The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill (19 page)

“You've pulled that spot clean down to the dirt.”

She looked: he was right. There was a round patch of dirt about a foot across in front of her. When she looked up, there was only blue sky dotted with cotton-ball clouds. He was gone, and her future, for now, was still possible.

“Having a foot race?”

Hazel and Samuel both jumped and turned to see Hazel's father standing in the kitchen. He was making a cup of tea, dipping the tea bag up and down in the hot water.

Hazel and Samuel breathed heavily. They had sprinted from the graveyard to the house after Mr. Jones left.

“I've never seen two kids run so fast,” he said. He took the
tea bag and tossed it into the compost, then picked up his book
New Strategies for Cemetery Horticulture
.

Teacup in one hand, book in the other and held up in front of his face, he started for the kitchen door.

“Dad?” she called after him.

“Yes?” he replied, not lowering his book.

“Is there some reason that Mr. Jones would have an ax?” Her voice cracked on the word “ax.”

Hazel's dad put his book down on the table. He looked first at Hazel and then at Samuel. “You two aren't bothering Mr. Jones, are you?”

“No, of course not,” Hazel said.

Hazel's dad looked at Samuel. “You sure?”

“Yes, sir,” he replied.

“Because Mr. Jones has had a tough life and he works hard for us. The last thing he needs is for a couple of kids to be harassing him. And the last thing I need is to have to hire another gravedigger.”

“We weren't harassing him. He just came out of the middle of nowhere with an ax, and I was curious as to what task needed an ax.”

“You've got a curiosity about axes?” her dad asked, eyebrows lifted.

“Well, an ax does raise some suspicions.”

Her dad picked up his book again. “Just leave him alone, okay?”

“Okay,” Hazel said.

“Good,” he replied. He walked through the doorway and down the hall toward the front room.

“Maybe he's right,” Samuel said.

“What? Are you kidding me?”

“I just mean maybe we're in over our heads.”

“We're not even near our necks. We just need to investigate a little more. You'll notice, by the way, that my dad never answered the question. Which means he probably doesn't know why The Comrade had the ax. Which is suspicious, don't you think?”

“Your dad trusts Mr. Jones.”

“My dad's a trusting guy. After all, I told him all we wanted to do tonight was trick-or-treat. Speaking of which, we should get into our costumes!”

“I never thought I'd see the day,” Samuel said.

“What?”

“That something would pull the relentless Hazel Kaplansky off a lead in the case.”

“This isn't just something, Samuel. This is Halloween!”

It was true that the mission of the day was to spy on The Comrade and that mission had ended in failure and a near-death experience. Still, Hazel could not contain her excitement as she straightened out her scarf. She was about to go trick-or-treating for the first time in seven years.

As they set off, the sun was still up, but starting to edge out of the sky. She hazarded a glance back to the graveyard. Getting into her costume had dissipated some of the fear she'd felt when The Comrade came striding toward them, but now she was worried that he'd be waiting for them, and Samuel, in his stupid ghost costume, would not be able to move well enough to run away.

Her parents had given them strict instructions to stay in neighborhoods with sidewalks and to come back before it got truly dark. She led Samuel into a street with a cul-de-sac. It was a new neighborhood and all the houses looked the same.
There were a number of other kids, mostly younger with their parents. They walked up the front walk and rang the doorbell of the first house. “Trick-or-treat!” Hazel yelled before the door was all the way open.

“My, my,” said the young mother, baby on her hip. The mother was part of Pastor Logan's family, though Hazel couldn't recall exactly how. Second cousins, maybe. “A ghost. Scary! Do you see the scary ghost, honey? Do you?” The baby could not muster much interest. “And what are you, sweetie?”

“I'm Amelia Earhart,” Hazel said.

“Why, how creative of you.”

She extended the bowl of candy and they each took one candy. “Go on, take two,” she prompted, and so they did.

The next house played out almost the exact same, only this was Mrs. Redstone, who worked down at the post office and couldn't hear very well. Hazel had to yell “Amelia Earhart!” three times before Mrs. Redstone understood her.

“I can't believe people don't know who I am,” Hazel said as they moved on to the next house.

“That's why you should go with something simple and classic.”

“Amelia Earhart is classic,” she said, adjusting her scarf, which was starting to droop.

They finished the loop of the first neighborhood. The night had the faintest hint of cool, and a gentle wind rustled the remaining leaves in the trees. It was just about a storybook-perfect Halloween night. As they walked on to the next neighborhood, Hazel said, “You know what's wrong with music class?”

“We're destroying a beautiful song?”

“No. Mrs. Ferrigno undervalues the triangle. I think the triangle is a noble instrument.”

“Noble?” Samuel asked.

“Quiet yet firm. I mean, the glockenspiel, sure it's pretty, but anyone can sound good on a glockenspiel. Working the triangle takes skill.”

“Hazel, I have to elbow you to make sure you don't miss our cue.”

“That's because I'm not being challenged enough.”

They rang the doorbell on a large house. Almost before Samuel's hand was down from the buzzer, Mrs. Logan threw open the door. She was dressed like the good witch in
The Wizard of Oz
. “Happy Halloween!” she called out. “Why, it's a ghost and a, um, a— What are you, Hazel?”

“Amelia Earhart,” Hazel said.

“Oh, isn't that, um, different?” She dropped a box of raisins into each of their bags. Raisins. That was even worse than bringing gum to a Halloween party.

Hazel rang the next doorbell. Waited. No one came. This was Mr. Hood's house, and she knew he was home because Mr. Hood only left the house on Tuesday mornings for grocery shopping. Otherwise the farthest he came was to his front door so he could yell at kids to scram off his front lawn. She pressed again. The door opened and an old man peered out. “Who's there?”

“Trick-or-treat!” Hazel called out.

“Blast it!” Mr. Hood replied. “Is it time for those shenanigans
again?” He dug around in his pocket. “Here's a dime for the ghost and”—he looked down at his hand—“a nickel for the bandit.”

“I'm not a bandit, I'm Amelia Earhart!”

“You're off my front porch is what you are!”

“Yes, sir,” Samuel said, and dragged her off the steps.

“That was Mr. Hood. He's cantankerous.”

“Let's just keep going.”

A group of younger kids raced by Mr. Hood's driveway, their fathers following along behind them.

The next stop was Ellen Abbott's house. Ellen's mother, who was as mousy as Ellen herself, opened the door. “A ghost and a motorcycle racer!”

“I'm Amelia Earhart.”

“Amelia who?”

“Earhart. Woman pilot.”

“Oh. Well, here's your candy.”

Hazel shook her head as they were walking down the front steps. “As I was saying, I just think that if Mrs. Ferrigno gave me a chance, she could see that I could shine on that triangle, and I bet she'd even give me a solo.”

“A triangle solo?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“I don't think a triangle has enough notes.”

“It's not the instrument that's the problem. It's a lack of imagination. In the proper hands a triangle could be as impressive as a piano.”

“A piano?”

“Well, at least as impressive as a vibraslap.”

The next house was Mrs. Buttersbee's. Hazel rang the doorbell. Hazel loved Mrs. Buttersbee's name. It made her think of the honey butter her grandmother made to spread over toast: so sweet it burned the back of her throat. She was a talker, though. “Hazel Kaplansky!” she cried out when she opened the door. “It's been a few years.”

“Seven,” Hazel said.

Mrs. Buttersbee ushered them into the house. In the front hallway, there was a sideboard with a Crock-Pot full of hot apple cider. She began ladling out two paper cups' worth. Year after year, Hazel had heard the other kids complain about Mrs. Buttersbee. Stopping at her house always took forever, they said, since she talked to you for ages while you drank her cider. “You were a, wait, don't tell me. You were a pumpkin the last time you knocked on my door.”

“That's right,” Hazel said. She took her cider and sipped it.

“And who's this ghost?” Mrs. Buttersbee asked.

“Samuel,” he replied.

“Not Samuel Switzer?” she asked.

“Samuel Butler,” he corrected. He took the cup of cider, but he hadn't cut himself a mouth hole, so he couldn't actually drink it.

“Well, now, isn't that a hoot,” she said. “All right, you two, come stand here and I'll take your picture.”

They stood side by side while she struggled to get her camera out of its leather case. She had to keep adjusting the lens
with her trembling hands. No wonder the other kids avoided this place. No amount of candy was worth all this.

Behind Mrs. Buttersbee was a cuckoo clock shaped like a Bavarian cottage. Just as Mrs. Buttersbee finally got her camera set, the hour changed and seven windows on the house opened. Out of each window emerged a gnome dressed in lederhosen and contorted into a dance pose. They spun on spindles for a minute, then stopped and counted off:
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven
. Then each gnome went back into the cottage with a soft slamming of the window.

Seven o'clock! Her parents would be expecting her home soon, and they still had the other side of the street to do.

“Oh, dear!” Mrs. Buttersbee said, lowering her camera. “That clock was my husband's and it startles me every time.” She lifted the camera. “Let's try this again.”

Hazel tried to strike her most Amelia Earhart–like pose. “Okay,” Mrs. Buttersbee said. “One, two, three.” It was another couple of seconds before her finger actually pressed the button. The flash went off and Hazel saw the light for minutes after as purple dots.

“We ought to go,” she said.

“So soon? It's been a quiet night.”

“We've got to get back home. It's getting late.”

Mrs. Buttersbee nodded. “Well, then, I suppose you two ought to take the bulk of this.” Her candy bowl was still nearly full, and she shoveled heap upon heap into each of their bags. Lemon drops, Turkish taffy, and Mary Janes. Hazel's eyes grew
wide at the thought of it all. There were some anise bears, too, but Hazel figured she could trade those with Samuel for some of his root beer barrels, because he probably didn't know any better.

“Thank you!” she said, and Samuel echoed it.

Mrs. Buttersbee held the door open, and as they made their way down the walk, she called, “Good night, Caspar! Good night, Amelia!” Hazel couldn't help but smile. Maybe the only person who got her was a lonely old lady, but at least somebody did.

Hazel glanced longingly at the jack-o'-lanterns on the other side of the street, but she didn't want to push it with her parents. “Ready to go home?”

Samuel glanced down at his bag full of loot. Neither had ever seen so much candy. “I suppose we must,” he agreed.

To get back to Hazel's house they wound around the graveyard.

“What's that?” Samuel asked.

She followed his finger and saw in the center of the cemetery a light glimmering like a flame.

“I knew it!” Hazel said. “It's a drop-off. We've got them now!” She started marching forward.

Samuel grabbed her by the arm. “Hazel, wait! They have candles.”

“So?” she asked, but she stopped walking.

“If it really was a drop-off, they'd use flashlights, or no lights at all.”

Hazel contemplated this. As much as it disappointed her to believe it, he was probably right. Then a new idea came to her, quick as crickets. “The Comrade is performing satanic rituals in our graveyard.”

“Now you think that Mr. Jones is a devil worshipper?”

“All Commies worship the devil,” Hazel replied.

“Try not to jump to conclusions.”

Hazel ignored him. She was like Trixie Belden: sure, she
jumped to a lot of conclusions, but nine times out of ten she was right. “If he burns even a blade of grass my parents are going to flip their lids!” She squinted, trying to get a better view. She was ready to set off and to catch The Comrade in the act, but then she hesitated. If he was lighting candles and doing rituals in the graveyard, then that was illegal. But it wouldn't prove that he was a spy. It would be like when Eliot Ness got Al Capone for tax evasion. “Let's take this slow,” she said. “Let's just go get a closer look.”