The Prisoner of Snowflake Falls (9 page)

“Let me explain something to you about patio furniture,” said Lenny, who stopped unwrapping his lunchtime sandwich to elaborate. “Patio furniture is like hockey or baseball cards. People like to have the complete set.”

“What are you saying?” I asked, suddenly distracted by Lenny's sandwich.

“I'm saying that your chairs are worthless without a matching table and patio umbrella.”

“But those umbrellas are huge,” I protested. “You have to unscrew them from the base. And how do you expect me to lug a whole table down the street by myself?”

“So cut a couple of your little friends in on the action,” he said.

“I can't afford friends on what you pay me,” I said. “Besides you know I like to work alone.”

Lenny rolled his eyes. “Excuse me,” he said. “I forgot that you're the lone wolf of lawn-chair theft.”

Lenny continued unwrapping a very pungent sandwich that was cut in half. “Of course, this whole discussion could be avoided if you'd just bring me a wristwatch once in a while,” he said. Picking up half of his sandwich, he took a big bite and started to chew like it was a job he enjoyed. “Nobody expects a wristwatch to match anything except their wrist.”

“What kind of sandwich is that?” I asked.

“It is a concoction of my own invention,” explained Lenny. “Sardines, raw onion and peanut butter on pumpernickel.” Lenny stopped chewing for a moment and added, “I know it sounds gross. But the more you experience it, the more you appreciate it.”

“How much experience do you need?” I asked.

“It depends on how adventurous your taste buds are,” said Lenny as he resumed chewing.

I must have been experiencing a severe attack of sandwich envy, because I snapped at him, “Are you going to take the chairs or not?”

Lenny did not get angry. He just squinted at me. I noticed he was staring at a squashed leaf that was stuck to the front of my T-shirt. “No offense,” he said, “but you look like you've just come back from a very discouraging trip to the woods.”

I was about to answer when my stomach growled loudly. Lenny was looking at me the way I'd seen him look at certain customers who were down on their luck. Elderly types who brought in old cuckoo clocks or porcelain figurines of puppies rolling around in the grass. “Okay,” he said. “Against my better judgment, I'll give you five bucks for the lawn chairs. And because of our longstanding professional relationship, I'll throw in the unused half of my sandwich.”

“Deal,” I said, taking the uneaten half of his sandwich and trying to bite into it as nonchalantly as possible. It tasted weird at first, but I was so hungry that I just kept chewing.

After a couple of bites, I apologized to Lenny for being cranky. “I understand what you mean about the patio umbrella,” I said, “but the dermatologist says Chester should avoid direct sunlight.”

“No names please,” said Lenny. “Too much personal information upsets my digestion.”

He watched me eat for a while.

“You know something?” I said. “This sandwich is pretty good.”

Lenny sighed. “Okay, ten bucks,” he said. “But for that, you're going to have to listen to some free advice.”

“Okay,” I said. “Shoot.”

“Get out of the business, Henry. I'd hate to see you get nabbed for stealing a lawn sprinkler.”

“And why would that happen?” I asked.

“Because you're losing your nerve,” said Lenny. “And when a burglar loses his nerve, he might as well steal a pair of handcuffs, put them on himself and wait for the police car on the curb.”

Personally, my feelings were very hurt by Lenny's advice. But I tried not to show it. I told myself that Lenny was wrong. But tonight I observed a perplexed Evelyn squeezing Ginger's toy mouse. It was almost as if she thought the resulting squeak would tell her what the heck it was doing in her kitchen.

I feel quite bad for making Evelyn think she is losing it. I am also very disappointed in myself. It was the first time I'd ever slipped up and left something behind in a patron's house. It makes me think that maybe Lenny was right. Maybe I am slipping, burglary-wise.

My stomach lets out a surprisingly loud growl. And I realize that I am feeling hungry again. Have you ever heard that expression
listen to your gut
? It means that you should do what you feel you've got to do without thinking about it too much.

Well, I am listening to my actual gut while trying to listen to my gut at the same time. There is nothing like lying in a dark tree house and listening to your stomach growl to make you wonder what happened to your professional pride. I decide that there was only one thing left to do. Right after I make the decision, my stomach growls again. Just like it is saying, “Go for it, Henry.”

SIX

F
or the next couple of days, I thought a lot about breaking into the Colonel's house and raiding his well-stocked pantry. I had discovered through dedicated surveillance that the Colonel worked the day shift on his security job three days a week, which meant that I could break in during the daytime with very little risk.

Mind you, there is always a price to pay for independence, and right now that price involved coming up with a plan of action for robbing the Colonel. The first thing I did was liberate an expired can of sardines from Evelyn's kitchen cupboard in order to distract the Colonel's cats while I was busy raiding the pantry. Fortunately, this was just about the only advance planning I had to do. Unless you counted working up enough nerve to do the job.

The first part was easy. After picking the Colonel's three ancient backdoor locks fast enough to break a personal record, I felt reasonably stoked about the whole invasion process. Since I had picked a day when I knew for sure that the Colonel was at his security job, the only problem I had to deal with was his army of cats. A few of them were outdoors frolicking around and a couple of them rubbed against the front of my leg as I was about to break into the living room. They were so welcoming that I threw them a couple of sardines.

Of course, I had to be mindful of some of the homemade booby traps in the Colonel's home. I had to gently step over the collection of tack-filled tin cans that were strung at ankle level across the back doorway. After that, it was simply a question of leaving a few more sardines around the living room.

The only cat who wasn't distracted by the food was General Patton, who seemed very annoyed that I had made it past the tin-can perimeter. No matter how much I beckoned with an open can of sardines, General Patton would not stop howling. He even kept howling while digging his claws past my sock and deep into the skin of my right ankle.

General Patton's attack made me yell out in pain. I was just thinking how glad I was that nobody was home, when I heard the Colonel's voice from upstairs calling out, “Who's there?” I must confess I was greatly surprised at this turn of events. He must have been put on the night shift on short notice, or maybe he was sick. Whatever the reason, he was definitely home in the middle of the day. I could feel beads of perspiration on my forehead, and my heart was beating way faster than usual. I could also feel my ankle starting to bleed through my sock.

I hoped the Colonel would stay upstairs if I stayed quiet, but I didn't count on General Patton, who was yowling like a fur-covered fire alarm. I was just about to run out the front door when I saw the Colonel coming down the stairs.

It's funny the things you notice in a highly stressful situation. For example, I noticed that the Colonel was wearing camouflage-patterned pajamas as he inched down the stairs with a nightstick in one hand and—to my horror—a Super Soaker full of CR-13 in the other.

The Colonel and I froze at exactly the same moment. We stood there until he yelled, “You!” and then I ran like heck for the front door. General Patton decided to take a serious swipe at my other ankle, and the Colonel came racing down the stairs looking confused.

A split second later, I was able to understand what the confusion was all about. The Colonel was obviously trying to decide whether to hit me with his nightstick first and then squirt me with CR-13. Or squirt me first and then hit me with his nightstick. To be honest, he was freaking me out.

The good news? I managed to get the front door open. The not-so-good news? I forgot all about the tin cans full of thumbtacks that were strung across the doorway at my feet. I tripped over them, releasing a small flood of thumbtacks before I sprawled across the open doorway. A few upended thumbtacks pierced my jeans and T-shirt. Not to mention one that ended up stuck into the palm of my hand as I floundered around, trying to get up.

Getting assaulted by sharpened thumbtacks is both irritating and humiliating. But it is a walk in the sunshine compared to knowing that an angry individual is about to hit you over the head with a nightstick. Fortunately, the Colonel was so excited at the thought of bashing a genuine intruder that he tripped over a cat toy on the stairs and lost his balance. As a result, he activated the bucket full of dirty sweat-sock water that teetered over the doorway. His total surprise at getting soaked gave me enough time to get up off the floor and run out the door.

And then disaster struck. Before I could get completely out of range, the Colonel fired on me with his specially equipped water pistol. It's hard to describe what it is like to be drenched on the neck and back with the Colonel's special formula just when you think you've made a successful retreat. Especially if you want to be delicate and not use a lot of swear words. Let's just say that the way I smelled wasn't going to remind anybody of Springtime in Paris. Let's just also say that I reeked beyond description.

In fact, I reeked so bad that, even while I was racing out of the Colonel's yard and down the street, I kept wondering why I couldn't outrun this totally outrageous stench. It was only when I slowed down that I fully realized the awful smell was coming from me. That was kind of a turning point, hygiene-wise.

In addition to my lingering odor problem, I had to find a way to prepare for Cookie's return visit to Evelyn's house. That meant tidying up her place, stocking her fridge with healthy food, and convincing Cookie that Mrs. Henderson was baking up a storm. I needed a comfortable place to clean up and tend to my recent scratches and thumb-tack wounds. It should also be a place where I could liberate enough first-class groceries to transfer to Evelyn's fridge in time for Cookie's next inspection.

So I decided to head for Ambrose Worton's place in an effort to refresh myself. Aside from his bountiful fridge, Ambrose's home could easily pass for a health spa. Even without looking inside his bathroom medicine cabinets, I knew it they would be well stocked with aromatic bath salts and soothing lotions, things I desperately needed. His home also featured a number of amenities that made for the ideal stress-free environment: a washer and dryer, and a deluxe reclining chair with a built-in back massager. Best of all, there was a generous sunken bathtub where I could take a good long soak and banish the pesky effects of CR-13.

Normally, I would respect Ambrose's personal schedule by not lingering for much longer than it took to fix a sandwich, but thanks to the Colonel, my nerves were unusually frayed. A personal spa day courtesy of Ambrose Worton was just what I needed.

According to the wall calendar in his study, Ambrose was away on a business trip for the rest of the week, and his daughter Melinda was working as a counselor at a kids' summer camp. Since Cookie's inspection was the following day, the timing was perfect. I could transfer whatever Ambrose had in his fridge and pantry to Evelyn's place. Since Evelyn had a doctor's appointment in addition to her weekly card game, it would leave me plenty of time. If I worked fast, I could even do a fair amount of cleaning before Cookie's arrival. I made a mental note to borrow some of Ambrose's cleaning supplies.

It wasn't an ideal plan. I would have to think of a reasonable explanation for the fact that no Hendersons were around for Cookie's second visit. When Cookie departed, I would have to remove Ambrose's food from Evelyn's kitchen, bring it back to Ambrose's and put the food back exactly as I found it. But it was all doable after a bit of rest and relaxation.

I didn't think anybody would blame me for tending to my wounds with the contents of my invisible host's medicine cabinet. Upon reflection, I suppose I did take a little too much advantage of Ambrose's unintentional hospitality. I figured that, as long as I was washing my clothes at his place, I might as well luxuriate in a nice, warm bubble bath. It seemed only natural to use half of Melinda's raspberry-scented bubble bath.

At first, I was a little worried that my clothes wouldn't get clean in time. Fortunately for me, Ambrose had an impressive collection of big fuzzy bathrobes, including an electric-blue one that still had the price tag on it. I tried it on. It was a little long in the sleeves, but once I got used to the scratchy tag, it was surprisingly cozy. I even found a pair of matching fuzz-lined slippers that were a reasonably close fit.

It felt good to pamper myself. I only had my sleeping bag at the tree house, which did very little to cushion me from the hard floor. So it was a real treat just to soak my sore muscles in Ambrose's tub for a while. I felt so rejuvenated afterward that I decided to bake a few cookies to put in Evelyn's cookie jar. Ambrose had a brand of cookie dough in his freezer that promised chocolate-chip cookies “with that unmistakable homemade taste.” They certainly smelled unmistakably homemade to me as they were baking in Ambrose's oven.

By the time I put my clothes in the dryer, the cookies were done. I put them out on a big plate to cool. A couple of bags of Ambrose's groceries were packed away in one of his extra suitcases. All ready to go. There was even a little cooler for perishables that fit snugly inside the suitcase.