Is Anybody There? (7 page)

“You don’t have to be sure. We have a deal, the two of us. If you’re scared at all … if you even suspect something isn’t right …”

It made it worse that she was getting mad at me in front of Nick. She looked ready to say more but she didn’t. Under the table Nick’s foot brushed against mine and I realized, knew absolutely, that he’d given Mom a nudge, a warning to go easy and not hassle me anymore. Why did he always have to interfere? Even if I believed him that he hadn’t taken any of our stuff—and I wasn’t sure I did believe him—he should keep his nose out of our business.

“I suspected something tonight, and you didn’t like that much,” I said.

“Let’s just take another look around,” Nick said quietly. “Caroline, would you like to stay here?”

“No. I’m coming with you.”

The three of us went again, room to room.

The only thing missing seemed to be the clock.

“I don’t
begin
to understand this. Look!” Mom opened the drawer in her bedside table and I saw three small piles of five- and ten-dollar bills with paper clips and notes attached
to them. “I got money from the bank yesterday. Last night in bed I was figuring out what the grocery bill would be tomorrow, and putting aside the Christmas money for the paperboy and the mailman. Whoever took the clock didn’t look very far. Or wasn’t interested.”

Something horrible was nagging at my mind, trying to make me listen to it, and suddenly I knew what it was.

“If I had my key with me every second today, how did the person get in? He got in today. The clock was there this morning.”

We were in the kitchen again where we’d started.

“The key could have been taken a couple of days ago and a copy made,” Nick said. “Then the person could use it to go in and out whenever he wanted.”

“But why?” Mom asked. “And why here? Especially when so little was taken. It gives me the creeps.”

“Maybe he just happened on that key by luck. Maybe he had nowhere else to go.”

Mom shivered. “I can’t stand it. Someone
in
here, touching our things, eating our food.”

My mind was shifting in dizzying circles. Someone’s been sitting in
my
chair. Someone’s been sleeping in
my
bed.

“Do you think we should call the police, Marcus?” Mom asked.

I couldn’t believe she was asking me and not Nick. Or that he was waiting for me to decide. Of course, that was the way it should be.

“What do you think, Nick?” I definitely couldn’t believe
I’d
asked
him.

“It’s not much of a case,” Nick said. “One inexpensive clock. The police have too much serious stuff going on. I suspect they’d just tell you to have the locks changed, Caroline.”

“I’ll have them changed all right. First thing tomorrow morning.”

The ringing of the doorbell almost stopped my breathing. “Who on earth?” Mom whispered.

Nick held up his hand. “I’ll go.”

I went, too, a few paces behind him.

“It’s Miss Sarah,” he said after he’d looked out the living-room window. She was wearing her plaid robe and a pair of the knitted slippers she and Miss Coriander make and donate
to the old people’s home.

“We saw the three of you going room to room,” she said. “And the house lit up like the Fourth of July. Is something wrong?”

Mom came then and explained about how the clock was missing and what we suspected.

“You mean that cheap, plastic clock you keep by your bed?” I could tell Miss Sarah was wondering if we’d all gone mad.

“Nobody could have come in or out of this house without Coriander or me seeing them. And that’s definite!” she said. “We keep an eye on all the comings and goings over here.” It seemed to me she was staring accusingly at Nick.

“The back door isn’t within your seeing range, Miss Sarah,” Nick said. “Not if someone came through the hedge in the other direction.”

Miss Sarah gave one of her disbelieving sniffs. “I have to call Coriander,” she said. “She’s waiting by the phone in case of an emergency. If I don’t contact her in three minutes she’ll dial 911.”

We listened as Miss Sarah gave her sister a full report, sounding as if the whole thing was
ridiculous and she expected Miss Coriander to feel the same way.

“We both agree that you and Marcus should not sleep here tonight,” she told Mom when she finished. “Get your pajamas and your toothbrush, Marcus. We’ll find sheets and pillows and put the two of you in our guest bedroom.”

I didn’t think Miss Sarah or Miss Coriander could find the
beds
in the guest room, never mind the sheets and pillows. Their whole house is as messy as their kitchen.

“That’s not necessary, Miss Sarah,” Mom said. “But really, thanks.”

“It probably isn’t. But if there’s the slightest chance that someone does have a key to your house, you’re certainly not going to be here if he comes in. Don’t be silly, Caroline.”

“Why don’t I just stay and sleep on the couch tonight?” Nick asked. “That would be the easiest.”

Miss Sarah’s brown eye and blue eye narrowed and her long nose went up. “It would indeed be
easy,
Mr. Milardovich. But not wise. Caroline would be much safer with us.”

I could tell Miss Sarah didn’t like the
thought of Mom and Nick being friends any more than I did.

“I think it’s a very good idea,” Mom said quickly. “Less trouble … all around. If you’re sure you don’t mind the couch, Nick?”

“Looks great to me,” Nick said.

“I’m sure!” Somehow Miss Sarah always gets in a parting shot.

So Mom got Nick sheets and a light blanket and a pillow. I have to admit that when I was in bed it was good to think of Nick in the living room. I’d given him the blackthorn stick, and he’d put it on the rug right next to his hand. I lay picturing some faceless person sneaking into our house, moving secretively, quietly, and Nick roaring up from that couch, the blackthorn in his hand, an enraged bear out for blood.

Unless, of course, Nick
was
the faceless person. Then we’d asked the fox to come in and share the chicken coop. But why would he want to? What reason could he possibly have? Anyway, if he had been coming here secretly, he’d been stopped. We’d scared him off. And Miss Sarah and Miss Coriander would be on double guard duty from here on in.

Was he sleeping now?

I tiptoed into the living room.

Nick was snoring softly on the couch. He reminded me of the Santa in the mall with the sign on his stomach. The couch was too short and Nick’s hairy legs and knobby feet hung over the end, poking from under the blanket.

It jumped into my head how quick he’d been to say we shouldn’t call the police. Quietly I lifted the blackthorn stick from the floor by the couch and took it with me when I went back to bed. No sense leaving him a weapon.

Although she’d borrowed my alarm clock, Mom slept late the next morning. She didn’t even have time for a cup of coffee before she left for work. I thought maybe she’d woken up a few times in the night. I had.

It was Nick who had to phone and arrange for the locksmith to come out. While we waited, Nick said he had something for me and he’d run up to his apartment and get it. I thought maybe it was a Christmas gift, but what he had was a set of Campagnolo pedals, packed side by side in a foam-lined box like precious jewels.

“You didn’t get them yet, did you?” he asked.

“No. I didn’t have time to check with Henry yesterday, though. They might be in.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off the shine and gleam of the Campies, their classy, elegant lines. “I was going to ride down there this morning.”

“I found these in a bike shop over by school,” Nick said. “If Henry has yours, I can take them back.”

“This was the secret last night?”

“Sure. How could I hand them over in front of your mom?”

I touched the clean, cold metal with the tip of a finger. It was nice of Nick to do this. But he needn’t think helping me would make me stop suspecting him. And the pedals were part of the bike, the bike that was my gift to Mom. I’d saved and worked for this all year and I especially didn’t want
him
horning in.

“You owe me some bucks,” Nick said. “If you want them, that is.”

So this was a business arrangement. OK then. “Thanks. I’ll be able to get the bike finished this afternoon.”

“You’re welcome,” Nick said.

The locksmith came then. She was young, but seemed to know her stuff, and soon we had new keys for the front and back doors.

“How many will you need?” she asked, looking at Nick.

“Three,” I said. “We always leave one for Miss Coriander and Miss Sarah.”

Nick held up four fingers. We got four of each. And Nick took the old keys off his ring and slid the new ones on. So maybe the fox still had a key to the chicken coop.

It was already ten o’clock and I called Henry, half hoping the Campies would be there, waiting for me in his shop, so I could ask Nick to take his back. Getting them from Nick did make a difference, no matter how I tried to make myself believe it didn’t. But they hadn’t come, and Henry told me he didn’t expect a delivery tomorrow, Christmas Eve. “I’m real sorry, Marcus,” he said. “Why don’t you come down and I’ll find you the next best thing?”

“I don’t need the next best thing,” I said. “I’ve got the best.”

Henry said, “Buying from the competition, huh?” Then he said, “Great, Marcus. And don’t worry about the ones you ordered. I can sell them and get bigger bucks too. I always lose out on cash when I sell to a friend.”

It’s true. Henry always does give me a good deal.

For the rest of the day I worked in the garage, putting the pedals on the bike, polishing everything with special wax. The Campies looked great! Talk about the finishing touch! Talk about the “piece de” whatever! Those Campies did it. The bike looked like a million dollars.

I called Robbie to come over and see.

“I bet you could sell this baby for fifty bucks,” he said when he came.

“Shoot,” I told him. “The pedals alone cost close to that.”

“A hundred.” He began humming and looking at me sideways.

“This bike’s for my mom, you bozo.”

“I know that. I just mean, if she gets
tired
of it. Or doesn’t use it or something.”

“She’ll use it,” I said. “This is a custom job. A real Rolls Royce of a bike.”

Robbie was sitting on the floor over Sydney with his feet covering Perth. I’d told him all about last night and the missing clock. He’d examined the grass clump, sniffing it, holding it up to his ear.

“It’s not
ticking,
Robbie,” I said.

“Maybe we should take it to one of those police labs,” he’d suggested.

I’d told him about Nick sleeping over and the extra key. I tell Robbie just about everything. But I didn’t mention seeing Anjelica Trotter in the mall. Robbie would have loved hearing about how different she’d looked, and he’d have had all kinds of funny reasons for her flat top. I could even imagine. But I didn’t want to tell him.

He’d brought over my Christmas present, which was soft to the squeeze, like toilet paper on TV. “It isn’t something to wear, is it?” I asked.

Robbie nodded. “You’ll like it, though. It’s not ordinary, I’ll tell you that.”

After he left I thought it only fair to invite Nick down to see the bike too.

He walked all around it, his head cocked on one side. “Great job, Marcus,” he said, and I knew he meant it. You can tell about things like that.

“I still have to get the money out of my savings account for you,” I told him. “I don’t think I can do that now till after Christmas.”

“No hurry,” he said.

But there was a hurry. For me anyway. I wanted to get him paid. “As soon as I can,” I promised.

It was five o’clock and already growing dark. I went inside and took a shower. Ages ago I’d seen a movie called
Psycho,
about a lady who got stabbed in a shower. I began thinking about that while the water was running on me and I almost busted a gut to get out and dry off. But the new locks were on the doors. I was safe. Safe and secure in my own house the way I’d always been. Wasn’t I?

I was in the kitchen fixing a salad and thinking about Anjelica Trotter when I heard the smallest of sounds in the garage. I stopped, my hands still in the bowl, with bits of lettuce and spinach stuck between my fingers and salad oil all the way up to my wrists. What was that? A hiss, a small bump, a jingling. It was as if someone was in there, had stubbed a toe against the workbench. It wasn’t enough of a sound to hear normally, but I realized, even though the locks were changed and the only thing missing for sure was a dumb old clock, that I’d been semilistening all day. Semi-watching
too. I’d been pecking over my shoulder as I worked on the bike, going often to the living-room window to look down the driveway.

I took my hands from the salad bowl, wiped them on my jeans, tiptoed to the door, and put my ear against the paneled wood. At first I could hear only my heart, or maybe the blood running scared through my body. But then I knew there was someone in the garage, moving quietly; tiptoeing the way I’d tiptoed across the kitchen. I’d been here all the time. How did he get in? Through the garage door. That was the sound I’d heard, the heavy weight going up, the swish, the faint creak of the hinges. Someone was in there!

Quick as anything I flung open the kitchen door, snaked my hand round the side into the garage, and pushed on the light switch. At the same time I pressed myself flat against the kitchen wall. Little by little I wormed my head around.

When the garage door goes up on the automatic opener, a light comes on attached to the center hinge. I’d forgotten that. It stays on for about two minutes before it goes off. I think
it’s supposed to let you see to get out of your car, or be safe when you open the door and the garage is dark.

Now both lights were on. And there was someone there all right. He was standing in the middle of the garage staring at me. If ever anyone, anytime, looked guilty, he did.

“Nick!” I said. “What are you doing? How did you get the big door up?”

He answered the second question, but not the first. “I have one of your automatic openers,” he said. He did. It was right there in his hand. His other was hidden behind his back. “Your mother has two, you know. She lent me one so—”