Peeled (21 page)

“We’ve been noticing that.”

I told her about the e-mails and the fire. She got somber then. “You understand, Hildy, that you have to tell the sheriff.”

I nodded. “Some of the kids don’t want to.”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“My job,” Sheriff Metcalf said, “is to protect the citizens of Banesville, and we’ve got quite a circus in town.”

He looked at the staff of
The Peel
and our mothers; only Darrell was missing—home with a severe headache brought on by consuming fear.

“We’ve got our local paper getting folks stirred up. I don’t like what they’re writing. I don’t know if you’ve seen the latest.” He opened a copy of
The Bee
and read,
“Courageous reporters use their names. Cowards don’t. Truth seekers don’t hide. Liars do.
I’ll spare you the rest.” He paced before us. “But what we’ve got now has moved into the criminal realm.”

A collective gulp. How seriously were we in trouble? Baker came into the room and took a seat.

“Because whoever set that fire,” Sheriff Metcalf continued, “broke the law and will be prosecuted to the full extent of the law. And whoever wrote that threat about more fires will have more fires than he or she can handle, I can promise you that.” He looked at Baker. “You’re part of this group?”

“I advise them.”

The sheriff liked that. “You kids might wonder if you’ve got the right to continue publishing that paper.”

“Yes, they do,” Baker said.

“That’s right.” The sheriff walked to the window. “It’s my job to protect that right, unless you print
inflammatory untruths. I’m not saying you’ve done that,
but
do we understand one another?”

Yes, sir, we sure do.

“You know,” he said quietly. “There are threats to our freedom everywhere. If you kids can figure out how to make things better for people, God bless you. But this is a dangerous road you’re on. A lot of people find you threatening. If you’re going to keep publishing, I’ll give you an official statement that you’re being protected by this office. Anyone who steps over that line will be arrested.” He tapped his nightstick. “Any questions?”

Elizabeth raised her hand. “I just wanted to say how awesome it’s been to hear you talk, and I think I can speak for all of us, Sheriff, when I say that we are very thankful to you for protecting us. Will we have bodyguards?”

“We’re not quite set up for that. But with all these mothers, you don’t need them.”

The envelope was pink, the message written in calligraphy:

I couldn’t believe it! Someone was contacting me. This could blow this story wide open.

Or it could be a fake.

Even worse, it could be dangerous.

I showed the message to Baker, who half smiled at the calligraphy. “Run it by the sheriff.”

I called Sheriff Metcalf, read it to him on the phone.

“A pink envelope doesn’t sound too threatening, but you never know. Have you got a white towel?”

4:37
P
.
M
.

I put a white towel on the front porch railing and looked up and down the street clandestinely. I hoped it was big enough to see; all I had was a hand towel.

My phone rang. It was Zack.

“I need to talk to you,” he said gravely. “I need to come over.”

“I’m here…”

I sat by the window, peering out. A gust of wind knocked my towel onto the ground. I ran outside, put it back in place, and stuck a garden rock onto top of it just in case.

Okay, source, all has been made ready.

The only car that pulled into the driveway was Zack’s. He trudged up the steps, looking worried.

“I have to ask you something, Hildy.”

“What?” I kept looking out the window.

“I need some help with an experiment. I have this hypothesis and I need to test it. One part I know for sure, the other I don’t.”

“What are you testing?” I was watching for my source.

He took a deep breath. “Well, here’s the thing. I know how I feel about you, Hildy. What I need to know is how you feel about me.”

What did he just say?

I turned from the window and looked at him. He scratched his head. He was so cute when he did that.

“I really like you, Hildy. All the data confirms it.” He laughed. “And I’ve been collecting a lot of it.”

I grinned. “I really like you, too.”

He took my hand; I heard a sound in the driveway. I ran to the window, saw a rear bumper heading down the road. I slapped my hand against the door.

“I can’t believe it!” I shouted.

Zack looked at me strangely.

I put my head in my hands.

“Did I say something wrong?” he asked nervously.

“No, no.” I took both his hands, told him about the pink envelope and everything.

“If you let go of one of my hands,” Zack finally said, “I could put it around your shoulder.”

“I can do that.”

He moved in close. “I know this is kind of fast,” he said.

I laughed. “You call this fast?”

He cleared his throat. “Well, glaciers take centuries.”

He kissed me right there, too—a good slow one.

I stepped back, breathless. The best things take time.

Right after Thanksgiving, the mayor’s big Town Hall meeting was cancelled. Then anothor pink envelope arrived in my mailbox.

I tore it open to the curlicue writing.

I showed it to Baker, who said, “Bring someone with you.”

Toys “R” Us. Zack put on a wool cap and sunglasses.

“You look like a bank robber,” I observed.

“No toy is safe.”

“You go to the Barbies,” Zack said. “I’ll go to the action toys.” He flexed his muscles. “You have your phone if anything goes wrong?”

“I’ll probably just scream.”

“I’ll listen for that.” He kissed my nose.

To appear normal, I got a cart and put a Strawberry Shortcake All You Can Be makeup set in it—half off, too.

I walked past the weapons section—handguns, plastic rifles, machine guns, swords, extra bullets. A miserable father stood with his son in front of the model airplanes.

“We can put one together, just you and me, Mikey.”

“I don’t want one in pieces, Daddy! I want a whole one!”

Not my source. I turned left to the Barbies—rows and rows of them.

“Psst.”

I looked around.

“Psst.”

“Where are you?” I asked.

“Go to the Fashion Fever Barbie,” a woman’s voice directed.

“Which one is that?”

“Hair highlights, glam outfit.”

I found a Barbie in an iridescent purple dress.

The voice said, “I am standing in the other aisle to not be detected.”

“Okay, that’s working.”

“I have information for you. Are you ready to receive it?”

I took out my pad. “Yes.”

“I have information that Pen Piedmont is being paid to write articles about the Ludlow house and the Red Road properties,” she said.

Wow.
I wrote that down. “Who’s paying him?”

“Midian Associates.”

I shouted, “How do you know this?”

A child looked at me strangely.

“Keep
your voice down. I work there, okay? I know what money is going out and coming in.” Her voice sounded so familiar—that touch of irritation, that nasal tone.

“You work at Midian Associates?” I asked to clarify.

“I work at
The Bee.”

This was unbelievable! “Do you know why they want him to write these articles?”

“So that the real estate prices would go down and people would want to sell cheap.”

My breath caught in my throat. If this was true…

“I think they’re paying the psychic, too,” she said. “That’s all I can say for now.”

“No, wait. I need to—”

“That’s
it.
Don’t leave where you are for fifteen minutes. If you do, I won’t contact you again.”

I stood there waiting. All the Barbies’ eyes seemed to be watching me. A man walked down my aisle and eyed the dolls.
That
seemed suspicious.

Then it occurred to me—how would she know if I left? Did she have spies?

“Hildy!”

It was Zack running toward me. “I followed her out,” he said.

“You saw her!”

He held up his phone. “I got a photo of her.”

“You’re a genius.”

He smiled intelligently and showed me the picture.

The face was fuzzy but unmistakable. It was Veronica Blitzer, my old babysitter. She always had an obsessive thing for Barbies, too. Zack pressed 411, got the number for
The Bee
, and called it.

“Veronica Blitzer, please.…When will she be back?…” He wiggled his eyebrows at me and said into the phone, “Who else do I talk to about running an ad?… Oh, she doesn’t handle ads?… Got it.… I’ll call back.” Zack snapped his phone shut and smiled. “It’s better than we could imagine.”

“What?”

Zack laughed. “It’s just so good.”

“What?”

“She’s the bookkeeper. She knows where the money goes.”

I grabbed Zack’s arm. “Did I mention you were a genius?”

He put his arm around me. “It’s always okay to repeat it.”

I told Baker what I’d found out. I told the sheriff, too.

“I’m not sure that a bookkeeper would have access to that kind of information,” Baker said. “How certain are you this person is on the level?”

“I’m pretty certain.”

“Is there any other way you can confirm the information?”

What does he want? A signed confession? “I’m going to lose this story!”

“Before you accuse the local publisher and a real estate tycoon of gross misrepresentation and manipulating the public trust, do yourself a favor, Biddle—make sure you’re right.”

On Red Road the news was grim. Two more families were about to sell their farms to Midian Associates at painfully low prices. Lacey Horton’s family was barely holding on. Lacey told me their phone had been disconnected; they couldn’t pay the bill.

Nan had put together one of her blessing baskets for the Hortons, with baked goods, applesauce, and a ham. Zack and I drove to Lacey’s house to drop it off.

A black Cadillac was in the driveway when we pulled up. We ran out and headed to the kitchen door. It was open, and through the screen door, we heard a man’s gruff voice.

“You’ll never survive. You think you’re going to sit here in the middle of progress and not sell to us?”

I gave Zack the basket, took out my notepad, and started writing what I heard.

“That’s what I aim to do, mister.” Was that Lacey’s dad talking?

“I’m telling you people once more. This is the best price we’re willing to pay for your orchard.”

“That’s not even close to a fair price, mister!”

“We don’t want your house, we don’t want your apple trees. We’ve got bulldozers on the way, pal. I’m telling you now, it’s not going to be pleasant around here. We’re razing the land we’ve bought. That’s what this is about.”

“Get out!” Lacey’s dad commanded.

Zack motioned to me and we ran to the side of the house.

We heard the sound of a car pulling fast out of the driveway.

“Massachusetts plates, Hildy. I got the license number.”

“Good!”

I could hear a woman crying in the kitchen.

Lacey’s dad was shouting,
“Who in God’s name do they think they are?”

“We’ve got a basket to deliver,” Zack said. He took my hand and we walked to the Hortons’ back door.

We knocked and walked into the kitchen. Mrs.
Horton and Lacey were sitting at the table. Mr. Horton looked up.

Zack put the basket on the table.

“I heard what happened, Mr. Horton. I hope you’re going to call the sheriff. You need protection.” I yanked my phone out, offered it to him.