The Man with the Red Bag (5 page)

Room 145. His room.

Still nobody watching.

A good detective has to be either a very quick thinker or a guy who thinks ahead. I went back into my room, got the plastic ice bucket, and took it with me. If someone saw me, if
he
saw me, I'd pretend I
was going for ice, couldn't sleep, needed a cold drink of water. I walked along the corridor.

Room 145.

Nobody looking.

I put my ear to his door. Inside, a TV played.

Ah. He was probably in bed, watching a program. That sounded safe. Unless he was already out and he'd left the TV on to fool anybody watching him. That was a scary thought. Or suppose he came out later, and I wouldn't know?

But then I remembered something. It might have been from one of Mrs. Nixon's books. Reading mystery books is definitely a big help when you get yourself in a jam. Case in point: a map with a circle on it. I went quickly back to my room, tore a corner off the paper napkin that had been under the ice bucket, came back out, tiptoed again up to room 145, and wedged the small piece of paper between the door and the doorjamb. I'd get up early and check if it was still there. Then I'd know if he'd been out. If he had, I wouldn't know where—maybe it would just have been for ice. But this was the best my ingenuity could come up with. The TV was still playing softly inside his room.

I hurried back to bed, set my alarm for 5:30, and lay facedown on my blankey square again, breathing in the smell of it, letting my pulse slow down. I decided I was glad that in the future I was only going to write about mysteries, not be right smack in the middle of one.

The day after tomorrow we'd be in Yellowstone and Millie would get the newspaper picture of the suspected terrorists. Yellowstone, which was in Stavros's circle.

Tomorrow I'd have to lend him the Greek dictionary. It wouldn't take him long to translate the words I'd written.

And then what?

I
'd checked at 5:30
A.M.
The paper scrap was still in the door. It was still there when Grandma and I went past on the way to breakfast at 8:00. Stavros had been safe in his room all night long.

He came into the dining room while we were eating our scrambled eggs and bacon. Grandma and I had a table for four and the nice Doves had asked if they could join us. They loved their room and the view and the whole tour but they were worried about our schedule for today.

“I'm not sure if we feel up to going on the raft
trip,” Mrs. Dove told Grandma.

“We don't party like we used to,” Mr. Dove added.

Grandma and I laughed.

“I think you'd like the river trip,” Grandma said. “I did it when I was here with my dear Jim. My late husband,” she explained. “It's perfectly comfortable and perfectly safe. You should come.”

But even as I was listening I was watching Charles Stavros. His napkin covered the red bag on his knees. He was drinking coffee, his bandaged hand on the bag, the cup held awkwardly in his left hand. Now and again he lifted the napkin to gently pat his thick mustache. He saw me looking at him and gave a small nod.

I nodded, small-ly, back.

“You didn't bring the dictionary for Mr. Stavros?” Grandma asked.

“No. I didn't think he'd want to read it on the raft, going down the Snake,” I said. Last night I'd remembered about today's raft trip and felt immediate relief. I could postpone his reading the letter for a little longer. Which was a cowardly thought, but one that
came to me nevertheless. It was important that he read my question. But maybe not today.

Declan came by, table to table. “We'll drive to the Snake River,” he said. “Bus outside in a half hour.”

I was first on. By the time Stavros came aboard, his map was safely back in its place.

 

Scotty parked close to the river.

“Everyone!” Declan called. “Please leave your bags and cameras and other paraphernalia on the bus. Scotty will be here. I'd prefer it if you didn't take anything with you on the raft. Safety precautions.”

“Should we take our jackets?” one of the Texans asked.

“I don't think you'll be cold. Maybe wet. But a jacket is okay.”

As we lined up to get on the raft, I managed to stand next to Geneva and nudge her away from the others. I filled her in about the map and the circle, which I called “the Big C.” I told her about how Stavros couldn't read my letter, which meant he wasn't Greek even though he'd tried to bluff it with all that talk about baklava and hummus. About how
I'd kept watch on him last night. About my clever paper-in-the-door plan.

Geneva gave a little whistle and rocked back and forth with her hands in her jeans pockets. She pulled her Cody Rodeo Queen cap down so it almost hid her eyes.

“So, he can't understand Greek and he's mapping out the best place to put the bomb.” I hated the way she drawled it out, like some old-time movie villain. If she'd had a waxed mustache, she'd have been twirling the ends. Not a single compliment about my paper-in-the-door routine. Or my no-sleep night.

The line was moving and we had to join it. “There's more,” I told her quickly. “But look, since I had to watch him last night, do you want to help me tonight? Take a turn?”

“Get real!” she muttered.

“Why am I not surprised?” I said. This girl wanted the excitement but none of the work. If I were paying her I'd fire her, right now.

Then I heard Declan arguing with Charles Stavros.

Geneva grabbed my arm. “Listen,” she hissed.

“I'm really sorry, Charles,” Declan was saying. “Maybe you didn't hear. I'd prefer that you don't take your bag on to the raft.” As usual, Stavros was clutching it.

“I have to take it,” he said, and he turned away, putting an end to the discussion.

“Mr. Stavros. Really,” Declan called after him, then spread his hands in an “I give up” gesture.

I hurried so I was directly behind Charles Stavros as we got into the raft, even though I knew it might be dangerous. He was whispering something, not to me, not back to Declan. The words were to himself, or to the bag. “I will never let you go again,” he said.

Never let what go? Who go?

What was in that bag?

I felt jumpy. But not for long. The raft trip was too good. I decided it ranked right up there as a life experience along with a dogsled ride I'd had once up on Mammoth Mountain in California and I wasn't going to waste it, Greek or no Greek. But still, I checked on Stavros and his bag every few minutes.
Not that he was going to
jump
! Keeping watch on him was getting to be a habit.

I suppose we weren't actually on a raft; it was more like a big rubber boat with high sides. Also, we all wore orange life jackets. I guess Star Tours didn't want to lose any of their group in the raging waters. Actually, the waters didn't rage that much. I loved it, though, the trees and brush on either side, the mountains with their little sprinkles of snow on top, the dark mysterious river flowing by. This was a kind of space, like recess between classes. I felt we were safe while we were on this raft. I closed my eyes and was Huckleberry Finn until Geneva leaned forward and poked me and whispered, “I have an idea how to get ahold of his bag.”

I glanced again at Stavros sitting in front of me. “You mean now?”

“Uh-uh. Later.”

She had such a satisfied smirk that I wanted to push her overboard. One good shove. But still, if she really had a clever idea, it would be a waste to lose it.

Declan wore a canary-yellow shirt with Indian arrowheads. He and a fellow he introduced as Lars
poled us slowly along the river. Declan told us about how the Snake had changed course many, many times and left the small islands that dotted the water. He said the sagebrush had been there for thousands of years. I thought about how great, lumbering mastodons could have plodded along these banks. Saber-toothed tigers might have crouched in the mud to drink. I watched ducks gliding importantly along on the water. A bald eagle sailed across the sky, taking my breath with it, and for those few moments I almost forgot about Charles Stavros. I didn't forget that Geneva had come up with a plan to get his red bag. Some dopey scheme, probably. I shook my head. Forget them both!

“I'm so glad you brought me along on this trip,” I whispered to Grandma.

“I'm so glad you're with me,” she whispered back.

“Aren't we going to get any whitewater?” Buffo asked. “No rapids? No whirlpools? This is too tame.”

“Not this trip,” Declan said. “But at least nobody's getting seasick.”

The Texans sang “Michael, Row the Boat Ashore” and it sounded just right, just perfect.

“Did you know that the four of them are in a choral group in Houston?” Grandma asked. “They're really excellent.”

That made me smile. It was pretty nice, how the tour people told Grandma everything!

 

In the bus, on the return ride to the lodge, Geneva gave me the sign to come sit in back with her.

“Geneva wants to talk to me,” I told Grandma, and she said, “Go on back, sweetie. I'm perfectly happy sitting here, drinking in the scenery and rejoicing. Look at those clouds! Did you ever see such a sky?”

I admired the clouds along with her and then moved back.

As I passed Midge's seat I saw that she was drawing on a big pad of paper. The open page was filled with sketches of dogs—big dogs, little dogs, smooth dogs, dogs with whiskers.

She glanced up at me. “All mine,” she said. “I miss them so much. This is Chips. He's a boxer. This little guy is Willie. He's only got one eye but he doesn't miss a thing.” Her voice was soft and full of longing.
“I don't know if I'll let myself get this far away from them ever again. Or from my husband,” she added, giving me a grin.

Behind her, Geneva bobbed up and down in the back seat, mouthing “C'mon, c'mon” at me.

“You're a really good artist,” I told Midge. “I'm going to be a writer. Maybe, when I publish my book, you could do the drawing for the cover.”

“You're writing a dog book?”

“Uh-uh. A mystery,” I told her. “But there may be dogs in it.” I thought of the dogs that had jumped up at Stavros's bag. “I'm not exactly sure yet.”

Midge nodded. “Let me know. I'm available.”

I moved on back and slumped in the seat next to Geneva.

“So, what's this big idea you've got?” I asked her, trying not to sound miffed, which I have to admit I was. If the idea was good, I wanted to have been the one to think of it. In mystery stories there's a saying, “George must slay his own dragon,” which actually means, the hero must do all the important stuff himself. And have the brilliant ideas himself. And solve the mystery. Still, I was a big enough person to at least listen. After all, till
I fired her, she was still my assistant.

“Well…” Geneva drew out the word. “Well, it's simple. You'll switch your bag with his.”

I sighed. “Yeah? And how am I going to do that? You heard what he said on the raft?”

“What? What did he say?

“You didn't hear?”

She shook her head. “No. What was it?”

“He said, ‘I will never let you go again.'” The words and the memory of the way he'd said them creeped me out all over again.

“How weird!” Geneva took off her cap and scratched her head. “Well, we're going to take it and he'll have to let it go. First, you will start carrying
your
bag everywhere. You'll put heavy stuff in it.” She paused. “You did say his bag was heavy when you picked it up that time, in the bathroom?”

“Yep. And now I've seen into it. What's in there is definitely heavy.”

Her mouth dropped open and that made me feel great.

“You've seen into it?
Why didn't you tell me?”

“No time.”

“And? And?” She pushed her face so close to mine I had to jerk my head back.

“It's something big and black and shiny.” I paused. “And there's a string. I'll tell you this for sure. It isn't his puppy. And that string is not a leash.”

“Why would he have a string?”

“It might be a fuse.”

“Oh my gosh!” She was breathing through her nose, like a horse snorting. “A fuse? It's definitely a bomb, then. For inside the circle.”

“Well, I don't know for sure. The big, black thing I saw didn't seem like—”

“Look, we've got to tell somebody! We can't wait any longer. This is too freaky—”

I interrupted. “First, let him read my letter. We'll see what he answers. You know, he might just say, ‘I didn't mean to make a mystery of this. Here's my bag. Take a look inside.'” I sounded feeble, but I pushed on. “And I think we should examine Millie's picture before we do anything drastic. We'll see it tomorrow
when we get to Yellowstone.”

“We have no time to waste if we're acting alone,” Geneva said. “We should tell your grandma. She's old. I bet she's wise.”

“I don't want to worry her. And besides, she would be horrified that we're accusing him just because of the way he looks. She's
so
not into doing that.”

“It's not only how he looks,” Geneva said. “He has a bomb. He talks to his bag. How strange is that?”

I was getting irritated with her again. Miss Take-over, Run-the-show!

“We don't know for certain that it is a bomb,” I said. “And I guess he can talk to his bag if he wants. It makes him a bit nutty, but nobody's going to arrest him for that. If you like, we could tell your dad,” I added craftily.

Geneva gave me her murderous stare. “No way. I don't tell my dad anything, period. That way he would win.”

“Win what?”

“Never mind,” she said. “And I can't imagine telling Declan. He calls us ‘kids.' Anyway, he'd never want to offend one of his customers. What would Star Tours say? Look at the way he gave in about Stavros's carry-on. On the raft.”

“So it's up to us. I'll make the decisions,” I told her. “George and his assistant will slay their own dragon.”

She didn't look at me. She didn't seem to even hear me. “It's important then that we get the bag immediately,” she said. “We could try to defuse the bomb ourselves. I bet
I
could. I programmed my mom's cell phone for her when nobody else could make it work. I'm pretty good with complicated stuff. So, after lunch, you fill your carry-on with heavy things, books, if you have any. Hey! There's a phone directory in my room, I can give you that.”

“I probably have one,” I said. “All this is fine. But how do we make the switcheroo?”

Geneva sat back with a satisfied smile. “You pack the bag. Bring it with you whatever we do this afternoon and I'll take care of the rest.”

“How?”

“I know how. But I have a few details to work out. Like exactly when and where. That depends on him. I'll fill you in later.”

Oh, brother, I thought. Did Sherlock Holmes ever have this kind of a problem with Watson?