Sammy Keyes and the Dead Giveaway (5 page)

“What are you doing here?” I asked ol' Blue Butt, and let me tell you, I didn't ask it nicely.

She ignored me. “I'll be going now,” she said to Mrs. Willawago. “But honestly, Annie, look at the bright side.” She spread her arms a little, hands up. “Surely you'll wind up someplace better than this!”

“OUT!” Mrs. Willawago shouted.

I whipped open the door, and as she crossed the porch and started down the cowcatcher ramp, I said, “And feel free to stay away.”

“Oh, I'll be back.” She laughed. “To cut the ribbon.”

I closed the door quick and said, “That was Coralee Lyon, wasn't it?”

“The Devil herself!” Mrs. Willawago said, hobbling into the kitchen.

I chased after her. “What ribbon was she talking about? Why was she here?”

Mrs. Willawago didn't answer me. She just thumbed open a worn leather address book, her hands shaking. Then she picked up the telephone that was mounted on a wall near the kitchen sink and muttered, “She will not get away with this!” as she dialed.

She stretched the phone cord so she could see out the kitchen window toward the street, so I looked, too.

No Blue Butt.

No Mr. Stone to tell her to take a hike.

Rats.

Then someone on the other end picked up, and Mrs. Willawago said, “Teri? It's Annie. Next door? I just learned that despite our protests, the city
is
moving forward with their plans!” She relaxed the tension on the phone cord and turned away from the window, saying, “You did? Why didn't you call me? …Oh, oh, that's right. I was at the physical therapist.” There was a long string of “Uh-huh's” and “Yes, I know's,” and finally Mrs. Willawago said, “Why don't you and Marty come over and we'll discuss what to do… Fine. Fine. That'll be fine.”

When she hung up, I asked, “What is going on?”

She frowned. “Our illustrious city council had decided to seize all the properties on Hopper Street.”

“To seize them? As in
take
them?”

“That's right. If they pass a ‘resolution of necessity,’ my property becomes theirs in as little as three days!”

“But … how can they do that? Don't you own this house?”

“Heavens yes, I own this house! And the Stones own theirs, as do the Quinns next door that way! And the lawyer on the corner owns his, too! He's put a heap of money into renovating that place! But the city council has decided to exercise eminent domain to acquire all of them!”

“Eminent domain?” It sounded vaguely familiar, but more like the end of the world than something you exercise. “What's that?”

“A law. A very
old
law. And it was designed to be used in national emergencies or times of war or some such. It certainly shouldn't be used to expand a
sports
complex!”

“Wait—
what
are they planning to do?”

“They want to tear down all the buildings on Hopper Street, pull out all the lovely pines that divide us from the ball fields, and put in batting cages, a sports café, and a community rec center. Instead of my house they want batting cages!”

A rec center? A sports café? Batting cages?

It sounded great!

“They offered piddles because that's what they say the house is worth, but that's really irrelevant—I am not going to sell. Not for a million dollars!”

I'm afraid
Really?
was written all over my face, because she frowned and said, “It may not seem like much to you, but this home took a lifetime to create. It's my honeymoon cottage, the place my three children were raised…I have countless memories here, and …and… Frank's ashes are scattered in the backyard!”

“I didn't—”

“When I think of the painstaking care he put into the additions … You can't just buy a Pullman parlor car anymore, you know.” She pointed across the house. “And that one was a positive wreck when we got it. Frank restored it completely! It took him
years
to track down all the parts, not to mention refinishing and installing them.”

The doorbell rang and she said, “That'll be the Stones. Do you still have time to walk Captain Patch?”

“Sure. And I'm sorry, Mrs. Willawago. I didn't mean to be — ”

“Never mind,” she said, waving it off. “A million dollars sounds like a lot, I know. Especially when you're young. But you can't let money erode your principles or you'll wind up with nothing.”

It sounded like something my friend Hudson Graham would have said. Hudson's seventy-two, and I've learned that if I'll just take a second and actually
hear
the things he tells me, his advice can be really good. And since this felt like one of those Hudson statements, I found myself just standing there for a minute, letting what she'd said sort of sink into my brain.

Then Mrs. Stone stepped inside the house, saying, “Marty has to rest. His back's flared up from mowing the yard,” and since I had a dog to walk, I grabbed Patch's leash and headed for the French door that leads from the living room to the backyard.

Before I was even outside, Patch saw me through the glass and started wagging and wiggling like crazy, spinning in a circle. I laughed and said, “Hi, boy!” then latched him to the leash and let him drag me through the side gate, out to the street, and up Hopper the way I'd come.

He kept his nose to the ground, sniffing his way along, and when we got to McEllen, I pulled him back, trying to get him to quit yanking on the leash. But he wiggled and wagged some more, yippy-yapping at me like, C'mon! You can't be tired yet!

So up McEllen we ran. Only as we were passing by the municipal pool, I heard someone call out, “Sammy!”

I skidded to a halt and looked around.

“Over here!” the voice called.

Then the body that went with it stepped out from under the pool entrance awning.

“Brandon?”

He looked taller.

Older.

Cuter.

How could that be?

My heart started bouncing around a little as he came toward me, saying, “It's been ages!” He broke into a blinding smile. “I ask Marissa about you whenever our families get together … she always has some wild story to tell.”

I shrugged and looked down, toeing a line in the sidewalk with my high-top.

“So who's this?” he asked, ruffling the fur behind Captain Patch's ears. And since he was looking at the dog, I stole a look at him. Flip-flops. Swim trunks. A thin towel hanging around his neck. Swimmer muscles.

More
swimmer muscles.

And tan, tan everywhere.

“Uh, his name's Captain Patch,” I said, but it came out all cracked and funny sounding, and I could feel my cheeks getting hot. “I walk him for Mrs. Willawago.”

The second it was out of my mouth, I knew it was the lamest thing in the world to say. I mean, who in the world is Mrs. Willawago to a shiny-haired, almost-junior-in-high-school
swim star, anyway? So real fast I point back toward the railroad tracks and sputter, “She lives on Hopper. Had foot surgery. Needs to take it easy…”

He stops petting Captain Patch and asks, “On Hopper? In one of those old houses they're going to tear down for the rec center?”

I blink at him. “How do you know about that?”

“Coach Yabi's on the development committee. It sounds like it's going to be great.” Then he grins at me and says, “So, how's Heather?”

Now, something about him jumping topics like that really bothered me. I mean, okay. There's a definite demolition quality to Heather, so maybe it wasn't actually
that
much of a mental leap, but the idea of tearing down someone's
home
didn't even seem to come into play. He was also acting like it was a done deed. Like even though they were still standing, in people's minds the houses on Hopper Street were already gone.

But before my tongue could untie enough to say anything to him about Mrs. Willawago not wanting to sell her house, not for a million bucks,
he
said, “Or should I ask, how's her brother?”

Mrs. Willawago vaporized from my mind. And if I was red before, I was purple now. I knew who he meant, too, but what came out of my mouth was, “Her brother?”

“Yeah,” he said with a shrug. “I heard you were going out with him.”

“Going
out
with him?” All of a sudden my tongue cut loose. “We're not going out! We're just friends! You know, people who know each other. And talk to each
other. That's it! That's all. No hand holding, no kissing, no hanging out behind the gym.” I scowled and actually looked straight at him. “Who told you that, anyway?”

Like I didn't already know—his blabbermouth cousin and my best friend, Marissa.

He shrugged and shook his head a little. “It's not like it's a
crime
.”

I reined in Captain Patch because he was sniffing Brandon's leg. “What
is
a crime is spreading rumors that aren't true. What
is
a crime is being someone's best friend and talking about them at family pool parties, or whatever. What
is
a crime is betraying someone's trust, and believe me, I trust Marissa not to spread rumors about who I'm going out with! Especially when I'm not!”

“Hey, hey, hey,” he said. “Sorry I brought it up. Casey's a cool guy and I was, you know, happy for you.”

“Well, don't be!” I said, then leaned toward him and added, “He's Heather's brother,” like, You chow-der-head!

Now, with the way I'd railed on him, I wouldn't have blamed him for just saying, Later! and walking his tan swimmer muscles back up the walkway and out of my life for good. But he didn't. Instead, he laughed and said, “You better come to the pool party on the Fourth! It won't be any fun without you!”
Then
he walked his tan swimmer muscles back up the walkway, calling, “See ya!”

No fun without me? Yeah, I'd gone to their Fourth of July party the year before, and yeah, I'd put up a big fight against Brandon's team playing water hoops, but …no fun without me?

I just stood there like an idiot. Of course. That's how I
always act around Brandon McKenze. Well, unless I'm laying into him about who I'm not going out with. Then I go on and on about
that
like an idiot.

Anyway, after he disappeared inside the pool complex, I let Captain Patch drag me along some more. Up McEllen we went to Cook, where he hung a right and powered past the fire station and police station. And since he was on the trail of something awfully sniffing good, he would have just charged into the traffic on Miller Street if I hadn't yanked him back. “Maniac mutt,” I grumbled, and pulled him south along Miller, past the courthouse and baseball fields, all the way to the lawyer's office on the corner of Miller and Hopper. Patch was still zigzagging all over the place, sniffing every stick and stone in sight, but then he caught whiff of the lawyer's sign. To humans it may read:

LELAND
HAWKING
,
ESQUIRE
ATTORNEY
-
AT
-
LAW

But to dogs? I think it must be like their society gossip page or something. No dog can seem to walk by without sniffing the daylights out of it and then adding his two cents, of course.

I find the sign pretty entertaining myself. It's the esquire part that cracks me up. I mean, an
esquire
? In Santa Martina?

Please.

But Mrs. Willawago was right—he had put a lot of work into remodeling it into an office. It used to be one of the little houses
on
Hopper Street, but when they'd fixed it up and added rooms, they'd changed the entrance so it faced Miller Street instead.

Anyway, I tugged Captain Patch away from the sign before he tried to throw his two cents in, then turned right onto Hopper and walked along the hedge that divides the office from what's left of the street.

The hedge is only about waist height, so it's easy to see over. And it's not like I was
spying
over it or anything, but I did happen to look, so I did happen to see the blue car that was parked behind the office.

I did a double take because in all the times I'd walked Captain Patch, I'd never seen a car parked back there. There were often cars parked out front, but not
behind
the house. And it's not like a car parked at a business is any big deal—Leland Hawking, Esquire had to have clients, right? But it was the
way
this car was sucked up against the house, hiding in the shadows of a big tree, that made me look again.

And then I noticed the license plate: CNCLOWN
.

So okay. I'm a sucker for personalized plates. I always try to figure out what they mean, partly because it's a puzzle, and partly because lots of times they sum up a person for you, which saves you a lot of time trying to figure them out for yourself. I mean, if a person has a plate that is, say, BABMGNT, well, there you go. Might as well say BIGJERK
.
But if it reads HI
-
TOPZ, I'd probably shake my foot and give them a thumbs-up as they cruised by.

Anyway, the car caught my eye, and my brain got busy trying to figure out the plate. And I'm going, Seen Clown? Seein' Clown? wondering why someone with a car that was trying a little too hard to say luxury would want to advertise anything about clowns. You know the
kind of car I'm talking about—spoked hubcaps, hood ornament, velour seats…. People who drive cars like that just don't seem to fit with circus creatures like
clowns.

But then I realize that the
O
is a
Q
. It's really CNCLQWN
.
And
that's
when it hits me what the license plate says.

I pull back on Captain Patch and stop.

There's no way I can just go by — I've got snooping to do!

CNCLQWN wasn't Seein' Clown at all. It was CNCL
QWN
.

Council Queen.

This was Coralee Lyon's car.

Not that I knew anybody else on the city council, but from the two minutes I'd been exposed to her, I knew— ol' Blue Butt was the sort of person to crown herself queen, even if no one else wanted her to be.

Just like Heather Acosta.

I pulled Captain Patch in tight and snuck around the hedge, my mind zooming with questions: Was she really trying to hide her car? Or was she just after a little shade. Was she visiting a lawyer's office for legal reasons? Or was this another one of her courtesy visits. After all, it was the last house on Hopper Street, even if the entrance had been changed so it faced Miller.