Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (10 page)

Leland Hawking, on the other hand,
had
been.

Hmmm.

But he had to know how to spell
suffer.
He was a lawyer! Weren't they always trying to get money for “pain and suffering”?

'Course maybe he'd misspelled it on purpose to make people think it was an
un
educated person.

But who delivers a threat through a window these days? It seemed like something out of an old mob movie.

Besides, if this eminent
insane
law was strong enough to get Goldie the Golf Cart Lady kicked out of her house, what were they so worried about? Why threaten?

Unless … unless there was some loophole. Some way that Mrs. Willawago and the Stones
wouldn't
have to give up their houses.

I sure didn't know anything about that. But still. I couldn't help wondering: Who would that hurt the most?

By now I was almost at the mall, which in my life is pretty unavoidable. I pass it on my way to school, on my way home, on my way to Hudson's, on my way to Marissa's…. It's a big, blocky behemoth of parking, stores, and office buildings. And although I've never been big on the mall itself, I do like the winding walk-way that goes clear around it. It's fun to ride a skate-board on, and it's actually kinda scenic, too. There are trees and shrubs and flowers and grass … it's like a pathway through a really skinny park. It can almost make you forget that you're riding alongside the Mammoth Shrine of Merchandise.

But anyway, as I crossed over Cook Street, I remembered what Hudson had said about Goldie Danali living on the corner straight ahead of me.

A little house with a white picket fence?
Here?
I almost couldn't picture it. The stack of office buildings seemed to
belong
there because that's what I was used to seeing.

But then I noticed the signs in the corner office windows. In big bold lettering, on all three levels, they all said the same thing.

AVAILABLE
.

I smiled. Maybe Goldie Danali had found a way to fight city hall after all.

When I got to the other side of the street, I put down my skateboard and started riding again. And actually, I was feeling pretty good, thinking about lawyers being spooked away from renting those offices.

Seemed very poetic.

But just as I'm starting to clickity-clack along the winding walkway at a decent speed, a jaybird dive-bombs me. I'm talking
whoosh
, he blasts right across my face, cawing at me like a big blue crow. And he startles me so bad that I jerk back, stumble off my board, and practically bite the dirt.

“Stupid flying gizzard!” I shout after him. But as I stand up and collect my skateboard, I suddenly remember.

Tango.

I couldn't believe it—between eminent domain and flying rocks and people not believing me, I'd actually forgotten about Tango.

But now I was remembering, all right, and my stomach was suddenly queasy.

I looked around for the jay. He'd been like an agent from the God of Dead Birds, crying, Killer! Killer!

I got back on my board and shook off the thought. I mean, how ridiculous is that? The God of Dead Birds. Please.

Trouble is, once I was rolling down the walkway again, I started noticing tweeting. It was just birds-in-the-trees type of tweeting, which I'm sure is there all the time, but once I noticed it, it seemed to get louder and louder.

Tweet-tweet-tweet. Warble-warble-warble. Tweet-tweettweet.

Then I started
seeing
birds. They were everywhere. Flapping around, pecking at bugs, warbling in the trees, in the phone wires … everywhere! I'm not talking big ugly ones like in that Alfred Hitchcock movie. These were scarier than those.

These were pretty little
tweety
birds.

They sounded so cheerful. So carefree.

So…
alive
.

And I know this is going to sound crazy, but I swear on my high-tops—these birds were tweeting at
me
.

Sammy, Sammy!
they seemed to be singing.
Pretty day! Pretty day to be alive!

I zoomed along faster, trying to get away from the birds. But the trouble with birds is, they can
fly.
And the faster I rode, the faster they seemed to fly.

Do you think we don't know? Do you think you can hide? Do you think what you're doing is right?

“Leave me alone!” I shouted at a stupid little redbreasted finch.

Tweet-tweet-tweet.

“It was an accident! An ac-ci-dent!”

Warble-warble-tweet.

“No! I liked him! I would never have hurt him on purpose!”

Tweet-tweet-tweet.

“Stop it! Stop following me!”

Warble-warble-tweet.

I was never so glad to get home. But as I slipped through the door, I heard Grams say, “Oh, here she is now!” Then she held the phone out to me and whispered, “It's Marissa.”

Grams kissed me on the cheek as I took the phone, then rubbed my arm in a real comforting way and left the kitchen.

“Hey,” I said into the receiver.

“Where'd you go after school?” she asked. Not mean or anything. Just more, you know, conversational.

“Sorry. Mrs. Ambler hung me up.”

“Mrs. Ambler did? I thought she was absent.”

Was she saying she thought I was lying? Did she think I'd
ditched
her?

Well, I had, kinda. I mean, I always meet Marissa at the bike racks. But after Mrs. Ambler had gone on and on about kids disappointing her and her admiring me, well, I hadn't wanted to see anyone.

“Sammy?”

“Huh?”

“Sammy!”

“Sorry! Uh, Mrs. Ambler. Right. I think she only missed homeroom. She said she overslept.”

Marissa tisked. “Poor thing. She was probably up all night about her bird.” Then quicker than you can flick off a tear, she said, “So? What are we going to wear?”

“What are we going to
wear
?”

“To the dance!”

Now, I know I should've just said, Jeans and high-tops, what did you think? Or maybe, Casey said it was casual, so don't even start about dressing up. But I sort of freaked out. I mean, I'd
just
been chased clear around the mall by agents of the Dead Bird God, Marissa'd
just
said that bit about Mrs. Ambler being up all night because of Tango, and I was stuck in a tiny apartment with Grams hovering somewhere around the corner. I felt trapped. Suffocated. I didn't want to talk about what to wear to a stupid dance. I wanted to be left alone. I wanted to sort things out.

I needed some time to
think
.

So instead of saying, High-tops, of course! I said, “I…I can't talk about this right now.”

“Why not?”

“I…I have to go … pour cement.”

“You have to go pour
cement
?”

Grams appeared from around the corner. “You have to go pour
cement
?”

“Where?”
Marissa asked.

“Where?”
Grams echoed.

It felt like the tweety birds chirping at me again. “Never mind! Never
mind
!” I snapped at both of them, then slammed down the phone.

“Sa
man
tha!” Grams said, her eyes all wide as she tracked me to the bathroom.

I spun on her. “You're following me into the bathroom now?”

The phone rang.

Grams put her hands on her hips and wagged her head.
“That's probably Marissa calling back to find out why you were so
rude
to her.”

“Well, you go answer it! Tell her it's because you were both talking to me at once! Why can't I have a private conversation? Do you have to know every little thing that I do?”

Grams' face fell, and without a word she left the bathroom doorway to answer the phone.

Great. Just great. In one big spastic moment I'd hung up on my best friend and alienated my grandmother. And yeah, it had bought me some privacy, but now that I was alone, I felt worse than ever.

Thirty seconds later Grams tapped on the bathroom door and said, “Hudson wants to talk to you.”

I hesitated, then opened the door. “It's Hudson?”

“Yes.” She turned to go, saying, “I'll be in my bedroom.” She eyed me over her shoulder. “With the door shut.”

“Gra-ams,” I said, but she kept on walking. “Look, I'm sorry, I—”

Slam.

I heaved a sigh and went to the phone. “Hudson?”

“Sammy! Say, I thought you'd like to hear what I unearthed.”

Poof! Like magic, my problems with Grams and Marissa and Dead Bird Gods flew out of my head. “Does Coralee Lyon own that lawyer's office?”

“No, Leland Hawking does.”

It was like he'd slashed my tire of hope. “But …”

“But there
is
something odd going on.”

“Oh?”

“I researched ownership of all the parcels on Hopper Street. Two houses and both of the vacant lots are owned by a company called Earl Clooney Management Systems.”

“Wait—they're owned by them? Not just, you know, managed?”

“That's correct. And here's what makes me think something odd's going on: All four properties were acquired within the last three years, and they were bought dirt cheap.”

“Wow,” I said, and it came out all breathy.

“You understand why I find that odd?”

“Sure—why would someone buy up a string of slummy properties unless they thought they could turn around and sell them for a lot more.”

“That's my girl.”

I thought for a minute, then said, “So who's this Earl Clooney guy?”

“I'm not sure. The records show the address of Earl Clooney Management as a PO box in Santa Luisa. I don't find that in and of itself suspicious, but that, coupled with the fact that there's no number listed in the phone directory, leads me to believe that it's not a real management company. Or at least not one that handles properties other than those on Hopper Street.”

“So how can we find out?”

“I called a friend who's doing some checking. It's too late for him to get anywhere today, but he'll look into it on Monday.”

“Wow, Hudson. You're good!”

He chuckled, then said, “Now. What's this about cement?”

I couldn't believe it. “She told you about that?”

He chuckled again. “She
grumbled
something about it. Do you need help?”

“I don't know.” I turned my back on Grams' door and whispered, “I only said that because I was feeling trapped.”

“But why cement?”

“Well, Captain Patch keeps digging a hole in the same spot, and Mrs. Willawago can't fix it herself, and—oh, Hudson! Somebody threw a rock through her French door! It said ‘sell or suffer!’ Actually, it said sell or sufer, but the
point
is, it was a threat. Her neighbor got one, too. And get this—there was a reporter from the
Santa Martina Times
at her house when it happened. He saw the whole thing and said he might be able to get their story on the front page!”

“Say! That might really help them in the court of public opinion….” Then he said, “Did you tell Annie your theory about Coralee Lyon owning part of Hopper Street?”

“I didn't have a chance. First the rock came crashing through the house, then the police were on their way, so I just got out of there.”

“Hmmm,” he said, then seemed to decide. “Why don't I come pick you up. We'll go to the hardware store and get some cement, then pay Mrs. Willawago a visit. If the police are still there, we'll work on plugging Captain Patch's hole, and when they leave, we'll tell Annie about your theory and what we've unearthed so far. I think we
should wait to hear from my friend before we make any official accusations, though, okay?”

“Sure!”

“Okay, then. Go downstairs, I'll be right over.”

So I got off the phone and headed for Grams' bedroom to tell her I was sorry about our spat, but before my knuckles hit the wood of her door, I stopped. Grams wouldn't let me just apologize. I'd have to
explain
. And just thinking about what it was going to take to patch things up with her exhausted me. And how could I do it in the few minutes I had before Hudson showed up?

Then the little voice was back, whispering in my ear,
Forget it. Just go. You can deal with her later
, and this time I listened—I called, “I'm taking off to pour cement. Bye.” And before she could say anything back, I hurried out of the apartment and down the fire escape.

But the truth is, I felt sick inside. The lies. The spats. The deceit. As much as I tried to ignore it, the dark spot on my heart was growing.

Spreading.

Rotting.

And the awful thing is, I didn't know how to stop it.

It didn't take us long to stop at the hardware store, toss a couple of sacks of cement in Hudson's trunk, and haul them over to the Train House. And since the police and the reporter were gone, we wrestled them right up to the base of the cowcatcher.

“EZ-CRETE? Is that cement?” Mrs. Willawago asked when she saw the sacks. She reached out, held my cheeks, and said, “Oh, you angel!”

I hate to admit this, but it felt really good that she'd called me that. It also went a long way to making me forget that she hadn't believed me before.

She turned to Hudson and said, “And Hudson! How nice of you to help out. You have no idea what a lift this is. It has been such a rough day!”

“Sammy told me about the broken window and the problems you're having with your property being seized.” Patch was at the door now, and Hudson gave him a ruffle behind the ears. “This fella digging holes is probably the least of your worries.”

“But it is a problem. My neighbor came over and filled in the hole, but Captain Patch dug it out again.” She rolled her eyes a little. “At this point he thinks it's a game,
so I'm having to keep him inside.” She opened the door wide. “Come in, come in! Can I offer you some refreshments before you get started?”

We both went inside, and Hudson said, “That's not necessary. But there is something Sammy and I would like to share with you.”

“Oh?”

So Hudson started laying out our theory, and when he got to the part about Coralee possibly owning some of the property on Hopper Street, Mrs. Willawago's jaw dropped. “That would be just like Coralee!” Then she looked at me and said, “Oh, Samantha …I am mortified that I doubted you. Please, please forgive me!”