Uh-oh. This wasn’t a promising start.
“I bet you’re Mrs. Cordes,” I said chattily. I craned around her. Past a marble foyer and through a massive picture window, I saw dozens of guests milling about on a deck. They were drinking from tiny teacups and tucking back dainty, crustless sandwiches. I loved dainty, crustless sandwiches. They were so efficient. You could polish off two or three at once.
I spotted Itchy standing rather unhappily with a tray of sandwiches. He glanced through the picture window. I waved. He shoved the tray at the nearest guest and fled.
“Young woman, who are you?” Mrs. Cordes snapped.
Talbot, whom grown-ups always like, put on his most winning smile. “Actually, we were hoping to —”
“And what is that boy doing?” Mrs. Cordes glared at Pantelli, who was on the front lawn, carefully stripping off a piece of bark from the arbutus tree. Removing an envelope from his pocket, he laid the bark strip inside and sealed the envelope.
Pantelli called back, “I’m going to take this home and study it under my microscope, ma’am. I want to see if you’ve traumatized your bark.”
Mrs. Cordes reddened from the neck up, like a thermometer filling with mercury. “Make fun of me, will you? I’ll get the police after you, m’boy!”
Flailing her thick arms, she stomped toward Pantelli. His eyes widened fearfully; he began backing away. “Dinah, maybe this wasn’t the best idea,” Talbot murmured.
“Are you kidding? Don’t you remember how our principal, Ms. Chen, is always yakking to us about challenges in life also being opportunities? Well, Pantelli’s challenge at this moment is our opportunity.”
I didn’t wait for Talbot to agree, because I suspected he wouldn’t. Instead, as Mrs. Cordes stalked toward Pantelli, I slipped inside the house.
I charged across the foyer, Talbot following reluctantly. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a movement.
It was Itchy, poised in mid-flight up a winding marble staircase. “I can’t believe you’d actually invade my home,” he complained. “You got a new turtle, plus a written apology.
What more do you want?”
“A lot more,” I said. “For example, why did you steal my turtle in the first place? I mean, you’d just wrecked it.”
I took a few steps up the staircase. Wisps of cat fur wafted off my T-shirt. Itchy began scratching. His eyes cartwheeled from side to side to make sure no one was listening.
“Th-there were some other pranks I was supposed to carry out, like dumping garbage all over Rowena’s lawn, but I didn’t. I said I had — but they found out I was lying. They blew up at me. Yelled and screeched.” Itchy shuddered at the memory. “So when they told me to land a hang glider at Rowena’s, I thought I better bring back proof I’d done it. That’s why I grabbed your turtle. I hoped I could fool them. A vain hope, as it turned out. They knew Rowena didn’t have a pool in that jungle of hers.”
“So you landed at the Urstads’, ” I said slowly. It was occurring to me that, under his itchy skin, Rock Junior wasn’t such a bad person.
“Of course I did,” Itchy said peevishly. Both hands were scraping at his scalp now, bzz, bzz! He backed up the stairs. “I didn’t want to bring more bad publicity to Rowena. I knew she’d be the bull’s-eye of complaints if people saw her overgrown backyard in a Bugle photo.”
He let out a laugh that was a half-sob. “I was so sick of it— all their finely detailed plans, all those blueprints!”
“What plans?” I demanded. “And who are ‘they’?”
Itchy interrupted his scratching to thrust his hands, palms out, at me. “Leave me alone. It’s not my fault, any of it. All I want to do is hang glide, get it? They promised I could, once everything was settled.”
“What everything?”
“I’ve said enough— I should keep quiet.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” I said, rather helplessly.
Talbot spoke up. “Wait, Itchy. At least tell us if you’re the one who phones Sylvester Sloan at the Bugle with high-pitched, anonymous tips.”
Itchy paled. “I’ve said enough,” he protested, in a squeak that sounded awfully high-pitched to me. Like Sylvester’s tipster and Rowena’s prank caller.
“At least tell me about Bald Guy,” I persisted.
But Itchy was scampering up the stairs. From the upstairs hall I heard a few final scratches and then the sound of a door shutting, followed by the slam of the front door.
Talbot and I peered over the banister. Still a fiery color, Mrs. Cordes stomped across the marble. “Rude boy, saying I’d traumatized my tree. I’d like to traumatize him.”
In a second she would stomp past the base of the stairs — and see Talbot and me goggling at her. Uh-oh. There was nowhere for us to go but up.
The upstairs hall was quiet. From the garden we could hear the tinkle of cups as guests made polite conversation. I could tell it was the polite kind because there were lots of ooo’s and reallys?
“Phew!” said Talbot. “I dunno about this detective stuff, Dinah. What we should do is bolt downstairs and make a break out the front.”
“But we’ve hardly found out anything.”
A door to our right yawned temptingly. Past a computer station, a window was wide open. It faced onto the backyard. “Hey, we might hear something interesting,” I said.
“I was afraid you’d say that. What frightens me even more is, I’m starting to think like you.” Talbot followed me glumly as I tiptoed over to the window.
Councillor Cordes was right below, beside a table loaded with a platter of raspberry tarts.
“Yes, I keep Zoë hard at work. It’s impossible to find good assistants these days, so I figure, when you’ve got one, work her to the bone!” the councillor said with a nasty laugh and crammed two tarts into his mouth at once.
“Poor Zoë,” I commented to Talbot. “Bullied by a mean employer, and yet she’s still nice enough to go around handing out sweets to kids. A true Glinda.”
“Glinda gave out sweets? I knew she supplied footwear, but—”
I heard scratching. Itchy was nearby. Talbot and I ducked. Peeking round the computer desk, we saw him warily descend the stairs.
Talbot tapped me on the shoulder. “Listen, I can deal with being arrested for trespassing, which is no doubt what’s about to happen. I refuse, however, to die of thirst in the process. I’m going to find us some water.”
He headed downstairs. A few moments later, over the windowsill, I saw him take two bottles of water from a cooler. Not only that, but Councillor Cordes beamed kindly at him.
Adults love Talbot.
The councillor resumed talking loudly to a cluster of guests.
“Yup,” he said, waving a sandwich. “I’m expecting a cash influx shortly — investments, dontcha know,” another nasty-sounding laugh, “and then it’s yacht time for the Rockster. The beauty is, since I’m a councillor, every party I throw aboard my new boat will be tax-deductible!”
His guests laughed appreciatively.
A wispy-moustached young man in a striped suit about two sizes too large for him jumped up and down, pretending to grasp the air with his hands. “I’ll pull strings for you any day, Councillor!”
“Can it, Herbert,” Councillor Cordes barked.
Ah, I thought. The only funny jokes are those the councillor himself tells. Some host! Looking hurt, Herbert retreated to a table, where he began stuffing back salmon and cream cheese. I felt sorry for him, even though his attempt at humor had been odd, to say the least. Comedy was definitely not a career for everyone.
Solemnly Talbot stepped up to Councillor Cordes. “I’d like to ask you something, sir.”
Oh, no. Talbot was going to try the direct approach.
“I’d just like to say that I appreciate your support for the Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee.” Talbot raised the bottles of water to Councillor Cordes in salute.
The councillor viewed him in surprise. “This is a reception for my supporters, you
ng man. I hope you’re not one of those activists.”
“I support you supporting soac,” Talbot replied with calm logic. “You were sincere about supporting soac, right?”
Councillor Cordes’s pink features briefly pursed in disdain. He then stretched them into the same gritted-teeth smile he’d given Jack at the soac rally. “Right.”
Like a beach ball in a gust of wind, the councillor spun and zoomed off to another cluster of guests.
Talbot looked as perplexed as I felt. What was all that about? The councillor had been annoyed at the mention of soac— yet, to the tv cameras, he’d made himself out to be soac’s best buddy.
I sat down in the desk chair and swiveled thoughtfully. I didn’t get it. Councillor Cordes couldn’t get out of supporting the spotted owl bylaw at the July 19 meeting, just a few days from now. There’d been too much favorable publicity.
Yet something was wrong, I was sure of it. Jack had been right to feel uneasy.
In front of me gleamed the councillor’s computer screen. Some wallpaper he had: a large photo of his smiling face.
On impulse I did a file search on “soac.” Talbot walked in just as the search function wound down. “Zero files found,” I read, accepting a water bottle from him.
“Try typing in the whole name,” Talbot suggested.
I typed, “Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee.” We glugged back water together.
A document icon popped up: Results of the Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee Research on Spotted Owls off Marisa Drive.
“That’s a soac file. It’s the one they gave all the councillors,” I said. “No reason Councillor Cordes shouldn’t have that. In fact, Jack wanted him to read it.”
“It’s Rowena you’ve been concerned about, not soac,” Talbot pointed out. “Try ‘Rowena Pickles.’ ”
I bashed it in. From outside we heard Mrs. Cordes’s voice, sharp and shrill. “Rock, who was that boy taking water from the cooler?”
“Just a thirsty youngster, m’dear. Why?”
Mrs. Cordes snapped back, “That boy was one of the intruders at the door a while ago, along with that redheaded girl who sings about salami on tv. Also, an odd boy was nosing around our trees.”
“Trees? I don’t quite —”
“The tree boy fled. The other two— I’ll track them down,” Mrs. Cordes said ominously.
Talbot and I traded wide-eyed looks of dismay. The sensible option was to peel out of there.
Neither of us moved. “Try just typing ‘Pickles,’ ” said Talbot.
I typed it in.
A document icon sprang up. PICKLES.
“Unless Councillor Cordes is into cucumber recipes, I bet this is about Rowena,” I muttered. “I also bet he’s one of the ‘they’ Itchy kept on about.”
I clicked on PICKLES. Out ballooned lots of lines, straight, curving, crisscrossing, with numbers scattered all over. I squinted. “A map, maybe.”
“Naw,” said Talbot. “They’re blueprints.”
Thundering footsteps on the floor below. Mrs. Cordes on the not-so-stealthy prowl.
Itchy’s half-sob came back to me. All their finely detailed plans and blueprints.
“If these are the Pickles blueprints, this must be the Pickles house,” Talbot whispered.
We scanned them, but the lines and numbers stretched on forever, making my eyes ache.
“Why would Councillor Cordes keep Rowena’s house blueprints on his computer?” I hissed. “Not very interesting. Not like a good game of Solitaire or Hangman.”
“Dinah, we gotta go.”
“And here’s my son!” we heard Councillor Cordes’s voice from outside, extra-loud with fake enthusiasm. “A chip off the old Rock, I like to say. Though I’m still waiting for you to forget this hang-gliding nonsense, young Rockster. Do something serious with your life!”
“I’m serious about hang gliding, Dad.”
“Balderdash!” A bark of fake laughter.
Itchy’s voice trembled. “It’s not balderdash to me, Dad.”
Pound, pound. Mrs. Cordes was mounting the stairs.
“Close down,” Talbot hissed.
Pound, pound.
“Wow, guys.” Pantelli goggled in appreciation. “Choco-late flatbread!”
The three of us were reclining in the Urstads’ green-and-white patio chairs. Talbot was strumming out idle notes on his guitar.
“Actually, that flatbread started life as a chocolate muffin,” I said as Pantelli took a big, crumbly bite. “It kind of morphed when I stuffed it in my pocket.”
Pantelli shook his head admiringly. “And you found time for food while fleeing. Incredible, Dinah.”
I smiled modestly. “A maid appeared with a platter of muffins when we were zooming across the Cordeses’ foyer. She offered me some. So I took a few, but explained I had to eat and run.”
Talbot shot me a look from under his dark forelock. “No more skin-of-our-teeth escapes for the next while, okay, Di? I don’t want to be the world’s first thirteen-year-old with an ulcer.”
Pantelli couldn’t comment. He’d squashed the rest of the muffin into his mouth. Pantelli was able to tuck back vast amounts of food and stay as thin as the twigs he was so fond of studying.
I looked down at my own pudgy form. I kept hoping I’d have my much-longed-for growth spurt and slim out, the way a blob of Silly Putty does when you stretch it.
I shoved these unsatisfactory thoughts aside. “Why would Councillor Cordes have blueprints of Rowena’s house?”
Pantelli swallowed the last of the chocolate muffin. “There’s something about the house that interests him. My guess is,” and he lowered his voice with a glance at the hedge, “Rowena’s secret papers.”
Strummm! Talbot hit a dramatic chord on his guitar.
I said impatiently, “Pantelli, I grant you Rowena is weird. But she’s not a spy. Spies don’t keep state secrets in pieces of luggage. These days they use tiny rolls of film or whatever.”
“Hey, guys,” said Talbot.
Pantelli glared at me. “Yeah? So maybe Rowena’s retro!”
“Yeah? So maybe you’re a doofus!”
“Hey, guys.” Talbot was staring past us, at — Rowena!
The Urstads’ neighbor stood, shaking with anger, by our side of the privet hedge. The wild gray stands of Rowena’s hair wobbled round her head like an electrified halo. Pantelli and I had been too busy squabbling to notice her arrival.
“Um,” I began and gulped. The situation was so embarrassing I didn’t know how to proceed beyond “um.”
It didn’t matter. Rowena cut in scathingly, “Those papers you’re so interested in could greatly upset certain people if made public. However, the papers — and I — won’t be here much longer. I decided several days ago to sell my house. I didn’t tell you, because secrecy was part of the agreement. Probably I shouldn’t be telling you now, but we’ve been friends …” Rowena shrugged. I suspected she wasn’t feeling overly friendly to us at this moment.
I started to burble out questions. Rowena lifted a hand. “It’s all happening very fast, I know. But it’s a matter of urgency. You see, the district’s bylaw-enforcement branch sent an officer round to my house the other day.”
I nodded, remembering the cross man with the badge and the scowl.
Rowena shrugged unhappily. “Either I move or my cats will be taken to the pound and destroyed, if not adopted.”
There was a moment of silence. The prospect was too awful for anyone to speak.
Then I said, very slowly, “They finally got to you. They couldn’t buy you out. They couldn’t annoy you out. So, at last, they thought of the cats.”
“I don’t know who you mean by ‘they,’ ” Rowena said.
“They. The Somebodies.”
Rowena tossed her long gray locks back impatiently. “The house is being sold to that nice woman I told you about, the one with the poodle.” She mustered a smile. “It’ll be nice for a dog, having all my land to romp on. After all, it
’s the biggest piece of property on Marisa Drive. And I — well, I’m looking at acreage properties in the Valley. A farm, maybe, where no one can complain about my kitties.”
“Rowena,” I said miserably, “I’m sorry you have to move. And I’m sorry about what we said. We don’t think you’re capable of being a spy. I mean,” I floundered, this hadn’t come out quite right, “not that we see you as stupid —”
“Quit while you’re behind,” Rowena advised and walked away.
“Well, whoever ‘they’ are, they’ll be happy now. No more weird Rowena in the ’hood,” Talbot commented and strummed his guitar rather fiercely. This, more than anything, summed up our feelings.
“All those pranks — just because she was weird?” I shook my head.
Loud creaks and rattles from the front of the house. Pantelli lifted his eyebrows. “Either Rowena’s bones badly need oiling, or Jack has pulled up in his Jeep.”
“It is Jack,” I exclaimed, jumping up. “I bet it’s about the fax I sent him. He’s come to forgive me! I better position myself next to a sofa.”
We trooped into the Urstads’ gigantic family room. From the foyer we heard Jack tell Madge, “Weird thing happened. I got a call from one of our volunteers. Seems her mom was a guest at a Cordes family garden party today. The impression her mom got was that Councillor Cordes isn’t friendly to soac at all.”
“That can’t be possible, Jack. Not after the councillor agreed to adopt soac’s proposed bylaw without even arguing,” said Madge.
“That’s just it, darlin’. It’s not like the Councillor Cord-eses of the world to agree so easily. Otherwise, Canada would have legislation that truly protects wildlife, like the Endangered Species Act in the United States. Here we’ve just got this dinky Species At Risk Act, which applies to federal land. In other words, marine systems, post offices and military bases are protected. Like, c’mon. How many spotted owls live in your neighborhood post office?”
“I can see why you’re skeptical, Jack. But once the council passes the bylaw on the nineteenth, there’ll be no more development off Marisa Drive.”
“Yeah. I guess you’re right.” Then Jack sighed. “I still think there’s something fishy about Councillor Cordes.”
Summer of the Spotted Owl Page 9