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Authors: Mary Downing Hahn

Tags: #Juvenile Fiction, #Mysteries & Detective Stories, #Mystery and Detective Stories, #Detective and Mystery Stories

The Dead Man in Indian Creek (6 page)

BOOK: The Dead Man in Indian Creek
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"That furniture," Parker mused. "It could be packed with drugs. You know that?"

"No way," I said. "That lady is probably somebody's dear old granny."

Parker sighed and leaned back against a tree as if he were planning to fall asleep like Rip Van Winkle and wake up a hundred years from now. My stomach growled so loudly Otis cocked his ears and peered around, thinking, I guess, that some varmint was creeping up on him.

"It's almost five," I told Parker. "Do you want to have dinner at my house?"

"I'm always eating at your place," he said. "Are you sure your folks don't mind?"

I stood up and brushed leaves and dirt off my jeans. Actually my father had complained when I first started bringing Parker home at dinnertime, but he was used to it now. And Mom usually went ahead and set an extra place without my even asking her to.

"They enjoy your company," I told him. "Otis, too."

We walked slowly through the woods, taking the shortcut behind the houses on Blake Street. Lights were on in the windows, and we could see families getting ready for dinner. In one brightly lit kitchen, I saw Jennifer Irwin helping her mother with something on the stove.

Parker saw her too, and he watched her till she moved out of sight. "Jennifer's the prettiest girl in school," he said.

"Do you like her?" I asked as we started walking again, scuffing the leaves up in yellow clouds.

Parker shrugged. "If I ever have a girlfriend, it'll be Jennifer."

Then he started running through the woods, yelling like an Indian, and I chased after him. Behind us, we could hear Jennifer's dog barking, but I wouldn't have cared if he'd bitten me in half. I'd never have a chance with Jennifer if Parker liked her, that was for sure.

"Not you again," Charity said when Parker sat down next to her. "Don't you ever eat dinner at your own house?"

Mom frowned at Charity. "We don't speak like that to guests," she said sternly.

Charity turned her attention to the meatloaf on her plate. "Not
this
again," she said loudly and glanced at Parker out of the corner of her eye to see if he was impressed. "I
hate
meat loaf."

I nudged her side. "Quit showing off," I said.

"Don't shove me." Charity pointed her knife at me like a sword. "Or I'll slice you up in pieces."

"Stop right there," Dad said. "Either eat your dinner or go to your room."

He made this threat every night, but it always solved the problem, at least temporarily. Charity bent her head over her plate and poked at her food, complaining loudly about everything from the onion in the meat loaf to the presence of peas on her plate.

"You know I hate peas and onions," she whined to Mom, but everyone ignored her. Her complaints were as much a part of meals at our house as the meat-and-potato diet Dad demanded. Charity sulked for a while, but she ended up eating everything except the bits of onion she dug out of the meat loaf. These she lined up neatly around the rim of her plate, positioning each one with the tines of her fork.

After two helpings of pumpkin pie and real whipped cream, Parker and I headed for my room to escape the nightly argument about cleaning up. As we climbed the steps, I could hear Charity complaining that I never did anything.

"It's your turn to wash the dishes," Mom said.

"Matt washed them last night. It's right here on the kitchen calendar."

To drown out Charity's screeching countercharge, I slammed my bedroom door and turned on the stereo.

Parker flopped down on the bottom part of my bunk bed and started leafing through a
Mad
magazine. Thinking he must be sick to death of the constant bedlam at my house, I fiddled with the controls on the stereo, trying to increase the volume enough to drown out the noise in the kitchen but not enough to bring Dad to the door, yelling at me to turn it down.

After a while, Parker tossed
Mad
across the room and sighed.

"Coming over here must be a real drag," I said. "The way everybody shouts and carries on is enough to drive you nuts."

Parker glanced at me. "Actually, I was just thinking it's like being in one of those family shows on TV."

I stared at him. "Are you crazy? Those shows are funny, and the parents always know the right way to handle everything. Here it's just a mess of confusion."

Parker shrugged. "At least you have a family," he muttered. "Your mother cares enough about you to fix dinner for you every night."

There was a little silence then as the tape ended and began reversing itself. I didn't know what to say, so I was glad when the next song began and I could play with the tone and volume again.

Suddenly Parker jumped up so fast he bumped his head on the top bunk. "I better get going," he said.

I followed him downstairs. Charity was arguing with Mom about a new subject. "I don't want to study my spelling words," she was wailing. "I want to watch television."

If Mom hadn't been locked in a power struggle with a six-year-old, she might have stopped me with questions about homework, especially my book report.

But she didn't hear or see a thing, and Parker and I slipped out the back door like prisoners escaping from jail. Otis jumped up from the porch and ran ahead of us, his tail waving, and I had to hurry to keep up with Parker.

The air was thick with bonfire smoke, and a big orange harvest moon stared down at us from just above the treetops. Little gangs of leaves scurried this way and that, ankle deep on sidewalks that hadn't been raked.

"Are you going back to the Olde Mill?" I asked Parker as he turned down Blake Street.

"We've watched the shop every afternoon," he said, "and all we've seen are old ladies buying antiques. Maybe the real action is at night."

Holding on to Otis's collar, I followed Parker into the woods behind Jennifer's house. This time I didn't see her anywhere, and I wondered which one of the lighted windows was her bedroom. I imagined her sitting at a little desk with her homework spread out in front of her. Maybe she was working on her book report for Mr. Simpson, and I wished I were at home doing that instead of following Parker through the woods.

When we got to our hiding place, we peered out through the bushes at the Olde Mill. The back room was still lit, and very faintly I could hear a sad song about an unfaithful wife, the kind they always play on country music stations. Other than that, there was no sign of any action.

"How long are you planning to stay here?" I asked Parker after a while. My feet were cold and my legs were stiff from squatting. Pretty soon my parents were bound to notice my absence, and I'd get in trouble for going out on a school night without permission.

"At least till midnight." Parker looked at his watch's luminous face. "It's a few minutes past nine now. If you want to leave, go ahead. I'll be okay by myself."

I shivered as a gust of wind sent a shower of leaves down on our heads. In the woods all around us, branches swayed and creaked and things you couldn't see rustled and snapped in the dark. Clouds swirled past the moon, and I told myself I'd stay till ten, no later.

As I was checking my watch for the hundredth time, I heard a car coming down Windsor Road. It was Evans. Before he got out of the MG, the door of the shop opened, and Pam ran outside to meet him. They embraced, then turned and went inside. In a couple of minutes, the lights went out and everything was still.

"Let's go," Parker said. "We've seen enough."

Grabbing Otis, he told him roughly to be quiet. Then, without even bothering to say good-bye, Parker ran off toward his house, leaving me to stumble back home alone through the dark, cold woods.

9

A
S A RESULT
of my so-called sneaking out on a school night, I was grounded for the rest of the week. I wasn't even allowed to go to the library to pick out a book for my English assignment, so I had to read the only novel in our house, an old paperback of Mom's called
Flames of Desire.
Can you imagine being a seventh-grade boy and doing a book report like that?

If I hadn't been such a chicken, I would've followed Parker's example and not handed one in, but my parents stood over me and made sure I read every word of that stupid book. Mom said it would teach me a valuable lesson. When I asked her what it was, though, she just pursed up her mouth and gave me one of her looks.

Anyway, I had to stand up in front of the whole class, and tell about this beautiful lady who was kidnapped by pirates and fell in love with their captain even though he used her against her will. In a futile effort to make everybody laugh, I was hamming it up, but when I glanced at Jennifer, I noticed she was staring at Parker. He was gazing out the window like he was miles away from the rest of us.

The expression on Jennifer's face distracted me from my summary, and I stumbled over the word historical and said "hysterical" fiction instead. Even Mr. Simpson laughed then, which just goes to show you're funniest when you aren't trying to be.

I sat down and Melissa started droning on and on about her book, the story of a girl who loses weight to become a cheerleader. She must not have left out a single boring detail. Instead of listening to her, I watched Jennifer and Parker. Although he never noticed, she stared at him till it was her turn to give her book report. Even then, she kept stealing looks at him, but he was still gazing out the window.

***

Finally, Saturday came, Halloween at last, and all I had to do to earn my freedom was rake the leaves. Since Charity and Jennifer's little sister Tiffany kept jumping in the pile yelling, "I'm the Queen of the Universe," and scattering leaves all over the yard, it took me a long time. The minute I was through, I hopped on my bike and rode over to Parker's.

I was thinking he might want to go trick or treating after dark. I was pretty sure he hadn't gotten his Frankenstein costume together, but I'd left my Dracula outfit laid out on my bed. Surely Parker could fix himself up like a tramp or something.

As soon as I saw Parker, though, my dreams of candy bars and popcorn balls vanished. He was sitting on his front steps, one arm around Otis, looking totally miserable.

Skidding to a stop, I got off my bike and let it crash to the ground behind me. "What's wrong, Parker?"

"Nothing." Parker hugged Otis so tightly the dog made a little squeaking sound, but, loyal canine that he was, he thumped his tail and didn't try to pull away.

I plopped down beside Parker, and, for a few seconds, neither of us said a word. The only noise came from the leaves skittering across the porch behind me. I couldn't help noticing that nobody made Parker Pettengill do any raking.

Picking up a stone, Parker hurled it into a group of dented trashcans huddled together on the curb. Otis launched himself off the porch and ran after it. He snuffled around, found the stone, and brought it back to Parker. Dropping it, he cocked his head to one side and wagged his tail. His mouth was open, his tongue hung out, and he looked like a happy idiot, grinning at tragedies he didn't understand.

Parker threw the stone again, farther this time, and Otis charged off into the woods across the street, determined to make Parker happy.

"Pam didn't come home last night," Parker said at last.

Shoving my hands into the pockets of my denim jacket, I didn't look at Parker, and I didn't say anything either. The truth was, I didn't want to hear about this kind of stuff.

But Parker kept talking. "When I asked her what was going on, she blew up," he said. "She started yelling at me about the shop and all the work she had to do and my attitude. She never acted like this till she got involved with Evans."

As Parker stared dejectedly into space, I wished I knew how to cheer him up. But what could I say? Pam had changed. Just last summer, she and Parker and I played ball in the backyard, chasing each other around and laughing, or she drove us to Greenbriar State Park to swim in the lake. Oh, she'd had a few boyfriends, but Parker had always come first, anybody could see that.

Then Evans bought the Olde Mill, hired Pam, and now she was hardly ever home, and when she was she never laughed or kidded around like before.

Otis whimpered and nudged his stone against Parker's foot. This time I threw it, narrowly missing Pam's old Volkswagen.

"I'll tell you something," Parker said. "I'm going to find out what's going on."

I looked at him, but he was staring straight ahead. At the sound of a car coming down the street, we both looked up and watched it stop in front of the house. Pam got out and turned to say something to Evans. Otis growled and strained against his collar, wanting to chase the MG, but Evans didn't look at the dog or Parker and me. He just sped off, his nose in the air, a pipe jutting up out of his mouth.

Before Pam was halfway to the house, Parker sprang to his feet and went inside, leaving me sitting there all by myself, too surprised to follow him.

"Hi, Matthew." Pam smiled at me, and, even though I tried to harden my heart against her, it went flip-flop anyway.

"Where did Parker rush off to?" She stopped at the bottom of the steps, and her blue eyes, so much like Parker's, were level with mine.

She was wearing faded jeans and a baggy rag wool sweater, so big on her I thought it must belong to Evans. A pair of antique earrings dangled halfway to her shoulders, and her hair was a tangled lion's mane from riding in the MG with the top down.

"Parker's in the house," I said finally, but my voice cracked so the first words came out low and the others high. There was something about Pam that ruined all my efforts to sound like a man instead of a kid. She unnerved me almost as much as Jennifer did.

"I know that, Matt," Pam said, "but why did he disappear the minute he saw me?"

"I think he had to go to the bathroom," I said, and then my face got so red I jumped up and went inside to look for Parker before she asked me any more questions. Two dumb answers were enough for one day.

I found Parker in the kitchen trying to make grilled cheese sandwiches in a frying pan.

"You've got the heat too high," I said, eyeing the charred bread.

BOOK: The Dead Man in Indian Creek
4.69Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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