Nobody's There (9 page)

“Oh, sure. She's a strict straight arrow,” Leslie answered. “But who hasn't done something that later they wish they hadn't?” As Mrs. Wilhite rapped on a lectern for order, Leslie quickly said, “I was assigned to Mrs. Merkel until she ‘fired' me. So was Joyce Reamer. You seem to be a lot better than we were at dealing with her. Good for you.”

“Girls,
please
come to order,” Mrs. Wilhite said.

Abbie, Gigi, and Leslie quickly took their seats. The room quieted, and Mrs. Wilhite began to conduct her meeting.

Gigi was given her packet and asked to contact her Friend to Friend assignment during the next two or three days. A few people had questions, which Mrs. Wilhite answered. Then she asked each member to stand as she called her name in alphabetical order and briefly describe an activity she had carried out with the elderly woman assigned to her.

One by one the girls talked about various activities, from inviting their Friends home for dinner to taking them to the park, the grocery store, or choir practice.

Finally Mrs. Wilhite called, “Abbie Thompson.”

Nervously Abbie stood and faced the others. How could she tell them that Mrs. Merkel had trapped two roof repair scam artists and led the police to a man stealing cell phone numbers?

She skirted the direct question about what she and Mrs. Merkel had done and began describing Buckler's Bloodhounds. Finally she said, “That's it, I guess,” and looked at Mrs. Wilhite.

Mrs. Wilhite cleared her throat and said, “Everyone, please maintain the fine image of our important group. If there is no further business, this meeting is adjourned.”

Some of the girls left the meeting room as quickly as possible, but Abbie waited a moment until Leslie had gathered her books. “Thanks for … for everything,” Abbie said.

“I was ten when my parents divorced,” Leslie said. “I still remember how angry I was.”

“My brother's ten,” Abbie told her. “He's angry all the time. He's even angry at me, and none of what Dad did is my fault.”

Leslie nodded. “You have to be patient,” she said. “Looking back, I wonder how my mom put up with me.” She swung her book bag over her shoulder as she added, “If Mrs. Merkel's working on protecting senior citizens, let your brother in on it. Kids like the game of being spies or detectives. You know.”

Abbie nodded. “Thanks,” she said. “I'll try it.” She couldn't tell Leslie—she couldn't tell anyone—that Mrs. Merkel wasn't following the rules of investigating. And she wasn't involved in a game. She was playing for keeps.

Abbie made macaroni and cheese for dinner because it was Davy's favorite. He came banging in the kitchen door just before their mother was due home from work, tossing his baseball glove, bat, and ball on the floor with a clatter.

Normally Abbie would have yelled at him to stop making so much noise and put his stuff where it belonged. Instead she said, “Davy, I need some help.”

“I'm not going to set the table, if that's what you want,” he said. “You can do it yourself.”

Abbie shook her head. “It hasn't got anything to do with setting the table. I'm worried about some criminals I might have to deal with—some dangerous criminals.”

Davy stopped halfway across the room and turned to look at her. “That's dumb,” he said, but Abbie knew she had his full attention. “Where would
you
meet a dangerous criminal?”

Abbie lowered her voice and glanced from side to side. “It's a long story,” she said. “And it's top secret. Maybe I shouldn't tell you.”

Davy plopped into a kitchen chair. “Tell me,” he said. “I won't tell anybody.”

So Abbie sat opposite him, resting her elbows on the table, and told him about Buckler's Bloodhounds and what Mrs. Merkel had done to catch the con men.

Davy listened, his eyes wide. When Abbie had finished, he said, “You stuck a chair leg into the
guy's back and he thought it was a gun? What a turkey! But, hey, that's cool!”

“I don't know what to do,” Abbie said. “Mrs. Merkel is really into this private-eye stuff, and she keeps hinting at something big. It's probably all in her imagination, but I'm not sure. What do you think I should do, Davy?”

Davy's forehead wrinkled as he thought a moment. Finally he looked up. “You said she writes things in a little notebook?”

“Yes, but she won't let me see what she writes.”

“That's okay. It doesn't matter. You should keep a notebook too.”

“What would I write in it?”

“Things like when you meet with her. Put down the day and the times. You know, all that stuff you need to record.”

“Hmmm, I don't know what to—”

“Look,” Davy interrupted as he shifted impatiently in his chair, “I'll keep it for you. You just report to me every time you've gone to visit her, and if she's done any detecting, then I'll write down what I just told you. Then you can tell me what went on, and I'll write that down too.”

Abbie smiled. “Thanks, Davy. I hadn't thought of that.”

“I could even come along,” Davy suggested, and Abbie relished seeing her brother the way he used to be—happy and interested and excited about something new. She owed Leslie. When she saw her at the next meeting she'd thank her again.

“It's better if Mrs. Merkel doesn't know about you,” Abbie said. “She might get suspicious. You could be kind of like—what do they call it?”

“I could go undercover,” Davy answered.

“That's it, undercover.”

“Yeah!”

Abbie gave an involuntary shiver as she thought of the roofers' faces and the scowl of the man in the gray car. To help Davy she was making a game of the whole thing, and it wasn't a game.

“Stay here. Don't go away. I'll come right back,” Davy said. He jumped from the chair, nearly toppling it, and ran from the room.

In just a few minutes he was back, a thin three-hole notebook in his hands. “I took out last year's science project that was in this notebook and put in some clean paper,” he said. “This will be our official notebook.”

Abbie placed one hand on the notebook. When Davy caught on to what she was doing, he put his hand on her own. She covered it with her other hand, and Davy laid his right hand on top of the pile. “This is our secret notebook,” Abbie said solemnly. “You and I are the only ones who will ever read what is in this.”

“Right,” Davy said.

“You must keep it in a hidden, secret place and guard it with your life.”

“Right.” Davy thought a moment, then grinned. “I know just where,” he said.

As they sat back, he opened the book and began to write. “I'm putting down what you told
me,” he said. “And then I'll hide the book where no one will find it.” He looked at Abbie. “When are you going to visit Mrs. Merkel again?”

“Tomorrow, after school,” Abbie said.

“What's she going to do?”

“I have no idea,” Abbie answered. She sighed. “I only wish I knew so I could be prepared.”

Davy looked eager. “Do you think it will be dangerous?”

“I hope not,” Abbie said, but she shivered again. There was no telling what Mrs. Merkel would decide to do.

“I
t's about time,” Mrs. Merkel snapped as Abbie showed up at three o'clock on Tuesday afternoon. She stepped out on the porch dressed in a shapeless black cotton knit dress, a red satin letterman jacket, tennies with pink socks, and a wide-brimmed yellow straw hat. “I've been ready to go for an hour.”

“I came as soon as classes were out,” Abbie explained. She took a deep breath to steady herself and asked, “Where would you like to go?” She hoped it wasn't another trip to the supermarket. She dreaded a return visit. Sunday's excursion had been little more than a loud series of complaints from one end of the large grocery
store to the other. Couldn't Mrs. Merkel get along with anybody?

Mrs. Merkel turned to lock the front door behind her. “You know where the college is. There's a coffee shop right across the street from the main entrance to the college grounds. That's where I want to go.”

Abbie relaxed. A coffee shop. That shouldn't be a problem—unless she ran into her father there. She didn't want to see him or talk to him. It was easier to pretend that he and his girlfriend didn't exist.

Except for tossing out a number of driving instructions, Mrs. Merkel didn't talk much as Abbie drove to the south end of Buckler and entered a wide U-shaped shopping strip across from the entrance to the college. At each side of the strip were two- and three-story office buildings. The first floor of the south office building contained a branch office of a banking chain, Unity National. Next to it was a large appliance store. The blocklong middle of the shopping strip consisted of a variety of shops, including two restaurants, a music store, a dry cleaner, a used-book store, and—at the corner, next to an upscale dress shop—a coffee shop.

“That's where I want to go—to that coffee shop,” Mrs. Merkel ordered.

Abbie parked in front. At three-twenty in the afternoon there weren't many customers in the shop, so they had their choice of tables. Mrs. Merkel headed for a table at the window and
plopped down, darting glances to each side as though defending a claim.

Her chair and the one opposite it were in direct sunlight. “The sun's coming right in on you,” Abbie said. “Would you be more comfortable at one of the other tables?”

“No. I'm sitting here because I want to sit here,” Mrs. Merkel answered. “I knew it would be sunny. That's why I wore this hat.” She pulled a pen and her notebook from her handbag.

A man spoke up at the counter behind Abbie. “More coffee, Jamie girl?”

“You bet,” a woman's voice answered.

“Gonna drive into Corpus Christi next week for the boat show?”

“That's the plan.”

“With that egghead professor boyfriend of yours?”

Professor? Jamie? Abbie stiffened, gripping the edge of the Formica table. She turned her head slightly so that she could sneak a look at the waitress behind the counter. It was Jamie Lane. No doubt about it.

“I don't see a ring on your hand yet,” the man teased.

“You will. Soon as we find one I like,” Jamie said.

“Like a diamond big as a saucer?”

Jamie laughed. “How could a professor afford a diamond like that? No, I'd like an opal. I've always been partial to opals. I know a guy in the business. He's keeping an eye out for a nice opal ring.”

Urgently Abbie leaned toward Mrs. Merkel. “I don't like this place,” she said. “Let's find another coffee shop. Come on. Please. Let's go.”

“I don't know why you've got ants in your pants,” Mrs. Merkel snapped. “We aren't going anywhere. Sit down and behave yourself.”

“Can't talk all day, Marvin. I've got some table customers,” Abbie heard Jamie say.

Still holding tightly to the edge of the table, Abbie closed her eyes. She didn't open them until a voice just above and behind her asked pleasantly, “How about a cup of coffee, ladies?”

“I hate coffee. Never drink it. I'll have iced tea,” Mrs. Merkel said. “With sugar and lemon. Make sure the glass is clean.”

“And you?” Jamie asked as she turned her attention to Abbie. She took a step forward and bent, peering into Abbie's face. “Abbie? It is you, isn't it?”

Abbie sighed and leaned back. “Yes. I'm Abbie Thompson. I believe you know my parents—Sandra and Davis Thompson.”

For the first time she took a good look at Jamie Lane. Up close she could see that Jamie wasn't as young as she had looked at a distance. Maybe the long, swinging hair had fooled her. Or Jamie's slender, almost boyish figure. But under the heavy makeup Abbie could see crow's-feet at the corners of Jamie's eyes and sag lines under her chin.

“I don't care to order anything, thank you,” Abbie said coolly. She turned and glanced out the window, directing her attention to the wide
arch across the street that spanned the entrance to Buckler College. Maybe her father was in the English department's building right now, teaching a late-afternoon class. Or maybe he was in his new apartment, waiting for Jamie's shift to be over.