Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief (4 page)

SEVEN

“Ah-ha!” she says. “Ah-ha!” Then she springs up from her chair and grabs me by the arm.

Now most people would've thought this woman was crazy, sitting at the end of the hall in her bathrobe and slippers, waiting for someone to come through the fire escape door. But I knew by looking at her that she was dressed and ready for action. Mrs. Graybill had lipstick on, and lipstick is her idea of being dressed. She doesn't brush her hair—it's got a flat spot in back where she sleeps on it, and it sticks straight out everywhere else. She doesn't put on shoes or clothes. She just puts on lipstick. Usually pink. And she goes
way
outside the lines. Especially on the top lip. It almost looks like she's wearing a little pink mustache up there, it's that bad.

So there she is, fully dressed, grabbing my arm, croaking, “I knew it! I just knew it!”

I look at her and try smiling while my brain's racing around for a way out of
this
one. I say, “Knew what?” like I'm the most innocent person you'd ever want to meet.

“Don't play dumb with me, girl,” she says, shaking my arm. “This has gone on long enough! This building is government-subsidized for senior citizens—not entire families! If your grandmother thinks she can get away with having you live here at the government's expense, she's got another think coming!”

“But ma'am,” I say, “I was just taking some of my grams' trash out for her.”

“Ha!” she says like a big old crow. “I've been sitting here for over an hour, waiting for you to come through that door. I knew you were getting up and down somehow, but it wasn't until I noticed
this
that I figured it out.” She opens the door, pries out my bubble gum, and shakes it in my face.

My brain's racing and I'm smiling the best I can, but my stomach's upside down and my knees are feeling kind of wobbly, like I'll be sitting down any minute, whether I want to or not. “Look, Mrs. Graybill, I don't live here. Really! Why would I want to live here? I just try to help my grandmother out as much as I can. Mom likes me to check on her 'cause she's not doing that well.”

“Oh, baloney! Oh, baloney and hogwash!”

“Really! And just now I was down throwing away some trash and…”

“Why didn't you just use the trash chute?”

That takes me a second. “It was kind of a big box—it didn't fit. I took it down the elevator and then came back up the stairs. It's quicker, y'know?” I smile real big. “Want to come down to the Dumpster and see?”

She sputters around a bit and then hauls me by the arm down to Grams' apartment and pounds on the door. Grams opens it, looking healthy as ever, and Mrs. Graybill says, “I know this girl is living with you, Rita! It's against the law, do you hear me? Against the law!”

Well, Grams takes
her
by the arm and drags her into the apartment. “Take a look, Daisy! Does it look like a child lives here?”

So Grams is yanking on Mrs. Graybill, and Mrs. Graybill is yanking on me, and we're all moving across the living room like some kind of giant centipede when Mrs. Graybill says, “Let go of me!”

I say, “Let go of
me!
” and we all kind of look at each other and then let go.

Grams takes a deep breath. “Daisy, honestly, the girl just helps me out. It gets lonely here—you know that. Don't you wish some of your family would stop by every once in a while for a visit?”

“Every day is not once in a while!”

So Grams guides her around the apartment. First she opens the bathroom door; then she opens the bedroom door. “Do you see evidence of a child living here?”

Well, Mrs. Graybill's looking around, not saying much. Then we move into Grams' bedroom and Mrs. Graybill throws open the closet. And she's dying to say, “Ah-ha!” only none of my clothes are in there. She lets out a little sigh, and Grams says, “Daisy, can't you just give up the hunt? Wouldn't it be more fun to be friends?”

I'm thinking, Friends? With Mrs. Graybill? That's all I need! But lucky for me, Mrs. Graybill just pushes her lips out so she looks like a duck with a fat pink beak and storms out of the apartment.

Once she's gone, Grams' hands land on her hips. “So you've been suspended.”

All of a sudden I'm so happy I could pop. I throw my arms around her and say, “It
was
you! I was afraid that maybe…” Then I look at her and say, “What happened to the story about Aunt Valerie?”

“
Victoria
—and I completely forgot. And once I started pretending to be your mother, I couldn't exactly go back on it, now could I?”

I give her another hug. “Grams, you're the best!”

She blushes, then pushes me toward the couch. “Now, Samantha, you sit right here and tell me what happened. How in the world could you get yourself suspended on the first day of school?”

So I tell her. The whole thing. From the top. About Heather Acosta and her fire-engine hair and her earrings. About the way she made fun of my shoes and tried to mooch money from Marissa. About her sticking me with a pin and how I smacked her in the nose. Then I tell her about Mr. Caan putting me in the Box and how nobody but Marissa would even listen to me.

And when I'm all done I take a big breath because the whole story came out in one gigantic sentence, and what does Grams do? She puts her arm around me and says, “I wish I'd had a friend like you when I was growing up, Samantha Keyes.”

Then she asks me what happened with Mrs. Graybill, so I tell her all about how she was waiting for me by the fire escape door and how she grabbed me by the arm and yelled at me and how I lied about the trash chute and the Dumpster and everything. Pretty soon Grams is looking worried.

“She found the gum,” I say quietly.

Grams sighs. “It's only a matter of time, Samantha.”

I look down. “What if I got a job? Maybe we could move?”

“That's out of the question.”

So we sit there a while and finally she says, “You'll have to go out for a bit, so she thinks you've left.”

I nod. “I know. It's okay.” But what I'm thinking is how nice it would be just to stay home and watch TV and not worry about anything.

Finally I get up. “I don't feel like walking all the way over to Marissa's. Maybe I'll go over to the mall, or over to see Hudson.”

“Oh, Samantha, no. Not over to Hudson's. You spend far too much time with him.”

“But Grams, he's nice! You should come with me sometime.”

She just shakes her head and says, “I just wish you had some more friends your own age.”

I go into the kitchen. “I'd still visit Hudson.” I rummage through a drawer until I find a roll of masking tape. I stuff it up under my shirt into my armpit and say, “Ready.” Grams watches me, but since she doesn't ask, I don't explain. I just head for the door.

Once I'm outside I call, “'Bye, Grams! See you tomorrow!” so Mrs. Graybill will hear me leaving.

Grams calls back, “'Bye, honey! Thanks for the help!” and there I go, straight to the elevator, whistling away, putting on a show for Mrs. Graybill.

When the elevator shows up, I get on it and punch the fourth-floor button. Then, when the elevator stops, I get out and reach back inside and punch the lobby button just in case Mrs. Graybill's watching the elevator lights on our floor. After I check the hallway and the coast is clear, I hurry down to the fire escape and get to work.

Now a wad of masking tape doesn't work nearly as well as a nice fat piece of bubble gum, but after a while I got the jamb plugged and really, you couldn't even tell the tape was there if you weren't looking. I tested it a bunch of times, then took the elevator down to the lobby and made a lot of noise so that Mr. Garnucci would notice me leaving.

Normally I don't want Mr. Garnucci to notice me. He's the manager and practically lives in the lobby. He knows everybody, including me. He's not that old, but he talks like he's old—he tells the same story over and over again and talks really loud—probably from being around old people all day. So normally I try to slip right by him, but seeing how Mrs. Graybill probably called him and told him to be on the lookout for me, there I was, in the lobby, making a lot of noise.

Mr. Garnucci looks up from his paper. “Sammy! How's that grandmother of yours?”

I'm afraid to answer, because before you know it he'll be telling me about
his
grandmother who's ninety-four and still riding her bicycle. So I give him a quick wave and call, “Fine! See you later!” and duck out the front door.

I stand outside for a minute, thinking; then I cut across the parking lot and head straight for Hudson's.

Hudson has a one-story house with a big stone fireplace and a nice shady porch. He's also got more books than the library. His back room has shelves from the floor to the ceiling on all four sides, and every single one of them is crammed full of books. They don't look like they're in any kind of order to me, but if you ask Hudson a question he doesn't know the answer to, he'll mosey into his library and in no time he'll have a book that'll give him the answer.

When I got to Hudson's, I picked up his newspaper and headed right up his walkway. He wasn't on the porch like he usually is, but the minute I rang the doorbell the front door whooshed right open.

You'd know Hudson Graham anywhere. It's not his thick white hair and bushy eyebrows that give him away, though. It's his boots. If you ever see a man walking down the street in yellow or emerald-green or violet cowboy boots, chances are good it's Hudson Graham.

And there he was, in the doorway, wearing a pair of boots that looked like they should be combed instead of worn. I guess I was staring, because he grins and says, “They're wild boar—like 'em?”

Into my brain pops a picture of this giant mean-looking pig with enormous tusks and a snort like an air horn. I laugh. “It's going to take me a minute to get used to them.” I hand him the paper. “Are you busy?”

“No, no! Stay a while. Can I look something up for you?”

“No thanks, I'm just here to visit.”

“Great! Have a seat. I'll get us some refreshments.”

So I sit in a chair on the porch, and I'm listening to the chimes from St. Mary's Church when a man turns up Hudson's walkway.

He's wearing a baseball cap and a windbreaker, and he's looking at the ground as he walks, so at first I didn't recognize him. Then I realize that it's the guy I bumped into at the mall.

It looks like he's going to come up to the porch, but instead he turns and follows the walkway around back.

I call out, “Hey!” but he just pulls on the bill of his cap and keeps right on walking.

And he's about to go through the back gate when Hudson comes out and says, “Evenin', Bill! Some mail arrived for you today. I put it on your bench.”

The guy tugs on his cap again, then goes around the corner without a word.

“Who was
that?
”

Hudson hands me a glass of iced tea. “My new renter. Bill Eckert.”

The back of Hudson's house is like a maze of converted rooms. He's got a workshop, a darkroom, a one-car garage for his car, Jester—they're all fun to snoop around in, and Hudson's happy to let me watch him when he's working on a project.

But then there's his regular garage, which he's turned into an apartment. Hudson won't let me anywhere near that without telling me not to bother his renter.

Hudson takes a sip of tea. “Bill's a bit of a loner, but that's okay.” He flips open the paper and says, “You want the funnies?”

I'm still feeling a little strange about this guy being Hudson's renter, but I say, “Sure.”

So I'm sitting there, sipping tea and reading the funnies, when all of a sudden Hudson's boots start tapping against each other.

“What's up?”

“Seven-twelve Cook Street, seven-twelve Cook Street.” He puts down the paper. “I could hit it with a stone!”

“Hit what with a stone?”

“The house that got robbed last night.”

“What?”

Hudson goes back to reading the article, “They're saying it's the sixth burglary in this vicinity in the past two and a half weeks.”

I jump up. “Did they catch the guy?”

Hudson reads some more. “No.”

“Well, did anybody get a good look at him, at least?”

Hudson dives back into the paper. “Hmmm...apparently not. It says here that the residents came home early from a dance recital because their daughter was taken ill. When they walked in, the burglar ducked out a back window...” He looks up at me. “I wonder...”

I'm staring at him, waiting, and finally I say, “You wonder what?”

He tugs on an eyebrow, then pops one of those furry boots up on the railing. “It sounds to me like they surprised him.”

I think about this a minute. “Yeah...so?”

He gives me a little smile. “Sammy, you've got a decent set of marbles—you tell me. A family plans to go out for a couple of hours in the evening. Something happens and they have to come back early, and when they do, they find that some fella's in the middle of helping himself to their good silver...”

His eyebrows are pushed way up his forehead and he's smiling at me like it's time for me to show off some of my marbles.

I say, “They came home early...they live close by...” just trying to buy myself some time. Then all of a sudden I can feel those marbles line up. “The burglar must've known they were going to be gone...He must know them!”

Hudson gives me a great big smile and swings his other foot onto the railing. “I'd bet my brand-new boots on it.”

EIGHT

I let Hudson have the funnies while I read the article. When I finished, I handed it back and decided to tell him about what had happened at the Heavenly and how I was kind of worried about what I'd done. Trouble is, I didn't want him thinking I was a weirdo, looking in other people's windows and all. So I made the mistake of going on and on about how great binoculars are and what-all you can see with them from Grams' apartment window. And just as he's starting to look at me like, Okay, Samantha. Out with it, his dachshund, Rommel, comes hobbling onto the porch dragging something with him. At first I don't pay much attention to him—I'm getting ready to tell Hudson about waving at the hotel thief. But then I notice that Rommel's not dragging a branch or a bone. He's dragging a purse.

I slap my leg. “Come here, boy. What have you got there?”

Rommel comes scooting over, and that's when I notice he's all muddy. He lets go of the purse, then sits there smiling and panting, very proud of himself.

Hudson says, “Rommel! You've been digging again!”

Rommel keeps right on smiling.

The purse is in pretty good shape. And it's pretty full. It's got makeup and gum and a hairbrush, a couple of pens and pencils, even a calculator.

Hudson's been looking over my shoulder, and when I get done rummaging through the purse he says, “Something's missing.”

“The wallet.”

He nods. “I wonder where Rommel found this.”

There's a hard plastic photo-keeper attached to the zipper. I flip it back and forth. On one side is a girl about six or seven hugging a kitten, and on the other are two older boys, dressed in baseball uniforms. I show it to Hudson. “Do you know these kids?”

“Yes! These are the Keltner twins, and that's their sister, Elyssa. They live about four houses down.” He turns to Rommel. “Where'd you find this, boy?”

Rommel smiles and pants, and you can tell—he wants his purse back.

Hudson gets up and marches his furry feet off the porch and around back. Rommel and I chase after him, and when we turn the corner what we see is trash all over the backyard.

“Rommel!”

Rommel looks at him like he's ready to chase a fox.

Hudson sighs, and we walk to the back fence where a trash can's been tipped over. Actually, it's more
dug
over. Rommel can't exactly jump, so he brought it down from underneath.

Hudson stands there a minute shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

“You can say that again!” I start picking up trash, putting it back in the can. “Do you think the purse was in your trash can?”

Hudson peeks over the back fence. “Maybe somebody tossed it in from the alley?” He shakes his head. “Seems very strange.”

“Maybe it didn't come out of the trash can.”

Hudson looks around. “Then where did it come from?”

“Has Rommel been out? Maybe he brought it home.”

“No, he can't get out unless he digs out, and I see no evidence of that.”

So we picked up all the garbage and filled the hole back in, and then Hudson says, “Elyssa mentioned something about them visiting her aunt this week, so I have a hunch they're not home, but let's go down to the Keltners' and check anyway.” He turns the purse over. “I wonder how long this has been missing.”

We walk down to the Keltners' and sure enough, no one's home. Hudson picks up some newspapers cluttering up their yard and stashes them on their porch, then takes a last look around. “Let's go home and call the police.”

So that's what we do, only I start worrying that Officer Borsch and Tall 'n' Skinny will be the ones to show up, so I say, “Hudson, I've really got to get back home. Grams is probably worrying about me.”

On the way home I'm so busy thinking about the purse that I'm nearly up to the fifth floor of the fire escape before I remember that it's locked. I turn around and go back down to the fourth floor, let myself in, cruise over to the regular stairs and walk the rest of the way up.

And I'm waltzing down the hall when I turn the corner and what do I see? Mrs. Graybill outside our apartment, talking to Grams.

I try to duck back around the corner, but I'm not quick enough. Mrs. Graybill sees me and says, “There she is! Rita, go get her!” Then she calls, “You come back here or I'll call the police!”

That stops me right in my tracks. I turn around and peek past the corner at them, and then I start walking toward them, wondering why in the world Grams is looking at me like she just bit into a lemon.

Mrs. Graybill shakes a napkin in my face. “What did you think? That I'd let you get away with this?”

“Get away with what? What is that?”

Grams looks down.

“This dumb-girl routine is getting very tiresome,” Mrs. Graybill snaps.

“Daisy, let me handle this.” Grams looks me in the eye. “Are you saying you didn't put the note under her door?”

I'm feeling like I'm in a basement without a flashlight. “
What
note?”

Mrs. Graybill shakes that napkin in my face again. “
This
note!”

When I finally got it away from her and read it, it felt like there was a centipede crawling down my back. I knew I hadn't written it, but I had a good idea who had.

I look at both of them and say, “I didn't write this!” but I can tell that Grams doesn't quite believe me.

Mrs. Graybill croaks, “Who else would write a note like this? Who
else?
”

I feel like telling her that it's the guy who's been stealing stuff from people all over town and that he's got the wrong apartment and thinks
she's
the one who saw him and waved. But what I say is, “I swear, Mrs. Graybill, I didn't write it. I would never write anything like this!”

“Ha!” she says. “It's just the sort of thing you would write!” She holds up the napkin. “‘If you talk, you'll be sorry.' Is this supposed to scare me?”

Well, it was scaring the oatmeal out of me, but I just said, “I know why you think it's me, but it's not.”

Mrs. Graybill turns to Grams. “Really, Rita, I've had enough. I think it's time I had this child banned from the building.”

Grams takes a deep breath. “Go ahead, Daisy. If it makes you happy, go down and talk to Vince Garnucci about it. Samantha says she didn't do it, and that's good enough for me.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Did you ever stop to think that maybe you've made some other ‘friends' in this building? Maybe one of them left you the note.”

“I don't even have any other friends here. I…”

“I wonder why!” Grams yanks me into our apartment and slams the door. Then, before I can thank her for sticking up for me, she snaps, “How could you?”

It felt like she just slapped me in the face. Then she says it again—“How could you? Did you really think it would shut her up? Don't you know it's as good as telling her she's right? What in the world do you expect me to do about this? First you get suspended for fistfighting, now you're writing threatening letters…Samantha, I'm beginning to feel like I don't even know you!”

I try to cut in and explain, but every time I do she starts scolding me some more. I feel like screaming, “Listen!” because I want her to believe me and I know I can make everything all right if she'd just listen to me.

So I'm saying, “Grams…Grams…
Grams!
” but when she finally turns to me and says, “What!” the phone rings.

And all of a sudden it's dead quiet in the apartment except for the phone ringing off the hook. Grams looks at me and I look at her, and finally she picks it up and says, “Hello?” real softly. After a second she pinches her eyes closed and I'm thinking that Mrs. Graybill has already told Mr. Garnucci everything and that this is him calling to say that Grams had better start packing. But what Grams says is, “No, she can't come to the phone.”

That throws me, but I'm thinking, Okay, okay...at least it's not Mr. Garnucci. It must be Marissa.

Grams says, “I don't care if it
is
an emergency—she can't come to the phone.”

So I'm sitting there, wondering what kind of trouble Mikey's gotten himself into this time, when Grams says, “The police? Why are the police looking for Samantha at
your
house?” She listens for another minute, then holds out the phone to me without a word.