David Michael, for example. As soon as Matt looked up and saw him, David Michael started signing. Matt nodded enthusiastically in response, and pointed toward a nearby shed.
“What did you ask him?” I asked David Michael.
“Just if I could help,” he said. “I think he’s telling me that there are more rakes in the shed. Should I go get a few?”
“Definitely,” I said, and David Michael ran off. It was a chilly day, and raking seemed like the perfect way to warm up, as long as we were going to be working outside. It didn’t look like a huge raking job, either. Just a quick cleanup.
“I hate raking,” said Karen.
“Maybe you’d like to work with Haley, then,” suggested Jessi. “She’s in the greenhouse with Mrs. Goldsmith, helping to catalog plants.”
“All right!” said Karen. “I’ve been wanting to see that greenhouse. I hear it’s gigundoly cool, like a rain forest or something.”
We laughed. “Go ahead,” I told Karen. “I’ll come and find you in a little while. I want to see the greenhouse, too.”
By that time David Michael had come back with the rakes, and he started to work next to Matt, who gestured to show him which section of the lawn and gardens they were working on.
Before I began raking, I asked Jessi to show me around a little. A few groups of BSC members and kids had already been hard at work that week, and I was curious about what they’d been doing.
“See this stone wall?” asked Jessi, as we began to tour the grounds. “It was starting to fall down, but Dawn came here with the Hobart boys, and they fixed it up.”
“It looks great,” I said.
“And this section here,” Jessi said, showing me a path between two garden beds, “was overgrown with these viney weeds. Stacey and Charlotte Johanssen pulled them out and carted them away.”
“Wow!” I said. By this time we’d moved far away from David Michael and Matt. I could barely hear the sound of their rakes.
“Kristy,” whispered Jessi, “I have to tell you something.” She looked around, as if to see whether anyone had followed us. Then she pulled me over to a stone garden bench, and we sat down.
“What is it?” I said. “You look upset.”
“I am, a little,” Jessi confessed. “It’s just that some weird things have been happening here while we’ve been working.”
“Such as?” I asked. I couldn’t imagine what she might be talking about.
“Well, such as a bucket disappearing,” Jessi said. “I know, it sounds crazy. But the first day we came here to work it wasn’t so cold out, so I was scrubbing down that statue in the fountain. The one you passed on your way to find me today? And I took a break to help Becca with something, and when I came back my bucket was gone.”
“Jessi, I don’t think —” I was about to say that bucket disappearances didn’t exactly rate up there with bizarre happenings, but Jessi interrupted me.
“That’s not all,” she said. “There were also some footprints near the greenhouse on Tuesday. You know, the day it snowed? We didn’t see anybody walking around, but the footprints — they were man-sized ones — just appeared in the middle of the afternoon. And right near them was a big pile of weeds that Stacey and Charlotte swore they had put in the brush pile.”
“Anything else?” I asked. I still wasn’t convinced.
“Well, when I was raking leaves out of that summer house on Wednesday, I found an empty pack of matches. And Mrs. Goldsmith told me that nobody has been in there in months.”
“Hmm,” I said. “When you put it all together, it does sound a little strange. But who would be hanging around here? And why?”
“I don’t know,” said Jessi. “But I have a feeling whoever it is doesn’t like all the work we’re doing.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“Well, it just seems like someone is trying to ruin the work we’re doing. Or make it harder for us to get it done, anyway.”
“By doing things like stealing your bucket,” I mused.
“Right.”
“Okay,” I said. “Well, I’m glad you let me know. I’ll keep my eyes open. Now, shouldn’t we start working?”
I spent the next hour or so carting away the piles of leaves that David Michael, Jessi, and Matt had raked up. It felt good to be moving around outdoors, even though it was a chilly, gray day. I enjoyed the feeling of using my muscles for the first time in a while, and I even started to work up a little sweat. I didn’t notice anything strange happening.
Until, that is, I found the card.
It was a white business card, lying on the ground under a weeping willow tree. I went by it once with my garden cart, but the next time I passed it I bent to pick it up. “DT DEVELOPERS,” the card read. “Fine Quality Homes and Construction.”
“DT Developers!” I said out loud. “Those must be the guys who want to buy this place.” I thought for a second, and then it all became crystal clear. Everything Jessi had told me fell into place. Naturally the developers wouldn’t want the arboretum cleaned up. They liked the fact that it looked terrible. For one thing, it might mean that nobody else — such as Mrs. VanderBellen — would want it. And for another thing, it would probably mean they could buy it for an even cheaper price.
“Sabotage!” I whispered under my breath. I felt a chill, and it had nothing to do with the weather.
“Lemon? Or milk?”
I stared down at the fragile teacup in front of me. It was decorated with pink roses and gold swirls, so delicate I was afraid it might break if I looked at it the wrong way. “Um, milk, please,” I answered, finally, trying to sound sure of myself. I held out my cup, and Mrs. Abbott — Mrs. Mildred Abbott, great-grandniece of Christina Thomas — added milk to the tea she’d already poured from a silver teapot.
“Sugar?” she asked.
“Please,” I answered. I watched with fascination as Mrs. Abbott used a pair of silver tongs to drop one lump of sugar into my cup.
“Another lump?”
“No, thank you,” I said. “One is fine. Thank you.”
As you can tell by all the pleases and thank yous, I was on my best behavior, and trying hard to mind my manners. Mrs. Abbott, it turned out, was very much as I’d imagined her to be, but not entirely.
I knew from my research that Mrs. Abbott was about the same age as Nannie, but at first it seemed as if she and my grandmother were as different as night and day. Nannie dresses very casually, even when she has company. Mrs. Abbott was wearing a pretty green-and-white striped dress that looked as if it had been starched. (I sure was glad I’d worn my skirt!) Nannie loves to watch the Knicks play basketball. I had the feeling Mrs. Abbott wouldn’t know a hoop if she were dunked through it. Nannie has been mentioned in the Stoneybrook News as one of the town’s best senior bowlers. Mrs. Abbott probably wouldn’t have been caught dead in bowling shoes.
Mrs. Abbott lived in an apartment near downtown Stoneybrook. It was the nicest, most elegant apartment I’d ever seen, with gorgeous Oriental rugs on the floors, and paintings in gold frames on all the walls. She was tall and thin, with perfectly white hair that was perfectly arranged. Her face was stern, and while her blue eyes were piercing — here’s where I found the first surprise — they danced when she smiled. And she smiled (my second surprise) fairly often. Mrs. Abbott looked stern, but she really wasn’t. She was funny, and interesting, and interested: in me (and in the BSC), and in my questions about Christina Thomas. My nervousness had pretty much disappeared about two seconds after we’d met.
The subject of the BSC came up when she asked me to tell her about myself. This was after my second lemon bar, but before my first piece of poppy-seed cake. (Another thing I learned about Mrs. Abbott is that she doesn’t kid around when she invites someone to tea. And she is a terrific baker.)
I explained a little about the BSC. She nodded and smiled. “I’ve heard of your club,” she said. “It sounds just wonderful. You and your friends must be very resourceful young wom
en.”
“Thank you,” I said. (I was tired of those two words, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say.) I figured she must have read about us in the paper, or seen one of our flyers. Most people in Stoneybrook have at least heard of the BSC, even if they’re not clients.
“Another lemon bar?” she asked, passing the plate with a smile that told me she was keeping track of how many I’d had, and was pleased that I liked them.
“Thank you,” I said, taking one. (Now I was really tired of those words.) I wanted to start asking her about Christina, but I wasn’t sure how to begin.
“Now, about Christina,” Mrs. Abbott said suddenly, as if she had read my mind. She settled back into her wing chair and folded her hands in her lap. She gave me that piercing gaze. “Where did you say you first found out about her?”
“In a book,” I said. I told her about that day in Watson’s study. “Her name caught my eye because it’s so much like mine,” I said.
Mrs. Abbott nodded. “Isn’t that a coincidence?” she said. “Of course, Thomas is a fairly common name.”
Suddenly, I felt silly for having thought I might be related to Christina. Mrs. Abbott was right. Thomas is a common name. But it didn’t matter. Something strange had happened to me in the last couple of days. The fact was, while I was doing my research in the library I’d realized something: The idea that I might have a fortune coming to me was less interesting than just finding out what had happened to Christina. I had begun to feel some connection to her, whether or not we were related, and — this may sound silly — I had also come to care about her. More than anything, I wanted to learn more about her mysterious story.
I didn’t explain all of that to Mrs. Abbott. I just told her how Mary Anne, Claudia, and I had looked through the town records and old newspapers.
“My, you have been working hard, haven’t you?” she asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Well, it’s a fascinating story,” I said.
“It is, isn’t it?” Mrs. Abbott smiled and leaned forward. “Unfortunately, I seem to be the only one of her relatives who’s interested in it. My cousin, Devon Thomas the fourth, used to be — but he’s too busy now that his contracting business has gotten so big. I suspect I’m the only one who ever thinks about Christina anymore.”
“I’ve been thinking about Christina,” I said. “I can’t stop thinking about her, as a matter of fact. Ever since I read about her disappearance —”
“Aah, the disappearance,” said Mrs. Abbott. “Now that’s a story.”
“More like a mystery,” I said. “I can’t find out anything about where she went, or why. Except for one suggestion that she might have gone to Pennsylvania.”
Mrs. Abbott nodded. “There were rumors about that,” she said. “But the family squelched them. Her brother didn’t want anyone to guess at the truth.”
“The truth?” I asked. Suddenly, I felt my heart skip a beat. “Do you know the truth?”
“I do,” she said. “Or, at least, I know as much of it as anyone does. Christina took some secrets to the grave with her.” Mrs. Abbott’s eyes were doing that dancing thing as she looked over at me. I knew she could tell how excited I was at the thought of learning more about Christina.
“Will you tell me what you know?” I asked.
“Of course I will. Why else would I have asked you here today?” She settled back into her chair and smoothed her dress. Then she began to tell Christina’s story, which, she explained, she’d pieced together from entries in a diary she’d discovered.
“As you know, Christina’s parents died when she was only sixteen. I’ve always thought it must have been quite a blow for her, especially since she was the only daughter. Most women in those days didn’t have much say in the direction their lives took, you know.” She looked at me sharply, and I nodded. “Even though she was the eldest child in that family, Christina was a girl. According to society’s rules, that meant she had to listen to her brothers and do what they told her to do. She couldn’t even do what she wanted with her inheritance!”
“That’s no fair,” I said. “I wouldn’t have put up with it.”
“Hmm,” said Mrs. Abbott softly. “Maybe you are related to her.” She looked intently at me, and then gave her head a little shake and continued the story. “It gets worse,” she said. “You see, her brother Devon — that’s Devon the first, of course — had a business partner by the name of Simon Clock. Simon was also Devon’s best friend. The two of them hatched a plot together. Even though Christina had little or no romantic interest in Simon, Devon planned to force her to marry him. At that point, her inheritance would become Simon’s, and he would invest it in the business he shared with Devon. They seemed to think it worked out well for everyone.”
I was shaking my head. “What about Christina?” I asked. “What about her feelings? Did she love Simon?”
Mrs. Abbott frowned. “Hardly,” she said. “Christina was in love with a young Union soldier — this was during the time of the Civil War, of course — named Henry Gordon. They planned to elope, but before they could, he was shipped out to Pennsylvania.”
“Pennsylvania!” I said.
“That’s right,” said Mrs. Abbott. “And she may have ended up there. But we’ll never know for sure.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, almost jumping out of my chair. “Don’t you know?” I didn’t mean to be rude, but I couldn’t believe the story was going to end here.
Mrs. Abbott didn’t seem to notice how quickly I’d lost my manners. Instead, she picked up a leather-bound scrapbook that sat on a side table and pulled out a laminated page. “This is the last anyone ever heard of Christina,” she said. “It’s a letter she sent to Henry.” She passed the letter to me, and I looked at it carefully.
The letter, which was in a beautiful script Mrs. Abbott told me was called “copperplate,” went like this:
Dear Henry,
I cannot marry Simon. I shall be your wife — or no one’s. I must leave Stoneybrooke today. I shall come to look for you in Pennsylvania. If for any reason I do not find my way to you, I ask you only this: Look in our special place, on this day, at ten o’clock p.m.
Christina
At the bottom was a date: February 14, 1863. The date was surrounded by a perfect circle, and around the circle, roses were drawn. Their twining stems were black, like the ink on the rest of the page, but their petals were painted brown.
“Whoa!” I said. I let out a big sigh as I handed the letter back to Mrs. Abbott. “So she married Henry after all.”
“I’m afraid not,” said Mrs. Abbott, with a sad shake of her head. “This letter was returned to Devon by Henry’s family. He was killed in battle before Christina arrived in Pennsylvania.”
I gasped.
“His family thought the letter might lend a clue to Christina’s disappearance, which they had been sorry to hear of. They had approved of their son’s choice.” Mrs. Abbott sighed. “But Devon never tried to find her. He was furious with her for humiliating him by refusing to marry his friend, and stated publicly that he was glad to be rid of her.”
“But what about her fortune?” I asked. My head was spinning, but I hadn’t forgotten that Christina’s fortune had disappeared when she did.
“I’ve always believed that this letter holds a clue to its whereabouts,” said Mrs. Abbott. “But I’m no detective, so I haven’t been able to prove it.”
Before I could stop to think, the words were out of my mouth. “Mrs. Abbott?” I asked. “Would you — would you let me make a copy of that letter? More than anything, I would love to help you solve this mystery.”
She gave me that piercing look again. Then her eyes began to dance. “Kristy Thomas,” she said. “I have a feeling about you. Solving this mystery won’t be easy, but if anyone can do it, I think you can. There’s a copy shop across the street.” She handed me the letter and I took it, but for a second I was so shocked I couldn’t move. “Go on, girl,” she said. “If you’re
quick about it, we’ll have time for one more cup of tea when you get back.”
That was all the encouragement I needed. I did as she’d told me, and an hour later I was on my way to our BSC meeting, clutching the copied letter in my hand.
That entry in the club notebook was written by Mallory, after a long afternoon at the arboretum. (“Long?” she said later. “It seemed endless!”)
Mal had thought the afternoon would be a lot of fun. She had a sitting job with one of our regular charges, Jackie Rodowsky (he’s seven), and both Jessi and Mary Anne were sitting, too. The three of them decided ahead of time to take their charges to the arboretum.
“We’ll only have a couple of hours, between school and our BSC meeting, but I bet we can get tons of work done with all those kids there,” Jessi had said when they were planning their day. But, as Mal told me later, there was one thing they’d all forgotten: Jackie’s nickname.
We love Jackie. He’s a spunky little kid, with red hair and red cheeks (covered with freckles) to match. He’s friendly and fun and outgoing. He also happens to be just about the most accident-prone kid any of us has ever met.
That’s why we call him the Walking Disaster.
We don’t call him that to his face, and we don’t mean it in a bad way. As I said, we love Jackie. But it’s important to remember that when Jackie’s around, things are … well, never dull.
Mal remembered it that day as soon as she reached the Rodowskys’ house. He must have been watching for her, because he appeared the moment she arrived. He ran out the front door, tripped and started to stumble, caught himself, tripped again, grabbed on to the porch railing (nearly pulling it out of its foundation), and fell anyway, into some bushes.
“Oh, Jackie,” said Mal with a sigh. She could see that he was fine, since he was back on his feet and grinning within seconds.
“Hi, Mallory,” said Jackie, waving. Then he stopped grinning and put his hand up to his mouth. “Uh-oh,” he said.
“What?” asked Mal. “Are you all right?”