Holly's Heart Collection One (42 page)

“Hey, Holly. Check this out.” He pointed to a page in the handwriting book.

Sitting down, I saw a lineup of famous signatures from George Washington to John Kennedy. And…Winston Churchill, Laura Ingalls Wilder, and Billy Graham.

I pulled Mom’s letters out of my backpack. “Here’s the first one…from Japan.” I showed him the second letter. “This one has a Hong Kong postmark and stamp, with the same handwriting. Then a third letter came from Hawaii. The writing is different, don’t you think?”

He agreed with me, then opened the handwriting book to chapter two. “Let’s take a look at the slant of the letters. It says here that if the writing leans to the right, the writer has a strong urge to communicate. In other words, your mom’s mystery man is talkative.”

We compared the two different handwritings.

“What do you think?” I reached for my tablet.

“We need a list of characteristics for the writer of the first two letters and a separate list for the latest letter writer,” Danny said.

“I can do that.” I marked my headings on the lined paper.
Writer 1
for the two letters from Asia and
Writer 2
for the letter from Hawaii.

An hour later, the great list maker had two lists—with Danny’s help, of course.

“Hey, I think I like writer number two,” I said, studying the two lists. “He’s cool.”

“Stepfather material?” Danny joked.

“Puh-leez!” I said it too loudly. The librarian raised her dark eyebrows and stared at us like a bull ready to charge.

Just then, out of the shelves behind us, came a mysterioussounding voice. “Better keep it down over there, or you might end up with the boogeyman’s signature.”

Startled, I whirled around, catching a glimpse of Jared Wilkins’ brown hair. I’d know him anywhere.

“Who was that?” Danny asked, looking around.

“Just your imagination,” I said, laughing.

Now the librarian really did look ready to charge. In fact, she stood up and leaned against her desk.

“We’re going to get kicked out of this place. That’s never happened to me before,” Danny said, a worried look on his face.

“Shh,” I said, my finger on my lips.

“Can we please not get thrown out?” he whispered.

“Relax. Don’t worry so much. Here,” I said, shoving a blank piece of paper under his nose. “Write your first, middle, and last name.”

Danny frowned. “What for?”

“For me to figure
you
out, that’s what.”

“Oh,
I
get it. You think now that you’ve seen one book on the subject, you’re a pro at graphology.”

“Hey, that’s good,” I said. “Let your emotions come out sometimes. It’s not good to hold them in so much. Gives people ulcers.”

“I already have one,” he said so straight-faced I believed him.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Once again, I spotted Jared sneaking around behind the shelves, holding his hand over his mouth to cover his laughter. While Danny studied our list, I shook my head at Jared. It was a warning for him to get lost. Fast!

I should’ve known he would ignore my signal. Here he came, wearing jeans and jacket to match, rolled up at the sleeves.

“Hello, Holly Meredith,” he crooned, soft enough to keep us from getting booted out.

Danny looked up. “Doing research today?”

Jared grinned at me. “You might say that.”

I couldn’t help it; I blushed.

Danny sat up straight in his chair. “Ready for track season?” he asked.

“Always,” Jared said, flexing his arm muscles. “Well, it looks like you two have some work to finish. Catch you later.” He swaggered past the librarian, who seemed to be holding back her urge to charge us…and not for overdue books, either.

“Let’s review all the angles,” Danny said, “and take a look at the content of the letters.”

I pushed Jared Wilkins out of my mind as we reviewed the silly riddles about the bald man without any locks, the “your honeyness” queen bee, and the beehive.

“It appears someone knows your mother was dating that Tate fellow and hoped to divert her attention,” Danny said.

“Makes sense.”

“Here’s something.” He pointed at the first letters. “It looks like a young person started writing the letters and then someone with ‘family pride’—that could be a father or an older friend—took over the writing.”

“According to our lists, these two writers have something in common. Athletic ability,” I said, rechecking.

“Now think, Holly. Who do you know that’s left-handed, has a great imagination, isn’t afraid to take risks, and plays sports?”

I kept staring at the list. “And he must have a messy room and think he’s hot stuff.”

Danny leaned closer, elbows on the table, resting his chin on his fists.

“Only one person fits that description,” I said after a long moment. “My cousin Stan.”

“Who?”

“My fourteen-year-old schizoid cousin. Uncle Jack’s son.”

“Are you sure?” Danny asked, his eyes searching mine.

“I’m positive.”

Just then I noticed Kayla Miller crouching down, pretending to look at the bottom shelf in one of the reference sections. No way did I want her in on this secret mission. Quickly, I gathered up our notes. “I need some fresh air,” I said.

Danny followed, checking out the handwriting book, asking for my card as we arrived at the bullpen, er, check-out desk.

“Keep those lists handy,” he said as we headed into the bright Colorado sun.

It was fabulously hot for late August. As we passed the city park, near the library, I noticed the sky was cloudless. Families were gathered for picnics under stately cottonwood trees, enjoying the last days before school doors opened.

My mind zoomed back to my oldest cousin. Why would Stan write those stupid letters to Mom? And what was he doing in Japan?

I knew he had gone along on a business trip with Uncle Jack, but I’d never heard they were going overseas. And what older buddy did he know in Hawaii who could have been bribed to write the latest letter?

I studied the list for writer number two as we strolled through the grounds near the courtyard. “This writer is talkative, has a great sense of humor, would write an anonymous letter as a joke, and takes pride in his family,” I said, thinking out loud.

Danny continued, “And he must have kids, or else he’s proud of his own parents.”

“Good point.” I sat on the concrete strip that ran along the front of the county courthouse grounds.

“If he’s religious, that might mean he’s a Christian,” Danny remarked. “
That’s
good.”

“And he has a good head for business. But best of all he’s romantic,” I said loudly, hoping the notion might rub off on Danny.

“Any idea who that might be?” Danny asked.

“Let me see the book again.”

“Here.” Danny held the book for me.

It fell open to the chapter on famous people. My eyes almost popped out. There was the name of the famed mystery writer, Leigh, written with an ornate flourish.

“Let me see that,” I said, almost pulling the book out of Danny’s hand. I held it close, studying the slant, the loops, the beginning and ending strokes. “This is so cool—Marty Leigh’s handwriting.”

“Who’s Marty Leigh?” Danny asked.

“You don’t
know
?”

He leaned back on the cement wall, crossing his arms in front of him. “Should I?”

“She’s the greatest mystery writer of our time,” I said proudly. But I didn’t say that I was pen pals with her nephew.

“
She?
So Marty must be a woman.”

“And what a writer she is.” I didn’t like the way Danny was looking at me. Like he doubted my opinion.

“Guess I’m not much into novels,” he said.

“If you don’t like fiction, what’s left?” I studied him incredulously.

“For me it’s science and nature books, mostly.”

“I like nature, too. But I also
love
fiction.”

“Nonfiction broadens the mind. You should try it more often. It’s true, you know. Fiction is merely someone’s imagination running wild.”

I wasn’t sure where he was going with this. “I thought you were interested in my fiction…
my
imagination running wild,” I reminded him.

“Sure, I’ll read your stories sometime. Right now we have a mystery to solve.”

“I’m not sure if
we
do or not,” I said, feeling hurt.

“What’s wrong, Holly?”

“There’s only one mystery, and I’m looking at him,” I said, dashing off down the sidewalk, my tablet and book under my arm, my backpack slung over one shoulder.

“Holly!” he called after me.

Danny had to know what I meant. Billy and Andie and everyone in Dressel Hills seemed to. I had every right to be upset.

I walked faster. “I know
exactly
who wrote the letter from Hawaii,” I said. “I have to get home and tell my mom. See ya.”

Then I took off running, leaving Danny-cold-fish-Myers behind without a clue.

SEALED WITH A KISS

Chapter 15

I ran all the way home. Past the village ski shops and down the narrow street of my childhood. Away from Danny.

Carrie and Stephanie were sitting on the front-porch swing sipping lemonade. Their soft giggles mingled with the creaks of the swing. When I reached them I was out of breath, but I couldn’t wait another second to ask Stephie the question burning inside me. “Did…your brothers…go to Japan?”

“Yes,” she said.

“And…Hong Kong?”

“Yes,” she repeated.

“What about Hawaii?” I asked, catching my breath.

“Last week,” she said sheepishly.

“The night you were here for supper, right?”

Stephie nodded, her chin-length hair bouncing.

“The night Mr. Tate announced his plans to marry Mom?”

“Uh…yeah,” she said, her brown eyes growing wide.

“You talked to your father on the phone long-distance that night when you went back to the Millers’ house, didn’t you?”

Her lower lip trembled. “Uh-huh,” she said in a squeaky get-set-for-tears voice.

I picked Stephie up off the porch swing, twirling her around and around, squealing, “Yes!”

We fell into a heap on the redwood floor of the porch, nearly knocking over the pots of Chinese-red geraniums. Mom poked her face out the door, obviously puzzled.

“Perfect,” I said when I saw her. “You’re just the person we need to talk to.”

“Before you do, have you seen those silly letters anywhere?” she asked, holding the screen door open a few inches.

“Oh, those.” I reached for my backpack. It had landed topsyturvy under the porch swing. “Here.” I handed them to her.

Her eyes narrowed. “Holly Meredith…”

“Before you get upset, Mom, I have some news that’ll make your hair stand up and boogie.”

Carrie and Stephie giggled, even though I was certain Stephie knew what I was about to announce.

“Here, Mom, you need to sit down first,” I said, taking her arm and guiding her to a chair like she was a helpless invalid. I stood back and made a pretend drum roll in midair. “Are you ready for this?”

“Tell us!” Carrie shrieked.

“This announcement is all about true love,” I said. “For…I am quite certain that Uncle Jack’s in love with you, Mom.”

Stephie and Carrie began jumping up and down, giggling.

“Please, girls,” Mom said, insisting they sit down. “Now, Holly, what on earth are you saying?”

I began to unravel the tale of two letter writers. “One was a teenage boy who got the ball rolling as a practical joke with two anonymous letters to you, after overhearing a description of Mr. Tate’s lack of hair.”

“Bald Tate,” said Stephie, no doubt repeating the term she’d used to her brother Stan on a long-distance phone call.

Mom looked completely lost. “Will you please slow down, Holly?”

“Okay,” I said. “But think about it…remember the long- distance call I told you about? It must’ve been Stan disguising his voice, pretending to check up on the letter he’d mailed from Japan.”

Mom leaned forward, listening more carefully.

“And after
that
phone call came the third letter, surprising us with new handwriting…. A different person. Another writer!”

“We
know
all this,” Mom said, pushing a strand of blond hair away from her face.

“Yes, well, Stephie ate supper with us the night Mr. Tate told us his plan to move us to the mountains and start a bee farm,” I said, eyeing Stephie. “Later that night, she talked to her father in Hawaii.”

Mom looked disturbed. She started to speak. “Oh, Holly—”

“There’s more,” I interrupted. “The best part is this. What Stan started as a joke turned out to be a way for Uncle Jack to take up where Stan left off, with his beehive joke…and the ‘sweet thoughts of you’ sign-off. Stephie, tell my mom I’m not making this up.”

“Well?” Mom said, leaning over to look into the freckled face of her sneaky little niece. “Did you play spy-kid at our house?”

“I leaked the info,” she said in a tiny voice.

“You told your daddy about my plans with Mr. Tate?” Mom asked.

“Daddy said to tell him if you were dating anyone.
And
if you were happy. That’s when I told him about the marriage license and the log cabin. And…you know, stuff like that.”

“Why do you think your daddy wanted to know about these things?” Mom asked, holding the lemonade glass without drinking.

“Because nobody, except Carrie, was very happy about Mr. Tate. Especially you, Auntie Susan.”