I’d never been so glad in my life for swim practice to be over.
“Do you guys want to hang out today?” Lucas asked hopefully, as Coach Maynard blew the “all clear” signal on his whistle and we got out of the pool. “My mom said she’d drive us to the bowling alley over in West Hartfield if everybody wants to go.”
“Sorry, Lucas,” I told him. “We’ve got plans.”
I watched as he drooped off toward the men’s locker room. I couldn’t help feeling a little guilty. But for some reason I wasn’t ready for him or for any of my other friends to know about the diary just yet. It was bad enough that Mackenzie and I had to share it with Lauren.
Hatcher texted me while I was changing: ANY NEWS FROM SCOOTER?
NOTHING YET, I texted him back.
“Almost ready,” Mackenzie told me, as I pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean sweatshirt. “I’ve just gotta dry my hair.”
She headed for the mirrors on the far side of the locker room. My hair was still wet. I just couldn’t see the point of using a blow dryer. It wasn’t like I had a hairstyle, after all—just hair. It would dry on its own soon enough. Tucking it up under my Longhorns baseball cap, I pulled on my clothes, then stuffed my wet swimsuit and towel in my pool bag. I reached for Calhoun’s jacket, which had fallen on the floor. As I did, something fluttered out of one of the pockets. It was a piece of paper.
I bent down to pick it up, and froze.
The handwriting on it was Mackenzie’s.
Call me! I have something to tell you! she’d written, along with her name and cell phone number.
I stared at the note, numb. So much for loyalty.
“Almost done!” sang my cousin, and I crumpled the note in my fist and shoved it into the pocket of my jeans.
Mackenzie was her usual chatty self as we left the pool. We stopped briefly at Calhoun’s house to drop off the jacket, but he and his dad had gone out for breakfast, so we left it with his sister.
“I still can’t believe that Calhoun has a sister named Juliet,” Mackenzie said as we splashed our way home.
I just grunted.
“Who wants omelets and bacon?” my mother asked as we came through the back door.
“Me!” Mackenzie replied, peeling off her raincoat and hanging it up in the mudroom. “I’m starving. Thanks, Aunt Dinah!” She slid into a seat at the table.
I hung up my raincoat and sat down too—at the opposite end of the table. The diary had moved, I noticed. It was now directly in front of Lauren.
“Did you remember to feed Bilbo this morning?” my mother asked my sister.
“Yes, ma’am,” Lauren replied virtuously. “And I cleaned out his cage, too.”
“Good girl.” My mother set plates down in front of Mackenzie and me. My cousin dove into her breakfast, but I didn’t even pick up my fork. My appetite had evaporated.
“Truly, I’m expecting you to keep your word and let Lauren read the diary with you and Mackenzie,” my mother said.
I nodded.
“I’m heading down to the bookstore for a bit this morning. Aunt True has a new marketing idea she wants to run by me.”
I nodded again, and she gave me a sidelong glance. “You girls promise me you’ll try and get along—and remember what Professor Rusty said about the diary. It’s very old and very fragile.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Lauren repeated.
“I’m putting Truly in charge of it,” my mother warned her, and my sister made a face.
“Fine,” she mumbled.
My mother placed two more strips of bacon on my cousin’s plate, then glanced over at mine. “Truly? Aren’t you going to eat your breakfast?”
“I’m not hungry,” I said shortly. How could I possibly be hungry after what I’d discovered in the locker room?
She gave me another look, then turned to Pippa. “How about you, Pipster? Would you like Truly’s extra bacon?”
My little sister nodded vigorously.
“And do you want to go to Belinda’s, or would you rather stay here with the big girls?”
My heart sank. It was bad enough that I was stuck with Lauren—the last thing I wanted to do was babysit Pippa, too.
But Pippa shook her head. “It’th kitten delivery day,” she informed us, smiling her gap-toothed smile. “Belinda thaid I could ride along in her truck and help.”
I could tell by the expression on Lauren’s face that she was feeling torn. Kittens—all animals—were way up on her list of favorite things, and I was guessing that riding around the Pumpkin River Valley delivering kittens sounded like sheer catnip to her. At the same time, though, I knew how much she wanted to read the diary, especially after she’d made such a big stink last night about feeling left out.
Staying put won out.
“Great. It’s settled,” said my mother. “I’ll see y’all later, then.”
As she and Pippa left for Camp Belinda, Lauren got up from the table. I frowned at her. “Where are you going?”
She paused. “Aren’t we going to read upstairs in your room?”
I shook my head. “Family room,” I said firmly. I might have to share the diary with her, but I wasn’t about to share my room, too.
“Hang on a second,” said Mackenzie. “I’m going to go grab my knitting. Want me to bring yours down too?”
“Whatever.”
She gave me a funny look. I ignored her.
“Don’t touch the diary,” I told Lauren as Mackenzie went upstairs. “I’ve got to feed the birds.”
I put the diary on the coffee table in the family room, then grabbed my rain jacket and rubber boots again. It was still pouring outside, and the backyard was a dreary, muddy mess. Pulling my hood up, I picked my way across the soggy lawn to the nearest feeder. There was no excited chatter from the birds this morning. I knew they were out there, though, huddled in the shelter of the tree branches, feathers fluffed as they tried to stay dry. Eventually, hunger would cause them to venture out, and the food would be waiting for them.
Not the owls, though, even if there were any in the neighborhood. Owls and rain didn’t mix at all.
There was a price to be paid for that gift of silent flight—owl feathers weren’t waterproof. Grounded by soggy feathers, an owl couldn’t hunt, and an especially loud, driving rain made it hard for them to hear their prey even if they could. They had to wait it out, and prolonged bad weather could mean hypothermia and starvation.
Talk about kryptonite!
Was Mackenzie my kryptonite? I wondered, swiping angrily at my eyes. Here I thought Lauren was my biggest problem—who knew that it was actually my cousin? I couldn’t believe she was writing notes to Calhoun behind my back.
After I was finished filling the bird feeders, I went back inside. Lauren was sitting on the family room sofa next to Mackenzie, who was almost done with her first sock. It looked pretty good—much more like a real sock than the hot mess hanging from my knitting needles, that was for sure.
“So, are you going to read to us?” Mackenzie asked.
“Whatever.” As I took a seat in the armchair across from them, my cell phone vibrated.
My cousin looked up sharply. “Is it Scooter?”
I pulled my phone out of my pocket, looked at the screen, and shook my head. “Cha Cha.” I read the text message aloud: JASMINE AND I WILL BE BACK TOMORROW! TELL MACKENZIE WE CAN’T WAIT TO MEET HER!
Mackenzie smiled. “Tell them I can’t wait to meet them, too.”
I grunted, tapped out the message, then shoved the phone back into my pocket and picked up the diary.
“Why don’t you tell Lauren what’s happened so far,” Mackenzie suggested, and I grudgingly explained how the original Truly had received the diary as a gift, then described some of the entries that she’d written.
“Can I see it?” Lauren asked.
“Sure,” said Mackenzie.
I didn’t move.
“Truly! Let her see it!”
I heaved a sigh and passed the d
iary to my sister. “Remember what mom said about being careful, okay?”
“Duh.” She opened it, took one look at the handwriting, and frowned. “It’s in cursive.”
“What did you expect?” The words came out sharper than I’d intended, and Lauren flushed.
“Isn’t it beautiful?” gushed Mackenzie, moving closer to my sister and putting her arm around her. She glared at me. “I wish I could write that neatly.”
Lauren examined the pages. “It’s hard to read,” she said, disappointed.
“Yeah,” I told her, taking the diary back. “That’s why I’m in charge.”
She shot me a look. I pretended not to notice and began to read aloud:
October 15, 1861
My little angel arrived early yesterday morning. I have named him Booth, as Matthew wished. But Matthew honors my wish as well, and his middle name is Gerhard, after my dear departed father. Little Booth is the light of my life already, and Mother Lovejoy says he is just the tonic she needed for missing her son. We have written to Matthew, sharing the happy news.
Yours, Truly
October 20, 1861
Another package arrived last night. I was not able to help this time, being still abed. Mother Lovejoy hid it safely, and tonight it will be shipped to its destination in Maple Grove, Maine.
Yours, Truly
“Professor Rusty said that ‘package’ was a code word for ‘runaway slave,’ right?” said Mackenzie.
I nodded.
“I’ll bet they had Maple Madness in Maple Grove,” said Lauren, snickering at her own dumb joke.
My cousin laughed obligingly. I didn’t, and Mackenzie shot me another look. “It is kind of a funny name, isn’t it, Lauren? But why Maple Grove, I wonder?”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I mean I wonder why they sent the slaves there.”
I shrugged.
“We should find out,” Mackenzie continued. “Maybe the Lovejoys had a family connection there or something. We could ask Professor Rusty, or your mother—she’s been studying this stuff, so she might know, right?”
“I thought you didn’t like history,” I said.
“But this really happened!”
“So did history, duh.”
“You know what I mean!” she retorted, stung. “This was real people—people who are related to us. Well, to you.”
I knew what she meant. And actually, I was just as curious as she was, especially about the original Truly. Eighteen years old, living in a foreign country—a country at war, at that—newly married, and now a new mother, plus she was involved in this supersecret, dangerous work. How could I possibly not want to know more?
“Mr. Henry at the library could help,” suggested Lauren. “He knows everything. You could ask him tonight—he’s in your knitting class, right?”
“Good idea, Lauren,” said Mackenzie. “Let’s start a list of questions for him.” She scrabbled around in the drawer of the end table for a pen and some paper as I continued reading:
November 2, 1861
I pray daily to our heavenly Vater to keep Booth’s papa safe. We have not heard from Matthew in many weeks. I am glad I have our boy to keep my mind occupied. He is growing splendidly fat, like a little Ferkel.
Yours, Truly
Lauren snickered again. “Splendidly fat!” she repeated in delight.
Mackenzie reached for the German-English dictionary. “ ‘Vater’ is ‘father,’ ” she reported.
“I could have told you that,” I muttered.
“And ‘Ferkel ’ means ‘piglet!’ ” she added a moment later with glee, and she and Lauren both shrieked with laughter. Suddenly, my cousin got a stricken look on her face. “Do you know if something happened to Matthew? In the war, I mean. I don’t know if I could stand it if it did!”
I shook my head, wishing I knew more about my family’s history. “We’ll find out one way or another, I guess.”
November 10, 1861
Reverend Bartlett came to see us today. He says Booth is a fine boy, and he looks forward to the christening. Then our talk grew serious. There are slave hunters in the Pumpkin River Valley, he says. We must be very careful. Our work grows increasingly dangerous. We are always to wait for the sign of the owl before receiving a package, and we are not to trust anyone. There are whispers of money changing hands in exchange for information—yes, even here in Pumpkin Falls. I am much troubled by this news.
Yours, Truly
I paused for a moment, wondering about the sign of the owl that she’d mentioned. Was it a physical sign, like a drawing perhaps? Or was it a sound—a fugitive hooting from the nearby woods, the owl’s call a request for help? I wondered too, if Truly knew anything about owls, or was interested in them the way I was. She was feeling more real to me with every page I read in her diary.
November 17, 1861
We have had a letter from Matthew! He has been ill, but is now recovered and has rejoined his regiment. He sends his dearest love to little Booth and me and says he cannot wait until our family is together again. Until that time, he begs me to write often and tell him of our baby, and of home.
Winter is coming. I fear for my dear husband, sleeping in a tent out in the cold. Mother Lovejoy and I busy ourselves knitting. At least we can be sure our Matthew has warm socks.
Yours, Truly
I stared at the page. No way, I thought. Truly was knitting socks too? This was almost eerie.
My cell phone buzzed again. I glanced at the screen. “It’s Scooter.”
Mackenzie looked up from her knitting. “Any news?”
I read his text aloud: “APB to PFPE!”
“What does ‘APB’ mean?” asked Lauren.
“All points bulletin,” Mackenzie explained. “He’s alerting the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes.”
WHAT’S UP? I texted back.
GOT SOMETHING TO SHOW YOU, Scooter replied.
CAN U COME OVER? I’M BABYSITTING LAUREN.
“What’s he saying?” Mackenzie begged.
“Hang on, hang on,” I replied irritably.
BE THERE IN A FLASH, Scooter texted.
BRING LUCAS AND CALHOUN, I texted back. LOLA’S STUDIO.
K.
I put my cell phone back in my pocket and closed the diary. “They’re coming over,” I told my cousin and my sister. “I told them to meet us in Lola’s studio.”
My sister’s face lit up. “An official meeting of the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes!”
“You’re not one of us,” I warned her. “You’re only allowed to come today because I’m stuck babysitting you.”
“You’re not babysitting me!” she protested. “I don’t need a babysitter!”
I gave a short laugh. “Right.”
“What is wrong with you, Truly?” Mackenzie demanded. “You’re in such a bad mood today!”
I looked at her. What was wrong with me? I thought about the crumpled note that was still in my pocket. How about the fact that I had a double-crosser for a cousin?
I knew I was being unfair—Mackenzie didn’t know that I’d found her note, and I’d never told her how I felt about Calhoun. I knew that the two of us needed to talk, but right now I was still too upset, plus I didn’t want to say anything in front of Lauren. I had enough problems without her knowing about Calhoun too. Talking would have to wait.
“Nothing is wrong with me,” I snapped back.
Mackenzie threw down her knitting. “Fine. Have it your way. Let’s go up to the studio.”
Earlier this winter my grandmother’s art studio in the barn ended up being the unofficial hangout for the Pumpkin Falls Private Eyes. I really hadn’t expected we’d be using it again—Pumpkin Falls was such a small town, after all, that I couldn’t imagine there would be any more mysteries for us to solve. But life was full of surprises.
We went out to the barn-turned-garage and up the stairs to the studio. I slipped the key from its hiding place behind one of Lola’s paintings on th
e landing and unlocked the door.
“It’s cold in here,” said Mackenzie, shivering.
“It used to be a barn—what did you expect?” I switched on the space heater. “It warms up pretty quickly, though.”
Lauren prowled around the room, inspecting our grandmother’s art supplies and books and knickknacks.
“Don’t touch anything,” I warned.
“Truly!” Mackenzie glared at me.
“What?”
“Quit it!”
“Quit what?”
“Quit being so mean to Lauren.”
“I’m not being mean. She’s a pest.”
“You’re hopeless.” My cousin retreated to the sofa.
A few minutes later I heard footsteps pounding up the stairs. The studio door flew open, and Scooter and Calhoun and Lucas crowded in.
“She’s not part of the, uh, PFPE now, is she?” Scooter asked, looking over at my sister Lauren.
“No,” I said at the same time that Lauren said, “Yes.”
Mackenzie put her arm around my sister’s shoulders and shot me a look. “We’ll talk about it later. What do y’all have to show us?”
“We’re not sure,” said Scooter. “We’ve watched it a few times, and we need you guys to take a look.”
We all crowded around his cell phone. Somehow Calhoun ended up beside me, and I was suddenly very conscious of my cousin’s note for him in my pocket.
“See the time stamp?” Scooter paused the surveillance video almost as soon as he started playing it, and pointed to a corner of the small screen. “It’s just after midnight. That’s when something tripped the motion detector and the camera started filming.”
He clicked the PLAY button again and the video continued. Nothing was visible at first, just a lot of darkness and the vague outline of tree branches. Then two pinpricks of light swam into focus in the underbrush.
“What’s that?” asked Lauren.
“Eyes,” Scooter told her.
“Whose eyes?” asked Mackenzie, peering closer.
“Wait and see,” said Scooter.
The pinpricks drew closer, glowing green in the reflected light of the camera. Suddenly, they vanished.
“Wait for it,” said Scooter.
The picture wobbled. A second later it wobbled again, then began rocking wildly from side to side.