The Riddle of Penncroft Farm (7 page)

“It's all very well to joke, Cass, but I think you should at least tell someone where it is.”

“That won't be necessary. Wild Indians couldn't drag it out of me. No, not even extremely civil Indians could make me tell.” Aunt Cass's eyes turned to meet mine. “But someone with the right
spirit
could find it.”

“It won't be wild Indians who have to look for it if something should happen to you.”

Aunt Cass hesitated. “Oh, all right, Eb. I'll put it wherever you like on Monday. But I don't plan to die for a good long while. After all, I just got to know George here. I'm looking forward to watching him grow up—at least a little. Besides, I'm so relieved that the three of you are here,” she went on. “It'll help me out of a muddle. There's this fellow who kept shining up to me, saying as how he'd turn Penncroft into a museum of the First American Civil War. Well, all he really wanted was to glorify his own set of ancestors—who were nothing to crow about. I tried to tell him that wasn't what I had in mind, but he wouldn't listen.” As Aunt Cass spoke, she looked more and more agitated. Once again she put her hand to her heart, and her face looked pale in the spots that weren't green.

Dad volunteered me to do the dishes, and I went without my usual squawk. As I washed and dried the plates, I thought about what Dad had said about Aunt Cass not having many more Halloweens to look forward to. When I'd finished, I went upstairs to my room. I looked hurriedly through the cartons next to the wall but found nothing I could use for a costume. I threw myself facedown on the bed and tried to think.

At last an idea hit me. I ran to the linen closet, took out an old sheet and cut eyeholes in it with my pocketknife. Then I foraged around in Mom's room and found some blue eye stuff to smear around my eyes, where it would show through the eyeholes. Finally, draping the sheet, over myself, I slunk downstairs.

Aunt Cass was playing the organ again and no one heard me coming, especially since Judge Bank was singing along, off-key. Duddle-la . . . deedle deedle deet deeeeee. It was perfect mood music for what I planned to do. I slipped out the back door and hustled around to the front; the cold October wind whipped the sheet wildly about my ankles. I lifted the knocker and let it fall three times. The music stopped. I held my breath, waiting for the door to open. It didn't.

“Guess they didn't hear the knocker after all,” I muttered. My teeth started to chatter in the cold night air. Then I decided that an unannounced entrance might be more effective, anyway. I opened the door with the latchstring and swooped inside, swirling around the living room oohing and booing like crazy. I could hardly wait to see Aunt Cass's face when she realized who this guest ghost was.

Nobody reacted. Nobody at all. I was so blinded by the sheet that it wasn't until I heard my mother sobbing and whispering Cass's name over and over that I knew something was wrong. I struggled out of the sheet.

Aunt Cass was lying on the floor in front of the organ. My dad was doing CPR on her while Mom hovered frantically nearby. Judge Bank spoke tersely into the telephone, giving directions for an ambulance.

Mom lifted tear-filled eyes to me. “Lars, give me that sheet to cover her. She may go into shock.”

I stood by in a kind of shock myself as Mom and Dad took turns trying to revive Aunt Cass.

Finally her eyelids fluttered open. “George,” she said weakly. “George.”

I leaned over her. “Aunt Cass. I dressed up for you. See?” I motioned down, then remembered I wasn't wearing the sheet anymore.

She managed a weak smile and repeated my name, or at least my middle name. Her eyes closed again as the ambulance arrived.

We were so worried about Aunt Cass that none of us thought how odd we looked trooping into the emergency room at the hospital in our costumes.

Mom went in to be with Aunt Cass while the doctors examined her, leaving the three of us standing in the waiting room. My teeth were chattering again, this time from emotion. In fact, I was shaking all over.

Judge Bank patted my shoulder. “Your great-aunt has had a bad heart for years, Lars. She didn't want anybody to know about it—she hates being fussed over. The doctor told her that any agitation could bring on a heart attack, but Cass said if she had to sit in a rocker and try not to feel anything—no anger, no joy—well, that wouldn't feel much like being alive.”

Dad ruffled my hair. “She's had a long, happy life, Lars.”

Mom came out of the swinging door, her painted Mae West face looking weird under the fluorescent lights. Without a word, she pulled off her wig and came over to hug Dad and me. Then she said, shakily, “She seems to be doing better than they would expect for a woman her age. She's resting now.”

“Can I see her?” I asked eagerly.

“Afraid not, honey. But she told me to give you a message.”

A lump rose in my throat.

“It didn't make a lot of sense. She said something about a riddle and taking you down a peg. I guess she meant how you dressed up just to make her happy, when she knew how much you didn't want to.” Mom burst into tears.

Just then a nurse came running out to get us. Aunt Cass had suffered another heart attack and could not be revived.

It was very late when I dragged up the stairs to my room. Hardly aware of what I was doing, I started to slide into bed. Halfway down, my feet struck the carefully shorted sheet and stuck fast.

“Bamboozled again,” I said in a choked voice, and cried myself to sleep under the canopy.

6

When the bus door swung open, I climbed up the steps, feeling as if I were stuck in a nightmare.

The driver whistled cheerfully. “Happy Monday morning,” he said. “Did you have a good Halloween?”

I couldn't talk about what had happened on Halloween so I nodded silently and made my way to the back of the bus.

Over my protests, my parents had packed me off to school. They would be gone all morning making arrangements for Aunt Cass's memorial service. They said school would keep me occupied.

Actually, I thought,
occupied
wasn't a bad way to describe the situation—like an enemy army occupies the land of the loser. At least the events of the weekend made my school problems seem less important. Compared with the shock of losing Aunt Cass, facing Eddie Owens was nothing.

The bus stopped and Pat Hargreaves got on. I noticed that her eyes were swollen, then I deliberately turned my head away and watched the bare-limbed trees moving by. I felt the seat sink a little and turned to find Pat sitting beside me. The last thing I needed was a sympathetic face. I knew it would probably upset me, which would hardly repair my bad start at school.

“I heard what happened on Halloween,” she said softly.

“I'd rather not talk about it, Pat. Look, do you have to sit here?” I asked. My voice, hoarse with emotion, made my words sound gruffer than I intended.

“You're not the only one who misses her,” said Pat, getting to her feet. She put her hand to her eyes and stumbled across the aisle to sit down on the other side.

Gradually the bus filled up. My expression seemed to keep the other kids at a distance; no one tried to share my seat, which suited me fine. As we reached the town, however, a shrill voice broke through my thoughts.

“Well, if it isn't the Norweirdgian!”

There could be no doubt who the speaker was: Edward Owens the Tenth, as obnoxious in regular clothes as in his cowboy rig.

I ignored him. Unfortunately, that didn't discourage him; it egged him on.

“Bet nobody came trick-or-treating to
your
house. Everyone says it's haunted because of that old witch Cass Hargreaves.”

Quick as a flash, Pat Hargreaves flew across the aisle and slapped Eddie Owens.

“Wh-what did you do that for?” Eddie stammered.

“Because you deserved it!” Pat cried. She returned to her seat as quickly as she had left it, her face as red as an apple.

Eddie looked as if he didn't know what had hit him, even if he did know
who
. He was stunned into silence. That was fine with me. In a way, it was the most pleasant time I had spent in his company. It didn't last very long.

“Bet I got more stuff trick-or-treating than you did.” He patted his backpack smugly.

I shrugged. “Didn't go out. We had a family party at home.”

“Sounds bo-o-ring!” Eddie said in a nerdy singsong.

More than anything, I wanted to sock him. Then I remembered Aunt Cass and felt all mixed-up inside. Even though I ached about her death, I could still feel furious. It was like being two different people at once. I gritted my teeth and didn't move.

When he didn't get any reaction from me, Eddie got bored. “I'm going up to see how the other guys did trick-or-treating. The ones whose mothers didn't keep 'em at home for a boring Norweirdgian family party!”

“That's
Norwegian
,” I hissed, clenching my fists.

Eddie swaggered up the aisle. I saw him try to squeeze in with two boys about halfway to the front, but they shoved him away. He tried to do the same with some kids across the aisle, but they didn't want him sharing their seat, either. Eddie sneaked a look back at me. I felt smug and let him see it. He slunk into the only empty spot—next to a girl.

All my smugness fell away as the school came into view. With growing nervousness, I joined the current of kids that flowed off the bus, up the stairs, and down the hall, splitting off at each classroom door.

Surrounded by other students noisily comparing notes on their trick-or-treating hauls, I silently hung up my coat and took my seat. My brain was racing, anticipating the day ahead. At least I would be leaving early; the memorial service was right after school and I had a note explaining that Mom would pick me up at two. Unfortunately, there was still plenty of time to get into trouble with my “new friends” at school.

Then I remembered Geordie, and the thought that I
did
have a friend—and a special one at that—gave me a spurt of self-confidence.
After all
, I said to myself, glancing around at the others,
who else in this whole school has his own personal—now what was it Geordie wanted to be called?
Shade,
that was it!—who else here has his own personal shade to talk to?

For an instant, I considered telling the other kids about Geordie, but I hated to resort to the kind of boasting that made Eddie Owens so obnoxious. Besides, they would only think I was making it up.

Mrs. Hettrick stood up. “All right, class. We have a little business concerning Colonial Day. So far, we have committees handling food and crafts projects, and you're working in gym on the Virginia reel . . .” She paused for a moment to allow for the boys' groans. “And I presume each of you is working on a costume.” She gave me a quick, inquiring glance. “Now don't forget to pick an authentic colonial name to use for the day, like
Prudence
or
Patience
.”

I happened to catch Pat Hargreaves's eye. At the teacher's words, she flushed and looked away.
She must still be upset over the way I acted on the bus
, I thought as I focused again on the teacher.

“Anyway,” Mrs. Hettrick went on, “the planners think we should have one more major activity for Colonial Day. They've come up with an excellent idea: a husking bee! You know, in colonial days, young people loved going to husking bees!”

I thought of Geordie's ordeal and smirked. “Not
all
young people,” I muttered.

Mrs. Hettrick asked if anyone knew what a husking bee was, but not a hand was raised—except mine. The teacher looked at me in surprise. “Lars? Do
you
know?”

I nodded, embarrassed.

With an encouraging smile, Mrs. Hettrick asked me to tell the rest of the class what a husking bee was.

I cleared my throat and began to talk, very quietly. “A husking bee was when people got together to husk corn. It was a kind of party—so that they could have fun while they got some boring work done.”

“And?” prompted Mrs. Hettrick. “What made it so much fun? Sitting around pulling husks off corn sounds dreary.”

I swallowed and glanced nervously at the faces turned toward me. “And . . . and . . . and if you husked a red ear of corn, there were penalties to be paid.”

“Like trick or treat? I did some great tricks on Halloween!” put in the seldom speechless Eddie.

For once I was more than happy to have him horn in, but Mrs. Hettrick frowned away the interruption.

“And what was the penalty to be paid?” she asked.

“K-k-kisses,” I stammered, feeling my ears turn as red as any corn.

The class erupted.

“Kisses! No way!
I'm
not kissing anybody!” hooted the other boys, while the girls giggled and nudged each other.

Mrs. Hettrick waved her hands in the air for silence. “Okay, okay, you've convinced me! We'll skip the husking bee. We'll just have to think of another colonial activity. Any suggestions'?”

Once again I found my hand in the air. “How about a labyrinth?” I said. “They used to make labyrinths out of hay for kids to play in at harvest time. They had what you might call an
amazing
time.” Sometimes puns just popped out of my mouth. This one earned some groans, which made me feel more at home—even if I was surrounded by strangers.

Mrs. Hettrick started handing out some papers. “This is a quiz about the battle at Brandywine Creek, to make sure you know the important facts about it before our field trip there. Lars, you don't have to take this. Use it as a study sheet.”

Eddie Owens's hand waved in the air. “Do I get any extra points for writing about my ancestor at Brandywine?” he asked.

Another groan rose from the rest of the class. It was different from the one after my pun. “Here he goes again,” someone said disgustedly. That didn't faze Eddie.