Candy Shop War (21 page)

“Who wants to take charge of the Clean Slate?” she asked, holding up the gray cube.

Nate accepted it. “How do we find our way if the mirror world is dark?” he asked.

“The mirrors are all you can see in the blackness,” Mrs. White said. “You can peer out of them like windows. But no light shines in through them. It can be disorienting—with no walls, you can see mirrors a long ways off.” From under the table Mrs. White lifted a large oval mirror in a frame. “This should be large enough for you to fit through. The closer you place it to Mr. Stott’s house, the closer you will be to his bathroom mirror. I suggest you set up really close to minimize the distance you’ll have to traverse in the dark.”

“Can we get in through a window?” Nate asked. “Windows sometimes have reflections.”

“Most reflections in windows or water are too faint to connect to the mirror realm,” Mrs. White explained.

“Should we use Melting Pot Mixers?” Trevor asked.

“The Mixers will do you no good if Mr. Stott catches you,” Mrs. White said. “Your only option on this mission is to avoid getting apprehended.”

“Where does Mr. Stott live?” Trevor asked.

“1512 Limerick Court,” she said. “Just off Greenway, between here and your school.”

“Do you have blueprints of his house?” Nate asked.

“No need,” Mrs. White said. “Go through the big mirror in his guest bathroom. Don’t confuse it with the small mirror in the bathroom adjoining his bedroom. The guest bathroom opens onto a hall. Walking away from the bedroom doors, pass through the living room and into the kitchen. I’ll wrap up this mirror so you can take it now. Any other questions?”

Nate and Trevor looked at each other. Nate shrugged.

“I think we’ve got it,” Trevor said.

“One more thing,” Mrs. White said. “Until our treasure hunt concludes, I would prefer that you limit your exposure to Summer and Pigeon. Put those friendships on hold for a week or two. All right?”

Nate and Trevor nodded.

“Good boys.”

Chapter Ten

Ice Cream Man

Heather Poulson passed a folded note to Nate, not even bothering to be sneaky about it. Miss Doulin stood at the front of the room reading aloud from a textbook, having obviously not prepared an actual lesson. Seeing his name printed in blue ink, Nate unfolded the torn slip of lined paper and read the single question it posed:

You don’t actually trust her, do you?

Nate looked at Summer in her desk near the front on the far side of the room. She did not look back at him. They had not talked all morning. He had caught her once giving him a sad, pensive stare.

Tearing part of a page from his notebook and uncapping his black pen, Nate wrote:

I’m not an idiot. Trust me. (Even though I have no proof ha-ha)

He folded the paper, wrote “Summer” on it, and handed it to Heather. The note traveled to the corner of the room where Summer sat. She scanned the message, shook her head, tore a fresh piece of paper, and began writing. Her reply was passed to Nate and he opened it.

I do trust you, you’re my friend, no joke. I’m worried about you. The candy is fun, but that lady is hiding something. I think she’s dangerous. Don’t you?

This note was on a larger piece of paper, leaving space for him to reply. When he started writing, he noticed that his script appeared small and cramped compared to her loopier style.

Of course she’s dangerous! I only stayed so I could keep an eye on her a little longer. She doesn’t want us hanging out with you and Pigeon anymore. We’ll have to meet in secret. I don’t even think we should eat lunch together—she seems to have some way of knowing things. Trevor and I have some surprising info. I don’t want to write it down.

He crossed out his name as the addressee, wrote hers, and sent the folded paper back to Summer. After she read his words, she gave him a look to ask, “Then what do we do?”

Nate leaned over to Heather. “Hey, Heather, trade seats with Summer.”

“I’ll get busted,” she whispered.

“I don’t think Miss Doulin will care,” Nate said.

“She might.”

“Never mind,” Nate said. He got up and walked across the back of the classroom, then up the row to Summer’s desk. Miss Doulin continued to read aloud. He squatted beside Summer. “She wants us to erase Mr. Stott’s memory,” he whispered.

“The ice cream man?” Summer sounded shocked.

“She says he’s a magician like her.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We’re not going to do it,” Nate said. “We’ve agreed on that much already. We’re still trying to decide our next move.”

“Go talk to Mr. Stott,” Summer said. “Spill your guts and see what he has to say. Maybe he can help.”

“Or maybe he really is worse than she is,” Nate said.

“Even if he is a bad guy, he’ll be glad you brought the info to him,” Summer said. “He can at least help you figure out what the heck is really going on. If you’re not going to use the Clean Slate on him, you can’t keep working for Mrs. White. And she may not take it well if you quit now. You’ll probably need help dealing with her.”

“I guess talking to Stott is the only real option,” Nate admitted. “We can’t just do nothing.”

“You might be able to try quitting like me and Pigeon,” Summer considered. “Just return all the candy and walk away. But with what she told you about Mr. Stott, you may know too much.”

“Plus if we quit and try to pretend like none of this happened, we won’t be able to learn any more info,” he said. “I have to find out what is going on. Mr. Stott lives at 1512 Limerick Court, just off Greenway on the way home. If you want to come, meet us there tonight at eleven.”

“I’ll be there. Mr. Stott has been driving that truck around since I can remember. He’s always acted genuinely nice. I bet he’s one of the good guys.”

“I hope so,” Nate said, glancing at Miss Doulin, who continued reading from the textbook. “One more strange thing. Yesterday evening, after Trevor and I left Sweet Tooth, I had my mom drive me to the cemetery. I told her it was a follow-up visit for my project, but really I wanted to pick up the Forty-niner.”

“Was he there?”

“Yeah, that wasn’t the strange part. While we were nearby, I took a look at Margaret Spencer’s grave. It looked untouched, with grass over it and everything.”

“No,” Summer said.

“I’m serious. And I don’t mean maybe all the rain somehow made it look a little better. The grave looked untouched. Somebody covered our tracks for us, maybe with magic, maybe with gardening, I don’t know. My guess is Mrs. White did it. But weird, huh?”

“Very weird.”

“See you tonight.”

Nate headed back to his seat, winking at Pigeon.

“Nate?” Miss Doulin asked. “What are you doing?”

He looked over at her, a little surprised that the teacher had glanced up from her reading and noticed him crossing the room. “Can I use the rest room?” Nate asked.

“Um, sure, go ahead.” Miss Doulin returned her gaze to the textbook. “Where were we? Ah, yes.” She started reading aloud again.

*****

The house at 1512 Limerick Court was a boxy, one-story home made of wood and white brick. A small detached garage stood at the end of the short driveway. Quirky items cluttered the yard: a sculpture made of bicycle wheels, an inflatable Elvis, an aluminum totem pole, a miniature windmill with rotating sails, a giant ceramic boot with flowers sprouting out the top, along with other more conventional eccentricities like wind chimes, bird feeders, lawn gnomes, and pink flamingos. A low chain-link fence enclosed the front yard, with a gate providing access to the brick walkway that led to the porch.

As Nate and Trevor straddled their bikes in front of the gate, only one of the house’s large, rectangular windows was illuminated—a window at the right end of the squat structure, with the blinds closed. The asphalt under their tires was almost dry. The rain had tapered off during the day. Patches of stars peeked through the clouds overhead.

“Think Summer and Pigeon will show?” Trevor asked.

“Summer at least,” Nate said.

“I don’t like standing here on the street,” Trevor said. “Somebody might see us.”

Nate inclined his head toward the door. “Should we go knock?”

“We don’t need to all enter together,” Trevor said, reaching to open the gate.

“You have those Frost Bites ready just in case?” Nate asked.

Trevor nodded. “You have the Shock Bits?”

“Yep,” Nate said. “Think he might have a dog?”

Trevor rattled the gate gently and whistled. No animal responded. “All clear,” Trevor said, opening the gate and wheeling his bike through. They left their bikes propped against the inside of the low fence and walked to the front door. Artificial turf blanketed the porch. A terra-cotta Buddha sat near the door, along with a painted statue of a cheetah. Nate pulled open the screen door and knocked. When the house remained quiet, Trevor pressed the lighted doorbell. They heard it chime a few notes from “Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head.”

Illumination brightened a new window, and a moment later they heard locks being unfastened. The door opened halfway. Mr. Stott was wearing flannel pajamas with fat maroon and cream stripes. He squinted at them. “Tracked me down at home, did you?” he said. “Little late for a fruit bar.”

“We aren’t here to buy treats,” Nate promised.

“I remember Trevor, and you’re Nate, correct?” Mr. Stott said.

“Right,” Nate said. “We’re here about Mrs. White. She has plans to harm you.”

Mr. Stott’s demeanor transformed instantly. His cranky half-smile drooped into a somber frown. His eyes flicked back and forth between them. “You mean by driving me out of business?”

“We mean by using magic against you,” Trevor clarified.

Mr. Stott nodded, stroking his beard. “Then you had better come inside,” he invited, stepping out of the way and pulling the door open wider.

“Trevor, Nate,” came an urgent whisper from behind them.

Nate turned and saw Pigeon and Summer pulling up at the gate on their bikes. “They’re with us,” Trevor explained as he stepped across the threshold.

Pigeon and Summer parked their bikes and hurried through the doorway. Mr. Stott closed the door.

Nate and Trevor went into the living room and plopped down on a black leather sofa. A fanned-out assortment of peacock feathers decorated one wall. A print showing Easter Island statues hung on another, stone heads staring mysteriously. Several issues of
Log Home Living
magazine rested on a glass and chrome coffee table. A tall, unlit lava lamp occupied one corner. A few pedestals stood around the room, each topped by one or two little telescopes locked into position by some kind of holder.

Summer and Pigeon sat on an elaborately carved loveseat. Mr. Stott claimed a large armchair upholstered in cowhide, adding to the ridiculousness of his striped pajamas. He leaned forward intently. “You say you are aware of a plot by Belinda White?”

“Is that her name?” Summer asked. “Belinda?”

“The name she is using here in Colson,” Mr. Stott said.

“She wanted Trevor and me to use something she called a Clean Slate to erase your memory,” Nate said. “She told us that you were an evil man.”

Mr. Stott nodded, pinching the whiskers immediately below his lips. “I’ve heard rumors that she could concoct a powerful amnesiac. How did she expect to administer it?”

“She wanted Nate and me to come into your house using mirrors and mix the Clean Slate into a drink in your fridge,” Trevor said.

“Using mirrors?” Mr. Stott asked dubiously.

“She said we would turn into reflections and be able to travel through walls,” Nate said.

“I had no idea that technique had survived,” Mr. Stott marveled. “How sloppy of me! Tell me, why are you sharing this information?”

“We didn’t want to do it,” Trevor said.

“We got involved with Mrs. White because she was giving us magic candy,” Nate explained. “She would have us do little tasks, and then reward us with more candy. We could jump around like we were in low gravity, we could shock people, we could control dolls with our minds—”