“You do?” she repeated. This time, when she looked at me, a couple of tears spilled out. But at the same time, she was smiling a little.
“Absotively, posilutely,” I said, smiling back at her.
Suddenly I realized that I was roasting in the sun. “Hey, let’s go swimming,” I said, jumping to my feet.
Mary Anne stood up, too. I reached over and gave her a hug. “Sorry,” I whispered into her ear. She hugged me back. Then she kicked off her sandals.
“Last one in’s a rotten egg,” she called, grinning at me as she headed toward the water. I grinned back, knowing I was forgiven. And knowing that I couldn’t let it happen again.
We stayed at the pool for hours that day, swimming, diving, jumping off the high board, and playing Marco Polo, which is sort of a wet version of blindman’s bluff. We took breaks to play Ping-Pong (Matt and Mary Anne were the champions of our mini-tournament) and to gobble down Froz-Fruit bars we bought at the concession stand after we’d eaten our picnic lunch. As the pool filled up with people, I said hi to lots of Stoneybrook friends and to BSC charges I knew, but I made sure to stay close to Matt, Haley, and Mary Anne.
And that afternoon, as soon as we returned home, I headed for my calendar. I do have one, it’s just that I’m not very good about using it. Or, at least, I haven’t been lately. But I was beginning to see that I would be in trouble if I didn’t start being more organized. I was only going to be in Stoneybrook until August twenty-fourth, and there were a whole lot of people I’d promised to spend time with.
Using Magic Markers to color code my appointments (green for family, red for BSC stuff, purple for non-BSC friends, and yellow for kids), I filled in my calendar with every date I’d recently made. The ones I could remember, that is.
Ever hear of a TV show called Great Disasters? It’s all about planes crashing and mines collapsing and stuff. Anyway, I’m thinking of sending them my calendar. It might qualify as a Great Disaster.
Not only had I double-booked myself on more than one occasion, but every single day was overflowing with plans and activities and baby-sitting jobs. I wasn’t going to have a moment to myself for the next couple of weeks, especially if any other, last-minute activities came up, as they were sure to do.
I was sitting there staring at my calendar in horror, trying to figure out what I could do about the situation I’d found myself in, when my mom poked her head into my room.
“Hi, sweetie,” she said. “Busy?”
“That’s the understatement of the year,” I muttered.
“What?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “What’s up?”
She came in and plopped herself down on my bed. “I was just thinking how much fun it would be if we could spend a whole day together before you leave for California — you know, a mother-daughter thing? Shopping, lunch at our favorite restaurant, maybe even a movie. Wouldn’t that be terrific?”
Terrific. Actually, it really did sound great. And I was dying to do it. I love my mom, and spending time with her is important to me. But how was I ever going to fit her in?
Abby was excited about our sitting job at Livingston House. She was dying to try her hand at being an undercover baby-sitter. And she was determined to unearth some clues that would lead to Arthur Livingston’s treasure.
Believe it or not, it was pouring again when she and I headed over there. It always seemed to be raining lately, especially during sitting jobs at Livingston House. You’d think we would at least have had the chance to check out the beautiful gardens there, if not take the kids for a dip in the pool one day, but so far the weather had not cooperated. Abby didn’t mind the rain, though, because she had come up with a plan — and being inside all day suited her perfectly.
“A treasure hunt,” she’d explained to me, at the end of Friday’s BSC meeting. “We’ll set up a treasure hunt for the kids, so that they’ll have to search the whole house to find something we’ve hidden. That way, we can follow them around and do our own search, for clues to the real treasure, the one that Arthur Livingston left.”
“Great idea,” I said. “But what can we use for treasure?”
“Candy’s always nice,” suggested Claudia, who’d been listening to our conversation. She rustled around under her bed and came up with a bag of Tootsie Roll Pops. “Take these!”
“Perfect,” said Abby, accepting the bag. “Thanks!”
By the time we arrived at Livingston House on Monday, Abby had dressed up the bag with some ribbons and stickers, and had hidden it inside a plain brown paper bag, so the treasure would be more of a surprise.
As usual, John answered the door. This time he was already prepared with towels. “Hello, girls,” he said, handing them to us. “Mrs. Keats and Mrs. Cornell will be back at four. Miss Livingston is also out, until at least two. The kids are in the Keatses’ playroom today,” he went on, pointing out the way in case I’d forgotten. We thanked him for the towels and headed off. As Abby and I walked down the long halls, we put the finishing touches on our plan. First I would go off to hide the treasure while Abby stayed with the kids. Then we’d tell them about the treasure hunt and set out together to find it.
Since this was Abby’s first time at Livingston House, she introduced herself to the kids. Katharine, Eliza, and Hallie were busy trying to learn a new clapping rhyme — something about “Down by the banks of the Hanky-Panky, where the bullfrogs jump from bank to banky” — while Jeremy and Tilly crayoned at the art table. Abby sat right down with the three girls and did her best to join into the rhyme.
I made a quick exit when nobody was looking and headed off to the library, which was where I’d decided to hide the treasure. It took me a while to find my way from the Keatses’ wing to the Cornells’, and then to the library. By the time I hid the treasure and returned to the Keatses’ playroom, Katharine and Eliza were drawing with Magic Markers, while Hallie tried to teach the younger kids the clapping rhyme.
Abby jumped up when she saw me come in, and pulled me aside. “You won’t believe this,” she said quickly in a low voice. “I just discovered another clue, totally by accident!”
“Whoa!” I whispered. “How? What is it?”
We looked around at the kids. The older girls were very involved in their drawing, and the younger kids were making a racket with their rhyme. It was safe to talk.
“Eliza told me,” said Abby quietly. “I mean, she didn’t know she was telling me her mother’s clue, but that’s exactly what she did.”
“You’re kidding,” I said. “Mrs. Keats’s clue? That’s terrific! What is it?”
“Hold on a second,” said Abby, who loves to tell a good story. She never goes straight to the punch line, which can drive you crazy. I was dying to hear the clue, but I tried to be patient. “Here’s what happened,” Abby continued. “Eliza and I started to talk about Livingston House, and she told me that she really likes it here, except that it’s almost too big. ‘Like if you’re trying to find something,’ she said. I asked, trying to act casual, ‘Like what?’ and she said, ‘Like signatures.’ ” Abby paused and gave me a significant look.
“Huh?”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Abby told me. “Then Eliza explained that her mother had mentioned that she should keep an eye out for anything in the house with a signature on it.”
“But why?” I asked.
“Bingo!” Abby exclaimed. “That was my question. And guess what Eliza said?” She paused again, and looked over at the kids, who were still engrossed in their activities. “She said her mother had said something like, ‘The signature tells all.’ ”
“That must be Mrs. Keats’s clue!” I said breathlessly.
Abby nodded. “That’s what I think,” she said. “It sounds like something old Arthur Livingston would say, doesn’t it? Like ‘The first is always the most important.’ Not that either of them makes a speck of sense.”
I agreed. “But it’s great to have the second clue,” I said. I could hard
ly wait to start looking for signatures.
Just then, Jeremy pulled on Abby’s sleeve. “What are we going to do today?” he asked.
“We are going to do something so fun, so terrific, so splendiferous, you won’t believe it,” cried Abby, jumping to her feet. That attracted everyone’s attention, and the kids clustered around.
“What is it?” asked Katharine.
“A treasure hunt!” Abby announced. “Somewhere in this house, Dawn has hidden a wonderful prize. When you find it, you can all share it because there’s plenty for everyone.”
“Is it gold?” asked Hallie, looking excited.
“Not exactly,” Abby replied. “But what would you do with gold, anyway? You’ll like this even better, I promise.”
The kids’ treasure hunt was an organized one, thanks to Katharine and Eliza. They decided to search every room in the house in turn, starting with the gigantic kitchen downstairs. Abby and I followed along, but we had our own search in mind: the search for signatures. (Eliza seemed to have forgotten about signatures once we mentioned treasure.)
As the kids opened and shut cupboards, checked inside the refrigerator and stove, and inspected the broom closet, Abby and I stood in the middle of the kitchen, scratching our heads. Where could you possibly find a signature in a kitchen? We gazed around blankly — until, suddenly, Abby’s face brightened. She ran to a shelf that held pottery, brightly painted pitchers and platters and bowls. “Sometimes potters sign their work,” she whispered to me when I followed her. We picked up each item in turn and checked the bottom. Sure enough, most of them had signatures on them, and Abby dutifully copied each one into the mystery notebook. (We were afraid the kids might wonder what we were doing, but they never noticed a thing.) But neither of us thought we had found the signature, the one that would “tell all.”
While we were in the kitchen, I froze and gestured to Abby. She and I tiptoed over to the swinging door and listened. I had heard a creak on the other side, as if someone were standing there listening to us, but now there was no sound. And when I opened the door, nobody was there.
After the kitchen, Eliza and Katharine led the search party through the dining room (there was a signature on the bottom of the silver teapot), the main hall (no signatures, unless you counted a designer’s name on an umbrella in the umbrella stand — Abby did, and copied it down), and the parlor (two signatures — the makers’, I guess — on a plaque inside an old grandfather clock). The kids hadn’t found the treasure yet, but they seemed to be having fun looking. Katharine and Eliza pounced on every closet door, while Hallie loved checking under tables, and Tilly and Jeremy sniffed around everywhere.
Abby was clearly having a ball, too. Me? I was having a good time, but I was a little frustrated at not being able to make sense of any of the signatures we’d found. I was also becoming a tiny bit creeped out, because everywhere we went I thought I heard creaking floorboards, or footsteps, or a muffled cough. Was somebody watching us? Who? And why?
Finally, Eliza and Katharine led us upstairs. First we searched the Keatses’ wing, checking every bedroom (no treasure, no signatures, but I still heard creaking) and all the bathrooms (ditto).
Then we went through the Cornells’ wing. Abby couldn’t believe how well the treasure hunt was going. It looked as if the library would be the last place searched, which was perfect. That meant we were able to check the whole house, and it also meant that the kids had been occupied and having fun for quite a while.
The library itself took a good long time to search. Abby checked through the books, searching for author or owner signatures on the first pages, while the kids checked the low cupboards, the drawers in the end tables, and even underneath the rugs (Jeremy’s idea).
I, meanwhile, had stumbled across something very, very interesting. I had been glancing at the contents of the huge desk that filled a corner of the room, when I found an upright file that contained folders of financial records. I was dying to check them out, hoping I might find a sample of Arthur Livingston’s signature, but I knew it would be wrong to look through them. Eliza picked up a folder while I was looking, and I reminded her that it was wrong to snoop. But as soon as my back was turned, she couldn’t resist peeking. She went back to the desk, opened up the folder, and pulled something out. “Look!” she exclaimed. “A signature — like mom said to watch for.” Abby and I ran to her. She was holding a check in her hand, a check signed by A. Livingston. I was glad to see his signature, but there didn’t seem to be anything special about it. Eliza shrugged and headed off to join the others.
Then Abby pointed silently to the date on the check. It was dated only two months ago, but Mr. Livingston had been dead for nearly a year by then! Abby raised her eyebrows at me. What did it mean?
Just then, Tilly found the bag of Tootsie Roll Pops (which I’d hidden beneath the seat cushions of one of the big leather chairs) and shrieked excitedly. “Yay! Treasure!” she cried. All the kids clustered around as she handed out lollipops. She even gave one each to Abby and me.
After the treasure hunt, while the kids were watching a video their mothers had approved, Abby and I talked over what we’d found. And Abby came up with a very interesting, very creepy theory that explained everything: the recent check, the creaking footsteps, and even the freshly washed clothing I’d seen in that wardrobe in the attic.
Arthur Livingston was still alive.
“I’m hungry!” Jeremy interrupted my conversation with Abby.
She had just been explaining to me that she didn’t know why Arthur Livingston had staged his death. Maybe to bring his family together, or maybe because he enjoyed seeing them fight. But she was certain he was still around.
I thought her idea was interesting, but I wasn’t convinced that she was right. Still, I knew one thing for sure. There was something mysterious and creepy going on at Livingston House. This wasn’t the time to figure it out, though. Not with Jeremy tugging on my sleeve.
“Okay, Jeremy,” I said. “Tell you what. I bet everybody’s hungry, so why don’t I go down to the kitchen and fix us all a snack? You finish your video, and I’ll be right back.” I glanced over at Abby. “Okay?” I asked.
“Sure,” she said. “I’ll stay and keep an eye on everybody.”
Two sitters can make a job so much easier. I was thinking about that as I headed for the kitchen, until suddenly my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of raised voices. I couldn’t hear what they were saying but I could tell that the voices belonged to two people: a man (a deep, low voice) and a woman (a higher voice). The two were involved in an argument, and as I drew closer to the kitchen, I realized that they had chosen that room for their fight. What was I supposed to do? The kids were starving; I couldn’t put off bringing them a snack. I was going to have to barge in on the arguing couple.
I slowed a bit as I approached the kitchen door. Not because I wanted to eavesdrop — I know that’s wrong — but because I was unsure about how to make my entrance. Should I give a little cough as I opened the door, to let them know I was there? Should I knock? Should I say something? Maybe I could just sneak in without their seeing me. It was so embarrassing to have to interrupt them. I had just started to push open the door (I’d decided on Plan A, giving a little cough as I entered) when I heard part of the argument loud and clear. There was no mistaking the words. I was so close now that I could make out every one.
“We have to wait!” cried the woman.
“I don’t want to wait,” insisted the man. “I’ve waited long enough!”
Whew! Pretty intense. For a second I felt the urge to turn around, run back to the playroom, and let Abby deal with fixing the kids a snack. But it was too late. I’d pushed the door, and now it was swinging open. The couple must have seen it, because suddenly the kitchen was totally silent. I poked my head in and looked around.
“Dawn! Uh, hi!” said Amy, taking a huge step away from John.
“We were just —” John began.
“Talking ab
out what we’re going to have for dinner tonight,” Amy put in quickly. “I just dropped by to check with, um, John about that. About dinner. For tonight.”
She seemed so nervous that I felt sorry for her. “Oh,” I said, nodding, even though I didn’t believe her for a second. “Well, I just came down to find a snack for the kids.”
“Let me help,” said John, rushing to the fridge. I could tell he was glad to have something to do. I felt awfully uncomfortable, and it was clear that they did, too.
“I’ll just be going, then,” said Amy. “We’re all set for dinner, right, Mr. Irving?”
“That’s correct, Miss Livingston,” said John, without looking up at her. He was pretending to be fascinated by the contents of the vegetable drawer.
I almost laughed out loud. Who did they think they were fooling with this act? Obviously something strange was going on between them. I had no idea what it was, but I certainly didn’t believe they had been discussing dinner plans.
Amy left, and John helped me fix up a platter of carrot sticks, cheese slices, and crackers. He mixed up some lemonade, and we set the platter, a pitcher, and some glasses on a huge oval silver tray. We worked silently; he didn’t seem to want to talk.
“Can you carry all that, or would you like a hand?” he asked when the tray was full.
“I can do it,” I answered. “Thanks a lot for all your help!” I hefted the tray and headed out of the kitchen, relieved to be leaving. The atmosphere in there was just a little too weird. The tray was heavy, but I could handle it.
I walked down a long hall and turned several corners, trying to remember how to find the front hall and the main stairs. I held the tray carefully, doing my best to keep the lemonade from sloshing out of the pitcher. A couple of carrot sticks had fallen off the platter, but other than that I was doing fine.
I was starting to daydream about being a waitress at some really cool, trendy vegetarian restaurant out on the West Coast when I turned one more corner and suddenly found myself in the main hall.