Sammy Keyes and the Hotel Thief Sammy Keyes

  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.

  NINE

  It’s Marissa, all right, and you can tell—she’s dancing around with her cordless phone, biting on a fingernail, having a heart attack. “Sammy, you’ve got to come. Now! I told them you were in the shower. What is going on? They say you said you lived here! What am I supposed to do?”

  “The shower?” My brain races around for a solution, but all I feel is marbles crashing into each other, going nowhere. “Are your parents home?”

  “No.”

  “What about Mikey?”

  “He’s in his room, feeding his fish. I told him if he came out, I’d tell Mom and Dad about him going to Maynard’s when he was supposed to be sick.”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll be right there.”

  “How in the world are you going to get here?”

  “I’m going to run.”

  “Run?”

  “Yeah. Leave the back door unlocked and tell them I take long showers. I’ll be there as fast as I can.”

  I hang up and look at Grams. She’s sitting on the couch with her face buried in her hands, shaking her head. I run up to her and give her a hug. “Grams, I’m really sorry. I promise I’ll explain everything when I get back.”

  She looks up at me and whispers, “Samantha, you act like you’re running from the law.”

  I let out a nervous little laugh. “Actually, it’s kind of the opposite. Everything’ll be all right, I promise.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek, and as I’m leaving she says, “I’ll be waiting.”

  I wave and close the door, and then I start running. Down the stairs, through the lobby, across the parking lot, and down Main Street.

  Now, I walk to Marissa’s house all the time. Before my skateboard got stolen I used to go to Marissa’s house almost every day. But I’d never run to Marissa’s house. And I guess I started off too fast, because two blocks down Main Street the iced tea I’d had at Hudson’s locked up tight on my right side and wouldn’t let go.

  But I kept on running, holding on to my side like I’d been shot, feeling a hot spot on my little toe where a blister’s going to pop up any minute, and by the time I tur
n up Jasmine I’m not running anymore, I’m hobbling.

  I hobble up the hill as fast as I can, wondering the whole time if it’s Officer Borsch who’s waiting for me, and if it is, if he’s figured out yet that I’m not really in the shower.

  I cut through a neighbor’s yard, then scrape myself up climbing over the fence into Marissa’s backyard. By now I just want to lie down and die, but instead I drag myself up to the house, turn on a hose, then lean way over and drown my head in freezing cold water.

  Marissa’s head pops out the back door. “What are you doing?”

  “Taking a shower! Quick—get me a towel!”

  She comes back and throws me the towel. “Hurry! I think they’re getting suspicious!”

  “What do they look like? Is one of them really fat?”

  “Yeah! And the other’s really skinny. What is going on?”

  “I can’t explain right now. It’s too complicated.” I yank off my shoes and put the towel over my shoulders. “Let’s go!”

  We go charging through the kitchen and den, and then catch our breath right outside the living room. Marissa opens the door and says, “Here’s Sammy,” then smiles and backs way off into a corner to watch.

  Now the McKenzes’ living room is glass. Nothing but glass. Glass tables, glass shelves with little glass figurines, glass lamps, even glass chairs. And sitting there in one of those dainty glass chairs is Officer Borsch, looking like an elephant trying to squeeze into a fishbowl.

  I smile at them and rub the towel on the side of my head. “Hi. Sorry you had to wait. What’s up?”

  All that leather gear and equipment around their stomachs kind of creaks and jingles as they stand up. “We’d like you to take a look at a few pictures, if you would.”

  “Sure.”

  I start rubbing the hair on the other side of my head, trying to act casual, but the whole time I’m wondering why in the world Marissa’s pulling funny faces and jerking her arm back and forth like she is.

  Officer Borsch pulls a photograph out of a big envelope. “Is this the fella you saw at the Heavenly the other night?”

  Marissa’s pulling faces like a blowfish and slapping at air, and I’m doing my best to ignore her as he hands me the picture. Then I see Mikey, peeking around the living room door, looking like a bumblebee in a black-and- yellow shirt.