I try to stay calm and I say to Officer Borsch, “She’s the one who’s been stealing things from the church!” I hold up the cross from around my neck. “Look! I found Father Mayhew’s cross, and there are all kinds of gold goblets in there. She’s got a whole treasure chest in this compartment under her bed. And there’s a safe in the kitchen, too. The fundraising money is in it, it’s got to be!”
Officer Borsch is still laughing a little, but when Bernice gets in his face and screams, “Arrest her!” Officer Borsch whips his baton out and says, “Back off, Sister!” and let me tell you, he’s not laughing anymore.
And I don’t know if I was experiencing a divine intervention or what, but Officer Borsch looks straight at her and says, “This girl may be in trouble for driving your vehicle, but I’ve known her long enough to know that if she says you stole something, there’s a good chance you did.” He looks at me. “Which bed’s the stuff under?”
I say, “The bedroom in the back,” but Bernice yells, “Well, if it’s there, she put it there!”
Officer Borsch turns on her and says, “Just stand there and be quiet! You’ll get your chance in a minute.” He backs up and reaches into the squad car, and while he’s radioing for backup, Bernice turns around and gets into the NunMobile.
I don’t know what she was thinking. The key was still in the ignition and she got the engine to fire up, but when she threw it in reverse, that NunMobile wasn’t about to let go of the police car. She dragged it down the driveway a few yards, but we’re in a police station driveway, for crying out loud, so pretty soon the whole mess is surrounded by men with guns.
Bernice didn’t come out kicking and screaming. She stepped out of the motor home, put her hands behind her back, and waited. Like she’d done this before.
Officer Borsch sent some officers over to St. Mary’s to pick up Clarice and Abigail, and I watched while they hauled Bernie away. And I have to admit I felt kind of sad. Maybe it was easier to see her arrested than someone who’d been at St. Mary’s a long time, but I liked Bernie. Better than Josephine or Phil, or even Mary Margaret. For a nun she was funny. Of course, she probably wasn’t a nun. She was probably just a crook. A funny crook, but still, a crook.
After they impound the NunMobile, Officer Borsch comes up behind me and says, “I’m heading over to St. Mary’s. Do you want a lift back?”
Now it’s my instinct to say No, thanks, but then I realize that Grams and Hudson have no idea where I am, so I say, “Sure.”
We go back to the police parking lot, where he gets in another vehicle and swings the passenger door open for me. After I buckle up he starts the car and says, “That was a brand-new patrol car, you know.”
I look down at my hands. “I’m sorry. I … I’ve never driven before.”
He gives me half a scowl. “Well, don’t try it again any time soon, okay? You’re terrible at it.”
I look at him, and honest, I can’t help it. I start busting up, because for the first time since I’ve met him I have to admit, Officer Borsch is right.
Completely right.
Father Mayhew signed off on my last six hours of detention. Said I’d done plenty for the community and didn’t need to be serving any more time.
Bernice and the others, though, aren’t going to be getting out of serving their time. Father Mayhew told me that Clarice and Abigail had a fit when they were arrested. Abigail kept screaming, “I’m going to kill that kleptomaniac! You hear me? I’m going to kill her!” And Clarice yelled, “You’re the one who’s always wanting to do one more town. ‘Just one more town! Just one more town!’ ”
He also told me that they’d already traced back at least five towns where the Sisters of Mercy had been on their trek across the country, and it looked like there were lots more. He said in every town they used the same someone-tried-to-break-into-the-motor-home routine, and I guess they did such a good job framing the priest in one town that the poor guy was egged by his congregation as they hauled him off to jail.
Anyhow, Father Mayhew was so happy to get his cross back that he invited Grams and me to have Thanksgiving dinner with him and the real Sisters. And it’s not that I was worried that Gregory would be pushing vegetables on me, it’s just that Holly also called and said that Meg and Vera really wanted me and Grams and Hudson to come to their apartment for dinner, and that sounded like fun.
So Grams cooked up a bunch of rice and baked a couple of pumpkin pies, and I put plenty of marshmallows on when I baked the yams so I could scrape the top and at least pretend to be eating my vegetables, and away we went, to have Thanksgiving dinner above the Pup Parlor.
When Vera brings out the turkey, we all sit around the table, looking at each other, feeling a little strange. Good, but strange. We’re not family, we’re just a bunch of people looking for family. But when Meg hands Hudson the knife and says, “Will you do the honors?” somehow it feels right.
Vera says, “I think we need to take a moment and give thanks.” She looks around the table and says, “Maybe we could each say a few words?” She webs her fingers together, closes her eyes, and says, “Lord, I’m thankful for many things this day. For the food, for the company, but especially for the chance we’ve been given to open our home to Holly.”
After a pause, Meg clears her throat and says, “Thank you, Lord, for all you’ve given us this year, but mostly, thank you for bringing Holly to us.” She starts to say something more, but she can’t. Her chin’s quivering and she’s peeking over at Holly, and Holly’s smiling over her hands at Meg, kind of crying, too.
Then all of a sudden here it is, my turn. And I am thankful. For a lot of things. Mostly, though, I’m thankful for the people in my life that I can trust. For Grams and the way she seems to love me no matter what. For Hudson and how he’s always happy to talk to me and teach me things. For Holly and her digging through trash, and for Meg and Vera and how they take in strays.
And I want to list everything from Marissa and Dot to my high-tops, but I can’t. I’ve got a big lump in my throat. So when everyone looks at me like, Well? what comes out of my mouth is, “I’m thankful that that’s a real turkey and not just a roasting chicken!”
Holly cracks up and then Hudson laughs, and pretty soon Grams, Meg, and Vera are all shaking their heads and chuckling.
And if there is a God and he did happen to be listening, he’s not mad. He knows what I meant, and I bet he’s up there laughing, too.
Have you read
SAMMY KEYES and the RUNAWAY ELF
yet?
Here’s a sneak peek.
Excerpt from Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf
Copyright © 1999 by Wendelin Van Draanen Parsons
All rights reserved
I mean, cruising the streets of Santa Martina on a float with a dozen dogs dressed up like reindeer isn’t exactly something I woke up that morning wanting to do. But there I was. Again. In the wrong place at the right time.
And by the time the float turned down Broadway, well, there was no jumping off. Not when I was in charge of a dog worth more than a sleighful of cash.
Of course, if I’d known what was waiting for me just down the street, I’d have jumped, all right.
Jumped and hightailed it out of there!
Grams says Santa Martina is a town just like any other town, but I don’t believe it. Sure, it’s got a mall downtown and railroad tracks that kind of cut the city into halves, and the two big streets are called Broadway and Main, but after you’ve lived there a little while you start to realize that Santa Martina is kind of strange. I mean, in the foyer of our city hall there’s a statue, and it’s not of one of the city’s founders or anything historic like a covered wagon or a war hero. No, it’s a statue of a group of people down on one knee, hailing a softball.
That’s right, a softball.
And even though I’m into softball and I’m really hoping that our team wins the Junior Sluggers’ Cup in February, I’m not so far gone that I’d erect a bronze statu
e like that in City Hall. Mayor Hibbs is. I’ve heard he dips to one knee as he passes the statue on his way to work, and some people say he even makes the sign of the cross. I’ve never actually seen him do it, but someone put that statue there, and it sure wasn’t Father Mayhew.
Aside from the statue there’s our calendar. Now, Santa Luisa and other towns around here put out their own calendars too, but theirs are of normal stuff—trees, birds, broken barns—things you expect to see in a calendar.
Santa Martina’s calendar has mutts. Mangy, misshapen mutts. The weirder looking, the better. The owners dress them up in crazy outfits and take pictures of them at different landmarks around town. Last year, the July dog had on goggles and a scarf, and was parachuting from the roof of the mall. And for October they had a dog chewing on a bone, right outside the cemetery gate. I’m telling you, Santa Martina is not a town like any other town, no matter what Grams says.
Having a cat, I never understood what a big deal the calendar was to dog owners. But then my friend Holly started working for Vera and Meg over at the Pup Parlor and now I know—it’s a huge deal. Holly says people come in to pick up their dogs and all they talk about is what they’re going to do to get chosen for the calendar. Then they go off and launch their pets from rooftops or strap them to motorcycles or get them to scratch up their piano keys, all so they can point to a little brass prize tag and pretend they’re a celebrity, riding with their dog in the Christmas parade.
Now I have to admit, the Christmas parade is a great parade—strange, but in a good way. For one thing, it’s at night. Everyone puts Christmas lights on their float—big ones, tiny ones, icicle ones—and when all those lights come riding down Broadway, well, it feels like Christmas.
People go all out, too, and I don’t think it’s because the first-place float gets a candy cane the size and shape of a softball bat. I think it’s because everybody wants to outdo the guy who outdid them the year before. There are flatbed trucks with forests of pine trees, and carolers standing on snow that’s been hauled down from the mountains. There are floats on wagons with lots of hay and people and real animals making up Nativity scenes. There are even motorcycle floats. Last year the Harley club entered, and when Grams saw them growling down the street on their hogs, decked out as rebel Santas, she called them “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where” and plugged her ears.
So it’s a fun parade to watch, but Marissa’s actually been in it a couple of times, and she says that’s boring. You have to wait forever in line, and then it’s stop-and-go, stop-and-go down Broadway for almost two hours. On top of that, you don’t actually get to see the parade.
So I’ve always been happy to sit on the curb, waving and clapping for wagons of sheep and “Biker Santas from You-Know-Where.” And this year I was planning to meet Grams at our usual spot, right after I got done helping Holly and Vera get the Canine Calendar float ready. The problem was, I couldn’t find the float. I ran down Wesler Street, where everyone lines up before the parade, but I couldn’t remember if their float was number sixty-eight or eighty-six.
When I got to the sixties, I stopped and asked a lady dressed up like the Virgin Mary, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”
She blinked at me and asked, “What?”
“You know, the float with all the dogs?”
Mary shook her head and went back to arranging straw around Baby Jesus. “You got me.”
So I figured it had to be eighty-six. I kept on running, past the firemen’s float, past a couple of Santa’s workshop floats and a bunch of horses munching on hay through the slats of a wagon. Finally I stopped and asked a clarinet player in the Santa Martina High School marching band, “Have you seen the Canine Calendar float?”
She straightened her hat. “The what?”
“You know—the float with all the dogs?”
She shook her head. “What number is it?”
“Eighty-six, I think.”
“It would have to be back that way. We’re one-oh-two.”
So I turned around and ran back the way I’d come. And I’m running along, dodging Santas and elves and horses and wagons, when all of a sudden I hear, “Sammy! Over here!”
Well, sure enough, it’s Holly, calling me from down a side street. I run over, and she says, “You’re not going to believe what a mess things are!”
“What’s wrong?”
“The bracket to hold up the wreath snapped, they can’t get the lights to work, and Mr. Petersen keeps yelling at everybody. He’s making the dogs so nervous that they’re snapping at each other and they won’t wear their antlers.” She picked up Vera’s little dog and said, “And Hero keeps trying to lift his leg on Lucy!”
I tried not to laugh. I mean, Lucy’s like a cross between a Chihuahua and a toy poodle, and I couldn’t imagine another dog bothering to pee on her. But it was easy to see that Holly was upset, so I just asked, “Who’s Hero?”
“That wanna-be dalmatian over there.”
I looked at the float and knew right away which dog she meant. His body was spotted like a dalmatian, but he had the long droopy ears and face of a basset hound. And on the very tip of his tail was a tuft of long red hair—like his great-great-granddaddy had been an Irish setter and was fighting to be remembered.
I laughed. “That is one strange-looking dog.”
“You can say that again.”
“So who’s Mr. Petersen?”
She rolled her eyes. “The guy who puts together the calendar.” She pointed at a man with oily hair wearing a black tuxedo with tails. “He is such a jerk.”
Now I couldn’t help it—I laughed. “He looks like a giant stinkbug!”
Holly’s eyes popped open. “He … he does…!”
Just then Mr. Petersen yelled, “And where the devil is Marique? I should never have let that prima donna in the calendar! Someone get on the phone and find out where that stupid dog is. If she’s a no-show, I’m ripping her off the cover!”
A lady with some kind of cross-eyed terrier muttered, “Good idea anyway, if you ask me,” which made the people around her nudge each other and chuckle.
One of the men working on the float called, “If she’s a no-show, we don’t need this wreath, Royce!”
“Just fix the wreath!”
I rolled my eyes at Holly and whispered, “Tell me again why you were so excited about Lucy being on the float?”
She laughed. “I don’t remember right now.”
So we’re all kind of keeping our distance from Mr. Petersen, when a girl in jeans and a red jacket comes up carrying a dog under her arm like a furry football. She says, “Mr. Petersen?”
“Yeah, what?”
“I’m Tina Landvogt.” She holds out the dog and says, “My mother’s in the hospital with a broken leg, but she still wants Marique in the parade.”
Mr. Petersen looks around for a minute, not taking the dog. “So are you gonna show her?”
Tina shakes her head. “I can’t. I’ve got to videotape the parade for my mother.” She shoves the dog into his arms and says, “Besides, she doesn’t want me to do it. She wants Vera to.”
So there he is, the world’s biggest stinkbug, holding this miniature lion like it’s a baby with a dirty diaper. He blinks around at us, then notices Vera. “You! Here! You’re in charge of this.”
Vera says very carefully, “I never said I would show Lilia’s dog. Besides, I have Lucy to show.”
“I thought your girl was showing your dog.”
“Yes, but I’m—”
“Then you can deal with this thing.”
He tried to give her the dog, but Vera wouldn’t take it. “No, Royce. I’m photographing the parade.”
“This is more important than some silly snapshots!”
Now Vera isn’t big, but she could wrestle Mr. Petersen into a flea-dipping tank quicker than you or I could spell his name. And standing there getting yelled at by the Big Bug, you could tell she was thinking that’s exactly what the man needed. Sh
e crossed her arms and said, “No, sir. I made arrangements for my dog. You find someone else.”
But in the middle of saying that, she looks around and notices me. She waits a minute, then motions me over and whispers, “Sammy, why don’t you show her?”
“Me?”
“Sure. She’s a good dog, and really, the float isn’t much without her.”
“Why’s that?”
She points over to the wreath that they’ve finally got to stand up. “Marique’s the one that jumps through the hoop.”
“What about Meg? I could run and get her—”
“No, she’s home with the flu, sicker than a dog. I feel bad even being away from her.”
Mr. Petersen sees us whispering and shouts, “You! What about you?”
“Me?” I blink at him a bunch and say, “I don’t know anything about showing a dog!”
Holly whispers, “C’mon! It’ll be fun. I’ll help you.”
“Why don’t I take the pictures and Vera can show the dog?”
Vera shakes her head and says, “I don’t think you’ll be able to handle the camera. It’s got a telephoto and a zoom. There’s no autofocus and the meters are hard to read until you know what you’re looking for. I don’t think I can teach you in five minutes.”
It did look more like a cannon than a camera, so I said, “Okay, okay! I’ll show the dog.”
I had no idea what I was getting myself into.
By the time Mr. Petersen maneuvered our float forward to join the rest of the parade, Hero had run out of ammunition and the other dogs had settled down a bit. Some of them were still trying to shake their antlers loose, but pretty much they just sat next to their owners, looking ridiculous.