The Great Circus Train Robbery (11 page)

“You little upstart!” he hollered. “I’ll find you. I’ll show you. You’ll be sorry! You’ll get your comeuppance!”

Lightning flashed again and again and she curled her body into a ball.

21

PIZZA AND A PUZZLING NOTE

“You rat,” Boomer shouted back in the living room. “I’ll prove you’re not all you claim to be. You wait, you just.,.” The words petered out at the end. Was he accusing her and Spence? Because they weren’t real detectives but just kids?

The cellar door opened and Spence peered out. She waved him back. “Not now,” she mouthed. Boomer came to the kitchen door and glanced about. She held her breath. If he didn’t sit back down she might collapse on the floor and
then
he’d find her...

“Bashy,” he said. “It was you.” He shook a finger at the cat that had jumped down from the top of the refrigerator. He stuck a frozen pizza into the microwave; she could smell sausage and cheese—she was suddenly, ravenously, hungry.

Back in the living room with the pizza, he put the sleep tonic into the glass of milk. Whew! Then he picked up the glass—and put it down again—without drinking. He coughed, his face went shades of purple, he sounded like he might choke. She considered banging on his back the way she did when her mother got into a coughing fit, but decided against it.

Slowly the coughing eased. He picked up the glass in shaky fingers and drank. Drank and drank, drank all the way down to the bottom. He licked the edge of the glass. And then ate the slice of pizza and wiped his sticky fingers on a paper napkin. It was hard to watch, she was so hungry. Outside the storm was moving off, the rain was quieting—she’d lost her background noise.

She hoped he’d go into the bedroom, but if he fell asleep in his chair, it was all right. They could tiptoe past him to the study and read the note he’d tossed on his desk. She waited. And waited. Until she heard the harsh sound of his snoring. He’d fallen sideways in his chair; his head was lolling on the cushy arm. He looked like an old man—had he aged, suddenly, like a character in a fairy tale?

No, he was simply sound asleep, the muscles in his face relaxed into soft wrinkles.

Even so, they’d have to work fast.  Sometimes her mom took a sleeping pill and still couldn’t sleep she was so keyed up. Poor mom!  She wouldn’t sleep a wink tonight either, if she knew what her daughter was doing.

Zoe tiptoed to the cellar door and opened it. “All clear.”

Spence emerged, his carroty hair full of soot, his shoes caked with dirt. “Off,” she whispered, pointing at the shoes. They couldn’t have any tell-tale dirt on the floor. He stopped short when he saw Boomer. The man snorted like a Mack truck trying to start up—but breaking down with a sszzzzz-zz. She beckoned Spence forward, then held up a hand when they came to the desk.

The note had two words written on it:
Birth certificate.
She showed it to Spence. He shook his head. She remembered what Boomer had said: ”That’s it. That’s where…” The “it,” she thought, could be the birth certificate. The “where” they’d have to discover—it could be important—birth certificates were a key to one’s identity. Maybe Boomer, she thought, wasn’t who he claimed to be. He could be somebody else, not Hackberry’s brother at all. He could be FBI, Mafia, CIA—all those scary names and initials! But if Boomer was Mafia, what was Hackberry?

Or was the clown already in the cellar? She shivered to think of that hole. Boomer wouldn’t harm his own brother, would he? She thought of Kelby. Kelby was a pain, but he was her brother. They had the same grandparents—in Vermont and Maine—that counted for something.

The computer, she saw, was already on. Why, it was a website for old Lionel trains! Had Boomer stolen that rail car out of Hackberry’s trunk?

She felt Spence’s breath on her neck. He was humming his tum-tum-tum tune. He’d seen the website, too. “eBay,” he whispered. “They’re selling collectible trains. That’s where Gramp bought mine.”

Was Boomer reselling Spence’s cars on eBay? Her friend’s eyes told her he had the same thought. She left him to examine the website and went to the file cabinet.

“Can’t do that, no-ooo!” cried a raspy voice in the living room. She crouched behind the door; Spence dove under the desk. The storm was coming back; she heard a
bangety-boom
of thunder.

Boomer was still in his chair. He was talking in his sleep. She’d have to listen: he might say something useful.  But the voice puttered off and he began snoring again.  Zoe scrolled down through the files.  They were carefully kept, each file neatly labeled.
AARP. Allstate Insurance.  Anti-virus.  Bills.  Auto.
Moving ahead, she glanced through a
Father
file. There was a yellowy photograph of a man with his arm around a small boy. On the back it read,
Juniper and Dad.
Then a letter to Juniper, saying he was proud of his good report card.  “I enclose a couple dollars,” his father had written. “You can put the money toward that train you want.”

Train? Whoa! More evidence, she thought. Had he moved here just because of Spence’s train? The circus train was old, yes, but it wasn’t diamonds or emeralds or something people would die for. No. Unless, of course you were Spence. Spence with his newfound passion for old steam trains.

There was a death certificate for the father that read
Deceased May 9, 1986, age 64,
and clipped to it, a death certificate for the mother:
Deceased July 3, 2009. 
Why, she died only a few years ago! Zoe showed it to Spence, and he whistled. “Maybe that’s why Hackberry was so sad,” he whispered.

She nodded. She felt a stab of guilt. Boomer was an orphan now and they were going through his things. The rain slashed against the window and all at once she wanted to be home in her cozy room, wrapped up in her cozy red plaid quilt.

But she had a mission. She swallowed the guilt and moved on, halting again at the letter J. J for Juniper. Juniper Boomer. And there it was. His birth certificate. January 13, 1952. Father: Harrison Boomer. Mother: Willow Jones. Why, she, too, was named after a tree! Born
Mountainside Hospital, N.J.

It seemed a dead end.  Why would he write “birth certificate” on that note when he already had one in the file? Unless it was Hackberry’s birth certificate he wanted.  She pulled out the H file but found only a receipt for a hawthorn tree the man had once ordered.

She glanced over at Spence. “Find anything?” she mouthed.

He shook his head. “Not my stolen cars. Not yet.”

Zoe pulled out the T drawer. At least she could look for the train angle. It occurred to her that the missing cars, Hackberry’s disappearance, and Boomer’s arrival in time for the circus, all came at once. She just didn’t know how or why. She handed Spence the
Train
file. And went back to P for
Personal.

“Thief! Rogue! Clown!” the voice roared in the living room. “You’ll pay for what you did. Stealing me blind. Taking my legacy!”

What was a legacy? The word was familiar; she’d look it up when she got home.
If she
got home, for the voice was coming closer...

He was up—oh no!—he was walking! In his sleep? Or was he awake—and the sleep potion hadn’t worked, after all?

She shoved the file drawer shut. Spence was already up, ready to run. He thrust the
Train
file at her. She had both files in her arms now, she’d take them home. He’d think he misfiled them. Wouldn’t he?

He was coming closer, still shouting: “Wait till I get my hands on you...”

Wait,
he’d said. Then Boomer hadn’t found Hackberry? That at least was a relief. They’d have to find Hackberry themselves and warn him off. Spence was already outside the study door, standing in the lamplight like a ghost scared of his shadow (did ghosts have shadows?). The black boots were clomping toward the study. She could smell cheese and onions on the man’s breath.

Spence was beckoning her to come, but Boomer’s large frame was cutting her off between study and living room. Where was he headed? To the computer—or the file cabinet—for those were the only large pieces in the room, except for a brown overstuffed chair a cat had scratched to ribbons. Would Boomer drop into it and fall back asleep? Or was he still asleep? His eyes were wide open. He was looking straight at her! She stood, glued to the spot, while he moved toward her like a beanstalk giant, his fingers curved, like he’d curl them about her neck—and tighten.

“Thief! I know what you’re up to!” he snarled.

22

SOMETHING BURIED IN THE CELLAR HOLE

Zoe shrank back against the wall. He was awake, he’d seen her, she was sure of it! Spence came up behind him with a brass candlestick—she motioned him back. Boomer made a growl in his throat, then veered off and dropped into the overstuffed chair. His head slumped forward like an owl, asleep on its limb. He’d been sleepwalking, after all!

She was a bundle of nerves; she just wanted to go home. She followed Spence to the kitchen. When he paused to pick up a hunk of pizza, she put a finger on his back and propelled him toward the cellar door. One day his appetite would do him in. Safe in the cellar, she paused by the hole in the dirt floor. It was freshly dug. Yes, a shovel leaned against the wall.

“Keep going,” Spence muttered.  “It’s not Hackberry down there—you heard the guy.”

“I know. The mound’s too small. But it could be
something.”
She grabbed the shovel and dug. The dirt was heavy but she was able to lift it layer by layer and deposit it in a heap. She’d struck something metal. Something painted red. She brushed off the dirt. Spence cried out, he fell on his knees to claim it. Why, it was his red advertising car!

“Keep digging, he said.  “Maybe the baggage car’s there, too.”

It wasn’t.  She was at the bottom of the hole and nothing more.  Not in this hole anyway. She heard the furnace boom and her nerves jumped. She shoved the dirt back in so Boomer wouldn’t suspect an intruder.

“Better call the police,” Spence said.

“At one in the morning? Let our parents know we snuck in here?”

“Oh,” he said, considering. “Guess not.” “So let’s go. We can talk in the morning. Decide what to do.  Here, take the
Train
file. The
Personal’s
so stuffed I might drop it.”

Spence was already ahead of her, clambering up the wooden steps with his file and his precious rail car. Zoe stumbled after him through the rainy dark. They slapped palms in a high five as he climbed the tree to his room and scrambled in through the open window. She sneaked through her own back door and creaked up the stairs toward her room.

And there was Kelby, cross-legged on her bed, his flashlight shining on his
Sports Illustrated. 
He grinned to see her, then pointed to the clock on her bed stand.  “1:06,” he said.  “Wait till Dad and Mom hear you were gone. You’ll be housebound. Then you’ll be sorry.” He giggled his annoying giggle.

“If you tell them, I’ll tell them about that cigarette you smoked down in the hut—oh yes, I could smell it. They’ll be furious. And you’ll be housebound.”

Kelby stroked his chin. “We-l-l, if you tell me where you were tonight, I might—might, I said, keep mum.” He narrowed his eyes at her. She was holding the
Personal
file behind her back.

She took a deep breath. “Well, I, um, I couldn’t sleep, I went for a walk.” She backed up slowly and slid the file onto her desk top.

“By yourself? After midnight?” He didn’t believe her. She should say more, but she didn’t want him to know about Boomer. She wanted to solve this mystery by herself. She wanted to be a lieutenant. If she let Kelby in on the Boomer secret,
he’d
claim victory. Besides, they didn’t want Boomer to know they’d found the advertising car—not yet.

“You went over to Boomer’s house. Didn’t you. Confess!” His eyes gleamed yellow in the flashlight glow—they were tiger eyes. He pointed a crooked finger.

“Okay. So I was with Spence. So we went over there. To spy
for you,
Kelby,” she said. “But his door was locked.”

“Not the cellar door. You can get in that way, you know that. That’s what Butch and I are planning—next time he goes to town. So you went in the cellar, right? But too scared to go upstairs?”

“Uh, scared, yes,” she said. That much was true.

“Zoe, is that you? Up at this hour?” It was her mother outside her door—on her way to the bathroom, most likely.

Zoe pulled off the shirt and pants she’d put on over her pajamas. “Hi, Mom,” she said, poking her head out into the hall. “I couldn’t sleep. Thinking about tomorrow, I mean. You did such a great job on Tulip’s costume. She’ll be thrilled.” Zoe had long ago learned to change the drift of a conversation to her advantage.

Her mother sighed. “I’m still not sure it’ll fit. She’s a big woman. You’ll have to be careful with that zipper.”

“I will, Mom. I’m ready to sleep now. If Kelby will get out of my room.” She grinned at her brother.

“Back in your room, Kelby. This minute,” Mrs. Elwood said, and shuffled down the hall in her blue bedslippers.

“We’ll talk in the morning,” Kelby said through his teeth. “You’ll tell me everything you were doing tonight—or I’m telling mom and dad. Being out after midnight is worse than any cigarette.” He gave her arm a pinch.

“Ow-w,” he said when she pinched back.

SATURDAY

23

A CLUE IN BOOMER’S FILE

Zoe threw a handful of pebbles at Spence’s window. “I’ll be in the tree house,” she called up. He stared out sleepily, still in his striped pajamas. “I’ve brought us some breakfast. Hurry.” It was the day of the circus and she and Spence were to discuss their findings of the previous night. At one-thirty Ms. Delores would drop her at the circus to help Tulip, and later Kelby, Butch and some of the grownups would attend the three o’clock performance.

She stuck a doughnut and apple in each pocket and hoisted herself and the
Personal
file up into the gingko tree. She was just settling down on the wide-board floor when she felt something dig into her pocket. “Give it back, it’s my breakfast!” she cried when Sweet Gum held up her ripe apple. Already he was mashing it with his yellowy teeth. “Have it your way then,” she said, and of course he did.