Mystery at the Hot Pond

by David DeVowe

  Lawrence caught me staring, “Sho-o-o-o-o . . .” His voice trailed off but his eye stayed on me. Lawrence was hard to look at ‘cause one eye looked at me and the other eye looked somewhere else.

  “Hi, Lawrence,” I said to break the awkward place I’d put myself in.

  I wondered how Lawrence knew my name. I guessed he was probably 10 years older than me. I never told him who I was. Folks said he used to be real smart and that he still had a memory that worked like a photographic camera. I wasn’t so sure about that. He did seem to know everyone, even though he appeared to be living in another land. Lawrence still lived with his ma, who rarely showed herself outside the house. I liked that Lawrence was friendly—he always had a smile for anyone who broke into his imaginary world. I think I would have liked him even more before his mind got cracked.

  “Whatcha doing there?” I asked, looking for a logical exit.

  Lawrence’s one eye was still on me. “Draw-ing,” he said. Lawrence talked as if every word had a drawl. “Drawing a path back to my feather.”

  “Nice,” I said. I didn’t stick around to see where that was going. It seemed pointless to try a conversation on Lawrence, especially on the last day of school.

  “Gotta run, Lawrence.” I waved nervously.

  Lawrence waved his blue feather at me.

  I ran just like I said I would and made it home lickety-split. “Hi, Mom!”

  “Hi, Shoe. Did you have a good last day?”

  “Yup. And I’m going fishing right after I dig worms.” I dropped my lunch pail on the table then turned back out the door.

  “Don’t be late. You’ve got two hours before the whistle,” Mama said. “And take Ricky with you!”

  “Okay,” I said reluctantly. It wasn’t that I didn’t like Ricky. It’s just that he always scared the fish. I got the shovel and Ricky, and dug where the winter’s wood had been stacked. Ricky’s job was to pick worms out of the dirt. He looked forward to it like a robin on the morning dew.

  “Look at this one!” Ricky said, crossing his eyes at a night crawler he dangled in front of his own face.

  “Put it in the can, Ricky. There’s another one right there.” I pointed with the shovel. Ricky made a job more interesting, but things always went slower when he was around.

  I didn’t wait for Ricky on the way to the creek. The fish were biting, and so were the mosquitoes. That was two reasons to walk fast, so Ricky had to run to keep up. I settled in below the dam by the deep pool, being careful not to let the fish see my shadow. The thunder of water over the dam was a welcome sound, holding the promise of hungry fish in the pool below where I sat down. Ricky came up behind me and threw a twig in the middle of the water. It made a splash, a large ring formed, then it floated slowly downstream.

  “Ricky! You’re going to scare the fish!” I said.

  “Sorry,” Ricky said. He walked to the edge and pushed aside the grass next to the pool.

  “The fish can see you, Ricky, get down!”

  Ricky squatted low until his rump touched the ground. “Hey, Shoe!”

  “Be quiet, Ricky.”

  “But, Shoe, there’s two spiders on the water,” Ricky reported, looking at me over his shoulder.

  “That’s nice,” I said. Clouds had overcast the sky in time for fish to eat their dinner—and for fish to be my dinner. I was fixin’ to get my pole ready.

  “They’re talkin’ to each other,” Ricky said.

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Cause I can hear them!” Ricky’s nose nearly touched the stream as he joined in on a conversation between two water spiders.

  “What are they saying?” I asked. Maybe Ricky had special 4-year-old insight into water spiders.

  “I can’t tell. They’re whispering waterbug language.” Ricky wrinkled his face back toward me.

  “Why don’t you play downstream? You can throw sticks and rocks over there.” I motioned beyond a stand of brush where I couldn’t cast. Ricky welcomed the opportunity to explore on his own. That’s how I found myself alone at my favorite pool—just how I liked it.

  I pulled my hook out of the top eye of my pole, grabbed the biggest night crawler from the can, and pinched it in two with my thumbnail. It was big enough to thread on my hook three times, then I cast it toward the middle of the creek. My line ran to the deep edge of the pool almost as soon as the worm hit the water. I let the fish eat for a bit, then set the hook. A nice-sized brookie on the first try! I could feel my heart beating faster as I reeled it onto the bank, unhooked it, and then slid a stick through the fish’s gill. Then I baited the hook with the other half of the still-squirming night crawler. The second fish came nearly as fast as the first. The roar of water over the dam held me in a world of my own, where nothing else was there—just my fishing pole, my worm can, and a couple of fish on a stick. Before long I had three trout—almost enough for dinner. I cast my line in the water again and let the worm drift slowly downstream.

  “Boo!”

  My heart pounded out of my shirt as someone grabbed my shoulders. I spun around to see MaryAnne jump back. She held both hands over her mouth, laughing uncontrollably. Her eyes sparkled with delight.

  “You think that’s funny, eh?” I was half-irritated, half-glad to see her again at the creek. “I thought your dad told you not to come down here anymore.”

  MaryAnne dropped her hands and calmed the giggles. “He said I couldn’t be with you for a while because he didn’t want us to get into any more trouble. Today, he said I could come down to the creek since it’s the last day of school.”

  I controlled a smile. MaryAnne’s dad had been bringing her to school and she had been ignoring me in class. We hadn’t talked much at all since the day at the mill. I thought she didn’t like me anymore. “So your dad’s okay with you talking to me now?”

  “Oh, I think so,” she said. “When I told him what we heard in the lumberyard he seemed very interested. But then he got angry. My dad doesn’t get angry much. He forbade me ever going to the mill again and told me to stay away from ‘that Makinen boy.’ ” MaryAnne managed an inverted smile. She was the only one I knew who could smile upside down.

  “And?” I said. “What are you doing now?”

  “Talking to you,” she said. “I told my dad that your name is Shoesth. And that you’re not so bad.” MaryAnne paused. “He said it would be okay when school’s out. And guess what—school’s out!” Her eyebrows reached up to touch her bangs.

  The fact that MaryAnne told her dad about our time in the lumberyard gave me a twinge of guilt. “I didn’t tell my dad about his boss and Mr. Hawthorne at the mill,” I said. “I’m afraid he would be real mad at me again. And that’s the last thing I want my mom to hear.”

  “You should tell them, Shoesth,” MaryAnne said. “It’s not good to keep a secret from your parents.”

  “And what makes you my authority, Miss MaryAnne?” I jabbed.

  MaryAnne’s face fell sullen.

  As soon as the words left my mouth I wanted to reel them back in. It was an awful feeling—casting out wrong words. At least if I lost a fish, I had a chance that it might bite again. But with words, I would cast them out but could never snag them back to be tucked away somewhere. I guess that’s why I didn’t use many; ever afraid I’d send out the wrong ones.

  We sat on the bank silently while I fished. I caught one more brookie before the others figured me out and quit biting.

  Finally I said, “I think we got enough wood for the roof and one wall if you want to finish our fort sometime.”

  MaryAnne grimaced my way, looking through the corner of her eyes.

  I took that as a yes. “Good!” I said. “How about after chores on Monday since there’s no school?”

  “I’ll ask my dad,” MaryAnne said with a bit of hope.

  The cloudy sky made it seem late. “I’ve gotta find Ricky and clean these fish,” I said. “The whistle is going to blow any time now.”

  The two of
us found Ricky downstream, wet from his ears to his toes.

  “How did you do that, Ricky?” I said accusingly.

  “Do what?”

  “Oh, never mind.”

  The three of us strolled back toward home, Ricky in the middle.

  Ricky did most of the talking, Partway home he held MaryAnne’s hand. “MaryAnne, you’re not ugly like some of the girls in church.”

  “Ricky!” I scolded.

  MaryAnne looked at me. “Should I say thank you?” Then she laughed.

  “It’s the best compliment you’ll get from Ricky,” I explained, holding back a laugh of my own. “See you soon,” I said, then Ricky and I turned down our alley.

  Monday was on me before I knew it. Waking up to Ricky’s dead snake in my face didn’t surprise me. But waking up to no school was a thrill. Mama sent me to the Co-op after breakfast for some baking soda and salt. She said it would be fine to work on my treehouse after that.

  I took my bike down the alley past Mrs. Krebbs’ house. She leaned on her hoe, smiling at dirt.

  Mrs. Krebbs saw me comin’. “Morning, Arthur. Looks like another good day the Lord has made.” I never knew what to say to Mrs. Krebbs. I thought it might be better to try a conversation with Lawrence. That morning she made me pedal faster than my rusty Flyer should go. Oscar could barely keep up, but it made for a quick trip to the store.

  The bell on the door of the Co-op made a happy sound when I went in. I easily found salt and baking soda, having bought them before. Mr. Saddlekamp was at the register when I came to the front to pay. He was there on weekdays, being the owner. Sometimes his boy, Jimmy, helped at the checkout in the summer. But Jimmy usually worked in back after school. “Morning, Shoe,” said Mr. Saddlekamp. “Got any plans for your first day off school?”

  “Yup. I’m going to work on my fort down at the creek.”

  “Sounds like fun,” he said. “Better work fast, it looks like rain.”

  I ran out the door, jumped on my bike, and decided to take the long way around so I wouldn’t have to deal with Mrs. Krebbs on the way back. That brought me to the front of our house and a sight I thought I would never see. Parked square in front of our yard was a Ford Motor Patrol car with a big white star on the door and the words “County Sheriff” across the side of the hood. Its two front tires were all the way up on the grass.

  What happened? I thought. I dropped my bike and ran around the back to the inside of the house, letting the screen door slam behind me. The sheriff and Mr. DuPree stood in our kitchen near the sink, and Mama sat on Dad’s chair with a very concerned look on her face. Ricky was on her lap. MaryAnne sat at the table, looking at me, her eyes bigger than the buttons on her dress.

  Mama said, “Shoe, the sheriff wants to talk to you.”

  I looked up at the shiny brim of the sheriff’s hat, sloping low over his eyes. “Arthur, Mr. DuPree and I need to talk to you and MaryAnne. You need to come with us to the DuPree’s house, where we will take your deposition.”

  I surveyed Mama and MaryAnne. It looked like they didn’t know what a deposition was either. Whatever it was, I wasn’t sure I had one that they could take. One thing was for sure, we were in a heap of trouble.

  “You won’t need to take anything with you,” the sheriff said. “Let’s go get this over with.” MaryAnne and I followed the sheriff out the door with her dad right behind.

  “Bye, Shoe,” Ricky said longingly. “Are they going to jail, Mama?”

  11

  Undercover

  Drops of rain began to fall as we got into the car. I slid onto the seat by the sheriff, MaryAnne next to me, then Mr. DuPree squeezed in last. Sheriff turned the key, the engine rumbled to life, and we drove away from home. I felt the hammer of Sheriff’s revolver poking me in the side. I had to wonder to myself what was happening. I didn’t dare ask MaryAnne why we were there.

  Her house was only a short drive away. The patrol car sputtered to a stop. We followed Mr. DuPree into his house, where he motioned us to sit down at the table. “Arthur,” he started, “This is about the day you and MaryAnne were in the lumberyard.”

  “Yes, sir.” Somehow I knew that day would catch up to me. I should have told Mom and Dad. “We didn’t take a lot, sir. I’ll bring all of the wood back if you want, honest.”

  Sheriff pulled his thumb out from the side of his belt and folded his arms over the tight shirt on his belly. “He’s not talking about scrap wood, son,” Sheriff said. “Tell him, Adrien.”

  Mr. DuPree explained, “We have reason to believe that the drowning of Dietrich and Gunther Stueck last summer was not an accident.” Mr. DuPree pulled one side of his mustache. He looked down at nothing on the table, like he didn’t know what to tell us next. “I am a private investigator for Public Life Insurance Company of Illinois. My job is to find out the truth of what happened to those two boys. The sheriff is here as a witness and to bring charges if necessary. Together, we’ll see that justice is served.” Mr. DuPree turned a chair around, then sat across the table from us with his arms folded over the back of the chair. “Now listen carefully. What we talk about today cannot be repeated to anyone except your parents—do you understand?”

  I nodded. MaryAnne was quiet, and I was too scared to look her way. Suddenly, a bright flash of lightning lit the kitchen window, followed by a crash of thunder that nearly pitched me off my chair.

  Mr. DuPree didn’t notice. “Now, the two of you witnessed something at the mill when you were hiding between the lumber piles. Am I right?”

  I nodded again.

  “I need you to tell me exactly what you saw and heard; nothing more, nothing less. Sheriff Downing will write your deposition as you speak. Any questions before we start?”

  I shook my head.

  Mr. DuPree continued, “Okay, Arthur, let’s start with you.”

  I took a deep breath while my thoughts raced back to that moment. I remembered the strong scent of fresh-cut pine, how hot I was, and the cool of the shade; but could I remember the words that were said? I just started speaking to Mr. DuPree. I told him how we found a cool spot to rest, about the two men comin’ out of the office, and what I remembered about Mr. Hawthorne being angry at Mr. Malvern—how he didn’t “do it right” and that he was mad that Gunther was gone and they couldn’t cut as many logs as they used to. It all seemed to run together. When I finished talking, I breathed a sigh of relief. Sheriff was still taking notes.

  “Thank you, Mr. Makinen. You did well,” said Mr. DuPree. “Anything else you need to tell us?”

  “Sorry for taking the wood,” I said.

  Sheriff cleared his throat. “You can keep it, son. You earned it.”

  Mr. DuPree turned his attention to MaryAnne. “Now, MaryAnne, what do you remember?”

  I took my first look at MaryAnne since we left the house. Her eyes were still as big as buttons and fixin’ to cry.

  “I don’t know, Daddy!” MaryAnne burst into tears.

  Mr. DuPree stood up, then lifted MaryAnne right off the chair with two powerful arms. Her head fell over his shoulder. Her dad patted her on the back like he was burping a newborn. “It’s okay, honey. It’s okay.”

  ***

  I had a lot of explaining to do back at home. I came in soaked to the skin. Mama tried to dry me with a dish towel, then shooed Ricky upstairs. She wanted to know what I had been doing, why I had been raising Cain again, and how she could trust me to stay out of trouble. Mama reminded me that she wouldn’t let me hear the end of it. I had to tell it all again to Dad after he got home.

  It was weird. Dad wasn’t mad at me. “Thank you, Shoe, for being honest with the sheriff and Mr. DuPree. I wish you had told me about it sooner, son.” Dad didn’t lay down any punishment, either. Mama scurried about the kitchen, sighing heavily. I hoped it would wear off.

  “Now, you do what Mr. DuPree said. No talking about it with anyone but your Mama and me, understand?” Dad’s face was as serious as I’d ever seen.

 
“Yes, sir,” I said. I didn’t want to talk about with anyone—except MaryAnne.

  ***

  My plans to work on the fort didn’t go so well the first week out of school. I spent the days fishing and hunting wintergreens. Dad and I went to our secret fishing hole that I couldn’t get to by myself. We took the long walk together then fished apart the whole time. I think Dad likes it that way. It’s always fun to get back together and show each other the fish we caught.

  Fishing kept my mind off of the mill and off of MaryAnne. Still, I wanted to see her, ‘cause we had a score to settle. The opportunity came a few days later when I headed to the creek with my fishing pole. She was by herself, comin’ down the road toward me.

  “Hey,” I said as I got closer.

  “Hi, Shoesth.”

  “Where are you comin’ from?” I asked.

  “I was down at our fort. Hoping to run into you. Where have you been?” MaryAnne wanted to know.

  “Around.” I was in no mood for chitchat.

  “What’s the matter, Shoesth?” MaryAnne had learned to read me. I wasn’t so sure that it was a good thing.

  I plunged ahead, “Why didn’t you tell me you were a spy?”

  “A spy!?” MaryAnne looked at me incredulously. “What are you talking about?”

  “That’s why you came here in the middle of the school year, isn’t it? It’s ‘cause your dad’s a spy and you weren’t going to let me know. That makes you a spy, too!” Her deception ate at me. I lowered my eyelids and let her have both barrels. “I trusted you, MaryAnne DuPree. I thought we were friends. Then you let me step into a trap that you knew was being set all along.”

  Maryanne shook her head again. This time it wasn’t in fun. “Shoesth, I had no idea. I’m telling you the truth! When I told you about my dad’s work, I didn’t know he was a detective guy. He never told me what he really does. I could hardly believe what Daddy was saying when we were with the sheriff.” MaryAnne’s eyes drooped. “That’s why I couldn’t talk when it was my turn.”