The Ghost of Fossil Glen (7 page)

On her way home from school, Allie noticed a
FOR SALE
sign stuck in the lawn in front of the Stiles house. A bit farther down the street, another sign caught her eye. Large and freshly painted, it stood at the edge of the meadow that led to Fossil Glen:

 

COMING SOON
GLEN VIEW ACRES
AN EXCLUSIVE COMMUNITY. 50 LUXURY HOMES,
COMPLETE WITH WATER, SEWER, AND ELECTRIC

 

There was more writing in smaller print, and a phone number to call, but Allie didn't read any further. She was too stunned by the idea of houses filling the lovely meadow that bordered Fossil Glen. She wondered if Mr. Henry knew about it and, if so, what he would say.

That evening, Allie and her family discussed the news as they sat at the dinner table.

“Is Mrs. Stiles the developer?” asked Mr. Nichols.

“No, the developer is Mr. Curtis's boss. Mrs. Stiles must have sold the property to him, or given her permission for the project,” said Mrs. Nichols. “Mr. Curtis came back today, and told me that his boss has been planning to sell the house and develop the land for a long time, but there was some sort of delay. I feel sick about it.”

“It'll be gross to have all those houses there,” said Allie. “Will it mean we won't be able to go to the glen anymore?”

“I imagine so,” said Mr. Nichols. “The Stileses used to let people come and go, but now that the land is being developed, well, who knows? The meadow and the glen itself are both private property.”

“So, anyway,” Mrs. Nichols went on, “as I was saying, Mr. Curtis came back today.”

“Did he have more furniture to sell?” asked Allie's father.

“No,” said Mrs. Nichols, looking pointedly at Allie. “He came back to ask if I remembered seeing a red leather-bound book in with the things he'd sold me.”

At that, Allie's hand, which had been lifting a forkful of mashed potatoes to her mouth, stopped in midair. Slowly, she lowered it to her plate.

Mr. Nichols looked up with interest. “Allie's journal?” he asked.

“That's what I thought of right away,” said Mrs. Nichols. “All he said was that when he was clearing out the house he was supposed to keep his eye out for a red leather-bound book, and it slipped his mind. He said it was very important to his boss to get it back. Mr. Curtis seemed quite distraught, poor man. I got the feeling his boss wasn't at all happy to hear it was missing.”

Allie had been quiet throughout this exchange, her thoughts whirling.
Her
red book hadn't been with the things in her mother's shop; it had arrived in the mailbox. But it seemed logical to Allie that there was some connection between her red leather-bound book and the one Mr. Curtis was looking for.

“Did you tell him about my journal?” Allie asked.

“Yes, of course. But when I told him it was empty except for what you'd written in it, he said it couldn't be the book he was looking for.”

Allie thought about the words “I am L,” which she certainly hadn't written, but she decided that this was not the moment to bring that up.

“There
was
only one book, wasn't there, Allie?” her mother asked.

Allie nodded.

“Well, it's interesting that you're using it as a journal,” Mrs. Nichols went on, “because the book he's looking for is a diary, too.”

“A diary?” said Allie. “Whose?”

“He didn't say,” answered Mrs. Nichols. “He just repeated that it was very important to his employer to get it back.”

“So can I keep mine?” Allie asked.

“I guess so,” said Mrs. Nichols. A quizzical expression remained on her face. “Although it's rather an odd coincidence, don't you think, that he's looking for a book just like yours?” She shook her head, perplexed.

“It sure is,” said Mr. Nichols.

“It sure is,” piped up Michael.

“It sure is,” Allie repeated with a grin in Michael's direction. “But it doesn't sound as if it's the same book at all,” she added, getting up from the table. She asked to be excused and carried her dishes out to the kitchen.

It was time to write her next journal entry.

Sitting at her desk, she opened the book to Mr. Henry's last remarks. With a thrill of excitement, she saw that there was a new entry, written below Mr. Henry's, in the same slanting hand as before. This time, the letters were firmer and steadier.

 

Look in the desk
.

 

She stared at the words for a moment. Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the lid of the desk. The slanted writing surface gleamed in the light from her reading lamp. The cubbyholes that lined the back were still empty.

She opened the long, thin center drawer. Nothing. One by one, she opened the large drawers on the right side, then the left. Empty.

The words on the page insisted:

 

Look in the desk
.

 

“All right already,” she said aloud. “I'll look again.” This time, she used her fingers to feel into every corner, nook, and cranny in the desk. She even tapped the underside of each drawer, hoping to discover a false bottom. But each time she heard the same hollow, empty echo.

There was nothing in the desk. Zip. Zero. Zilch.

 

Look in the desk
.

 

Sitting back in her chair with a frustrated groan, she pounded her fist on the desktop, right on one of the raised brass hinges. It let out a metallic click.

Carefully, she examined the hinge and saw that her banging had caused a small latch to pop open. The latch was cleverly disguised as part of the hinge. More gently this time, she tapped the same place on the left hinge. Again she heard the metallic click and another latch popped open.

Her heart beating fast now, Allie saw that the hinges at the top of the desk served a cunning dual purpose. They allowed the bottom edge of the slanted desktop to be lifted in the usual manner, revealing the large open area beneath, with its slots and pigeonholes for paper, pens, envelopes, and odds and ends. But when unlatched, the hinges opened again from the top edge: the slanted desktop was made of two layers of wood, with empty space between.

And in that hollow space in the desktop lay a book bound in red leather, a book identical to Allie's journal!

Murmuring “I can't believe it, I can't believe it, I can't believe it,” Allie lifted the book out of its hiding place. She closed the desk, set the book down, and opened it.

On the first page, in handwriting that seemed almost as familiar as her own, were the words:

 

This diary belongs to Lucy Stiles.
PRIVATE - KEEP OUT!
  (This means you!!)

 

Allie began to read.

So that's it! thought Allie excitedly. Lucy had been given two red leather-bound books for Christmas. One became Lucy's diary and the other became—Allie's journal. It came to Allie just as Lucy had left it, still enclosed in the tissue paper that Lucy had never removed.

Allie smiled as she read this. She, too, collected sea glass, as well as fossils, and had had the same thought about its name.

Allie laughed out loud at that. No wonder Mr. Henry had liked Lucy so much, she thought. Lucy was sassy!

Allie continued to read through the entries for the month of January and into February. As Lucy confided her secrets to her diary, Allie felt as if the dead girl was speaking directly to her. She read about little things, such as a social-studies report Lucy was writing for Mr. Henry, and big things, too. She learned that Lucy's father had left Lucy and her mother quite a bit of money when he died, but that the money didn't matter to Lucy, who missed her father terribly.

Lucy continued to write unflatteringly about Mr. Gagney, her mother's boyfriend, whom she referred to as Gag-Me. Allie recognized in Lucy a kindred spirit. Like Allie, Lucy could see the truth about people. She looked beneath Mr. Gagney's smiling exterior, and what she beheld was not a pretty sight.

Oh, Lucy, thought Allie. You don't mean that.

Allie read quickly through the entries for March and gasped when she came to the end of the month. “Oh, no,” she whispered.

Wow, thought Allie. Quickly, she read through the remaining entries, concentrating on the days when Lucy wrote about the worsening situation with Raymond Gagney.

A feeling of dread began to creep through Allie. She was so caught up in the events of Lucy's life that she almost felt as if they were happening to her. She was disgusted by Raymond Gagney, and frustrated at Lucy's mother's blindness.

Yes, Lucy, she urged. Please be more careful.