The Ghost of Ernie P. (11 page)

“It was that niece of the Muggins',” Mrs. Keppel continued. “You know, the nice nurse-niece. She and her aunt have been baking cookies and they want you to come over to get some this afternoon. Isn't that sweet? She sounds like such a dear!”

C
HAPTER
F
OURTEEN

“What I simply cannot understand,” Mrs. Keppel said crossly, “is why you don't want to visit the Muggins. If you've unloaded all of your bad feelings and burned up your troubles—and I still think there's something
very
odd about all that!—you should be happy as a clam now. So why won't you take a few minutes to pick up a batch of homemade cookies?”

Jeff looked down at his soup. He looked out the window at the bright blue sky. He looked at the counter where
The Problems and Joys of Raising Boys
was propped open to a chapter called “Rude Behavior.” He looked everywhere except at his mother.

“I'm trying very hard to be patient,” Mrs. Keppel went on. “I realize boys your age are often moody. But that's no excuse for rudeness, Jeffrey. It would be rude to ignore the Muggins' invitation.”

“I didn't say I
won't
go,” Jeff mumbled.

If only he knew what this invitation meant! It could be that Margo Muggin wasn't his enemy anymore. Maybe by this time she was convinced that Jeff wasn't ever going to give away her secret.

Maybe.

“Call Art and ask him to go with you,” Mrs. Keppel suggested. “I'm sure
he
appreciates cookies.”

Jeff put down his spoon. “That's not fair,” he complained. “You're twisting everything around. I like cookies.”

Mrs. Keppel shrugged. “I'm not going to argue,” she said coolly. “You might start shouting mean things again.”

They finished lunch in silence, and then Jeff hurried to the phone. He hoped Art was at home. If Margo Muggin was ready to be friends, she wouldn't mind if Jeff brought a pal with him. If she was still his enemy, having a stranger there might keep her from behaving like a witch.

A half hour later Art was in the backyard, leaning his bicycle against the garage. He looked Jeff over critically. “Hey, man,” he said, “jeans on, shoes on—you're improving, Keppel.”

“And you're a wise guy,” Jeff said. “But you give pretty good advice.”

“Like what?” Art looked pleased and puzzled.

“Like, you said if I had a problem, I'd have to hide out or just face up to it. I tried hiding out, and that didn't work. So then I tried fighting back, and I won. So far, anyway.”

“Just call me wizard,” Art said modestly. “And if you don't have the problem anymore, now you can tell me what it was.”

Jeff thought it over as they biked along the road toward the Muggins' house. “Not yet,” he said, finally. “If this afternoon goes all right, then I'll tell you.”

Art slowed down abruptly. “What do you mean, if this afternoon goes all right? I thought we were just picking up some cookies.”

“We are,” Jeff said. “There's nothing to worry about.” He hoped he was right.

“Who are these people, anyway?” Art demanded. “Why are they giving you cookies? I don't get it.”

“No big deal,” Jeff said. “My mom gave the Muggins some of her sauerkraut rye bread so they're sending her some cookies. Fair trade.”

They rode on in silence till they reached the tall iron gates that enclosed the Muggins' property. Art followed Jeff inside, then stopped again.

“Listen, man,” he said, “this doesn't look to me like the kind of house where they hand out cookies. I mean, I bet they don't even know what a cookie is. They probably eat caviar and pheasant-under-glass and stuff like that.”

“Mrs. Muggin is a nice old lady. And she's probably a first-class cook.” Jeff knew he sounded nervous, but he couldn't help it. “Come on, Art,” he coaxed, “let's get it over with.”

That was definitely the wrong thing to say. Art veered off the road and rested his bike against a tree. “If she's such a nice old lady, I don't know why you're scared,” he said. “And you
are
scared, Keppel—don't try to kid me.”

Jeff couldn't deny it. He looked at the big house and wondered if Margo Muggin was watching them from behind a curtain. The thought made him want to turn around and run. Facing up to the Margo half of his problem was turning out to be even harder than facing up to Ernie Barber's ghost.

Art watched him with narrowed eyes. “Okay,” he said suddenly, “I'll go with you if you tell me the truth. Coming here has something to do with the big problem you can't tell me about, right?”

Jeff nodded.

“And if we get the cookies and leave, that means your problem will be over, right?”

Jeff hesitated. “I think so.”

“Well, then.” Art stood up and started walking his bike toward the house. “Let's get it over with,” he said with a little grin.

What a pal!
Jeff hoped he could do a special favor for Art someday—save his life, maybe.

As they climbed the steps to the wide front porch, the feeling of being watched grew stronger than ever.

“Why are you walking on your tiptoes, man?” Art asked. “And why am I whispering? Maybe we're both cracking up.”

Before Jeff could reply, the front door swung open. Margo Muggin, arms outstretched in welcome, smiled warmly at them from the dim hall.

“Jeffrey!” she exclaimed in a high, sweet voice. “How lovely to see you again! And you've brought a friend with you.” She held out her hand to Art. “I'm Margo and you're—”

“Art Patterson.” The words came out in a kind of croak. Art looked stunned.

“Well, Art, you and Jeff come on in and see what Aunt Celia and I have been up to today. I guarantee you'll like it.”

She stepped back, and the boys followed her inside and along the hallway to the back of the house.

“I thought you said she was an old lady,” Art whispered. “Either you don't know an old lady when you see one, or I don't.”

“That's the Muggins' niece,” Jeff whispered back. He'd hardly recognized Margo, himself. She wore blue slacks and a bright red top, and she looked younger than Jeff remembered. Her cheeks were pink, and her eyes shone.

“She's neat!” Art rolled his eyes. “Why didn't you tell me?”

Ahead of them, Margo was darting around the big, old-fashioned kitchen, turning on more lights and peering into the oven. On the table, three trays of cookies had been set out to cool.

“Just look!” Margo exclaimed. “Chocolate chip and oatmeal raisin and lemon surprise. I bet you thought I didn't know how to bake, Jeffrey.”

This was such an accurate guess that Jeff could only gulp. Fortunately, Margo didn't seem to expect a reply. She danced around the boys and chattered merrily as she lifted another pan of cookies from the oven. In spite of himself, Jeff began to relax.

“Actually I'm not much good in the kitchen,” Margo giggled. “I'm just filling in for Aunt Celia at the moment. She and Uncle James are up in the attic checking on the roof. There was a terrible windstorm this morning, you know. It blew away some shingles, and now Uncle James is afraid we'll have a flood the next time it rains. Aunt Celia was right in the middle of her baking when he insisted she come upstairs with him and have a look.”

She pulled two chairs back from the table and motioned the boys to sit down. “You can have a snack while we're waiting for them to come downstairs,” she suggested. “Milk and fresh cookies—doesn't that sound good?”

“Sounds great!” Art exclaimed.

Jeff glanced at the counter and saw two glasses of milk already poured. When had she done that? It must have been before she let them in. And that meant that she'd been watching them, as he'd suspected, from the moment they came through the gate.
Maybe even before
. He started to worry all over again.

If there was something suspicious about the poured milk, Art didn't notice. Margo's pretty face and her lighthearted welcome had clearly won him over. He picked up one of the glasses.

Jeff lunged across the table. He pretended to be reaching for an oatmeal cookie from the tray in front of Art, but at the same time he tipped the glass of milk before his friend could taste it.

“For pete's sake, Keppel, were you raised in a barn?”

“Sorry,” Jeff mumbled. He thought he saw a flash of anger in Margo's eyes, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. She laughed and brought a cloth to wipe up the spill.

“The thing is, we better just take the cookies and go,” Jeff announced bluntly. “I'd like to wait to see Mrs. Muggin, but we have to get home for—for Art's piano lesson.”

Art looked astonished. “Piano lesson?” he repeated. “
Piano
lesson?”

Jeff nodded rapidly. “And I have some stuff to do, too,” he said. “So if you'd just tell Mrs. Muggin we're sorry we couldn't wait …”

This time he was sure he saw cold rage behind Margo's smile. “Oh, you mustn't leave,” she cried. “Aunt Celia will be so disappointed.”

“My piano teacher doesn't care if I'm late,” Art said. Jeff tried to kick him under the table, but he couldn't reach.

“Do me a favor before you go,” Margo begged girlishly. “Would you run up to the attic to see if you can help Aunt Celia and Uncle James? I'm sure they'd appreciate a couple of strong young men pitching in.”

“Glad to,” Art said, with a defiant look at Jeff. He pushed back his chair and stood up. “Come on, man, we're not in
that
much of a hurry.”

“We are, too,” Jeff said. But no one was listening. Art was already halfway down the hall, with Margo right behind him.

“You come, too, Jeff,” she coaxed, over her shoulder. “It won't take long, and Aunt Celia will be so grateful.”

There was nothing to do but follow. Jeff couldn't let Art go upstairs alone.

When they reached the second floor, Margo opened a door and pointed. “They're right up there,” she said. “You go ahead, and I'll pack the cookies for you to take home.”

The boys peered into a small closetlike area lined with racks of winter clothes. On the far side, a narrow flight of stairs led upward.

For the first time, Art hesitated. “Your aunt and uncle are up those steps?” he asked slowly.

“They certainly are,” Margo chirped. “Come on, I'll go up with you if you want me to.” She crowded the boys into the little storeroom. “Aunt Celia,” she called, “Uncle James. Look who's here to see you.”

Art was on the first step of the attic stairs, with Jeff right behind him. They stopped there, waiting for a reply that didn't come. Then Jeff grabbed Art's shoulder and dragged him back. “Come on!” he exclaimed. “Let's get out—”

There was a movement behind him, and the door to the hall slammed shut. The boys whirled and stared at the spot where Margo had stood. She was gone (
like magic
, Jeff thought), and there was no sound at all except the turning of the key in the lock.

C
HAPTER
F
IFTEEN

The only light in the little storeroom came from the attic at the top of the stairs. Art's eyes were startled in the half-dark.

“She locked us in!” He pushed past Jeff and rattled the doorknob. “Hey, open up!”

“She won't,” Jeff told him. “She's turned into a—she's changed again.”

“What do you mean, she's changed?” Art demanded. “Changed into what?”

“She just changes,” Jeff told him. He wondered if Margo was listening on the other side of the door and laughing at them. “She can act okay, and then all of a sudden she's different. Like now.”

“Different is right!” Art stared at him. “You mean, she has a split personality?”

“I guess so,” Jeff said. Actually, he was sure of only one thing now: Margo Muggin was still his enemy.

Art gave the doorknob another shake. “I don't get it,” he said. “Why would she lock us in? Why is she mad at us?”

“She's mad at me, not you,” Jeff told him. “She's the other part of that problem I told you about. I found out something about her, sort of accidentally. And she thinks I might tell people.” He spoke loudly in case Margo was listening. “I wouldn't, but that's what she's worried about.”

“This is crazy.” Art's voice trembled a little. “I want to get out of here.”

“Let's go upstairs and look around,” Jeff suggested because he couldn't think of anything else to do. “Maybe Mr. and Mrs. Muggin really are up there.”

“Nobody's up there,” Art said flatly. “They'd have heard us by now.”

Side by side, the boys climbed the stairs and looked around the big, cluttered room.

“See?” Art said. “Empty. I told you so. Now what, Keppel?”

Jeff tried to sound calm. “We'll have to wait, I guess. Mr. and Mrs. Muggin might come home any time now, and then Margo will have to let us out.”

“And maybe she's got
them
locked in the cellar,” Art retorted. “Or maybe they've gone away for a cruise. We could be up here forever!”

“My mother knows where we are,” Jeff protested. “She'll come looking for us if we're not home pretty soon—you know my mom.”

“Margo could tell her we picked up the dumb old cookies and left. Then what?”

Jeff shrugged. There was a small window set in a gable at either end of the attic. He went to the back and looked out over a stretch of lawn and a vegetable garden bounded by trees.
No help there
.

He crossed to the front window and stared down at the gravel road curving away from the house.

“We never should have come through those gates,” Art said, peering over his shoulder. “I never should have told you to face your problem. I give lousy advice, man.”