Closed for the Season

  "And guess who brought us home?" Arthur added. "Nina Stevens and Billy Jarmon."

  "Nina was with Billy Jarmon?" Up went Mrs. Jenkins penciled eyebrows. "I told her to hire Johnny."

  "Johnny was busy," Arthur said. "He told her to ask Billy."

  Mrs. Jenkins sighed. "Well, I'm sure he can show her some interesting places."

  With that, she herded Arthur across the yard and into the house. At the same moment the Jenkins s screen door slammed behind him, Mom appeared at our kitchen window and called me.

  The minute I walked through the door, I got a long lecture on the importance of telling people where I was going and when I was coming back. I hemmed and hawed and fudged to keep from revealing where I'd actually been. But I said I was sorry and I apologized and agreed to all charges against me: yes, I was inconsiderate; yes, I was irresponsible; yes, I never thought of anyone but myself, and yes and yes and yes—guilty as charged.

  When both Mom and Dad were finally convinced I was truly repentant, I was allowed to sit down at the kitchen table and have my dinner all by myself. My parents had already eaten. An hour ago, Mom pointed out with some vexation.

  While I was dining on cold mashed potatoes, cold broccoli, and cold chicken, Dad sat down across from me. "Johnny said he saw you at the Toot 'n' Tote store on Route 23. What were you doing all the way out there?"

  "Oh, Arthur was showing me more sights."

  "Since when is a convenience store a sight?"

  "In Bealesville, a traffic light is a sight," I said. "A dog peeing on a fire hydrant is a sight. A turtle crossing the road is a sight, a man trimming his hedge is a sight—"

  "Okay, okay," Dad interrupted just as I was getting warmed up. "Johnny told me you were probably heading for the Magic Forest. He couldn't think of anything else in that direction."

  "It's none of Johnny's business where Arthur and I go. What's it matter to him anyway?"

  "According to Johnny, the park's full of falling-down ruins and is overrun with snakes," Dad went on as if he hadn't heard me. "It's also private property. If the police catch you in there, you ll be fined for trespassing."

  "Arthur's gone there lots of times," I told him, "and he's never—"

  "Just because his grandmother lets him wander all over the state of Virginia," Dad said, "doesn't mean you can do the same. Do you hear me?"

  "Yes, I hear you." Picking up my empty plate, I carried it to the sink. "I'm kind of tired. Do you mind if I take a shower and go to bed?"

  "It's only seven o'clock," Dad said.

  "It was a long bike ride."

  After my shower, I settled down in bed with my library book, but my brain was flashing with images of the Magic Forest and Billy and Nina. I wondered where they'd gone after Billy dropped Arthur and me in front of our houses. What if he asked her for a date? Would she go?

  It was too disgusting to think about. If only I was older—if only, if only.

  An hour or two later, Mom and Dad came upstairs, their voices loud in the quiet house. I put down my book and listened.

  "Rhoda told me I should encourage Logan to join a team before school starts," Mom was saying. "She also said I should discourage him from making friends with a kid like Arthur."

  "Rhoda, Rhoda, Rhoda," Dad muttered. "I'm so sick of hearing about Rhoda and her opinions on everything. If she thinks Arthur's unsuitable, I say encourage Logan to play with him."

  "You and your weird sense of humor," Mom snapped. "Can't you ever take anything seriously?"

  "I'm perfectly serious," Dad said. "Logan is old enough to choose his own friends. And Rhoda has no business sticking her nose into our son s life."

  "But Arthur is—"

  "Arthur takes some getting used to," Dad said, "but he's a good kid. Smart, too. He even likes to read."

  "He took Logan to that awful place—"

  "I've talked to Logan about that. He realizes the danger. I don't think he'll go back there, but, even if he does—"

  At that point, their bedroom door closed, and I heard no more.

  "But even if he does, even if he does..." I lay back and grinned. Who knows what Arthur and I might do? I didn't have a clue myself. But whatever it was, it would be better than Little League. And it wouldn't be any of Rhoda's business.

  9

  The next morning, Arthur showed up again at breakfast time. Bear followed him in and wandered around the kitchen, sniffing at the door to the basement. I was glad Mom was in the living room arguing with Dad about what color to paint the house. If she'd seen the dog, she would have concluded he smelled Mrs. Donaldson's blood.

  Without waiting for me to finish my cereal, Arthur plopped himself down in a chair and leaned toward me. "I've been thinking about that money," he said. "Didn't your dad say there's a ton of stuff in the attic that belonged to Mrs. Donaldson?"

  I nodded. "Johnny's supposed to haul it to the dump today or tomorrow."

  Arthur crammed some cereal into his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "Maybe we should have a look at the attic before it's too late."

  I knew Mom and Dad wouldn't want Arthur and me rummaging around in the attic, but they were still in the living room, too busy arguing to notice what we were up to.

  With Bear behind us, we tiptoed up the steep, narrow steps. It must have been 150 degrees in the attic. The air was thick and heavy and smelled of dust and old things—paper and cardboard, wood and cloth. Dim light shone through the cobweb-covered windows at either end.

  In the middle of the floor, I saw at least a dozen big, bulging cardboard cartons. It was obvious that someone had gone through every one of them. Worn-out shoes and clothes had been flung everywhere, along with books and records, dented pots and pans, photo albums, old bank statements, ragged towels, and torn sheets. A broken lamp lay on its side in the shadows under the eaves, along with an armchair, its upholstery clawed to shreds by cats. A china closet with cracked glass doors stood in a corner. One rusty roller skate sat on a stack of yellowing newspapers and magazines.

  "Get a load of these." Arthur laughed and held up a huge pair of plaid boxer shorts. "Mr. Donaldson must've been as big as an elephant."

  I laughed, too. But then I felt sad because the man had died a long time ago and never dreamed his wife would be murdered in their house and two kids would make jokes about his underwear.

  Uneasy about looking at dead people's things, I sat back on my heels and wiped the sweat off my forehead. "The money's not here."

  Arthur didn't answer. He was watching Bear nose through a box of old kitchen stuff, whimpering and whining to himself. "What are you after?" he asked the dog.

  For an answer, Bear trotted over to Arthur and dropped a small plastic bag at his feet. Wagging his tail, he barked once.

  Arthur dumped the bag's contents on the floor. Out tumbled a handful of junky plastic toys, each about two inches tall. Some were red, some blue, some yellow, but they were all the same—eleven gingerbread men with smiling faces.

  "They're from the Magic Forest gift shop," Arthur said. "I used to have lots of them—Snow White, the Crooked Man, Humpty-Dumpty, the Dish and the Spoon, even the Witch—but I sold them at one of Grandma s tag sales. All I got was a lousy quarter for the whole bunch."

  He arranged the little gingerbread men in a row. "I should have kept mine," he said sadly. "By the time I'm grown up, they ll be worth a fortune on eBay."

  I picked up a crumpled piece of pink note paper. "This must have fallen out of the bag."

  Arthur snatched it from my hand. Squinting to make out the handwriting, he read,

  "Dear Violet,

  When that money was embezzled from the Magic Forest, I had an idea who took it, but I never said anything to the police because I didn't have a shred of proof.

  I'm afraid to write his name, but while he was at lunch today, I searched his office. They're shutting the park down in a few days, and I knew he'd clean out his belongings. It was my last chance to prove he took the money, not me.

  "I searc
hed the file cabinet, the desk drawers, and, last of all, the coat closet. And there it was, stuffed way back on a high shelf where nobody would notice it—a briefcase with his initials on it. I'd seen it before. But not for a while.

  "It was full of money, more money than I've ever seen, more than I ever imagined could be in one place. Like something you'd see in a movie but not in real life.

  "There was no place to hide the briefcase in the ticket booth, and I was scared someone would see me carrying it out of the park. Since nobody was around just then, I hid it where we used to play the finding game with the little plastic gingerbread men. I hope you remember.

  "It's safe there for now. I plan to go back and get it when no one's around to see me. If he notices it's gone before I go to the police, he might suspect I took it, so if anything happens to me, get the briefcase. Whatever you do, don't tell Silas until you've given it to the police.

  "And don't be scared of You Know Who—she's just

  Arthur stopped reading and peered at me, his eyes huge over the rims of his glasses. "Go on," I said impatiently.

  "That's all." He handed me the piece of paper. "It's dated the very day Mrs. Donaldson was murdered."

  I read the note closely in case Arthur had left anything out. He hadn't. "Do you think the killer came while she was writing this?"

  "He must have," Arthur's voice dropped to a whisper. "That's why she didn't finish it. Or even sign it."

  He picked up one of the gingerbread men and studied its smiling plastic face. "The embezzler murdered her," he said in a low voice, "and then he ransacked the house, but he didn't find this bag."

  "Even if he saw it, he wouldn't have thought it was important," I said. "Just a little plastic bag from the Magic Forest."

  Arthur reread the note. "If we find the briefcase," he said slowly, "we'll know who killed Mrs. Donaldson."

  We stared at each other. The attic was so quiet, I could hear a fly buzzing against one of the small windows. It was almost as if Mrs. Donaldson was watching us from the shadows, hoping we'd bring her murderer to justice and clear her name once and for all.

  "What do you think she meant by the 'finding game'?" I asked.

  Arthur shook his head. "I have no idea."

  "And why did she write, 'Don't be scared of You Know Who ?"

  He shook his head again. For once, he didn't have an answer.

  While I reread the note, searching for hidden meanings, Arthur moved the gingerbread men into various formations, as if he hoped to break a code somehow. If he lined them up just right, the answers to our questions would be revealed.

  "These little guys must have something to do with it," he mused. "But what?"

  "Shh," I whispered. "Someone's coming upstairs."

  Arthur scooped up the little men, dropped them into the bag along with the note, and stuffed everything into the deep pocket of his cargo shorts.

  At the same moment, Bear ran to the top of the attic steps and began to bark. Arthur grabbed the dog's collar and pulled him away.

  As Dad stepped into the attic, Bear stopped barking, but he kept up a low growl.

  Johnny followed Dad. And behind him, I was shocked to see Billy, looking as surly as ever.

  "What are you boys doing up here?" Dad asked. "It's hot enough to roast a turkey in this attic."

  Billy looked as if he also wanted to know what we were doing. Without his sunglasses, his eyes were small and squinty and set too close together. He looked both stupid and mean, a bad combination.

  I nodded my head toward Billy. "How come he's here?" I asked Dad. "You said Johnny was hauling the stuff away."

  I glanced at Billy while I spoke. He was staring at me as if I were a bug he wanted to step on.

  Dad gave me a puzzled look. "I can't imagine why you want to know," he said, "but Billy has a truck, and Johnny doesn't." Brushing the sweat out of his eyes, he added, "Unless you want to help us get rid of this stuff, go outside and find something else to do."

  For a second I considered telling Dad exactly what kind of guys he'd hired, but I decided against it. Maybe I'd tell him later. When Billy or Johnny wasn't standing there, looking big and strong and tough.

  With Bear at our heels, Arthur and I dashed down the steps, raced through the house, and sped out the back door.

  "Get your bike," Arthur said. "We're going to the library and after that—we'll look for Violet at Wal-Mart."

  10

  We made a quick stop at the library to make a photocopy of the note.

  Arthur folded it and dropped it into his pocket. "It's always good to have a backup," he said. "Especially when the original is all you've got."

  Wal-Mart wasn't as far as the Magic Forest, but there were plenty of big hills to climb between home and the store. As usual, Arthur was way ahead, standing up to pump, his skinny legs bulging with muscles the size of tennis balls. No matter what gear I used—and believe me, I tried them all—I couldn't keep up with him. Maybe he was training for that big French bike race.

  When we finally pulled up at Wal-Mart s sliding doors, I chained my bike to a rack, and Arthur dumped his classic Raleigh on the sidewalk. Inside, the cold air smelled of popcorn, hot dogs, and unidentifiable synthetic substances. A cheap smell, Mom called it. But no matter how the store smelled, it was better than the heat outside.

  We cruised up and down aisles, looking for Violet and checking out the CDs, DVDs, and videos. In the electronics department, Arthur lingered over a stereo system with flashing LEDs, small enough to fit in a bookcase but loud enough to entertain the whole neighborhood. He fiddled with the bass and the treble, turned the volume up and down, and investigated the five-CD tray until I lost patience and dragged him away.

  "We're looking for Violet," I reminded him.

  Arthur scanned the store and pointed. "There she is—in office supplies. She's the one talking to a customer."

  He started toward a clerk wearing the standard blue Wal-Mart vest over a yellow T-shirt and a pair of jeans. She didn't anywhere near resemble my image of the sort of person who'd marry someone like Silas. Too pretty, for one thing. And too fragile—she was so little and skinny, a gust of wind could probably strand her in a treetop. Nor did she look mean enough or old enough to be Danny's mother. She must have been thirteen or something when he was born.

  When Arthur was about fifteen feet from Violet, he stopped so suddenly, his running shoes squeaked on the vinyl floor. Without a word of explanation, he dropped to his knees behind a display of school binders and pulled me down beside him.

  "That man." He pointed. "The one she's talking to? It's not a customer—it's Silas."

  I crouched beside Arthur and stared at the man. He was tall and lean, but his biceps bulged like he'd spent his whole life pressing iron. He was a lot older than Violet. And a lot bigger.

  With her arms folded across her chest, Violet seemed to shrink into herself. She looked at the floor, not at Silas, her body tense. I had a feeling she was praying for a customer to come along and rescue her.

  "I thought Silas was in jail," I whispered.

  "Me, too."

  Even though we couldn't hear what Silas was saying, he sounded mad. He kept jabbing his finger at Violet. She blinked every time he did it and stepped back. He moved forward when she moved back. Soon he had her up against shelves stocked with felt-tipped pens, crayons, pencils, and ballpoints. Trapped. No place to retreat.

  "They're my kids, too," he said in a voice loud enough to startle a little girl who had just wandered over. Her mother shot Silas a worried look and hurried down the next aisle. For all she—or anyone—knew, Silas was about to pull out a gun and start firing. He was definitely the type to show up on the evening news, holding a dozen cops at bay while threatening to kill the Wal-Mart shoppers he'd taken hostage.

  Instead of heading for the door like sensible people, Arthur and I sneaked closer to hear what Silas was going on about.

  Violet cowered against the pens and said something in a low vioce.
>
  "I don't care what your lawyer thinks!" Silas suddenly yelled, throwing in a few cuss words to describe the man. "They're my kids. I'll see them if I want to."

  With that, he turned around and headed for the door. Making sure Violet wasn't looking, Arthur followed him, and I followed Arthur. We watched Silas cross the parking lot and straddle a motorcycle. He gunned the engine and left with a roar loud enough to shatter glass. In a few seconds, he had disappeared into the traffic on Route 23.

  Now that it was safe, Arthur and I hurried back to office supplies. Violet was tidying up the pens. She looked as if she might have been crying.

  "Hey, Violet." Arthur walked up to her, grinning as if he'd just noticed her. "I haven 't seen you for ages."

  She turned and looked at him, her face blank. "I beg your pardon?"

  Keeping up the cheerful act, he smiled broadly. "Don't you remember me?"

  She studied his face for a moment. "Oh, my goodness—Arthur Jenkins. Of course I remember you. How's your grandmother these days?"

  "She's fine, same as ever."

  "Well, tell her hello for me."

  "I will." Arthur turned to me. "This is Logan Forbes. He lives in your mother's old house."

  "I heard someone bought it." Violet looked at me curiously, but I'd turned my attention to a display of notebooks. I wanted to tell her I was sorry about her mother being murdered, but I couldn't think of a good way to say something like that.

  "Logan's dad's doing a lot of work," Arthur said. "The house is starting to look pretty good."

  "Is Bear still hanging around?" Violet asked.

  "Grandma and I took him in," Arthur said, "but he's at Logan's house most of the time."

  "Danny wanted to keep Bear," Violet said, "but Silas said no. He hated that dog."

  "Speaking of Silas," Arthur said, soul of tact that he was, "I saw him leaving the store when we were coming in. When did he get out of jail?"

  Violet busied herself with a display of ballpoints in snazzy colors. "Last week," she said, moving on to a row of spiral-bound notebooks. "He's on probation. I don't know what they were thinking of, letting him out. He'll just get himself in trouble again."