Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (18 page)

Anyway, there's Coralee and the other council members sitting like high-court judges behind a massive curved bench that's raised so that they're totally lording over everybody else in the room. And after I blast in, the sound inside the meeting room kind of grinds to a halt. It's like someone's slowing down the speed on an old vinyl record. And while the sound's winding down, waves of faces turn my way until it's completely quiet, and everyone—the council members, the people in the audience, Leland Hawking at the podium, the camera guys and reporters—
everyone
has turned to stare at me.

And I can tell what they're thinking: Who is this petri-fied girl with the wild hair and skateboard? Did she take a wrong turn, or what?

Coralee Lyon gives me a withering look over the top of her blue rectangular reading glasses, but she doesn't say a word to me. Instead, she turns back to Leland Hawking, and, like dropping the needle back on the record, she says, “Your point is well taken, Mr. Hawking, but if you have nothing
additional
to contribute, I think it's time we put this to a vote.”

“Wait!” I cry, my feet moving me forward. It feels like I'm in a dream. A dream where you see yourself doing something and want to go in a different direction but can't.
Then a familiar voice floats through the crowd. “Sammy?”

I turn and see shiny hair.

Swimmer hair.

Brandon.

And there's a shiny blond girl next to him.

And a man wearing a polo shirt with COACH on it.

My feet keep moving, my voice saying, “You can't vote yet!”

From her perch at the center of the bench, Coralee Lyon sighs and sort of rolls her eyes. Then she takes off her reading glasses and says, “Young lady. You do not just burst into a meeting late, then disrupt the proceedings with presumptuous demands. The hearing portion of the meeting is over.” Then, in an effort to dismiss me, she turns to the other council members. “I believe we are ready to vote. Can I have a motion?”

A man on the council says, “I move to adopt a resolution of necessity—”

“Wait!” I shout at the council. “I have something really important to say!”

Coralee Lyon turns slowly to face me.
“You,”
she seethes, snatching up a gavel and pointing at me, “are out of order.”

“And
you
,” I say, pointing my finger at her, “are doing something illegal!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” she says, putting down the gavel and waving me off. “It is not illegal. Have your history teacher explain it to you. Now—”

“I'm not talking about eminent domain! I'm talking about how you bought four properties on Hopper Street
at rock-bottom prices and are in cahoots with Leland Hawking to sue for more money so you can make a big profit on them.
That's
what I'm calling illegal.”

In her eyes I can finally see it dawn on her who I am.

I can also tell that she's worried.

But she snorts and says, “That's the most preposterous accusation I've ever heard! Would somebody remove this girl? She's friends with Annie Willawago, who is obviously stooping to new lows to hold on to her
Train
House.”

I take a step closer. “If it's preposterous, then why don't you tell us who owns Earl Clooney Management Systems?”

She gives a sarcastic scowl. “How should I know?”

“You should know because
you
own it.”

Other council members are starting to look at her like, Uh…Coralee? Is that true? And people in the audience are starting to buzz.

“Order!” Coralee calls, and she actually pounds the table with the gavel. “Of course that's not true!” Then she snarls down at me, saying, “Expect to be sued for slander.”

This
was
a lot like dealing with Heather. And since I've got a lot of experience with
that
, it's like second nature for me to snarl right back at Coralee and say, “Yeah? Well, expect to be kicked off the council, lady, 'cause you're in some deep, deep doo-doo.” I hurry over to a big easeled whiteboard, and while I'm erasing what's written on it and scrawling EARL CLOONEY across the top, I'm saying, “Earl Clooney Management Systems has bought four properties on Hopper Street over the past three years. Four slummy properties that they've done nothing with.”

“Where's our security?” Coralee cries.

“Yes!” one of the other council members says. “We can't allow this girl to disrupt our meeting! We have a procedure. We have rules. We have decorum. She is completely and wholly out of order.”

I sort of laugh to myself. I mean, please. What did they expect?

I'm in junior high!

But I've got no time to lose, so I get busy writing CORALEE LYON directly under EARL CLOONEY, which makes Coralee's bonny blue butt shoot right out of her chair. “This sort of disruption will set a precedent for future meetings,” she shouts. “Somebody get her OUT of here! NOW!”

But it's too late, baby. By the time she's done with that little spiel, I've drawn lines that connect the letters of one name to the letters of the other.

They match exactly.

“Coincidence?” I call out to the audience. “I don't think so! And once someone cuts through the red tape that she's wrapped around the ownership documents, you'll see that Coralee Lyon wants this deal to go through
not
because it's good for Santa Martina but because it's good for
her.
She's planning to make a bundle of money on it!”

“But
we
want the deal to go through!” someone from the audience shouts. “We think it'd be great for the community.”

“You know what?” I say, putting back the whiteboard marker. “So do I. But not like this. This is just
wrong.
”

After that, it was all over. Everyone started talking at once. And when I heard one of the other council members bang the gavel and shout, “This meeting is adjourned!” I looked over and saw that Coralee was fleeing out a side door, being chased by reporters.

All of a sudden Hudson was there, hugging my shoulder with one arm. “I have never been so proud in my life!” And Grams was saying, “I held my breath through the whole thing. You were wonderful!” And Mrs. Willawago clasped my forearm and said, “You're a real angel, a gift from God!” while Mrs. Stone said, “Girl, you've got guts!”

Mrs. Willawago turned and said, “Teri! There you are! I looked all over for you earlier.”

Mrs. Stone laughed. “We couldn't find you, either. What a turnout, huh?”

“Where's Marty?” Mrs. Willawago asked, looking around.

“He left about halfway through. He was so mad! Wait 'til I tell him how Sammy saved the day!”

Then reporters started sticking microphones in my face, asking me stuff like, “How'd you get involved in this?” “Are you friends with the train lady?” “What's your information source?” “When did you make the connection?” “What will you do if you're wrong?” “Are you planning to go into politics?”

The other questions I gave a not-gonna-answer-that shake of the head to, but that last one? Boy, did I pull a face.

A couple of them laughed, and then Hudson intervened, saying, “My young friend here cracked the nut, it's your job to pry out the meat.”

They all looked at him like, Huh?

“Don't badger her,” he said, “go investigate!”

The meeting room was still full of people, but it wasn't packed in solid like it had been. So Hudson and Grams led the way up the center aisle, with me behind them and Mrs. Stone and Mrs. Willawago behind me. And it was funny— nobody said, Nice going! or even, Interesting contribution! as I passed by. They just got quiet when I approached, moved aside, then started talking again after I'd passed.

It was like being in old-guy junior high.

But what did I expect? The Stones and Mrs. Willawago were probably the only people in the whole city who didn't want the project to go through.

So whatever. Let 'em glare.

I did look around for Brandon but didn't see him or his shiny-haired friends anywhere. Was he mad at me? Why would he leave without saying anything to me? Maybe
he
had given a little speech about how
great
the rec center would be. I mean, why else would he have been there?

And now what?

Was I uninvited to his pool party?

I tried not to think about that. I just moved through the crowd with my own little posse of seniors, feeling very relieved when we were finally outside. There were plenty of people outside, too, but at least there was air. Cool, damp air.

And then through the mist I heard someone calling, “Sammy!”

My heart recognized the voice before my brain did. “Brandon?”

“Over here!” he called from the sidewalk. “Isn't this that dog you walk?”

Even from the steps of city hall I could tell that it was indeed Captain Patch. But when I ran over, I saw that Brandon was holding him by the scruff of his neck. Patch's collar was gone. No collar, no tags, no nothing.

Patch wagged like crazy and yip-yap-yowled when he saw me. So I gave him a doggie ruffle and asked Brandon, “Where'd you find him?”

“He was crossing the street, over by the mall.” He broke into a lopsided grin. “Quite a show tonight. And here I always thought you were kinda shy.”

I could feel my cheeks turn red. “So you're not mad?”

“Mad? Why? Coach is bummed, but if that council lady's got her own agenda, they're going to have to think of a better way to make it happen.” He started moving up the sidewalk, saying, “Coach is giving me a ride home, so I've got to boogie. See ya!”

“See ya!” I called back.

My over-the-hill entourage had been hovering a few feet away, and when Brandon was gone, Mrs. Willawago asked, “Who
was
that handsome young man?” like he was Superman or something. “And how did he know to give the Captain to you?”

“He's my best friend's cousin,” I told her. “He saw me walking him the other day.” I squatted next to Patch. “We're really lucky 'cause look—his collar's missing.”

“Maybe he dug out.” Mrs. Stone said. “His collar coulda got caught on the fence….”

“Oh dear,” Mrs. Willawago said. “This is becoming a real problem. He could have been hit by a car!”

But I looked Patch over and said, “His muzzle's not
dirty… and his paws are clean …,” because when he'd been digging before, boy, he'd been filthy.

“Oh, he must've dug out,” Mrs. Willawago said. “The fence is very secure.”

Then Hudson said, “Why don't I give you a lift home and we'll find out.”

“Say,” Mrs. Willawago said to the group of us, “why don't you all come over for a little celebration of tonight's victory. I've got some fresh baked scones….”

So everyone but me and the Captain went with Hudson to get a ride in his antique Cadillac. Hudson said it was fine for Patch to get a ride, but I handed him my skateboard and borrowed his belt for a leash instead. “I'll beat you there!” I called as I took off jogging with Patch.

I did, too. I even waited on the porch for a minute before deciding to go check out the backyard. Patch and I went through the side gate, but it was really dark. So I sort of felt my way along the corridor between the fence and the parlor car until I got into the open part of the backyard, where there was enough light from the ball fields for me to see where I was going.

And sure enough, there was a huge hole under the back fence, real near where we'd watched Squeaky and the Chick cuff Appliance Andy and the Old Lady. “Captain Patch,” I scolded.

He yippy-yap-yowled and wagged his tail.

I looked in the hole. Under the fence. Over the fence. I couldn't find Patch's collar anywhere.

And I was in the middle of wondering if Mrs.
Willawago had some bricks or something that I could put in the hole before filling it when I noticed something odd—the dirt from the hole was in a mound. It wasn't sprayed everywhere like when a dog digs a hole.

It was like a
human
had dug the hole.

With a shovel.

Then I turned and saw something that gave me a creepy feeling inside. The Stones' shovel wasn't on the
far
side of the compost heap, where I'd stuck it after I'd used it to stop Appliance Andy.

It was on the
near
side of the heap.

Right by the fence.

I stood there for a minute, thinking. Then the lights came on in the Train House, so I decided to fill in the hole so Captain Patch wouldn't run off before I could tell Mrs. Willawago about my suspicions. But when I went inside, Mrs. Stone was there and Mrs. Willawago was playing the perfect hostess, bustling around with scones and jams and pots of tea.

So I gave Hudson his belt back, then sat around listening to old people chitchat. Talk about dull. I don't know what it is—you get a bunch of old people together and the pacing of a conversation
kills.
Maybe it's their hearing, or maybe they're just more polite than junior high kids. I mean, when my friends and I are excited about something, we walk all over each other's sentences, jumping in with this or that, cutting each other off… it's fun. It's
alive.

Old people don't converse like that. Even when they're not really listening to each other, they
act
like they are, waiting for their turn to put in their two cents. And then, since they've waited so politely, they feel justified in turning their two cents into about
fifty
cents, wandering down memory lane on some barely related story.

Anyway, I could tell Mrs. Stone was a little antsy, eating a scone and not saying much. And I sure didn't feel like chitchatting with
her.
Just being in the same room with her was making me very uncomfortable.

So when I finally got Mrs. Willawago alone in the kitchen and blurted out that I thought the Stones had tried to get rid of Patch, she listened very politely, then scoffed and said, “Oh, nonsense. The shovel was moved because Teri used it to fill in the hole Captain Patch dug earlier. You know, when the police were arresting Andy Quinn?”

All of a sudden I felt kinda stupid. “Are you sure?”

“Of course! I was right there.”

“But … but the dirt wasn't sprayed out. It was in piles. And I can't find Patch's collar anywhere.”