As soon as the screen door slammed shut, Mom and Dad looked at me as if I'd invented Arthur to make their lives miserable. "It's not my fault," I said. "He was lying in wait for me."
Later that night as I was getting ready for bed, I found myself hoping Arthur was right about the termites. The sooner the house fell down, the sooner we d move to a nice house in Fair Oaks where no one had been murdered. I'd leave Arthur behind and make new friends. Just because I'd been a nerd in Richmond didn't mean I had to be a nerd here. I could start over, learn some sports, get better-looking clothes, and say the right thing instead of something dumb.
3
The next morning, Arthur walked into the kitchen while I was eating breakfast. Without waiting for an invitation, he dipped his hand into the Raisin Bran box and scooped out a helping. I watched him dump the cereal into his mouth and chew it up. "Would you like a bowl?" I asked, hoping to sound sarcastic.
"No, I already had breakfast. We get the store brand of raisin bran. I was just seeing which tasted better."
"And?"
"I like the store brand," Arthur said. "It's a better buy, too."
Mom took a break from unpacking to poke her head into the kitchen. "Good morning, Arthur. Did you tell your grandmother how much we enjoyed the cake?"
He nodded. "She was tickled pink," he said with a crooked grin. "I bet you never guessed she bought that cake at the day-old bake shop."
Mom and I looked at each other. It was true. We hadn't guessed.
"Well," Mom said, returning Arthur's grin. "I'll have to ask your grandmother where that shop is. The next time I need cake..."
"It's in the shopping center on Route 23," Arthur said. "Right next to the adult video place."
Mom ignored the part about the video store. "What are you two planning to do today?"
I groaned silently. We'd been here less than twenty-four hours, and Mom was already referring to Arthur and me as "you two."
"I'm going to show Logan the town," Arthur said, scooping up another handful of Raisin Bran. Mom ignored that, too. "Behave yourselves," she said. "And be back in time for lunch."
I followed Arthur outside and nearly tripped over Bear, who was lying near the door. He raised his head and looked at me, then sighed and began scratching his side.
"Poor fella," Arthur said. "He really loved Mrs. Donaldson."
"I wish Mom and Dad hadn't bought this house," I said.
"Well, I'm glad they did," Arthur said. "It's nice having someone to hang out with. I don't have a lot of friends, you know."
That was no surprise, but I didn't tell him that. Even if we didn't move to Fair Oaks before school started, I'd make new friends anyway. I wasn't about to spend the rest of my life stuck with a weird kid like Arthur.
An ancient girl s three-speed Raleigh with a big straw basket attached to its handlebars leaned against the porch. I'd have rather walked than ride something that clunky. But Arthur straddled it and grinned. "Come on," he said, "I'll show you the spectacular sights of Bealesville."
I went to the garage and wheeled out my bike, a red Trek with more gears than I knew what to do with and brakes quick enough to pitch me over the handlebars. Dad had bought new bikes for all three of us. Now that we were living near the mountains, he planned for us to do a lot of riding on park trails.
"That sure is one fancy bike. But you know what?" Arthur patted the Raleigh s handlebars. "This is the best bike ever made. It's a genuine classic."
Dad came to the kitchen door. "Don t forget your helmet, Logan!" He tossed it to me from the back porch.
Arthur watched me fasten the strap under my chin. "Do you have fancy spandex shorts, too?" he asked. "And special shoes that snap to the pedals?"
I shook my head, irritated by the sarcastic edge to his questions. "Where's your helmet?" I asked.
"Grandma says helmets take all the fun out of bike riding."
"If you're under eighteen, you have to wear one. It's the law."
Arthur shrugged. "Grandma says the cops have more important things to do than arrest kids for not wearing helmets."
"Your grandmother sure has a lot of opinions."
"You can say that again." Arthur pushed off and wobbled down the driveway toward the street. If any kid needed protection, he did.
"Hey," I called. "I bet Dad can lend you a helmet."
Arthur shook his head. "I don't need it."
I followed him down the shady street, glad to see he was doing better now that he was pedaling faster.
True to his word, it didn't take long to tour Bealesville proper. We cruised up and down a few hilly streets. Arthur pointed out various houses. The police chief lived in a brick rambler at the end of Albert Street. The principal of the middle school lived in a huge Victorian at the top of the hill on Magruder Road. A doctor lived in another mansion across the way. A dentist was close by in a tidy brick colonial on Sheraton Street. His fence was made of a row of wooden teeth, complete with a sign that said, tooth acre. I hoped he wasn't the only dentist in town.
"How come so many houses have those signs in their yards?" I pointed to a bunch sprouting like mushrooms on the dentist's lawn. One said, SAVE THE MAGIC. Another said, SAY NO TO CHESTNUT MANOR ESTATES.
Arthur screwed up his face in disgust. "Lots of people want to save the old amusement park out on Route 23—the Magic Forest, it was called. After it closed, some corporation bought the land. Got it cheap, according to Grandma. They plan to tear down what s left of the place and build a big development there—more huge houses like the ones in Fair Oaks, plus an outlet mall, a bunch of restaurants, and a multiplex movie theater."
"That doesn't sound so bad."
Arthur shrugged. "People here like things the way they are. They don't want Bealesville to become a suburb of Richmond."
Maneuvering around a parked car, he added, "The Magic Forest is a really neat place. It's all grown over with vines and stuff, and the rides and buildings are falling down. Somebody could film a great horror movie there."
With that, Arthur pedaled down Tulip Road, picking up speed as he coasted to Main Street at the bottom of the hill. The biggest house was Bradley s Funeral Home, which had provided fine service for seventy-five years, according to the sign in the front yard. Next to Bradley's establishment was the Quiet Hours Nursing Home, which I guessed was a convenient arrangement, considering that the cemetery was directly across the street. Some old folks were sitting in rockers on the front porch gazing at the green grass and marble headstones. Maybe that's what you did when you were their age—contemplated your eternal resting place. Maybe it helped you get used to the idea of dying. But I doubted it.
"That's where Mrs. Donaldson s funeral was." Arthur pointed to Bradley's. "Lots of people came—so many they had to get in line and wait to go in. Fire laws, you know." He swerved to avoid hitting a fire hydrant he hadn't noticed.
"Most of them didn't even know her," he went on, as if he hadn't just missed fracturing his skull. "They went because she was murdered."
"Did you go?"
"Of course. She was a nice old lady." He paused to watch a dog dash across the street in pursuit of a cat.
I looked at Arthur with admiration, maybe even envy. I'd never been to a funeral. Not even my grandparents' or my favorite aunt's. Mom thought I was too young to be exposed to such things, but I felt as if I'd missed out on something. Every kid I knew had been to at least one funeral.
"Let's get moving." Arthur took off down another steep hill, and I pedaled after him, hoping to see the rest of the town before he killed himself in a spectacular bike crash.
4
On Main Street, we passed a bunch of truly boring stores—an insurance agency, an office-supply store, and Mrs. DiSilvio's real estate office, its windows plastered with photos of houses. It was the only business that didn't have a save the magic sign in its window.
Across the street was a drugstore, Golden Joe's Pizza GoGo, and three or four consignment shops, selling everything from
old clothes to even older appliances. The whole street had a tired look.
"Everybody goes to Wal-Mart now," Arthur explained. "Grandma says it's a real pity. She used to work in a nice little card shop, but it closed last year. People can buy stuff cheaper at Wal-Mart."
I'd heard my parents complain about the same thing. Dad was still mad about some big hardware chain that drove his favorite store out of business. But I guessed that's how it was. People went where they got the best prices. You couldn't really blame them.
At last Arthur stopped in front of the library, a tiny little store-front branch not even a third the size of the one back home. Its windows were plastered with SAVE THE MAGIC signs.
"I thought you might want to get a library card," he said, dumping his classic Raleigh on the sidewalk.
I locked my Trek to a bike rack, took off my helmet, and followed him inside, glad to escape the heat. The librarian sitting at the information desk smiled at Arthur. "Well, well," she said, "here s my favorite customer. Who's this with you?"
"Logan Forbes," Arthur said. "He just moved into Mrs. Donaldson s house. Right next door to me."
"Oh, yes, I heard the new art teacher bought the place." She turned her smile on me. "I'm Mrs. Bailey, Logan. Are you a bookworm like my buddy Arthur?"
I shrugged. Here was another person linking me with Arthur. It seemed there was no escaping it—I was doomed to be Arthur's friend.
"Reading's okay," I said as I took the pen she offered me and filled out an application for a library card. Like Arthur, I'd been the prize winner in my school's read-a-thon, but I didn't want people thinking we were just alike. If I hadn't been scared of being caught in a lie, I'd have said I was too busy playing sports to read. That would have set us apart. Arthur was obviously no better at physical stuff than I was.
"We'll get your card into the mail tomorrow or the day after," she promised. "In the meantime, Arthur can let you check out some books on his card."
"Sure," Arthur said, "as long as you bring them back on time. I've never had an overdue in my life."
Mrs. Bailey laughed. "Arthur is absolutely exemplary in that regard."
"Come on," Arthur said to me. "I'll give you a tour."
We went to the children's room first, a small area in the back. I could tell at a glance I'd read most of the books.
"You can order stuff from other libraries," Arthur said as if he'd guessed what I was thinking. "That's how I read so many last year. I'm not sure there are even 500 books in this whole library."
We browsed around a while. In the teen section, I found a science fiction paperback that looked good. Arthur picked up The Shining and started flipping through it.
"Hey, I've got an idea," he said. "Let's get the newspaper from the day Mrs. Donaldson was killed so you can read all about it."
Without waiting for a response, Arthur headed back to Mrs. Bailey's desk. "Do you remember when Mrs. Donaldson was murdered?"
Mrs. Bailey thought a minute or two. "Three years ago, July seventeenth. I remember because I was baking my daughter's birthday cake. I'd just counted out six candles when I heard the announcement on the radio."
"Could we see the newspaper from that day?" Arthur asked. "Logan wants to know everything about it, since it happened in his house and all."
"I'll be right back." Mrs. Bailey opened a door marked STAFF ONLY and went inside.
"I don't want to read about it," I muttered.
"Yes, you do," Arthur said.
I shrugged. Actually, he was right. I couldn't help being curious. But I didn't want to admit it. Wasn't it kind of morbid?
"Here it is." Mrs. Bailey had reappeared, holding a big book. "These are the 2006 Bealesville Posts, all bound together in chronological order."
Arthur led the way to a reading table and put the book down, turning the pages quickly to find what he wanted. Each time a page turned, motes of dust flew up and tickled my nose.
"Voilà!" Arthur pointed a grubby finger at a front-page headline, dated July 17.
MYRTLE E. DONALDSON MURDERED IN HER HOME
BEALESVILLE. "Things like this don't happen in Bealesville," Evan McEwan said when he learned of Mrs. Donaldson's murder.
Unfortunately, Mr. McEwan is wrong. Like our big-city cousins, our small town has its own murder to deal with, and everyone is reeling in shock, including the police, who have no leads as to the killer's identity.
NEIGHBOR DISCOVERS BODY
Yesterday, Darla Jenkins, age 68, of 4301 Navajo Street found her neighbor dead at the bottom of the cellar steps. Myrtle E. Donaldson, age 61, died from head injuries resulting from the fall. The house was in disarray, leading police to theorize that Mrs. Donaldson was the victim of a robbery. She was apparently pushed down the steps by an intruder who also tried, but failed, to kill her dog.
So far the police have no suspects.
WILL BE REMEMBERED BY MANY
Mrs. Donaldson will be remembered by many as the genial ticket taker at the beloved Magic Forest Amusement Park on Route 23 West. She was employed there from 1960 until her untimely death.
The only blot on her career was the recent discovery that a large sum of money had been embezzled from the park. Mrs. Donaldson was questioned more than once, leading some to believe she was the chief suspect, but no evidence was found linking her to the crime.
The theft forced the park's owner, Edward Farrell, into bankruptcy. Consequently, he has no plans to reopen next summer. In fact, he has already received an offer from someone interested in developing the land.
Thus ends a tradition of cooling off with Old King Cole, Willie the Blue Whale, Cinderella, and all the other beloved, larger-than-life nursery rhyme characters.
POLICE CHIEF AT A LOSS
In his statement to the press regarding Mrs. Donaldson's death, police chief Robert Manning refuted allegations of a connection between the murder and the amusement park's missing funds. He has requested that anyone with information about the murder step forward.
At this time, Chief Manning believes Mrs. Donaldson was the victim of a random killing committed by a stranger passing through Bealesville in search of money or valuables.
We hope this proves to be correct and not the beginning of a crime wave in our peaceful town.
FUNERAL
Services for Myrtle E. Donaldson will be held at Bradley's Funeral Home on July 22nd at ten A.M. Burial will follow at Still Waters Memorial Gardens.
Mrs. Donaldson, a lifelong resident of Bealesville, was predeceased by her parents, Daniel and Sophie Atkins, and her husband, Peter Donaldson. She leaves her daughter, Violet Phelps; her son-in-law, Silas Phelps; two grandchildren, several nieces and nephews, and numerous friends and relatives.
I studied Mrs. Donaldson's smiling photograph. She wasn't the sort of person you'd expect to end up getting murdered in her own home. Or to be suspected of embezzling. "Do you think she stole the money?" I asked.
"No way." Arthur touched Mrs. Donaldson's photograph with his stubby finger. "But you know how it is. People started rumors, and pretty soon most of the town believed she'd hidden it somewhere in her house—which could be why Silas Phelps killed her."
"Silas Phelps?" I stared at Arthur. "The newspaper said the police had no suspects."
Arthur shrugged. "Grandma is positive he did it."
"But he was her son-in-law—"
"If you'd lived in Bealesville as long as I have," Arthur said, "you'd understand. The Phelpses and the Jarmons are the worst families in town. They're all related to each other—the most twisted DNA you ll ever come across. Grandma says they're directly descended from Cain."
Arthur leaned closer. "Silas is the worst of all the Phelps. You could call him a one-man crime wave. Car theft, armed robbery, drugs, assault—he's been in jail most of his adult life."
Noticing I'd gotten kind of tense, Arthur patted my shoulder. "You don't have to worry about Silas. He's back in jail for holding up a gas station out on Route 703. Used a gun.... He's one bad du
de."
While I sat there picturing Silas as a modern-day Bill Sykes straight out of Oliver Twist, Arthur turned to the next day's paper. For about a week, the murder was covered, slowly working its way from front-page headlines to back-page paragraphs, tucked away between bicycle thefts and other small-town stuff. But it was always the same. Except for the occasional mention of the embezzled money, there was no clue to who killed Mrs. Donaldson—or why.
"Well, that's it." Arthur got up and stretched, inflating his bony chest with a deep breath. "You want to make some photocopies for your parents? They should know the facts."
I reached into my pocket. Four quarters, two nickels, and three pennies: more than enough to copy the first article, which was the most important one. And, as Arthur pointed out, the only one that mentioned his grandmother.
"Make me a copy, too," Arthur said. "I'll pay you back."
I doubted that, but I made him a copy anyway. Arthur carried the heavy book back to Mrs. Bailey. She took it and handed it to a woman standing beside her.
"Here you are," she said. "It's so odd to have two people wanting the same year of the Bealesville Post on the same day."
The woman smiled at Arthur and me. Even though she was at least thirty, she was still really good looking. Long dark hair, pretty eyes, nice mouth, small nose. Kind of tall, slim but not skinny—she was built, really built. Arthur and I ogled her shamelessly.
"Why would boys your age be reading musty old newspapers?" she asked in a friendly way.
Arthur gestured at me and said, "My friend Logan just moved into the house next door to me. An old lady got killed there three years ago. He wanted to see the newspaper story."
He held up his photocopy, which was already creased and dirty, and the lady leaned down to take a look. Her long hair swung against Arthur's cheek, and he blushed.
"What an amazing coincidence," she said. "That's the very story I'm looking for."
"How come?" Arthur asked, obviously puzzled.
"I'm an investigative reporter from the Richmond Times," she said. "We're running a series on unsolved crimes, what they call 'cold case files.' My editor assigned the Donaldson killing to me."