked Big Boy. He took the remaining nuts from his pockets and dumped them back through the fence.

  Truman took a quick peek. “No, it’s . . . Sonny,” said Truman. “Look.”

  They wiped the rain from their eyes, peered through the fence, and immediately spotted Sonny, the spooky boy who liked to caw like a crow.

  Sonny Boular was tall and thin and had a ghostly appearance. Once, Big Boy had seen him sharpening knives on the porch, and when he’d told some other kids, a rumor quickly spread that if you ever encountered him at night, he might kill you with a butcher’s knife.

  “Maybe we should go home . . .” said Nelle.

  “Look who’s afraid now,” said Truman, trembling. “I thought you weren’t scared by the Klan? Sonny’s just a teenager—”

  Nelle hit Truman in the arm. “Ow—what was that for?” asked Truman.

  “For talking too much!” she snapped. “I ain’t afraid. I’ll go over there and interrogate the suspect now, if it pleases you.”

  Big Boy sat up. “You really think Sonny did it?” he said, a little too loud.

  “I don’t think, Inspector, I know,” said Truman.

  “Just because they got pecans?” he said even louder.

  “Shush!” hissed Nelle. “Pecans, and everyone knows he wanders around at night, peeking into people’s rooms. Besides, he acts weird all the time. And his name starts with an S!”

  “Of course his name starts with an S! Why wouldn’t it?” said Big Boy. “But he is weird, I’ll give you that much. Sometimes, when I hear those stories about him, it gives me the creeps!”

  “Who gives you the creeps?”

  There was a flash of lightning and they all looked up to see Sonny Boular himself staring down at them. With the rain and wind playing with the shadows around his gaunt eyes, he looked like a monster.

  “He’s got a knife!” screamed Big Boy.

  Truman and Nelle spun on their heels and ran so fast, they would’ve tied for first place in the Hog Festival hundred-yard dash.
<
br />   They heard a scream rip though the darkness and skidded to a stop. “Where’s Big Boy?” said Nelle, panicking.

  A faint “He’s got me!” rippled through the air.

  Truman and Nelle ducked behind an oak tree. “Oh my gosh! He’s got Big Boy—what’re we gonna do?” said Truman.

  “We have to go help him,” said Nelle, steeling herself.

  Truman was beside himself with fear. “B-but what if he gets us too?”

  Nelle pushed him up against the tree. “I thought you were a bulldog? Show me that bulldog face!”

  But Truman couldn’t bring himself to be a bulldog. He trembled like a Chihuahua.

  Nelle shook her head. “Never mind, I’ll go” was all she said as she took off back through the darkness to save Big Boy.

  “Nelle!” Truman shouted.

  She was gone.

  The next thing Truman heard were scuffles and shouts. He shut his eyes and covered his ears. He hated fights and hated himself for not doing anything to help his friends. When he couldn’t bear it anymore, he took off, running away from his friends and into the stormy night.

  29

  Caught

  Truman showed up on A.C. Lee’s doorstep, a blubbering, wet, out-of-breath mess. He was sure his two best friends were dead. The thought of being completely alone with no parents and no friends was too much to handle.

  “Truman, what on earth is the problem?” A.C. said when he opened the door. “This isn’t some kind of trick-or-treat thing, is it?”

  When he saw Truman was seriously scared, he brought him in and sat him by the fire. “Your knee is bleeding.”

  “I-I-I t-t-tripped . . .” Truman couldn’t get the words out. “H-he g-got th-them—”

  How was he going to tell A.C. his beloved daughter was dead?

  A.C. knelt in front of him and said calmly, “Now, Tru, take a deep breath, then let it all out.”

  Truman nodded and wiped the snot from his nose. He took a deep breath and held it. When he exhaled, he barely spoke above a whisper. “Mr. Lee, your daughter is—”

  Just then, Nelle and Big Boy came bursting through the door. “There he is!” she shouted.

  Truman leaped to his feet and grabbed them both. “You’re alive!” he said, tears coming to his eyes again.

  “Of course we are, silly,” said Nelle.

  Truman looked at Big Boy. “I’m sorry, Jennings—I’m sorry I failed you,” he blubbered.

  “Shoot, Truman, I just panicked. When he grabbed me—”

  Mr. Lee tapped his pipe against a bowl. “Perhaps one of you could tell me what on earth is going on here?”

  Truman looked to Nelle; she sighed and stepped forward. “It’s like this, A.C.,” she said, and she proceeded to tell him the whole tale and their cockamamie schemes.

  Truman sat and watched her tell the story even better than Sir Arthur Conan Doyle could have. Luckily, she stopped short of the part where she left Truman to go save Big Boy.

  “What happened, Nelle? I thought for sure you two would be . . .” Truman gulped.

  Nelle glanced at Big Boy, who blushed with embarrassment and said, “Truth is, Truman, I think I was so scared, I sorta, almost, maybe—”

  “He fainted,” said Nelle kindly. “When I got there, Sonny was holding him up so he wouldn’t fall and hit his head. I didn’t know what to say, so I walked up to them, and Big Boy kind of got his legs back enough where I could help him myself. Sonny let go.”

  Truman sat with his jaw open. “But . . . what’d he say? Did you ask him anything?”

  Nelle gazed into the fire. “I didn’t know what to say to him but he just stood there looking at me, so I think I kinda blurted out, ‘Did you do it? Did you break them windas and all the rest?’ And he just stared at me, nodded, and disappeared back into the shadows.”

  A.C. thought long and hard about their case. He’d suspected Sonny and Elliot and he’d pondered whether there was enough evidence to bring it before the judge. Someone should pay for the damages of the broken windows; that was the right thing to do. But to take that step and have them arrested, one had to be willing to accept the consequences. “Would you feel right if he and Elliot were punished?” he asked.

  Nelle nodded. “Well, nobody told them to break them windas. Don’t they deserve to be punished?”

  A.C. paced slowly, like Nelle had seen him do many times in front of a jury. “If you do a wrong . . . you must atone for it, whether by penance or penalty or jail. But why do people do wrong? Well, that’s a tricky one . . . you never really know until you consider things from their point of view. Until you can climb inside of their skin and walk around in it . . . Who knows, maybe they had their reasons.”

  Truman was confused. “Like what?”

  “Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Motives are a mysterious thing to figure sometimes . . . Did you ever do something that you later regretted? And how did you atone for it?”

  Truman and Nelle took a deep breath and wondered if they had taken things too far.

  30

  Judgment Day

  A.C. brought the matter before the judge. Neither Truman, nor Nelle, nor Big Boy knew what was said, for A.C. refused to divulge any information. But a few days later, Truman and Nelle saw Sonny and Elliot together. They were in the courthouse, in front of Judge Fountain, a stern, gray-haired stone of a man.

  Truman and Nelle watched the proceedings from the balcony. The rest of the grand courthouse was empty except for A.C., the sheriff, and Mr. Boular. An ancient fan turned slowly overhead, but Truman and Nelle could feel the heat this discussion was generating. Truman felt a pang of guilt as he watched Sonny sitting behind a table with his head bowed. He acted like a puppy that’d been smacked for chewing on the carpet.

  Elliot was a younger version of the sheriff but he lacked the sheriff’s cool. He kept interrupting the proceedings, saying things like “It wasn’t my idea!” and “Sonny’s the one who stole that brooch!”

  A.C. looked at Sonny. “Is that true, son? Mr. Yarborough was mighty upset. He said it was a family heirloom but if it was returned, why, he might be willing to overlook the matter, as long as the windows were paid for . . .”

  Sonny just sat there quietly, staring at the ground.

  The sheriff sat behind them in the gallery, arms crossed. Mr. Boular was next to Sonny, his neck red with anger. He leaned over and said something harsh into Sonny’s ear that just made him withdraw even more.

  “Do you think they’ll get sent to prison?” whispered Truman.

  “Maybe we shoulda kept our mouths shut. It was just a few windas, after all.”

  “Maybe we could help pay for them,” said Truman. “Set up a lemonade and boiled peanut stand here in the square. Why, I bet we could raise twenty dollars just like that!” He snapped his fingers, causing the judge to look up at them. He and Nelle slunk down in their chairs.

  A.C. and Judge Fountain had a long conversation. The slingshot sat between them on the judge’s bench.

  The judge nodded, then sat quietly for a moment while A.C. headed back to the table. Finally, Judge Fountain banged his gavel lightly and said, “Will the defendants please rise?”

  Elliot stood but Mr. Boular had to practically pull Sonny up by his collar. The judge spoke. “It is the opinion of this court that this kind of hooliganism in our proud little town should not be tolerated. However, it is also my opinion that these two young souls are worth saving . . . and to do so, I am assigning them to spend the next year away, interned in the State of Alabama’s reform school.”

  Both the sheriff and Mr. Boular shot up in a huff and started talking out of turn to the judge. The judge banged his gavel; A.C. tried to calm them.

  In the ruckus, Sonny’s eyes drifted around the chamber. He was clearly wishing he were anywhere else but here. His gaze finally settled on the balcony. When Truman and Nelle saw he’d spotted them, they just sat there, unsure what to do.

  Sonny waved at them until his father got his att
ention again.

  “Come on, let’s get out of here,” said Truman.

  They headed back to Nelle’s house without speaking and waited in A.C.’s office for him to return. It took almost an hour.

  “Well, what happened, A.C.?” Nelle asked as soon as the door opened. “Did Sonny confess to stealing that cameo brooch?”

  A.C. took his time cleaning his pipe and tapping it on an ashtray. “No, he did not, Nelle. So it remains . . . a mystery. But both the sheriff and Mr. Boular managed to convince the judge that keeping them home under house arrest would be a far worse punishment than sending them away to any reform school. Knowing them, I’m sure that’s true. Mr. Boular in particular insisted that Sonny would be taught a lesson he’d never forget.”

  Truman looked at Nelle and gulped. “Maybe we should help pay for the broken window,” said Truman. “We could ask Jenny to give Mr. Yarborough her brooch . . .”

  “Now, why would you want to do that?” asked A.C.

  “’Cause it was our fault that Sonny was caught,” said Nelle.

  “Sometimes, justice is served in ways that make nobody happy. But I think they learned their lesson.” A.C. nodded thoughtfully. “And maybe there’s a lesson you two can take away from this as well.”

  Nelle asked, “What’s that, Daddy?”

  A.C. smiled and puffed on his pipe. “Stay here, children,” he said, abruptly leaving the room.

  “Where’s he going?” whispered Truman.

  Nelle shrugged. “Search me.”

  They heard A.C. open the basement door and thump down the steps.

  “Doesn’t he keep his gun down there?” asked Truman, worried.

  Nelle slapped him upside the head. “A.C. don’t know how to shoot. He’s a lawyer, for gosh sakes.”

  They heard a muffled “Aha . . . there you are” come from down below. There was some rummaging about, followed by a few grunts, and, finally, the sound of A.C. plodding heavily back upstairs.

  He barged through the door, back first, and slowly turned around. He held an old dusty metal box with a wooden handle, which he placed carefully on the desk in front of them.