SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2

by Beverly Lewis

  “Come on, little ones,” I said to my snoozing, perfectly contented cats. “We have to tell Miss Spindler good-bye.”

  Surprisingly, they got up, stretched, and followed me down-stairs, where Miss Spindler was waiting, all smiles.

  “I hope you had a right nice time, dearie,” she said, filling my backpack with a plastic container of homemade cookies.

  “Oh yes, I did.” I glanced down at my cats. “I should say we did. Thanks again. I know it took a lot of worry off my parents’ minds while they’re gone.” I paused. Now was a good time to apologize for sneaking around in the old woman’s house. “I shouldn’t have gone snooping in your attic, Miss Spindler. My parents would die if they knew about it. I’m sorry,” I said, meaning every word.

  “Forget it, dearie,” she said and patted the box of cookies through the backpack. “Remember, now, there’s more where these came from…and you and your brother are gonna be all alone over there. If you need anything at all, give me a holler. Dessert, ice cream…you name it. I’ll even bake you up some pie.”

  I was chuckling. “And the same goes for you, Miss Spindler. If ever you need anything, just let me know.”

  That’s when her eyes got big and round, like coat buttons. “Come to think of it, Merry, dear, there is something I could use some help with.” Then she waved her hand, shooing me off for home. “Aw, shucks, it’ll wait till you get yourself settled in again. Tell that big brother of yours hello from this here neighbor, ya hear?”

  “I will,” I promised, eager to find out if what she needed help with was her e-mail messages. I don’t know why it intrigued me—her pushing eighty and doing the high-tech thing. But then again, this was the same old lady who drove a hot red sports car all over SummerHill.

  Chapter

  17

  My brother was more excited to hear about the attic “find” than he was glad to see me, I think. He got all caught up in my story right off.

  “Won’t Mom and Dad freak?” Skip said, face aglow. “I mean, this has gotta be the biggest story in all of Lancaster County. Except maybe that drug bust among the Amish out east of town.”

  “Hey, I wonder if we should call up the newspaper?”

  Skip sat at the kitchen table. “The media would be more than happy to sensationalize a story like this.” He helped himself to some of Miss Spindler’s cookies. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Plain Folk Chat With Hot-Rodding Spinster on Net.’ ”

  Laughing, I poured him a tall glass of milk. “I think we’d better keep the media out of it and just enjoy the wackiness ourselves.”

  He pulled out a kitchen chair for me, and I was surprised at his gentlemanly gesture. “Who else knows about this?” he asked, breaking the stillness.

  “Only Jon.” I thought about it. “And some of my girl friends.”

  “They knew about your investigating Old Hawk Eyes’ attic?”

  I nodded. “But they haven’t heard what I found. Least, not my girl friends.”

  Skip drank half the glass of milk straight down. “Are you still doing that weird word thing with Jon?” he asked.

  “How’d you know about that?”

  Leaning back on the chair, he devoured another cookie. “Jon’s sister talks about it every now and then.”

  “Oh, so you and Jon’s sister are still writing love letters? Or are they e-mails?” I teased.

  He couldn’t contain the pink color that crept into his face. “That’s none of your business,” he said flatly.

  “Well, it’s gonna be my business if Nikki’s my sister-in-law someday!”

  He sneered—his old self was showing through. “And if I marry her and you marry Jon, our kids will be brousins—closer than cousins. Get it?”

  I shook my head at him. This was a pitiful conversation. “I’m going upstairs,” I said, getting up from the table.

  “Who’s cooking tonight?” he asked, looking worried.

  “You are.” With that, I disappeared up the kitchen flight of stairs and headed to my room. I made myself comfortable on the bed and spread out the scrapbook of my dad’s retirement party. Time to finish my project. I wanted Dad and Mom to be surprised when they arrived home this Saturday.

  The phone rang an hour later, but I ignored it, letting Skip get it for a change. When he didn’t call for me right away, I figured it must be for him. Probably Nikki, I thought. She had always been one to chase after my brother.

  “Merry, it’s for you,” Skip hollered up to me.

  “I’ll be right there!” Scurrying down the hall to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said, out of breath.

  “Merry, dear, it’s Miss Spindler.”

  “Oh hi. Is everything all right over there?”

  She snickered. “That’s my line, dearie.” How’s every little thing was what she always said first off.

  “Yes…well, I forgot. Sorry.”

  “Oh my, there’s no need to apologize,” she said. “I just thought I’d call and check with you about supper plans.”

  Supper plans?

  Then I remembered my brother was in charge of the kitchen. At least, I’d told him he was cooking tonight. “Uh…yes, we’re open to suggestions,” I said rather quickly.

  “That’s what I hoped to hear,” said Miss Spindler. “I made a ravioli casserole that’s downright too big—family size, I dare-say—and, well, since there ain’t much of a family over here, I thought I’d invite myself to supper.”

  I looked up to see Skip standing comically in the doorway, motioning for me to say yes. Which I was more than happy to do.

  “Aren’t you the lucky one,” I told Skip as I hung up the phone. “Somebody who can actually cook is bringing pasta for supper.”

  “Hallelujah!” he sang.

  I was mighty glad about it, too. But I couldn’t help wondering what Miss Spindler had on her mind. Surely there was something.

  Quickly, I dialed Ashley Horton. I filled her in on everything she’d missed since my snooping expedition in the refurbished attic across the yard from me.

  “I’m not one bit surprised,” Ashley said. “Anyone that old who still likes to drive fancy cars is probably a good candidate for the computer age. Don’t you think so?”

  Leave it to Ashley to throw in her homegrown philosophy. In the short time I’d known her, she always managed to pick exactly the right time to insert her strange-but-true comments.

  “Curiosity killed the cat, right?” she said, laughing.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your curiosity got the best of you,” she began to summarize. “So you nosed around in Miss Spindler’s attic.”

  “Right.”

  “Merry, you really can’t expect to be too surprised at the result, can you?”

  “I’m not dead, am I?”

  “No…no, that’s not what the old proverb means.” Once again, she tried to get me to see the light. “What you did—out of pure inquisitiveness, of course—was bound to get you into trouble in the long run.”

  “But I’m not in trouble,” I insisted.

  “Well, I think you might be if Miss Spindler ever finds out.”

  I proceeded to tell her that Miss Spindler knew all—and about the old lady’s e-mail pals. “I guess you could say she wanted to be found out. Maybe she wanted us to know that she’s a truly ‘with it’ old lady.”

  “She’s cool, all right. And I’ll be the first to congratulate her,” Ashley said.

  “Well, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because she doesn’t realize that very many of us know yet.”

  Ashley’s sigh came through to my end of the phone. Loud and long. “Now I’m completely confused.”

  “I don’t blame you.” I was dying to tell her that I wouldn’t be playing the Alliteration Game anymore. (The thought was triggered by the c words she’d used.) But I thought better of it and decided to keep that decision secret—just between Jon Klein and me.<
br />
  Chapter

  18

  Miss Spindler came for supper with bells on. She was all dolled up—a touch of lipstick and pinkish cheeks. She wore a long, floral broomstick skirt and a hot-pink blouse to match the rosebuds in her flowing skirt.

  “Now, dearies, I brought along Parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the pasta and enough warm garlic bread to feed every last one of our Amish neighbors.” She said this with a playful smile on her wrinkled face.

  “You’re getting to know lots of them?” I blurted without thinking.

  “Who’s that, dear?” she asked.

  “Our Amish neighbors,” I repeated.

  Skip was trying not to explode in the corner of the kitchen between the wall and Mom’s African violet plants. I could tell by the way he was smashing his lips together—and that silly grin on his face. Man, was I crazy to bring this up, or what?

  “As a matter of fact, I have been getting myself acquainted with a whole bunch of Plain folk, come to think of it,” she said.

  “Oh?” I had to play dumb. I wasn’t supposed to know this.

  “I’m sure your nice young man—that Jonathan Klein, was it?—told you all about my little chat with him yesterday afternoon.” Her beady eyes were on me now. I had a mighty powerful feeling that there was no way out. I had to fess up.

  “Well, first of all”—I said this for Skip’s sake—“Jon’s not my nice young man. I don’t mean that he’s not nice, just not mine. At least, not yet.” I was sliding deeper and deeper, right to where Skip was most interested, no doubt.

  She ignored the explanation and placed the casserole dish on the table. Then she called my brother over. “The food’s hot, but not for long. We’d best get started.”

  After the prayer, I asked if I could start again. “Please do,” Skip had the gall to say. Grinning, no less.

  Sighing, I decided to back up to the real point of Miss Spindler’s earlier comment. “I was very surprised to hear about your e-mail friends,” I began. “And, yes, Jon did fill me in on that.”

  A beautiful smile, pure and sweet, spread across her face. “Ah, Merry, dearie, I’m ever so glad to have dreamed up such a right fine name for my cozy attic office,” she said. “It’s Windows on the Hill, you know.”

  I knew but didn’t dare let on.

  “My, oh my, I’ve met a good many folk on the Web.”

  I had to work hard at chewing my food—keeping it in my mouth—and not spraying it across the table. But the laugh insisted, and I grabbed for my napkin.

  Miss Spindler looked worried. “What is it, Merry?”

  I was shaking my head, patting my chest. “I’m all right, really I am.”

  Now she had the most peculiar look on her face. Like she thought she must’ve said something quite comical. “Well, I daresay my sense of humor must surely be improving.”

  I was nodding, eyeballing Skip. He started nodding his head, too. We talked awhile longer about computers and how easy it was to connect unknowingly with weirdos and strangers who might not be good for us. Miss Spindler agreed and said that she was being careful of that.

  During dessert, Skip brought up the subject of Abednego. “Did he ever show up?”

  I slouched sadly. “Don’t get me started. Honestly, I thought I’d never give up on him, but I have to admit I’m starting to wonder if God had other plans for my old cat.”

  Skip’s eyebrows rose, and he pursed his lips. “He was always such a crafty creature.”

  “Was? Don’t say it that way. It sounds like you think he’s already dead.”

  “Hold on, now, Merry,” Miss Spindler was saying, reaching over and patting my hand. “We don’t know yet, now, do we?”

  “He’s been missing for six days—unbearable days. Cats always come home after a storm, don’t they?”

  Miss Spindler was quiet for a moment. “They do, I suppose, unless someone comes along and claims them for their own.”

  I sat up in my chair. “Do you really think someone stole my Abednego?”

  Skip leaned his head into his hands and rubbed his face, while Miss Spindler tried to calm me down. “Wouldn’t that be far better than finding out the poor thing had up and died?”

  I thought about that. Miss Old Hawk Eyes Spindler was right. Still, I found it terribly confusing when she insisted that I come right home with her after supper dishes were finished. “Let’s talk some more about that lost cat of yours,” she said.

  As I walked with our quirky old neighbor across the backyard and up the slope of her own property—all that time—I could see my brother’s ridiculous smile in my mind.

  Chapter

  19

  “You sit here, dearie.” Miss Spindler stepped aside so I faced her computer screen directly.

  “Where will you sit?” I asked.

  She was already one step ahead of me, pulling a folding chair across the attic’s carpeted floor. “Here we are,” she said.

  She asked me to click onto her e-mail program, which I did. “Now,” she said, “I was hoping you’d read each of this week’s messages to me.”

  This week’s. There were thirty messages!

  “Oh, I have such a hard time,” she explained, taking off her thick glasses and showing me where the trifocal line began. “You have no idea just how difficult it is to see the words.”

  “Maybe you should order a software program with larger letters.” I’d heard of such things, especially for folks who suffered from partial blindness.

  “Well, for now, I’ve got you here,” she said. “Thank you for agreeing to help this old lady.”

  I began to read her personal messages, feeling a bit awkward. The first was from an Amishwoman who said she lived north of the Davises on SummerHill Lane. She described her busy day—washing and hanging out the clothes to dry, baking, cleaning, sewing, and gardening. On and on.

  The writer signed off with: Nobody’s seen hide nor hair of a big black cat.

  “You asked her about Abednego?” I said, turning to face Miss Spindler.

  “Oh yes, I’ve asked every one of my e-mail friends.”

  “Is that why you wanted me to come help you?”

  She responded with a quick smile. “Keep on reading,” she said, moving her hands.

  I read the next five, but none of the writers had seen my cat. We were clear down to the next to the last message. An Amish lady two houses down from the Fishers’ place—out near the highway—wrote to say that she’d spotted a large animal prowling around her house.

  If it’s a house cat, it’s a very big one, she wrote. I daresay that one would take a batch of field mice to keep full.

  “Sounds like Abednego!” I said, eager to read on.

  Last night, we put out a bowl of milk for him. Fast as a wink, he drank it down. My grandson put out another bowl, and that one was gone in nothing flat. If ya wanna come and see for yourself about this here mouse catcher, I’ll hang on to him for ya, just a bit.

  I was clapping my hands. “Can we go, Miss Spindler? Please?”

  “It’s getting late,” she said, reminding me that Amish folk head for bed about eight-thirty. “I’ll tell you what, dearie, we’ll drive on over there. If the oil lamps are burnin’ in the kitchen, we’ll know they’re still up.”

  Thrilled beyond belief, I closed down the Windows on the Hill. Miss Spindler was truly amazing.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too high, dearie,” she told me as we rode down SummerHill Lane.

  Crickets were chirping to beat the band, and the moon was starting to rise in the east. I sat in the front seat of the fanciest sports car this side of the Susquehanna River, praying that Abednego would be waiting on the front porch for us.

  Miss Spindler pulled slowly into the driveway when we found the house. “See any lights?” I whispered.

  “Not a one,” she said.

  I opened the car door. “I’m gonna go look for him.”

  “No…no, you mustn’t be impatient, now. All good things come to those who
wait.”

  I argued. “But I’ve been waiting nearly a week. Can’t I at least walk around the house and call for him?”

  She shook her head. “Not on your life, dearie. That’s trespassing, pure and simple.”

  “I know, but—”

  “No buts. We’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Abednego might be gone by then,” I insisted.

  “Not if these good folk are feeding him milk every day, he won’t.”

  She had a point. Still, I wanted Abednego in my arms tonight!

  “Here, kitty, kitty,” I called softly. “It’s Merry come to get you, baby. Come on, now, you know your Merry’s here.”

  Miss Spindler was beside herself. “Get in the car,” she said. “We best be goin’. ”

  “I promise not to trespass,” I said, moving to the front of the car. “It’s Merry…Merry’s here. Come on, little boy, you know you wanna go home.”

  The sky was dotted with shimmering silver flecks of light. All around me I heard the sounds of nightfall.

  “You want some Kitty Kisses?” I said softly. “Merry’s gonna give her little boy some treats.”

  I waited some more, listening for the slightest clue. The tiniest sound of a cat.

  “Psst, Merry,” called Miss Spindler. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” She flicked her headlights on and turned on the ignition.

  Just then a light came on in the back of the house. “Look!” I said. “Someone’s up.” My heart was thumping with anticipation.

  Miss Spindler was out of the car, catching up with me as I hurried around to the back door of the farmhouse. “Best let me handle this,” she said, opening the screen door and knocking on the inside door.

  “Jah, who’s there?” said an Amishman, peering out at us.

  “It’s Ruby Spindler, your wife’s friend up the road a piece. She wrote something about finding a stray cat.”

  The man was nodding his head, his gray beard bumping his chest each time he did. “Jah, we know of such a cat.”