Sammy Keyes and the Curse of Moustache Mary (18 page)

Now there are curtains—heavy green velvet ones—but they're swagged to the side, and the lace panel that falls between them is easy to see through. Holly whispers, “Whoa…! That's some sitting room!”

The room itself isn't very big, but it's outfitted like they're expecting Napoleon. There's a crystal chandelier, marble columns with busts on top, glass coffee and end tables held up by brass lions…the room's just packed with glass, brass, and marble.

When we get tired of gawking at that room, we hunch down and scoot over to the next one. Same story. Only this room's much bigger and has gadgets Napoleon never dreamed of. There's a huge television screen, looking like a black hole on the far end of a galaxy of lights. There are speakers like giant asteroids suspended from the ceiling, and behind some smoky black doors is a stack of stereo gear with little green and red lights glowing like hieroglyphics from outer space.

I whisper to Marissa, “You are really missing out. This place makes your little mansion look like a flophouse!”

Marissa couldn't resist that. She and Dot sneak over to the first window, and when their eyes are all good and bugged out, I say, “Told you.”

They join us at the second window, and when Marissa sees what's inside, she lets out a low whistle and says, “Wow!”

And it struck me as odd that the Murdocks had so much and the Huntleys had so little, when they'd started out the same way, scrapping for food and water on a wagon train.

Holly ducks away from the third window and faces us with a finger tapping away at her lips.

We scurry over and she whispers, “They're in there.”

“Who?”

“I don't know. A bunch of people.”

Marissa and Dot stay low, but Holly and I inch our noses up until we can see inside. There's a chubby man with slicked-back hair and cowboy boots, kicking back in an oversize leather chair, smoking a cigar, and he seems amused, puffing away with his feet propped up. Then there's Dorene and Ma looking like dandelions trying to pass as daffodils. They've got their fists clamped around the stems of champagne glasses, and they're plopped down on either end of a suede couch with their knee-high nylons sagged down to their ankles.

The real-estate guy is there, too, and he's sitting in an oversize leather chair, but his feet aren't propped up like Chubby's. They're flat on the floor, and he's using his briefcase as a lap table for his champagne glass, looking kind of uncomfortable.

Dot tugs on me and says, “What do you see? What's going on in there?”

So I crouch down and tell them, and before you know it, Marissa and Dot have their noses on the sill, too.

Holly whispers, “The SuperStar guy keeps looking at his watch. Do you think they're waiting for something?”

Just then the butler appears in the doorway. His eyes are still at half-mast, and his nose is looking even worse than it had the day before. He puts his fingertips together at his waist, says a few words, then makes a stiff little bow and disappears.

Thirty seconds later, Snout St. Helens returns, only this time he's got company. Two men. And they could've passed for Secret Service, only they weren't wearing sunglasses, and their ties poufed a little too much at the knots. One of
them's got a briefcase, and the other one is carrying blueprints.

The Snout offers them champagne, then goes around refilling everyone else's glass before leaving the room.

Dot says, “Who are
those
guys?”

Marissa checks over her shoulder and whispers, “And where'd they come from? I didn't hear them drive up.”

She had a point. We had wandered pretty far from the drive, and if we were there to intercept Lucinda, we were doing a pretty miserable job. But I couldn't leave, either. Not with them in there unrolling blueprints.

It's like Holly read my mind. “You want me to keep watch at the drive?”

I nod, so she and Dot scurry off while Marissa and I watch the Suits point and talk and turn through the blueprints. Finally, Marissa says, “Those guys can't be realtors. Do you think maybe they're developers?”

“Maybe…”

Just then Snout St. Helens reappears and makes a grand swooping motion with one arm as he announces another visitor.

And both of our jaws drop, because this time it's someone we
do
know.

Marissa gasps, “What's
Kevin
doing in there?”

Holly and Dot come scurrying back as we watch Chubby offer Kevin a cigar. Holly's all out of breath, saying, “Is he in there already?”

I nod and scowl. “Take a look.”

Even though Kevin Huntley looked out of place, holding his dirty hat in his hand, wearing dusty clothes and a rope belt, he didn't look uncomfortable. Like he'd been there before. Many times before.

Holly and Dot were still trying to catch their breath. Dot says, “God, he almost saw us. We hid behind the other car, but it was close!”

Holly adds, “Boy, is Lucinda going to be upset when she finds out about this.”

I shake my head. “She's gonna
die
.”

Then Holly says, “Sammy, there are more blueprints in their car. We spotted them on the back seat.”

I turn to look at her. “Really?”

“I don't know that they're the same ones…why would they bring more than one set?”

Marissa whispers, “Oh, I wouldn't be surprised if they were duplicates. Developers always make a bunch of copies. They have a set, they give a set to the owner, one
to the contractor, and then all the subcontractors, too…”

I didn't wait around to find out
how
Marissa knew this. She's Yolanda's daughter, after all—she knows about stuff like contractors and subcontractors. Instead, I scampered over to the Suits' car and tried the driver's door. Then I ran around and tried the passenger door. The others are right behind me, whispering, “Sammy, you can't just
take
them!”

“I only want to look at them. I'll put them back…”

The doors are locked, but there
is
another way in. Holly and I both eye the sunroof, which is wide open. She grins and says, “Go for it!”

I use the door handle like a ladder and climb up. And in no time I've dived in and pulled out the blueprints. We hightail it out of view, then duck beneath an old oak tree and roll out the blueprints, right there in the dirt.

In big blue letters down one side it says
CROMWELL AND YATES, DEVELOPMENT ASSOCIATES
, and across the top it reads
GOLD HILLS COUNTRY CLUB
. We study the plans for a minute, then Marissa points to the blueprints, saying, “This over here must be the Murdocks' property, this right here is the ravine, this little square is Mary's cabin, and this bigger square must be Lucinda's house. The Huntley property stops right here, and this…well, they must already own this.”

Dot adds, “Unless
ACQUIRED
is a very weird family name.”

After we spend some time soaking it all in, we turn the page and there's an artist's sketch of the development being planned, complete with country club estates, golf
course, swimming pools, tennis courts, a giant clubhouse, a restaurant, and a bar.

Dot whispers, “Wow!” and we all agree, this is one big-bucks project.

Then Marissa says, “The whole thing's gated—look at that entrance!”

Holly says, “Doesn't that road run right over Mary's cabin?”

I nod. “Exactly. And from the way they've laid out the golf course, and the ravine being where it is, this is the only place they can really use as an entrance.”

Holly adds, “And they
have
to have the Huntley property to tie the other two properties together.”

Marissa says, “Plans like this cost a lot to have done. And I don't think anyone would go through all the time and trouble to draft them up unless they were pretty darn sure they were going to be able to get the Huntleys to sell.”

“And you know
Lucinda
never gave them that impression.”

After we talk it out, Holly rolls up the blueprints and says, “We can't put these back. We have to show them to Lucinda.”

We all agree, and hurry off Murdock property and down the road, diving out of view every time a car comes along, and when we get to the break in the fence, we squeeze through to take the back way in. We follow the path a little ways, but then Marissa says, “Let's cut through the vineyard, okay? That cabin gives me the creeps.”

So we turn before the toolshed and make our way through the vineyard. When we get to the Huntleys' house, we ring the bell and knock, then ring and knock some more. Finally, the door swings open, and there's Lucinda, looking an inch shorter and ten years older. “Girls,” she says. “How nice.”

We say our hellos, then Holly asks, “Can we come in? We have something we have to show you.”

She comes out, instead. “Have you seen my Penny?” She inspects a dish of vegetable parts on the porch and says, “I put lunch out for her, but she hasn't come. I wonder where she could be?” She gives us half a smile and asks, “You wanted to show me something?”

Dot starts rolling open the blueprints right there on the porch, but the rest of us are kind of checking over our shoulders, worried that Kevin might be back soon.

Holly says, “Can we maybe do this inside?”

So Lucinda lets us in, but the minute the door's closed, she says, “If my nephew happens home, I'll have to have you sneak out the back.”

“You think he'd be mad if we were here?” I ask.

“I suspect so. He swears he's not the one who called the police about you, but he's been very testy about… about everything.” She lets out a long, tired sigh. “He just doesn't understand, and I'm afraid I don't understand him. It seems that money—or the lack of it—can turn babes into beasts.” She shakes her head and says, “It's a shift in priorities, I suppose. I just don't need what he wants. All I want is my family, and my family is Kevin.”

At that moment I wanted to ditch the blueprints. Tear
them up. Burn them. I wanted to
help
Lucinda, not hurt her. But tearing up the blueprints wouldn't make the
plans
go away; wouldn't stop the avalanche that was sliding straight for Lucinda's heart.

So I take a deep breath and say, “Lucinda, we stole something.”

“Oh?”

“These.”

“Blueprints?” She seemed puzzled. Like we were offering spinach for breakfast.

Dot helps her roll them out, and Marissa explains what's what. Halfway through, Lucinda says, “Oh my Lord, are you telling me that this is an entire development planned without my consent?”

Holly says, “That's what it looks like to us.”

“But who…?”

“Cromwell and Associates Developers, that SuperStar Realty creep, the Murdocks and…” I just couldn't say it.

She blinks at us, then turns back to the blueprints. “But surely they wouldn't have done this unless they had some assurance that we'd sell them the property!”

We all nod at her as the only possible answer sinks in. “Kevin?” she gasps. “In cahoots with the Murdocks?”

I whisper, “He's over there right now.”

You'd think that news like that would make Lucinda shrink another inch. Maybe make her break down and cry. But instead, she squares her shoulders the best she can, takes the blueprints to the kitchen table, and says, “I want to be able to read these myself. My glasses are up on my nightstand—would one of you be so kind?”

I said, “Sure,” and took the steps by two, racing to her room. And I would've just grabbed the glasses and charged back down the stairs, only as I'm turning to go, that picture of Kevin with a bunch of grape crates in the back of a pickup catches my eye. And I do a double-take because all of a sudden I realize that the truck under all those grapes is one I've seen before. I pick up the photo for a better look, and sure enough. It's primer-gray with wide wheels and huge sideview mirrors.

And the last time I'd seen it, it was sitting in the Briggs brothers' driveway.

I grabbed the photograph
and
the glasses. And when I got downstairs, I handed them both to Lucinda and said, “What can you tell me about the truck in this picture?”

She put on her glasses but still held the picture out at arm's length. “The
truck?
I don't know. Kevin owned it for a number of years—used it for hauling. He gave it to Dallas to square off back wages.”

“Does…does Dallas still own it?”

“Oh no. I think he sold it to a friend. I've only ever seen him drive his motorcycle.” She smiles at the photograph and says, “Those were better times. Look at that bounty of grapes! And the smile on Kevin's face.”

I looked, but I wasn't seeing the grapes or Kevin's face. I was seeing the truck. It was the Briggses' truck. I was positive. And in my mind the trouble with Huntleys and Murdocks had suddenly been pushed aside—not by thoughts of Ben or Karl or the way Taylor had held my skateboard hostage, but by thoughts of who I'd been with under that truck.

And the more I thought about Casey, the more I knew that Marissa was right. He had gone way out on a limb for me. He had stuck up for me and tried to help me, and he'd been nice. Really nice. And even though he was an
eighth grader, he didn't make me feel like a little kid the way Taylor did. He treated me like I was his equal. His friend.