The Secret Cookie Club (10 page)

Love from your Moonlight Ranch friend, Emma

P.S Are you going to send Vivek cookies too? You don't have to tell :^) but one time he told me he likes frosted ones.

I reread my e-mail and hoped Grace was patient enough
to read such a long one. Writing a lot was a good way to put off looking for the envelope.

When I tapped send, I admit that I wondered how soon I would get my cookies.

Not that cookies were the important part, of course. The important part was that Grace had remembered about the Secret Cookie Club and about camp and she had written to me. The important part was friendship.

Still, I did wonder when I would get my cookies and also what kind they would be.

It was nine thirty by now, and I was out of excuses. The pictures were in a brown envelope like every other brown envelope in the world. Even so, I was confident I would find it . . . at first.

An hour later, I wasn't so sure.

Emma

“You've got a mystery to solve, Emma. Just like Nancy Drew.” That was my friend Caitlin's assessment. It was the next morning, Saturday, after services at our temple. Along with my friend Julia, we were walking from there to the food pantry to volunteer. It wasn't that cold, but the damp was chilly, and we were all puffed up in coats, hats, and mittens.

“Car's coming—wait!” I said as we approached the crosswalk. Everyone stopped.

“I love Nancy Drew,” Julia said, “especially the old ones.”

“Okay, it's safe,” I said, and we crossed the street.

“In the old ones, they drive around in a roadster and wear tweed skirts and cardigan sweaters,” Julia said. “They never wear jeans; they wear
slacks
.”

“I like wearing jeans,” said Caitlin.

“But sometimes wouldn't it be nice to look nice?” Julia asked.

“I look nice if I remember to put on lip gloss,” Caitlin said.

“If we dressed nice, maybe we could have roadsters,” Julia said. “Maybe it all goes together.”

The food pantry is where a video store used to be. One more block, turn the corner, and we were there. Because it's so close, our parents let us walk and then one of them picks us up at lunchtime.

“What is a roadster?” Caitlin asked.

“A little sports car,” I said.

“A convertible?” Caitlin asked.

“I don't think so,” I said.

“Well,
that's
disappointing,” Caitlin said.

“Probably safer, though,” I said. “Cars didn't have seat belts in those days.”

“In what days?” Caitlin said.

“The 1930s—that's when the original Nancy Drew books take place,” I said, “the ones written by Carolyn Keene.”

Julia said, “There never was a Carolyn Keene,” which was a very Julia thing to say because Julia is nice but also a know-it-all.

Caitlin said, “But her name is right on the cover.”

“She still wasn't real,” Julia said. “Someone just had the idea for those books and thought that name sounded right for the author. Really, they were written by different people. That's how they could get so many, and how there are still new ones now.”

Inside the food pantry, the warmth felt good for about one minute. Then we got hot and were glad
to hang up our coats. After that, we signed in and said hello to Mrs. Rust, who gave us our assignment: Clean up the shelves of canned goods. She didn't have to add instructions. We had done this job before.

“Got it?” she asked.

“Got it!” Caitlin, Julia, and I replied.

Our community food pantry collects food from people and stores that have extra, then distributes it to people who don't have much money. Caitlin, Julia, and I used to volunteer with our parents, but now we've been at it so long we can work on our own.

Pulling cans off shelves does not require any brain cells, so we continued our conversation.

“So how would Nancy Drew find my missing envelope?” I asked.

“
The Secret of the Missing Envelope
is not a very exciting title,” Caitlin said.

“I don't care if it's exciting. It's what's missing,” I said.

“
The Secret of the Stolen Photographs
,” said Julia. “That's better.”

“But they weren't stolen,” I said. “Who would steal them?”

“Aha!” said Julia. “
Now
you're thinking like Nancy Drew! I say it was probably Benjamin, because it wasn't your mom or dad.”

“Benjamin doesn't want old family photographs,” I said.

“If we had all the answers, it wouldn't be a mystery,” said Caitlin.

“Has anybody visited your house since your mom brought the envelope home?” Julia asked.

“Like a mysterious stranger?” Caitlin said. “A mysterious stranger would be a good suspect.”

By this time our shelves were bare, so Caitlin started spraying them with cleaner and Julia wiped them down. My job was to make sure the cans weren't dented or old, then replace them on the shelves.

“No mysterious strangers have come to my house lately,” I said. “But even if one did, how would I find him again to interview him?”

“It might be a ‘her,' ” Caitlin said.

“Finding the stranger's a problem,” said Julia. “So do it last. Meanwhile, interview your parents. They might be witnesses.”

“I can't interview my mom,” I said. “If she finds out the envelope is missing, she'll kill me.”

“You are way too unsneaky,” Julia said. “All you have to do is ask questions that don't reveal what it is you're really getting at.”

Caitlin nodded. “That's what Nancy Drew would do.”

Emma

Julia's mom dropped me off. When I walked in the front hall, my dad called, “Hello, Emma! How was the food pantry?”

His office is on the first floor, across the hall from my mom's. I found him sitting at the computer. He was wearing a sweatshirt with P
ENN
Q
UAKERS
printed across the chest in faded ink. The Quakers are the University of Pennsylvania mascot, and my dad bought
the sweatshirt when he was in medical school a thousand years ago.

“We shelved soup,” I said.

“That's good. That's great.” He didn't take his eyes off the screen. “What's on tap for the rest of your afternoon?”

“I thought I'd break some windows and then maybe spray paint graffiti on stop signs.”

Dad nodded, still looking at the screen. “Sounds good.”

“Da-a-ad?”

He looked up and blinked. “Wait. What did you say? You're painting?”

“Never mind. What are you working on?”

“New study,” he said. “I'm supposed to understand it by Monday.”

“Where's Mom?”

Dad glanced around the office as if she might materialize.

“Still at legal services?” I reminded him.

“Oh—right. Probably. And your brother is at hockey
practice. Are you coming to his game tonight?”

“Is that kosher—hockey on the first night of Hanukkah?” I asked.

Dad shrugged. “Oh, sure. The hero of the Hanukkah story was a warrior, Judah Maccabee. He'd definitely approve of hockey.”

“I'm going to keep my options open,” I said. Then, with total disregard for sneakiness, I asked, “Uh, Dad? You haven't seen a brown envelope, have you?”

“What's in it?” Dad asked.

“I'd rather not say.”

Dad nodded. It's pretty obvious from which parent I get absentmindedness. “I'll keep an eye out. Is it important? Life or death?”

“Yes,” I said.

Dad nodded again, then looked back at the screen. “I'll let you tell your mom when you're ready,” he said.

“Thanks,” I said.

*  *  *

My bedroom is not the messiest. It's true I keep an undisturbed colony of dust bunnies under my bed, and
my desk and bedside table are covered with books, magazines, papers, crayons, watercolors, glue, pens, pencils, and healthy snack foods. But I do tug the sheets up on my bed, throw my dirty clothes in the hamper, and empty my wastebasket the night before trash day.

Last year my parents let me take down prints that had been on my wall since kindergarten and tack up posters of my favorite bands and celebrities. At first, my mom thought unframed posters were a disgrace, but now she's used to it.

“It's your room,” she says.

Then she sighs.

I had already looked in every drawer for the missing envelope, under every book and paper, even under the covers. Nothing. Could it be in the family room? The kitchen?

I expanded my search that afternoon. I even made Ike move so I could look under the pillow in his bed.

“You didn't take it, did you, guy?” I asked him.

He cocked his head, trying to understand.

“Nah, I know you didn't. It's the kind of thing you would've
done when you were a puppy, but now it's only worth it if it tastes good, right?”

Ike still didn't understand, but he
woofed
to be agreeable.

When Mom came home with Benjamin, I decided to follow my friends' instructions and play Nancy Drew.

“Benjamin!” I knocked on his door. “I know you're in there!”

The door swung open. My brother scowled. “What do you want?”

“Nice to see you too,” I said.

“I have to rest up for the game tonight,” he said.

“Are you even gonna get to play?”

My brother is one of the smaller kids on his team.

“Thanks a lot,” he said—and I realized that explained his grumpy mood.

“You'll grow,” I promised.

“When?” he asked.

“Not by tonight,” I admitted.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

“You know that envelope of photos for GG's book?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do,” I insisted, and then I explained.

“You
lost
those pictures?” Benjamin said. “I can't even imagine how much trouble you're in.” This idea obviously cheered him up.

“Thanks, that's helpful,” I said.

“Are you coming to my game?” he asked.

“Do you want me to?”

Benjamin shrugged. “No. Yeah. I don't care.”

From my brother, that was practically an enthusiastic
yes
. If he really hadn't cared, he would've plain said no.

I shrugged. “Maybe I'll go. I don't have anything better to do.”

“Because you're a loser,” he said.

“Yeah.” I sighed. “You've got that right.”

Emma

My brother spent most of the game on the bench. Even so, his team's 2–0 win made my great-grandmother happy the next night when she, my grandmother, and two complete sets of aunts and uncles came over to celebrate Hanukkah.

GG is thin with good posture and dyed orange hair that forms a frizz halo around her face. She always wears earrings and makeup along with dresses and stockings
for special occasions. Lately, she has trouble with her memory. Some people think this makes conversation tough, but Benjamin thinks it's great. Unlike the other women in my family, GG doesn't grill him for details.