The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill (6 page)

Spy!

Looking over her shoulder to see if he was following her, she tripped, tumbling forward, feet over head the way Mrs. Warsaw was always trying to get her to do a somersault in gym class. She landed on her butt, legs splayed out in front of her. There was a grass stain on the sleeve of her school blouse, and her saddle shoes were scuffed.

“Are you okay?”

Hazel screamed and closed her eyes, sure that this was it, her very last moment, and she wished it had come in a more dignified way.

The voice screamed back. Hazel opened her eyes, and there was Samuel.

“Why are you screaming?” she demanded.

“Why are
you
screaming?” he replied.

“Because I just watched a Red spy kill a rat.”

If this were a movie she would have fainted and it would have been a big dramatic moment. There would be a hero to rescue them all from the spies. All she had, though, was another ruined school outfit and Samuel Butler staring down at her with his wide, sad eyes.

“A Red spy? What do you mean?” Samuel asked.

Hazel widened her eyes. For a smart boy, he didn't know much about the world of the here and now. “The Reds? The Communists?”

“Sure. What about them?”

“They've infiltrated Maple Hill. Senator McCarthy sent up an investigative crew to the factory to smoke 'em out. And what I've just figured out is that the leader of their cell isn't working at the factory. That would be too obvious and too dangerous. No, he needed to find a nice, quiet job where no one would notice him. A gravedigger. And I just figured it out, and now he's going to have to kill me to keep me quiet. He's going to put me into the sausage grinder. That's what Communists do, you know.”

“You told him?”

Hazel shook her head. “Do you think I'm crazy or something?”

“Well, then, maybe he doesn't know you know yet. How are you so sure he's a spy, anyway? Because he killed a rat?”

“It wasn't just that he killed a rat—it was the
way
he killed the rat: like he was programmed to do it. And that's just what the Communists want to do to us: program us so we're all the same and we're an army of robots to destroy the world.”

Samuel scrunched up his lips, and Hazel could tell he wasn't quite convinced.

“Also, Paul Jones is for sure an alias. And just look at the way he dresses. The perfectly creased dungarees? Nobody here irons jeans, but I bet in Russia they get inspected twice a day just to make sure their creases are straight.” It was true that Hazel did not know a whole lot about Russia. Just what they'd learned in school about it being a poor country and the fact that the people on the farms worked and worked and the women wore scarves on their heads. Still, she felt certain that if any people were going to iron their dungarees, it would be the Russians. “On top of that, he hardly ever talks and I bet that's because he's trying to cover up his accent. Sure, he thinks he's hiding, but he didn't count on someone as clever as me being here.”

Samuel remained unswayed. “If he's a spy, why's he working as a gravedigger? There are no secrets here.”

“I told you, he's trying not to draw attention to himself.” She gasped then and grabbed Samuel's arm. He flinched back, but she didn't let go. “I bet he's burying secrets. His spies at the plant bring him the plans and other things they find and
he buries them to keep them safe until he can smuggle them out and no one notices it because that's his
job
. I bet that's what he was doing, and we interrupted him and—” She shook her head. “We are dead as doornails.”

“I think you may be rushing to judgment.”

Hazel frowned, but part of her knew that Samuel was right. She needed to make a report to the Senate Permanent Subcommittee on Investigations—the long name for Senator McCarthy's group of Communist catchers—but she couldn't go to them with just a gut feeling. She would need to find some hard evidence. That's what detectives like Nancy Drew did. “Well, since you asked, I can tell you that I'm just beginning my investigation. But I'm already compiling quite a bit of information.”

“Like what?” Samuel asked.

“For starters, he just appeared out of nowhere. He's got no family to speak of, and he wouldn't even tell my parents where his hometown was. His diet consists solely of red meat. And apples that he eats with a knife. He just killed that rat like it was nothing. Practically cut its head clean off. I bet he learned how to do that in the Russian army.”

“Go on.”

Hazel didn't have anything else to add. She scratched at a mosquito bite that was left over from the summer. “A radio transmitter! He has a radio transmitter so he can send the secrets back to Russia!” That, she knew, was the real reason he hadn't wanted her watching him fix it. He knew she could be the one to figure out his dastardly secret.

“It still seems like a bit of a stretch.”

Hazel stood up and brushed the dirt off the knees of her tights: another pair ruined. It was clear that Samuel was going to be no help at all. “What are you even doing here?” she demanded.

“I came to do some grave rubbings.”

She jutted her hip out. “That's illegal, you know, unless you have permission.”

“I know,” he said. He opened up his bag and produced a piece of paper. It was from the town and had a raised notary seal and everything.

She had never actually seen one of the permits before, as no one ever had them. Still, she read it over, nodding her head and squinting at parts as if she were examining it. “This looks legitimate,” she said.

“It is,” he said. “I assure you.”

“And why do you want to do the grave rubbings, anyway? I know it's not for a school project.”

“I like to think about the people's stories. I have a book. I collect them and then I try to find out information if I can.”

This, to Hazel, did not actually seem like such a bad answer. “All right, then. I suppose that's okay.”

“What would you have to say about it, anyway?” His question was challenging, but he kept his eyes on the headstone, as if he were afraid to look at her.

“Only that my family runs this place, and even with a permit, if I don't think what you're doing is up to snuff, then I can kick you right off the property.”

He nodded. “I see.”

“You're okay for now. So, what, this is your hobby?”

“It's a good way to get to know a new place. And if all your friends are dead, it's not so hard to leave them behind.” He chuckled like he was making a joke, but Hazel didn't get it.

“How many places have you lived?”

“Seventeen.”

“Are you for real?”

“My mom always said you know when you're home, and she never felt it.”

Hazel shook her head and said, “Seventeen places. I've always lived in the same one.”

“You're lucky,” he said.

But Hazel didn't feel lucky. Seventeen new places meant seventeen new chances. She looked up toward Pauper's Field, an old part of the graveyard that wasn't used anymore. Mr. Jones was there, crouched over a headstone just inside the gate. There was no reason for him to be up there; it was the place where people who couldn't afford a plot were buried, and no one had been interred there since the Civil War. “Now, what's he doing up there?” she asked more to herself than Samuel.

“Up where?”

“Mr. Jones is in Pauper's Field, but he doesn't have any work up there.”

Hazel got a buzz of excitement. She wasn't sure what he was doing there, but she felt certain it held a key to proving he was a spy. She had her first clue, and as soon as she could, she would investigate it, and Samuel was going to help her.

Mr. Jones stood up and left Pauper's Field, closing the gate carefully behind him. Samuel shifted his satchel on his shoulder. “If it's all right with you, I'd like to get back to my work.”

“Hold your horses. I've got a stone for you.”

“What do you—”

“Just wait.”

Mr. Jones got into his truck and drove out of the graveyard and back toward town, where he rented a house.

“Okay, Sammy—”

“Samuel,” he interrupted.

“Sure,” she said. “Whatever you want. I have a proposition for you.”

“A proposition?” he echoed.

“How would you like a challenge?”

She couldn't be sure, but it looked like his ears actually pricked up a little bit, like a dog when you call its name. “I relish a challenge.”

“I mustard a challenge,” she said back.

“What?”

“Nothing.” She shook her head. No one ever laughed at her mustard joke. “Are you in or out?”

“I don't even know what you want me to do yet.”

“I need some help finding out a story behind a headstone.”

This seemed to catch his interest, but he said, “Is this about the gravedigger?”

“Yes, but you don't need to worry about that. He was just up there looking at a headstone. I need you to look at it and
tell me what you think. You're my expert witness. You can stay out of the spy thing if you want. I can't pay you right now,” she continued. “But I bet there's some sort of a reward and I'll give you, say, five percent. What do you say?”

Samuel didn't answer at first, just chewed on the inside of his cheek. “This isn't the type of thing I normally get involved with.”

“Well, me neither, but it's not every day when the world drops a big fat mystery in your lap. And I for one believe that if you're given a mystery, you should solve it, but if you're not up for it, I can find another expert,” she said, though she wasn't sure where or how.

“Show me the grave.”

“Follow me,” she said, and started to lead him up to Pauper's Field. “Pauper's Field is where all the people who didn't have enough money to pay for a proper plot are buried. Most of the stones just have a name on them, and no dates or any message or anything. My dad says there are probably hundreds without stones at all.”

“If there's nothing on the headstone, what can I do to help you?”

“I thought you were an expert.”

“I am.”

She stopped walking and raised her eyebrows. “Oh, okay, sure. Listen, I just thought that since you're so good at this whole investigating the histories of people in graveyards, and it's your passion, you might be the person to help me out
here. But if you're not up for it …” She let the words hang in the air.

“I didn't say I wasn't up for it.”

“I'm just giving you a chance to get out now, honorably, I mean. I won't tell anyone.”

She wouldn't tell anyone no matter what happened, as she had no one to tell, but if he hadn't picked up on that already, she wasn't about to point it out.

“I'm in.”

Hazel pulled open the gate with a loud creak. Even though she knew Mr. Jones was gone for the day, she still looked over her shoulder.

She wasn't sure if she'd be able to find the stone he had been crouched near, but it was clear as soon as they opened the gate. There were chrysanthemums freshly planted around the stone, the soil from the pot still visible above the dirt of the ground. Hazel brushed a stray leaf off the stone, which was cool and shiny. Unlike the other stones, it was a perfect square. The font was simple, but soft. All it said was:

“Well, then, what I need you to do is find out who Alice is.”

“That's more than a challenge,” he said, but he dropped to his knees and pulled out a piece of paper and a crayon. He laid the paper carefully over the square stone, lining up the sides.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Grave rubbing.”

“Why are you bothering with that? It's just a name and an age. Just write it down and let's go.” She looked behind her, expecting Mr. Jones to return at any moment. With a shovel. She could still hear the sound it made as it came down on the rat. She wondered what kind of sausage she would be turned into: the sweet breakfast kind, or maybe the spicy kielbasa that her father liked.

“It's part of the process,” he said. “If we're going to solve this mystery, we need to follow the process.”

“I thought you said this wasn't the type of thing you got involved in.” Hazel kicked at the ground. She regretted bringing him up here in the first place. If he was going to approach everything in this slowpoke sort of a way, they'd never get anywhere.

“All I'm going to do is find out who she was,” he said. “We're going to find out Alice's story.”

“We?”

“This was your idea,” Samuel said. He pressed his hand down flat on top of the paper, holding it in place. “I'll help you figure out who this Alice girl was, but you have yet to offer me any substantial proof to support your claim that he's a spy,” he told her.

Hazel frowned. She looked at some of the other stones, which were tilted at odd angles like something out of a Halloween greeting card. “Why else would he be up here?”

Samuel shook his head. “He doesn't look like a spy.”

“He wouldn't be a very good spy if he looked like one,” Hazel said. “If every spy looked like a spy, Senator McCarthy and his crew would just gather them all up off the street and we wouldn't have to worry about a Commie invasion.”

Samuel finished his rubbing and stood up. “You asked me to find out the story of one of these graves, and I'll do it. If you want to help, I'll be going to the library tomorrow. You can meet me there.”

He hitched his satchel up over his shoulder and then left Pauper's Field. The squeaking gate stayed open behind him.

The Kaplanskys' kitchen table was shiny new Formica, but you couldn't tell since it was piled with catalogs and magazines related to horticulture. Her parents would flip through the magazines during dinner, and typically left Hazel to her own thoughts, and that was okay with Hazel. That night in particular she had a lot to think about.