The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (8 page)

It didn't take me more than a few seconds to figure out that Uncle Andy had sent Cookie around to check out the Hendersons. Cookie is very diligent when given a task. I knew he'd keep coming back to Evelyn's place until he was satisfied that I was in the proper domestic environment.

I should explain that I made the mistake of giving Uncle Andy Evelyn's address when he asked where the Hendersons lived. I always try to tell my uncle a half-lie whenever a whole one can be avoided. But even a half-lie can develop into something totally unexpected.

For example, there was Cookie knocking on Mrs. Pastorelli's kitchen door. Fortunately, Evelyn was at her weekly bridge club meeting. This gave me the opportunity to go around to the front door, get the key from under the mat, and intercept Cookie as if I was an actual resident. Unfortunately, Evelyn was due back from her meeting in just a few minutes. Between my sudden panic and climbing down from my tree house very fast, I was perspiring quite a bit.

Cookie was very pleased to see me and immediately apologized for not being able to take me in himself, since he was currently staying with his cranky cousin in an “adults only” apartment complex.

“Your uncle has requested that I investigate your domestic situation and report back to him,” explained Cookie. “Where is Ricky?”

“Soccer practice,” I lied.

Then Cookie pulled out a rubber squeaky mouse out of his pocket. “This is just a little something for Ginger,” he said, looking around. “Where is she?”

“You know how cats are,” I replied. “She's probably hiding someplace.”

Cookie put the rubber mouse on the table, sniffed the air and asked, “Do you smell liniment?” When I did my best to look puzzled, Cookie added, “You know, the lotion people use for sore muscles.”

“Oh, that!” I said. “Ricky pulled a leg muscle at the last soccer game.”

“No kidding? And he still wants to practice?”

“That's Ricky for you,” I said. “He's not the bench-warmer type.”

“I guess I was expecting something that smelled a little more inviting,” he said, sounding disappointed that the smell of baked goods was absent from the air. He looked suspiciously at Evelyn's cold, empty stove and then checked the clock on her kitchen wall. It is a very unusual clock, with pictures of different birds where the numbers should be. Every hour it chimed out a different bird call. But Cookie wasn't very interested in the clock. “Shouldn't Mrs. Henderson be preparing a nutritious lunch about now?” he asked.

“Mrs. Henderson is at a PTA meeting,” I said.

“In the middle of summer?” asked Cookie.

“She's very dedicated,” I said trying my best to sound casual.

I glanced at Evelyn's bird clock. She was usually back from her card game around the time the blue jay started to squawk, and the squawk was getting closer by the second. Cookie walked over to Evelyn's refrigerator and peered inside. There was a jar of pickles, several cans of sardines, a puckered-up lemon and a carton of milk that was a week past its expiry date. Then he went over to Evelyn's cookie jar, which resembled the head of a smiling pig. He removed the top of the pig's head and pulled out a cookie. “Store-bought?” he said, sounding as if he had just been shot through the heart.

“Mr. Henderson bought a box from the Girl Scouts,” I said, hearing a drop of my own sweat plop to the floor.

“This looks stale,” he announced tragically. And then—because he can't resist anything that's free or sweet—he popped the cookie in his mouth anyway. “Just as I suspected. I have been incarcerated in places with fresher baked goods.”

“You just hit the wrong day,” I offered. “Grocery shopping is tomorrow. Plus, Mrs. Henderson has recently sprained her bread-baking arm.”

“How did she do that?”

“Loading the
SUV
with a big box of used clothes,” I said. “For charity.”

“They must be going through a lot of liniment,” said Cookie, sniffing the air again. He was staring at me, and I could feel more sweat running down my forehead. “Did you know that you have a twig in your hair?” he asked.

“I've been gardening,” I lied. “I like to help out around the house as much as I can.”

Cookie looked down at Evelyn's linoleum, like he was feeling guilty about something. “Speaking of being responsible,” he said, “I have a confession to make.” Cookie coughed nervously. “I owe your uncle some money,” he said. “I was supposed to give it to you so you could pay the Hendersons back. You know, for expenses.” Cookie was starting to turn pale. “Honestly, Henry. I had the cash,” he said. “But now I don't.”

Aside from stealing golf carts and being a little too fond of sweets, about the only vice Cookie had was the racetrack. So I asked, “What was the name of the horse?”

“Chocolate Chip,” he replied. “I just couldn't resist betting on a horse named after my favorite cookie.” Looking very melancholy, he added, “I figured we could double our money. But after the race, all I had left was enough for the rubber mouse.”

“I'm sure Ginger will appreciate it,” I said. Then the blue jay on the clock squawked; it startled me so much that I gave a little jump. I started to imagine Evelyn coming through the door and finding two strange people and a rubber mouse in her kitchen.

“Just an observation, Henry,” said Cookie, “but you seem kinda stressed-out.”

“What do you mean?” I asked, as innocently as possible.

“Well, you've dropped a few pounds since the last time I saw you,” Cookie said. “In addition, you have these dark circles under your eyes.” He pulled the twig out of my hair, adding, “Are you sure these people aren't just using you as their personal gardening slave?”

Cookie ran a finger over Evelyn's kitchen windowsill and examined the thin film of dust. Sounding more like a guidance counselor than a thief, he said, “I am afraid I cannot give the Hendersons a passing grade.”

All of a sudden, I forgot about Evelyn and started to imagine being placed in a foster home or some sort of government institution. I started to talk very fast. “I promise that, if you come back next week, you'll be greeted by a well-stocked fridge, a dust-free house and the welcoming aroma of home-baked cookies.”

Cookie allowed that he owed me a favor because of losing my uncle's money at the track. “I guess I can stall your uncle until next week,” he said, looking at me like I was one of his favorite horses at the racetrack. “But you better be looking well-groomed and rested!” Then he reached into his wallet and insisted I take his last five dollars. “Buy some air-freshener,” he said before departing. A minute and a half later, I was in the tree house, sweating like one of the losing horses Cookie always bets on as I watched Evelyn unlock her back door.

I guess maybe Cookie is right about me being stressed-out. Not that I don't have my reasons. My benefactors are being more careful about leaving loose cash around. In some cases, they are also keeping less food in the fridge. As a result, I am being forced to venture into unfamiliar territory more and more often.

Despite the fact that I try my best to be careful, I have experienced an unlucky streak of three narrow escapes in the last few days. The first time, I only got away because my new patron likes to whistle a cheery tune while searching for his house keys.

I did not anticipate my second narrow escape either. To be fair, I did everything according to standard burglary etiquette. I rang the doorbell to make sure no one was home. I even had a story prepared about wanting to hire myself out to do chores around the neighborhood. Just in case someone answered.

Of course, there are some homeowners who prefer not to answer their door while they are at home. They figure it's just some dorky salesman or maybe someone going door-to-door offering personal insight into a particular religion. They could even be sick in bed, which happened to be the reason for my second narrow escape.

I was already inside the house. It was unusually big with a lot of ground to cover between exits. I was thinking how hard it would be to make a quick getaway when I heard a woman call from upstairs.

“Al, is that you?” she asked, sounding like she had a very bad head cold.

Here's another important rule for any aspiring burglar: Do not answer a resident who is calling out from another part of the house. For example, it is never a good idea to reply, “Yes, honey. It is definitely me, the one and only Al.” Mostly because you don't know what Al's voice sounds like. I mean, he could have a very heavy Lithuanian accent and how would you know?

Sometimes the homeowner will provide you with a convenient way out of your predicament. For instance, the woman in bed with a cold said, “Al, have you got your nose in the fridge again? How many times do I have to tell you? That leftover chicken is for dinner tonight.” I guess Al liked to go into the fridge a lot, because she added, “I better hear that fridge door closing. And I better not hear any chicken-eating sounds after that. If I have to come down there, you're going to be sorry!”

I knew that if she came downstairs, I was going to be twice as sorry as Al would ever be. What if she saw me? I would be in real trouble if she screamed. Even with her cold, I could tell she was probably an excellent screamer. And an excellent scream can cause the worst kind of chain reaction for a professional burglar. The first thing you know, a dog starts barking like there's no tomorrow. Or the next-door neighbor, who keeps a baseball bat in his umbrella stand, decides he needs to check things out.

At times such as these, it doesn't always pay to think like a thief. What you have to do is think like good old Al. I opened the fridge door very quietly, so my benefactor wouldn't hear, and then slammed it shut with a loud
thunk
. I thought if she heard the loud
thunk
from upstairs she would assume that Al was wisely following orders.

Sure enough, she seemed to be comforted by the sound of the fridge door closing. “I love you, Al,” she said, before taking a break to blow her nose. “But you are so predictable.”

I figured that it was safe enough to carefully make my way out of the house. I was about to do so when I heard her say, “Al, honey, would you run to the store and pick me up a box of Kleenex? There's some money on the kitchen counter.”

I put the money in my pocket. It was more than enough for a box of Kleenex. And then I remembered that I had a new packet of tissues in my backpack. Before making a smooth getaway, I took the packet out and placed it on the kitchen table. I hope that—in some small way—it helped her get over her cold.

There's one very interesting thing that I have yet to mention about being in the burglary business. You can be patient, cautious and very smart—all good things for a thief to be—but no matter how careful you are, bad luck is unpredictable. It's like my Uncle Andy always says: “Bad luck has put more clever crooks in jail faster than you can say, ‘Do you hear sirens?'”

While Uncle Andy and his associates have many practical skills, they are probably the most unlucky crooks you would ever want to meet. Once I overheard them planning to liberate a bunch of mattresses from a warehouse. They planned the whole thing for weeks, but when they got to the warehouse, it didn't have any mattresses in it. Just plain bad luck.

When I was a kid, Wally Whispers used to tell me all sorts of bedtime stories that he made up. My favorite was about a big-time jewel thief named Wally, who stole a jewel called the Star of British Columbia and lived happily ever after. Whenever Wally told the story, I could tell he was dreaming of a big score. That one final job where he could retire and not have to worry about disappearing mattresses.

Sometimes I fantasize about finding the Star of British Columbia under a new patron's bed. But all I ever seem to find lately is the kind of exercise equipment that promises you a flatter stomach in ninety days. This is bad for both my financial situation and my professional self-esteem.

I keep thinking that maybe it would be a good idea to have some quick extra cash in reserve. Just in case I have to vacate Evelyn's tree house in a hurry. So I decided to stoop to what is probably the lowest form of burglary there is—commonly referred to as “yard work.”

To most people, yard work means cutting the lawn or trimming a hedge. But to a thief it means stealing property from people's backyards. Status-wise, yard work is at the very bottom of the burglary food chain. It requires no talent whatsoever because you don't even have to enter the house.

I was so desperate that I stole a couple of outdoor patio chairs from my benefactor, Chester Hickley. I took them to Lenny, that shady friend I told you about. Lenny always says that he doesn't like to get involved in the personal lives of his regular suppliers. And yet, even though he would never admit it, I think he was actually concerned about my welfare. When it came right down to it, Lenny was not that crazy about a minor bringing him stolen goods. He was always trying to convince me that I should be in the library or playing out in the fresh air.

When I came in with the lawn chairs, Lenny seemed genuinely glad to see me. “Hey, Henry,” he said. “Long time, no see.”

The two of us always got along pretty good. On the other hand, Lenny was a businessman. So he agreed to keep our little arrangement a secret from Uncle Andy. As long as I brought him merchandise that he could use.

“That means no rakes, hoses or watering cans,” he said. “And none of those plastic garden gnomes either.”

Needless to say, Lenny was not very thrilled with my offer of Chester's lawn chairs. “Yard work, Henry?” he said, sounding as if he'd just been told that his one and only son had to register for summer school. “Is this what you call applying yourself?” Then he looked at me in a very skeptical way and asked, “How am I supposed to sell these?”

I decided to play it cool. “What do you mean?” I asked. “Have people stopped sitting down outside all of a sudden?”