Hauntings and Heists

The day was hot and the air was still. In her new bedroom, Viola Hart had just unpacked her third box of mystery novels, when a gunshot exploded the afternoon.

Rushing to the window, Viola frantically scanned the street, hoping to catch the culprit in the act. She imagined finding a cop chasing a suspicious-looking woman in a glittering red dress … or a couple of mobsters clutching purple velvet bags filled with diamonds as they raced from a burning car … or a mad old man trying to chase away the birds from his yard—

Another glass-rattling bang caught Viola’s attention. Up the street, a big black car turned the corner, leaving in its wake a gray puff of exhaust. The car’s second backfire left her imagination in a similar cloud, and Viola zoomed back to reality.

Just an old car backfiring?
Oh well, she thought. There can’t be excitement everywhere.

Or maybe there could be?

Viola kept her eye out for trouble. She spied people coming in and out of some of the houses on her block. The listing branches of huge maple trees reached out over the road. The aroma of a barbecue grill wafted through the screen, tickling Viola’s nose, making her mouth water. The sounds of kids playing down the street echoed from the rooftops, stirring something deep inside her.

The street looked as perfectly normal as the one from which she’d moved, but her mother always said, “You never know what’s below the surface until you dig.”

After she realized that there would be no shoot-out on her new block, she reluctantly returned to her unpacking. Viola’s family had arrived at the large white colonial house early that day, and for most of the morning, she had watched the movers unloading furniture, her parents’ computers, plants, and endless boxes into the new house. When the movers were done, her mom and dad had asked Viola to begin organizing her bedroom, which she’d been doing ever since.

Reaching for a random box, Viola noticed something shiny on the floor. Looking closer, she
realized it was a button. She did not recognize it. Maybe it belonged to whoever had lived here before her. A clue!

She bent down and also found several small snippets of thread. Red. Purple. Yellow. Green. She picked those up, as well as the button. It had a swirling floral shape pressed into it. Most likely the button had come from a woman’s garment, so maybe the room had belonged to a woman. The threads told her more. They had been cut short with scissors; each was less than an inch long. She scanned the floor and found more pieces near the closest electric outlet, and she instantly knew what this room had been used for. Viola imagined a sewing machine on a table placed in front of the outlet. The woman had made her own clothes. This had been a sewing room.

Viola placed the button on her bureau. It was worthy evidence. She wondered when she might find more.

She managed to get through most of her clothes and some of her desk supplies before a tickle of sweat trickled down her neck. This time, a cool breeze called to her through the open window. Her best bet for locating clues to her new town was obviously outside. Sixth grade was starting next week, so she had to explore before the summer was over and school began.

“Mom!” Viola called into the hallway. “I got a whole bunch done. Can I go yet?”

“If you have something to say, Viola,” her mother replied from downstairs, “please don’t shout it for all the neighborhood to hear.”

Viola crept past her parents’ room, the bathroom, and the empty guest room, then went downstairs and found her mother in the kitchen. She tiptoed across the floor and tapped her mom’s shoulder.

Mrs. Hart yelped and spun. “Viola! Don’t do that! You scared me.”

“Sorry,” Viola whispered, even though she was actually proud of her ability to sneak up on people. “I was just trying to be quiet like you asked.”

“Well … good job, I guess,” said her mom, distracted. She had just attached a picture of Viola and the family’s golden retriever to the refrigerator with a strawberry-shaped magnet.

“Oh, what a cute pic of Brandy,” Viola said wistfully. “Can I put it in my room?”

“Be my guest,” said Viola’s mother, opening another box atop the counter. “Wow, who packed this one?” She pulled out a small wood plaque — her journalism award. “Does this really belong with the china?” she continued, speaking to herself.

Viola delicately plucked the photo from the
refrigerator. “So, Mom, can I go outside yet? I’ve got to check out the neighborhood before the sun goes down.”

“You still have quite a few hours before that happens.”

“Exactly!” exclaimed Viola. “I want to make use of them. There might actually be some mysteries to solve in this town.”

Mrs. Hart used to be a crime reporter. In Philadelphia, Viola had loved reading her mother’s articles. She had always looked closely at the unsolved crimes, trying to pick out a telling clue that would give away the guilty party—like the time she suggested that a neighborhood gardener was responsible for a string of home robberies. In Viola’s opinion, grassy footprints had given him away.

Here in Moon Hollow, Mrs. Hart would be the editor of the local newspaper, the
Moon Hollow Herald.
A huge step up. She glanced from the plaque before placing it on the counter. “I don’t want you bothering anyone.”

“I won’t be a bother,” said Viola. “In fact, before this month is over, I’m sure people will be thanking me for all my help.”

“Hmm,” said Mrs. Hart, with a smirk. “I bet.” She paused, then added, “Okay, fifteen more minutes, then you’re free for the afternoon.”

“Thanks, Mom,” answered Viola begrudgingly. She turned and walked back up the stairs, determined to find her detective kit in the boring mess that was her bedroom.

Seventeen minutes later, in the house next to the Harts’ new home, the doorbell rang just as Rosie Smithers was sitting down to read. Heaving a sigh, Rosie stood, wondering who it could be. Her older brothers and sisters had all left the house to go to the mall for new school clothes, and Rosie had been looking forward to having some peace and quiet for a change. When you have four older siblings, those times are rare.

Rosie didn’t need new clothes. Hers were always hand-me-downs. She knew some of her classmates would have hated wearing old stuff, but Keira and Grace had grown so tall so quickly, the clothes that no longer fit them were usually still in style. Today, she wore her favorite pair of jeans, her worn-out All Star sneakers, and a bright pink tank top. Her grandmother had once told her that pink complemented her light brown skin, so she wore that color often.

Rosie opened the door to find a red-haired girl standing before her.

“Hi,” said the girl. “I’m Viola Hart. My family just moved in next door.” She nodded toward the house on her right.

Viola was short and a bit plump. She wore an old blue T-shirt with a UPenn logo emblazoned on the front, a pair of khaki shorts with huge cargo pockets, and bright red flip-flops. Her toenails were painted fluorescent green. Her eyes were bright blue and her hair was an explosion of curls. Freckles spattered her nose like flecks of paint. She held a marbled black-and-white composition notebook in her hand.

“Oh, hi,” said Rosie. “Nice to meet you. I’m Rosie. I live … here.” Then, blushing, she added, “Obviously.”

“Duly noted,” said Viola, pulling a pen from her pocket, opening her notebook, and scribbling on a blank page.

Leaning forward, Rosie tried to get a closer look. “What did you write down?”

“Just that you live here,” said Viola. “You never know what you might need to remember.” She stared at Rosie for a moment. “Like the fact that you’re left-handed.”

Rosie was shocked. “How did you know that?”

Viola smiled, then tentatively touched Rosie’s right hand, which was covered with doodles of
flowers and insects. “I assumed you drew these, and you couldn’t have used your right hand to do it. Judging from the quality of the artwork, you must be skilled with your left. So …”

Rosie squinted at the new girl. “Right,” she answered. “I mean,
correct.
I am left-handed. That was really … cool.”

“Anyway,” Viola continued, “I came over to say hello … but also to ask if you know of any mysteries going on in this town.”

“Mysteries?” asked Rosie. “What kind of mysteries?”

“Oh, you know … anything,” said Viola. She glanced quickly over her shoulder, as if she might miss a car chase racing down the street behind her. “Crimes. Murders. Robberies. You know, the usual?”

“I haven’t really heard of any lately.”

Viola smiled mischievously. “Do you want to try and find some?”

“Robberies? Murders?” said Rosie, her voice getting very small. “Is it safe?”

Viola laughed. “Well, we won’t jump into what my mom calls ‘the big time’ at first. We don’t want our parents complaining if we get into trouble. Seriously … there are mysteries to solve in all sorts of places, if you know where to look. You just have to pay attention.”

Rosie glanced back at the book she had left sitting on the comfy living room chair.
The Secret Lives of Tasmanian Devils.
It could wait. She stepped onto the front porch, closed the door behind her, turned, and smiled. “All right, then,” she said. “Let’s go pay attention.”

Woodrow Knox and Sylvester Cho were hiding underneath Sylvester’s back deck, listening to Mr. and Mrs. Cho argue about the proper way to light the grill. The boys had come down below the wooden stairs to add a moat to the secret mini-fortress they’d spent a good portion of their summer designing. Woodrow was focused on security issues, but Sylvester was distracted by something in the distance.

“Who is that with Rosie Smithers?” he asked.

Woodrow looked toward the street where Sylvester was pointing, near the maple tree that separated the Chos’ yard from the white colonial. Two girls were standing at the base of the tree, staring up into the branches. Woodrow recognized Rosie immediately — not only was she in his grade at school, but her house was directly behind his own. However, Woodrow didn’t know the red-haired girl Rosie was with.

“Hey, do you think her family is the one who moved into the Denholms’ old house?”
Sylvester asked. “I saw a truck over there this morning.”

“Maybe,” said Woodrow. “There’s only one way to find out.”

The boys left their fort and moat behind, tramping across the grass toward the maple tree. When they reached the two girls, Rosie turned and waved.

“Hi, Sylvester,” she said. “Hi, Woodrow.”

“Hey,” said the boys.

“Woodrow and Sylvester live behind us,” Rosie explained to the new girl. Then she turned to the boys. “This is Viola Hart,” she said. “She just moved in. She’s teaching me about mysteries.” Viola, who’d been examining the maple tree’s trunk, looked at the boys and scribbled some things in her notebook.

“What kind of mysteries?” asked Sylvester, suddenly curious.

“All kinds,” said Viola. “Like you, for instance.” Sylvester wore cut-off khakis and a white, short-sleeve, button-down shirt. His black hair was spiked and messy, as if he’d just rolled out of bed—or at least wanted to look like it. “You probably had eggs for breakfast,” she said.

Sylvester’s mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

Viola pointed at his chin. “Dried ketchup. I noticed your parents firing up their barbecue grill, which means you haven’t had lunch yet. And what do people usually put ketchup on at breakfast? Eggs. I just took a guess. Sometimes it works to just throw something out there and see if it sticks.”

Sylvester blushed and rubbed at his chin. “It was a
late
breakfast,” he said.

Viola turned to Woodrow, who grew suddenly nervous. His red T-shirt was decorated with a sports team mascot Viola didn’t recognize — a bright blue lizard clutching a baseball bat. A large key ring rattled from the belt of his jeans. He had shaggy blond hair and sparkly green eyes.

“You …” She thought for a few seconds. “You probably live in a couple different houses. And you love riding your bike. In fact, I bet you ride your bike more than you ride in cars.”

Woodrow nodded his head in wonder. “You’re right. I live here with my mom, but my dad lives down in New York City. And yeah, I do love riding my bike. How did you know?”

“You have a whole bunch of keys there,” said Viola. “Why would someone our age carry so many keys? You’d need one to get into your
own house, and I figured one might be for another house. Or apartment. And I knew that the smaller one was for a bike lock, because it looks just like a key my dad has for
his
bike.”

“Okay.” Woodrow smiled. “But what are the other keys for?”

“Gimme some time. I’ll figure those out too,” Viola said with confidence.

“Viola’s really good at this,” said Rosie, impressed. “She knew I was left-handed because of my doodle-drawings.” She showed everyone the pen marks on her right hand.

“Rosie’s got talent too,” Viola added. “She’s the one who pointed out this carving in the tree bark.” She scribbled some more notes in her notebook and then flipped the cover shut. “So who do you guys think carved the trunk?” she asked, glancing back at the maple. She pointed with her pen. “See? Right here?”

The boys leaned forward. Sylvester saw a pair of initials sliced into the bark. He’d never noticed them before.

N. R.

F. B.

“Huh,” said Woodrow. “Weird.”

“Do you guys know anyone with those initials?” asked Viola.

The boys shook their heads.

Rosie answered, “From the dark appearance of the wood, I would assume that whoever carved this did it a long time ago.”

“Isn’t carving your name into a tree supposed to be bad for it?” Woodrow asked. Rosie was good at science and always seemed to know about things like plants and animals and minerals.

“Yeah,” she answered, “it cuts off their flow of nutrients. If everyone in this neighborhood did that, the tree would have died a long time ago.”

Viola sighed, staring closer at the initials. “But there’s something so romantic about it.” When no one said anything, Viola looked back to find the boys with their eyebrows raised. “Oh, calm down,” she said, poking Sylvester in the arm. “I’m not going to be asking either of you to carve your initials into anything any time soon.”

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