Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf (7 page)

“That’s all it does?”

“When it’s in the Home mode, yeah.” She rolled her eyes. “Mother calls it the annunciator, but to me it’s the Tattler.” She whispered, “Can’t get away with anything around here!”

Now, I knew there was something different about her,
but it didn’t hit me until I’d followed Tina through the house that she was drunk. She stopped in the doorway of the sitting room and rolled her eyes again. “Good luck breakin’ the two of them up. They’re talking
money
.”

The Croc was sitting in a wheelchair with her leg propped up, swirling ice cubes in a glass, and she was laughing. Really laughing. And with all those teeth showing, let me tell you—it was a scary sight. Like someone sharpening knives at a playground.

The guy she was talking to was blond and really tan, and he was swirling ice and laughing, too. He says, “Lilia, you’re too much!”

The Croc laughs some more, then, without taking her eyes off him, she reaches her glass out and says, “We need refills, Tina.”

Tina waves and says, “Over here, Mother … hel-lo. Hate to break up the party, but you’ve got company, and if you’ll recall, Buddy and I have plans.”

The Croc looks over and practically drops her glass. “What the devil are you doing here?”

I try to stare her down. “I’ve got some questions.”

Everyone’s quiet for a minute, then Buddy raises an eyebrow in Tina’s direction. She says, “Oh. This is Mother’s private eye.”

His other eyebrow goes up, and you can tell he’s dying to bust up. But instead, he stands, gives the Croc a little bow, and says, “It was so nice meeting you, Lilia. I’ve learned more today than I have in the last three and a half years at the university. Maybe we can continue our conversation sometime.”

“I’d be delighted,” she says, and as they’re leaving, calls, “Don’t forget your jacket.”

Buddy looks back, and sure enough, there’s his turquoise ski jacket, sitting on the chair. The Croc jokes, “Couldn’t lose you in a snowstorm in that thing …!”

Buddy laughs and says, “You’re right about that,” then thanks her again and disappears.

The alarm
be-boops
as Buddy and Tina open the door, and the Croc waits for it to
bo-beep
closed. Then she turns on me and says, “I don’t see my dog.”

“I’m here to look at that video again.”

She flicks her fingernails, one at a time. “And why do you need to do that?”

I look straight at her. “Do you want me to try to find your dog or not?”

“Don’t be insolent! Of course I want you to find my dog! What kind of an idiotic question—”

“Then I need to see the video, and I need to see the calendar.”

She studies me a minute. “I presume you mean the Canine Calendar?”

“That’s right.”

She points through a doorway. “Down the hall and to the right. It’s hanging in the kitchen. I’ll cue up the video.”

The kitchen looked like the Fort Knox penny room. Copper pots and pans were hanging from the ceiling, from the walls—from everywhere. Even the three ovens were copper.

I saw the calendar right away, but I had to circle around
a large marble island to get to it. And I was so busy gawking at everything that before you know it I’d gawked my way clear past the island to the far side of the kitchen.

I peeked over some Dutch doors into another room, and right away I knew it wasn’t someplace Mrs. Landvogt spent much time. There was no marble, no copper, no glass, and no chandeliers. Just a simple table with some folding chairs and a small TV. On the floor were two white ceramic bowls—one with water, one empty—and at the far end of the room was the back door to the house with a small doggy door in it.

I looked out a kitchen window at Marique’s stomping grounds and was busy picturing Pomeranians playing golf when I heard, “Finding any clues, Samantha?”

I about shot through copper.

She laughed, then pushed a lever on the handle of her wheelchair and turned around. “You’ve got to work on those nerves if you’re going to be a private eye.”

I stuffed my heart back in my chest. “I don’t want to be a private eye.”

She zoomed off. “Sure you do.”

I pulled the calendar from the wall and followed her to a room with a white marble fireplace and a TV the size of a movie screen. She got the video going and handed me the remote. “So what are you looking for?”

I fast-forwarded to the part where the cats went flying, then watched the dogs jump off the float in slow motion. Only three of the dogs went in the direction that Marique had jumped. One was a gray, kind of hairless dog with a tail like a whip, one had long legs and long hair and
looked like a cross between an Afghan and a collie, and the third one was Hero. I flipped through the calendar until I found the hairless dog. It was on the July page, dressed in cowboy boots and a cowboy hat, sitting by a No Parking sign in front of the bus station. I checked the credits by the picture.
Dog: Ribs. Owner: Paula Nook. Photo: Paula Nook
.

I looked straight at the Crocodile. “What do you know about Paula Nook?”

She snickered and said, “She likes a good barbecue, and it shows.”

“That’s it?”

She eyed me like she wasn’t sure if she wanted to show off her muscles. Finally she pulled a large black leather notebook from beside her in the wheelchair. She kept one eye on me as she thumbed through it, and when she’d found the right page she cleared her throat and flexed. “Paula Nook. 801 Braxton Way. Married twice, divorced twice. Has a daughter in Santa Luisa who’s living with a rodeo washout. Owns a share of Palmer’s Bar and Grill and waitresses there six nights a week. Declared income last year, fourteen thousand, two hundred dollars.” She practically buffed her claws against her robe. “Next?”

I found the Afghan-collie on the August page. It was dressed like a clown, pawing at the fairground’s gate. I held it up for the Croc and waited.

“That’s Fiji. Nora Hallenback’s dog.” She flipped through her black book, saying, “She’s married to Dr. Franklin Hallenback, has had three miscarriages, no children.” She smoothed open the book. “Resides at 11018
Carriage Court. Can’t balance a checkbook, allergic to nuts, smokes on the sly to keep her weight down. Does the usual doctor’s-wife charity circuit.” She looked up and chuckled. “If you ask me, Nora should’ve married an obstetrician instead of a psychiatrist—would’ve done her a lot more good.”

The last one was Hero. I held the calendar open to October and she laughed. “Lance Gigoni wasted a lot of time getting him in that Halloween costume. That dog’s a freak! They had a ceremony at the park to announce the winners for the calendar, and that dog tried to pee on his own tail! I think he thought it was a rat chasing him around.”

“What about Mr. Gigoni?”

“Lance is your typical laborer. Got a bad back, always needs a bath.” She found his page. “Out of work a lot. Sometime resident of a tenement building on South Elizabeth, but right now he’s living in his truck because his wife threw him out of the apartment again. He hovers around a hundred. Maybe ninety-five.”

“Ninety-five?”

“IQ points. As a matter of fact, none of those people have made it very high up the evolutionary ladder. Not even Nora.”

I blinked at her a minute, wondering what rung crocodiles were on.

She smiled. “Well? Who else?”

I closed the calendar. “That’s it.”

“That’s it? I was just starting to have fun.”

Now it seemed to me that Mrs. Landvogt was acting
kind of strange. For a lady whose baby had been ’napped, anyway. “Fun?”

She jiggled what was left of her ice. “You’re wasting time, you know.”

“I’m just trying to find a place to start.”

She eyed me like I was hovering around seventy, then snapped, “How could any of them have my dog? They were all on the float!”

I handed her the calendar. “Maybe they found Marique when they were chasing after their own dogs. Maybe they grabbed her for you, then realized what a pain in the neck you are and decided to make a quick fifty thousand instead.”

“What?!”

My heart was racing so fast it was lapping itself. “Do you really expect people to do you favors? You go around threatening them and blackmailing them … and on top of that, you’re cheap!”

“How
dare
you …”

“If Marique ever does come back, you’d better figure out how to wash her yourself, ’cause Vera’s sure not going to touch her after the way you’ve been treating her …”

“That woman has no business telling you—”

“And Mr. Petersen! You blackmail him into putting Marique not only in the calendar but on the
cover
. And now the poor guy’s down there sweating away on Sunday trying to keep his business from going under.”

She sat there for a minute with her eyes bugging out, then took a deep breath and said, “If the man can’t run his business without paying illegals under the table, he
shouldn’t be running a business.” She straightened her robe. “He was a moron to tell you.”

I tried not to let her see I was shaking. Very quietly I said, “He didn’t.”

She hesitated, then just about dislocated her jaw. “Why, you little …”

I handed back the remote. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

I let myself out, and as the alarm
bo-beep
ed behind me I felt like I was stuck in quicksand. The more I moved the deeper I sank, and at the rate I was going it wouldn’t be long before I was completely swallowed up.

I hadn’t given “The Tell-Tale Heart” much thought. I’d been too busy thinking about Mrs. Landvogt and Mr. Petersen, and mapping out how I was going to visit the three dog owners after school. There was no place in my brain for Heather Acosta.

Then I walked into homeroom. And I don’t know why, but when I saw Heather nudge her friend Monet and giggle in my direction, I sat down in my seat and gave her an evil little smile—like I had something up my sleeve. Something big.

Her face pinched up and she said, “What?”

I didn’t even blink.

“Hey, what’s your problem?”

I just kept smiling.

When Mrs. Ambler was done with the Pledge and the announcements, she held up a small cardboard box and shook it. “Okay, class, it’s time to pick Kris Kringles. Remember, you don’t have to do much to be appreciated. A little note in the desk, a goody delivered through a friend—nothing expensive. It’s the thought that counts. Friday we’ll exchange gifts at the cafeteria party. No gift is to exceed five dollars.” She shook the box and started at Marissa’s end of the classroom. “Keep them to yourselves and remember,
no swapping! If you get someone you don’t know very well, this is a great way to make a new friend.”

By the time she came up my row, there wasn’t much left shaking around in that box of hers. I reached in and pulled out Rudy Folksmeir’s name, and at first I thought, Oh, no! I mean, Rudy likes dirt. At least, that’s all I ever hear him talk about. He and his friends go out dirt bike riding a lot, and he’s always talking about how hard the dirt was or how soft it was, or about how awesome it is, blowing through clouds of dirt. Not only is dirt the main word in Rudy Folksmeir’s vocabulary, it’s also a big part of his wardrobe. It usually says DIRT somewhere on his T-shirt, he wears it on his shoes and his jeans, and if there aren’t clumps of it hanging off of him somewhere, he just looks dirty. Like he ripped up a vacant lot on his way to school.

So while part of me is trying to figure out whether or not I should leave little Baggies of dirt in Rudy’s desk, a tickle in my brain makes me look straight up at Heather Acosta and give her that evil little smile again.

Well, she does a double take. So I look back down at Rudy’s name and then at her again.

She sits there blinking for a minute, then shoots out of her seat and says, “Mrs. Ambler! Mrs. Ambler, you have to do this again.… I … I …”

Mrs. Ambler stops and says, “For heaven’s sake, why?”

She stands there, trying to come up with a reason. Finally she says, “I … I got myself. And I think a couple other people did, too.”

Mrs. Ambler hesitates, then says to the class, “Did anybody else get themselves?”

Nobody says a word.

“Hmm.” Mrs. Ambler shrugs. “Well, I have one left over, because Renée’s absent. Let’s just switch yours with hers.”

Heather says, “But …”

Mrs. Ambler looks her straight in the eye. “But what, Heather?”

Heather blinks at her a minute, but what can she do? Finally she says, “Nothing, Mrs. Ambler,” and switches slips. And when she looks over her shoulder at me, I give her that little smile again and tuck Rudy’s name in my folder.

Now, to tell you the truth, I had no idea what I was doing. But all day long I found myself going out of my way to follow Heather. Instead of avoiding her like I usually do, I’d run clear around buildings so I could walk behind her. And when she’d notice me, I’d just stare at her like I was going to get her.

By the end of the day, she was checking over her shoulder for me, walking faster and faster between classes, looking really unhappy.

Me, I was feeling like a bumblebee at a barbecue.

On my way home, I was so busy thinking about how amazing it was that what I’d done had freaked Heather out so much that I was a block past Landview Elementary before I remembered I was supposed to pick up Elyssa.

I ran back and found her sitting on the top step, waiting. And when she saw me coming, she grabbed her papers and lunchbox and came charging toward me, calling, “Sammy!”

I laughed and put out my hand, and the whole way to the nursing home she talked about the class hamster,
Snowball, and how this kid Shane had emptied the pencil sharpener into his cage and turned him all black. It seemed like in no time we were there, looking for Mrs. Keltner.

Elyssa tugged me past the reception desk and down the hall, saying, “C’mon! She’s probably down here.”

Now, I’d never been in a nursing home before, and really, I’d never given much thought to what they were like. But the minute we turned down the hall, it hit me that I didn’t like the place. Not at all. And it wasn’t because the walls were green or the plastic flowers were faded. It wasn’t even the woman in the hallway with tubes in her arms yelling” at a cart of bedpans. It was the smell. Like antiseptic and chlorine sprayed over with lilacs.