Clocks and Robbers (7 page)

“That was a really good one, Rosie,” said Viola. “I hope everything works out for Stephen and Audrey.”

“Me too,” said Rosie. “I’ve always liked her.”

“Does anyone want more pie?” Viola asked. Woodrow and Sylvester each raised a hand. Viola nodded at the refrigerator. “Help yourself,” she said, then smiled at Rosie, who chuckled. The boys got up from the table, bringing their plates with them. “I’ve got a mystery for you. This one comes from my mom’s brother, my uncle Randall, who we visited yesterday down near Philadelphia.

“I love my uncle. He’s really fun and kind of kooky. After spending most of his life in the city, Uncle Randall recently decided to move to an old Victorian house in a nearby suburb. He invited my family not only for Thanksgiving but also for a housewarming party. I think everyone was willing to travel because they were all so curious about his grand new home.

“When we pulled up, I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. It was everything I had hoped for
him — a great big blue dollhouse with a wraparound front porch and a huge turret along the side that poked at the sky like a rocket.”

“Cool!” said Sylvester. “Did it look haunted?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t bring up ghosts in front of Viola,” said Woodrow.

Viola laughed, glancing around the dining room, as if a ghost might have been watching them. “You know we haven’t had troubles in
this
house since last month. Unfortunately for my uncle, his troubles were only beginning.”

Sylvester’s mouth dropped open. “You mean—”

“‘The new house has a ghost,’” said Viola, nodding. “That’s what Uncle Randall told everyone after he carved the turkey.”

“Just like that?” asked Rosie. “So casually?”

“He was basically relaying rumors from the previous owners,” Viola continued. “The family who lived there before him said that the attic was haunted by the ghost of a little girl who would pull your hair. I don’t think Uncle Randall had experienced the sensation himself.” Viola breathed deeply. The group leaned forward. “After dinner, my cousins were excited to meet the ghost for themselves. My parents stayed downstairs to help clean up, while Uncle Randall grabbed a flashlight and showed us the way upstairs. Having experienced this type of thing before, I trailed behind, carrying my notebook in
case I happened to see anything out of the ordinary. In the upstairs hallway, my cousin Rita located the door that led to the attic. She swung it open to reveal a rickety staircase. One at a time, my cousins went up into the darkness.

“There was no light switch or bulb. Uncle Randall lent his flashlight to Rita, who shined it all over the place. By the brief swipes of light, I was able to take a few notes about what I saw. The roof came down at sharp angles all the way to the creaky wooden floor. Dangling from the rafters, I saw some long thin strands of cobweb. The stuff looked eerie, almost alive. In one corner of the room, there was an old steamer trunk. And that was all; the rest of the room was empty.”

“What was in the trunk?” said Sylvester.

“That was what my cousin Rita asked,” Viola answered. “Uncle Randall said he had no idea. This was the first time he’d really been up there. ‘Let’s find out,’ Rita said, leading the group forward. I stayed near the top of the stairs, where I had a view of the entire attic. Rita handed the light to her brother, Jared, then leaned down and fiddled with the box’s latch. Everyone held their breath as she slowly lifted the top. When she peered inside, she gasped. Turning to face us, she wore a look of horror.”

“What was it?” said Sylvester. “What was inside?”

“It was empty!” said Viola. “Rita slowly smiled and raised her hands as if to say, ‘Oh well,’ when suddenly my other cousin, Hazel, who was standing near the wall, started screaming. This threw everyone else into a panic. Jared swung the flashlight violently around, and I realized that my cousins were all racing toward me. I turned and ran down the stairs. Everyone came spilling from the door behind me, wide-eyed and out of breath. ‘What happened?’ Rita shouted.

“‘Someone touched me,’ Hazel squeaked. She said it felt exactly like fingers stroking her hair.

“‘Then the story is true!’ said Rita. ‘The old owners were right. There
is
a ghost in the attic!’ I watched my uncle turn green. I could tell he wasn’t prepared for this. I decided to put a stop to it before Rita’s drama got out of hand.

“‘No one pulled anyone’s hair,’ I said, raising my voice so they all could hear me. ‘There’s a logical explanation for what Hazel experienced in the attic.’”

“It must have been one of the other cousins playing a trick,” said Woodrow. “Any of them could have done it.”

“But Viola said that Hazel was backed up near the attic’s wall,” said Rosie. “She would have noticed if someone else was standing near her.”

“So, if it wasn’t a trick,” said Viola, “what spooked Hazel?”

“The cobwebs?” Rosie suggested.

“Hmm,” said Viola, satisfied.

Rosie continued. “If the webs were hanging from the rafters like you noticed, it’s possible that Hazel got too close, and a few strands of her hair got caught. When she moved, she felt a sensation like someone was pulling at her. Since the webs can be nearly invisible, it would have seemed like a paranormal experience.”

“Exactly what I told my family,” said Viola. “Perfectly rational.”

“That’s you, all right,” said Woodrow. “A great detective even in the scariest of circumstances.”

“Well, thanks,” Viola answered. “But my cousins didn’t think so.”

“What do you mean?” Sylvester asked.

“Rita insisted that there was no way cobwebs could feel like that,” Viola said, almost sadly. “I figured I could bring her back upstairs and ask her to stand near the sloping walls, but I decided not to force the issue. Some people want to believe what they want to believe.

“But just before my family said our good-byes, Uncle Randall pulled me aside. Despite what my other cousins thought, he thanked me for putting his mind at ease. He said, for a brief moment, he worried that the house really
was
haunted.

“I just smiled and told him I knew the feeling.”

Maybe it was all the talk of ghosts, but when Sylvester came home that evening, his skin felt tingly. It didn’t help that when he opened the basement door, he found a light shining at the bottom of the stairs. He didn’t remember leaving it on.

A long shadow stretched across the floor. He grabbed at the banister. Steadying his voice, he called out, “Hello?”

A rustling noise echoed up at him. “Just a moment!” came Hal-muh-ni’s frantic voice.

“What are you doing down there?” Sylvester stepped on the top stair. It creaked.

“Don’t come down!”

“Why not?” Sylvester took another step.

“I … I have a gift for you.” Hal-muh-ni appeared at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a weird smile. She also wore a ratty old nightgown and bright red silk slippers. She held her hands behind her back.

“A gift?” Sylvester said. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“Come,” said his grandmother. He edged down the stairs to meet her. She whipped her hands forward, holding out several crumpled twenty-dollar bills. Sylvester was speechless. “I was going to leave this under your pillow, but you caught me. So naughty.”

Sylvester wasn’t sure if she was referring to him or to herself. “What’s it for?”

“I feel bad that I stole your bedroom,” she said, forcing the money into his hands. “You can’t possibly be comfortable down here.”

“It’s not that bad,” he admitted.

Hal-muh-ni smiled. “You’re a good boy, Sylvester. But don’t tell your parents. I don’t want them mad at me for spoiling you.”

“I won’t say a word,” Sylvester whispered, as his grandmother crept past him and up the stairs. “Thank you so much.”

Later, Sylvester sat at his desk thinking of all the ways he could use his grandmother’s gift. Eighty dollars was a lot of money. On the paper-bag book cover of his social-studies textbook, he wrote a list of possible purchases. A Super Soaker water blaster for next summer. An upgrade to his Master Magician Magic Box. New headphones for his CD player—or better yet, an iPod.

He was so lost in thought that he didn’t notice the soft crunching sound coming from the other
end of the basement, just outside the small window high up in the wall.

But maybe it was for the best that he didn’t look up … or see the shadowy face peering in at him from behind the dirty glass. If he had, he may never have fallen asleep down in that basement again.

From the corner booth of the Main Street Diner, customers had a view of the plaza in front of the Moon Hollow Library, where one of Mr. Clintock’s clocks stood.

On Sunday night, Sylvester, Woodrow, Viola, and Rosie squeezed onto the curved seat and waited for Mr. Cho to bring them their order of french fries. The sun had been down for nearly an hour, and it had been the coldest day yet since fall had begun. Still, the Question Marks had stories to tell and this was as good a place as any—better, even, because of the free food. Viola was busy watching people stroll by the clock, stopping, staring, and pointing.

“Something wrong?” Rosie asked.

It took Viola several seconds to realize that Rosie was talking to her. She turned back toward her friends. “Sorry. I just can’t stop thinking about what happened with those clocks. I mean … they’re just clocks. You would think we’ve discovered the cure for some horrible
disease instead of an old secret society that nobody even cared about a few weeks ago. Don’t get me wrong. I’m still really excited about it all. It’s just … things have gotten—”

“Freaky?” Woodrow suggested.

“Yeah,” said Rosie. “I ran into Principal Dzielski in the grocery store with my mom yesterday. Can you believe she asked if we’d thought any more about making a presentation?”

“No way,” said Sylvester. “What did your mom say?”

“Of course she thought it was a great idea.”

Woodrow groaned.

“This time, Ms. Dzielski presented it to me as a way to get our friends to learn about ‘community service.’ As if the Timekeepers would have wanted us to do that.”

Viola blinked. “I never thought about it like that,” she said. “The Timekeepers probably
would
have wanted us to do community service. Don’t you think?”

“We don’t owe anything to the Timekeepers,” said Woodrow. “They’ve all passed away. In fact, I wish we could just forget about them. Bill keeps …” He trailed off, as if embarrassed.

No one spoke for a second. Then, Viola quietly prompted, “Bill keeps … ?”

“He keeps bringing it up,” Woodrow grumbled. “Whenever he comes around, he tells my mom how smart I was to help figure it out. Like
he’s trying to win me over or something. He even told his own mother about it during Thanksgiving dinner!”

“What’s so bad about that?” asked Rosie. “He’s just being nice, isn’t he?”

Woodrow threw his hands in the air. “Yes! He’s nice! Technically. But I don’t trust him. I wonder how much he even really likes my mom. It’s like he wants something from
me.”

“Maybe you’re imagining things,” said Rosie. “Don’t you think you should give him a chance?”

“I wish I was imagining things,” Woodrow said. “But you haven’t seen him in action. Maybe when Darlene’s article comes out, he can read all about us instead of asking me tons of questions.”

Sylvester leaned forward. “I have a mystery to share if that will make you feel better.”

“I guess it couldn’t hurt,” said Woodrow.

A shadow loomed over the booth. “Did someone order fries?” Mr. Cho smiled down at them, placing the plate in the middle of the table.

“My grandmother was telling my mom and me stories about her old house yesterday,” said Sylvester. “And I mean her
old
house. It was almost a hundred years old. Before she moved in with us, she lived there for forty years.”

“Whoa,” said Viola, pouring ketchup on the corner of the plate. “That’s a long time.”

Sylvester nodded, reaching for a fry. “Behind her house, there was this great big field. When my mom’s brother—my uncle—was our age, he and his friends used to play games out there in the summertime. Tag, kickball, baseball. Hal-muh-ni used to watch them from behind the streaky old panes of glass in the kitchen window, leaning out the back door every now and again to offer them drinks or snacks.”

“Kind of like
our
yards,” said Rosie. “My dad is always watching us.”

“Huh,” said Sylvester, “I hadn’t thought of that. But yeah. Anyway, this one day, my grandmother left my uncle at home to play with his friends while she went out with my mom to run
some errands. The boys all decided to get out their bats and gloves. No sooner had my uncle’s friend thrown the first pitch, than the ball flew foul and crashed through Hal-muh-ni’s kitchen window.”

“Of course,” said Viola, shaking her head. “Why didn’t I see that coming?” Rosie and Woodrow laughed.

“My uncle instantly panicked. He almost ran upstairs and started packing a bag to leave home. But one of his friends, Tommy, examined the damage and assured my uncle that he could help. Tommy’s father owned a construction company, and he’d helped fix a few broken windows before. He ran to his father’s supply shed and found a new pane of glass the same size and shape as the one from the kitchen window. He got to work while my uncle cleaned up all the broken glass, and they finished with plenty of time to spare. The fit was perfect. My grandmother had no way of knowing there was ever a problem…. At least, that’s what the guys thought.”

“Uh-oh,” said Viola, rubbing her hands together. “I have a feeling he’s gonna get it!”

“Later that night,” Sylvester continued, “my uncle heard a knock at his bedroom door. My grandmother peered in at him. ‘Herbert, do you have something you would like to tell me?’ she asked in a sweet voice. My uncle didn’t know what to do. If he said no, he would be caught in a
lie. If he said yes, he’d have to confess. It’s the worst kind of question to hear when you’re feeling guilty:
Do you have something you would like to tell me?”

Rosie sat up straight and said in a mock-sweet voice, “Well, Sylvester? Is there?”

They all laughed and grabbed more fries.

“Only the rest of the story, my dear,” he said with a wink.

“So what did your uncle do?” asked Woodrow. “Lie or confess?”

“He confessed. She already knew the truth, of course. But she wasn’t too upset. She said she was actually impressed with his … What did she call it? Resourcefulness.”

“But how did she know he’d broken the window?” asked Woodrow.

Sylvester nodded. “And? What do you think?”

“Your grandmother must have found some broken glass or something,” said Viola. “Ooh! Maybe she cut herself on it.”

Rosie shook her head. “Sylvester said they cleaned it up.”

“Sure,” said Viola. “But they could have missed some. Or she might have found shards of glass in the garbage.”

Sylvester shook his head. “Even if that were true, it wouldn’t be enough to lead my grandmother to the truth of what had happened.
Can you guess why that wouldn’t prove anything?”

“If Hal-muh-ni had found broken glass, she couldn’t know that it had come from the window,” guessed Rosie. “It could have been a drinking glass. Or a jar.”

“Right,” said Sylvester. “Broken glass wouldn’t necessarily mean a broken window, so it had to be a different clue.
What was it?”

“Oh!” said Viola. “I know. It was the window itself.”

“What do you mean?” Woodrow asked.

“Sylvester said that the fit was perfect. And the glass was brand-new. But the house was old, over sixty years old at that point, and the other panes of glass in the window would
not
be perfect.”

“Huh,” Rosie murmured, realizing where Viola was going.

“Sylvester mentioned that the window was streaky. Probably filled with imperfections. Sylvester’s grandmother must have noticed the difference between the old panes and the new one, and realized that the pane had been replaced.”

“And why do you replace a windowpane?” Rosie said, already knowing the answer.

“Because the old one was broken,” said Woodrow.

“You guys got it,” said Sylvester, scooping a huge dollop of ketchup onto the longest fry. “You can tell that one to Bill next time he asks about us.” Woodrow pursed his lips, and Sylvester quickly decided to move on. “So … who’s next?”