Mystery on Magnolia Circle

by Kate Klise

  “Oh no.”

  “The door’s opening. This could be his partner in crime! This is it, Ives!”

  But I knew it wasn’t it. I knew the person at the door was no partner in crime.

  “Is it my mom?” I whispered.

  “Yeah,” Teddy whispered back. “How’d you know?”

  Because it was Saturday morning at ten o’clock. She was there for their weekly coffee date. How had I forgotten this?

  “Do not let my mom see you,” I said. “Teddy, whatever you do, do not let her see you. Get down. Now! Quietly. Please!”

  “Okay. I’m coming right dow—”

  That’s when Teddy’s forehead hit the window, causing a loud thwunk. Even I heard what Mom said next.

  “Mr. Hobart, I apologize for the interruption,” she said in her calm but stern voice. “I’ll be back in thirty minutes. Ivy and Teddy, come with me.”

  * * *

  Turns out our neighbor, Mr. Hobart, suffered from agoraphobia, which is a mental condition that makes it nearly impossible for people to leave their homes. Mom was Mr. Hobart’s psychiatrist. That’s why she went to his house every Saturday morning at ten o’clock. It was their weekly appointment.

  Mom sent Teddy back to his building with the ladder. Then she sat me down in our living room for a talk.

  “The poor man hasn’t left his house in three years,” Mom said. “Three years, Ivy. He’s a lonely old man with mental health issues. And you’re spying on him?”

  “I’m sorry,” I mumbled.

  “Excuse me?” Mom said.

  “I said I’m sorry. I jumped to conclusions.”

  “I’m glad we agree on that,” Mom said. She took a deep breath. “Do you think what you did was fair to Mr. Hobart? Or kind?”

  “No,” I mumbled.

  “Excuse me?” Mom said.

  “No,” I said again, louder. “It wasn’t fair or kind. But the ladder wasn’t even my idea. I knew it was wrong. I just—”

  “I don’t care whose idea it was. You knew it was a bad idea, and you participated. I want you to write a letter of apology.”

  “He didn’t even see us!”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Mom said flatly. “I want you to write it anyway. Apologies are important.”

  She reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a clean sheet of paper.

  “Here,” she said. “There are pens in every room of the house. Write the letter. I’ll deliver it when I see him next Saturday.”

  “What am I supposed to write?”

  “Acknowledge your mistake, say you’re sorry, and commit in a meaningful way to doing better in the future.”

  I spent the next hour staring at the blank page. Finally, I wrote the letter.

  JUNE 27

  Dear Mr. Hobart,

  This morning I violated your privacy. I mistakenly thought you were the mastermind of a criminal operation, but I was the one who was up to no good.

  I’m very sorry for what I did. I will try my best to make it up to you. I thought about giving you my birthday money ($55), but my mom told me “monetary restitution is not appropriate in this situation.” So I’ll try to find another way to be a good neighbor to you. Maybe we can even become friends.

  Sincerely sorry and determined to do better,

  IVY CROWDEN

  Later that night, when I realized Mom was too mad to eat and Dad was engrossed in a book, I slunk into the kitchen and made a sandwich with two heels of raisin bread and a glop of peanut butter. I ate it in my bedroom. The sandwich sat like a rock in my stomach.

  “Primum non nocere,” Dad said. He was standing in the doorway to my bedroom, his book tucked under his arm.

  “What?” I replied.

  “It’s Latin for ‘First, do no harm.’ It’s part of the Hippocratic oath doctors take. It’s not a bad motto for life, Ivy. Above all else, we must try to do no harm to people.”

  “I know,” I said.

  “I know you know,” Dad said.

  An hour later, Mom stopped by my room. “Lights out,” she said. “Time for bed.”

  I nodded and reached for my bedside lamp. Mom came over to my bed and kissed me softly on my head.

  “Tomorrow’s another day,” she whispered in the dark. “Turn it around.”

  What I learned from that:

  Never go along with an idea you know is a mistake.

  TEN

  Finally, a Phone

  Winthrop had been moping around without Lotty. My dog hated fireworks, so Teddy and I decided to spend the Fourth of July at my house. We kept Winthrop’s ears covered while we struggled to assemble a maddening five hundred–piece puzzle of a Monet haystack.

  The following Friday, I had my six-week appointment with Dr. Ames. A cast technician used a saw to remove my fiberglass cast. I must’ve looked scared, because he did his best to reassure me.

  “Don’t worry,” he said. “I won’t cut your leg. The saw blade vibrates back and forth. It’s the vibration that severs the cast.”

  Once my cast was off, I had another round of X-rays. Then Mom and I waited in an examining room for Dr. Ames. I couldn’t take my eyes off my leg. It looked so shriveled up and skinny.

  Dr. Ames knocked on the door three times to announce his arrival. “How are we feeling?”

  “Same,” I replied.

  “Well, your leg isn’t the same,” he said happily, looking at my X-ray.

  “It’s not?”

  “No. It’s looking significantly better. You’re healing nicely. There’s no need to put you back in a long-leg cast.”

  “Seriously?” My heart did a backflip.

  “Seriously,” Dr. Ames said. “I’m going to put you in a short-leg cast.”

  My heart belly flopped. “Oh. I thought you meant we were done.”

  “We’re about halfway done. We’ll get you in a short-leg cast today that will reach just below your knee.”

  “Whatever. I’ll still have to use crutches.”

  Dr. Ames stroked his chin. “We could try a scooter.”

  “A scooter?” I repeated. “Cool.”

  “It might not be the kind of scooter you’re thinking of,” Dr. Ames said. “This is a knee scooter.”

  He showed me a picture on his phone of a contraption that had four wheels, a padded seat to rest my knee on, handlebars, and a basket with a cupholder. It looked like a cross between a regular scooter, a bike, and a grocery cart.

  Mom looked at the picture, too. “Is that better than crutches?”

  “It’s an alternative to crutches,” Dr. Ames said. “Ivy, I want you to start putting some weight on your leg when you’re at home. You’ve healed enough to start walking without crutches. Use the knee scooter when you’re out and about to keep from getting tired or reinjuring your leg. The scooter will be a nice tool for our final phase of this journey.”

  I rolled my eyes at the word journey, but not enough for Mom to get mad. I was just so tired of the whole ordeal. My entire summer was going to be ruined by one stupid fall down the front stairs of our house.

  At least the short cast was not as heavy as the long cast. And I had to admit, the knee scooter would be more fun than crutches.

  * * *

  Teddy’s tenth birthday was the following Thursday. To celebrate, his parents took him, his sister, Daphne, and me to Six Flags in nearby Eureka. To my surprise, I didn’t have to skip any of the rides because of my cast, not even the American Thunder roller coaster.

  On the way home, we stopped for frozen custard. It’s what Teddy wanted instead of a birthday cake. He opened his presents while we sat outside.

  I gave him The Collected Stories of Sherlock Holmes. “Hope you don’t mind that I read it first,” I said.

  “Are you kidding?” Teddy said. “I love a pre-read book. And I love mysteries. Thanks, Ives.”

  His parents gave him a pizza box from Chicago Pizza. Inside was a gift certificate for a stand-up comedy workshop at Second City in Chicago.

  �
��Oh, wow, thanks so much,” Teddy said, hugging his mom and then his dad. “You guys know I’ve been wanting to try stand-up forever.”

  Daphne gave Teddy his last gift, which was by far the best gift. It was her old cell phone.

  “It’s nothing fancy,” Daphne said as Teddy unwrapped it. “But at least it’s a phone. You’ll be on the family plan.”

  “Finally!” Teddy cried, holding the phone over his head “My life can begin! Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  I tried to smile, but I’m sure it looked fake. My parents weren’t planning to get me a phone until I turned twelve.

  “Don’t worry, Ives,” Teddy said. “We can get by with one phone between us, at least until school starts.”

  Teddy and I fully expected to be in different homerooms for fifth grade. We’d been in the same homeroom only once, back in first grade. Teachers thought it was a good idea to split up best friends. It never made sense to me.

  The next night, Teddy and I walked with my knee scooter to Forest Park to watch an outdoor production of Annie.

  The seats were free, but the July night was so hot and muggy, we left at intermission. On the way home, Teddy was singing “It’s the Hard-Knock Life.”

  That’s when I saw it.

  “Teddy, look!” I said, pointing.

  “It’s Ted,” he said, continuing to sing.

  “Be quiet and look. Do you see it?” I was pointing at the bumper-to-bumper traffic on Skinker Boulevard.

  “See what?” Teddy said.

  “The white van! Right there! Look who’s climbing into the passenger seat. Isn’t that Melvin Moss?”

  I was sure it was him. Melvin was wearing a baseball cap. His red hair was peeking out from underneath.

  “I’m not sure,” Teddy said tentatively. “Maybe?”

  “It’s him,” I said. “I’m positive. One hundred percent positive. Did Daphne have the DriveMeThere app on her old phone?”

  “I think so,” said Teddy, looking at the birthday present from his sister. “Mom and Dad said she could use it in case of emergency.”

  “This is an emergency. Open the DriveMeThere app. We need a ride now!”

  “Wow!” Teddy said, fumbling with his new phone. “This is going to be so much better than Annie!”

  What I learned from that:

  The best drama always takes place offstage.

  ELEVEN

  Run! Scoot! Drive!

  It took us a minute or two to figure out how the DriveMeThere app worked.

  “There!” Teddy finally said, looking at his phone. “I think I did it.”

  “Let me see.”

  I’d watched my mom and dad use DriveMeThere. I knew what to look for. “It says our driver is Maureen. She’s in a blue Honda Civic. The plate number is listed here. She’ll arrive in one minute.”

  “How’s that possible with all this traffic?” Teddy asked. “Nobody’s moving.”

  Just then a blue car flashed its lights. It was a Honda Civic with Maureen’s license plate.

  “That’s her, Teddy! That our ride. C’mon. Run!”

  “I’m running,” he said. “Scoot!”

  “I’m scooting!” I said, pushing my knee scooter as fast as I could.

  Teddy opened the car door while I poked my head in to speak with the driver.

  “Maureen?” I said.

  “Yep,” she said. “Daphne?”

  “Close enough,” I answered.

  “I’m not supposed to pick up unaccompanied minors,” Maureen said. “But I can see you’re in a bit of a pickle with that cast on your leg.”

  “We’re on serious business,” Teddy said.

  “There’s a white van ahead of us,” I said. “Can you follow it?”

  “I can try,” Maureen said. “You set your destination as the Gateway Arch.”

  “Never mind that,” I said. “Just follow the white van. A redheaded boy is sitting in the front passenger seat.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Maureen said.

  I folded my knee scooter and threw it in the backseat. We were off.

  Maureen drove us down Skinker Boulevard to Lindell. Traffic was still bad. She turned on Lindell. I watched as we passed the Missouri History Museum on our right and then the Chase Park Plaza Hotel on our left.

  “I think I see your van ahead of us,” Maureen said.

  “Good!” I said. “Keep your eye on it. Please.”

  Lindell Boulevard turned into Olive Street. Teddy was staring out his side of the car. “When you guys see the street sign for Olive, do you read it as olive, like the garnish, or oh-live, like the command?”

  “Teddy, c’mon,” I said. “Eyes on the prize. We’re trying not to lose the white van.”

  “Wait, there it is!” he said. “It just turned left! See it, Maureen?”

  “I do,” she said.

  “Drive fast!” I said. “Please! We have to see where this van is going.”

  Five minutes later, we were on Delmar Boulevard. Maureen pulled over.

  “Sorry,” she said, “but I lost the van a couple of lights back. It might’ve turned on Jefferson, but I’m not sure.”

  “It’s okay,” I said. “We’ll get out here.”

  Maureen pointed at a tall brick house across the street.

  “Have you guys ever been there?” she asked. “It’s where Scott Joplin once lived. You know, the famous piano composer? The so-called ‘king’ of ragtime music?”

  “Huh,” I said, barely listening. Another person trying to get me interested in the Scott Joplin house when all I cared about was finding Melvin Moss and the mysterious white van.

  “How much do we owe you?” Teddy asked.

  Maureen turned around from the front seat and grinned. “This is your first DriveMeThere ride, isn’t it? I thought so. You guys don’t owe me anything. It’s billed to the credit card linked to this account.”

  “Great,” Teddy said.

  “Thanks,” I added.

  After Maureen helped unload my knee scooter, Teddy and I stood on Delmar Boulevard. We waved as she drove away. It was pitch-dark. For the first time all night I felt scared.

  We wandered on foot and scooter for almost an hour. We must’ve been walking in circles, because we found ourselves in front of Scott Joplin’s old house again.

  “It’s a museum,” Teddy said. “Look at the sign. It’s part of the Missouri State Park system. How can a house be a park?”

  I started to answer but was interrupted by the sound of Teddy’s phone chirping. He answered on the third chirp.

  “Hey, Mom,” he said, looking at me with a face that said, uh-oh. “Yeah, Annie was good. Kinda cheesy, but good. Where are we? Almost home. We’re a bit late because…”

  He was looking at me again. I shrugged. Then I pointed to my knee scooter and mouthed the words: Flat tire?

  “Ivy’s scooter got a … flat tire,” Teddy said.

  He was still talking to his mom while staring at me with wide-open eyes, like, Is that the best you can do?

  “I know,” he said. “Weird, right? Yeah. Okay. Sorry, Mom. We’ll be home soon.”

  He ended the call.

  “Flat tire?” he said, making a face.

  “I couldn’t think of anything better.”

  “We’ve got to get home before my mom gets really worried.”

  He took a step into the street and looked in both directions. “Think Maureen’s still around?”

  “We can try to get her,” I said. “Open the DriveMeThere app and request a ride back to your house.”

  Ten minutes later, our driver, Oakes, arrived. He wasn’t as chatty as Maureen, and he drove a lot faster. But not so fast that I didn’t see it: the white van with paneled sides. It was parked in front of a place called Victory Mission, not three blocks from Scott Joplin’s house.

  This time I didn’t jump to conclusions. I needed more information. But at least I knew what the next step should be.

  What I learned from that:

>   Taking small, logical steps isn’t nearly as fun as jumping to conclusions. But it feels more professional.

  TWELVE

  Scott Joplin’s House

  The next day was Saturday. Dad was making omelets for a change.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to sound as casual as possible as I waited for my breakfast, “can we go to the Scott Joplin museum today? And can Teddy come with us?”

  Dad nearly dropped the omelet pan.

  “I would love to do that,” he said. “And of course Teddy can come along.”

  Mom was pouring milk into her coffee. “I’ll have to pass. Mr. Hobart and I have a two-hour session scheduled today.”

  I didn’t say anything. I knew she was still mad at me for spying on Mr. Hobart.

  “Call Teddy and tell him we’ll leave around eleven,” said Dad. “We can grab lunch downtown, after the museum.”

  * * *

  At a quarter to twelve, Dad was getting frustrated.

  “Where the devil is this place?” he asked. “I must’ve driven past it a million times over the years. Why can’t I find it now?”

  “The address is 2658 Delmar Boulevard,” I said.

  The number was seared into my memory from the night before, but I couldn’t tell my dad that.

  “I, um, looked it up online,” I fibbed.

  “Good for you, Ivy,” Dad said. “I’m impressed.”

  Teddy had to put his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing.

  “There!” Dad said. “It’s that red-brick building.”

  We were just in time to catch the noon tour. Our guide, Liam, began by telling us some background information about Scott Joplin, the King of Ragtime.

  “We’re not exactly sure what year he was born,” Liam explained. “It was either 1867 or 1868, after the Civil War. So, unlike his father, Scott Joplin was born a free African American man, but he still faced the challenges of the day. His father abandoned the family. His mother cleaned homes for wealthy white people for free if they’d let young Scott practice on their pianos.”

  We learned that Scott Joplin lived in this house for less than two years.