A Mischief of Mermaids (4 page)

Mr. Cameron rocked back on his heels and squinted up at the poster of alien sketches.

“That's a right interesting decoration you got there,” he said. “You're interested in little green men, I take it?”

“We are not just interested in them,” said Mrs. Malone proudly. “We study them. You see, we are paranormal investigators—”

“Oh yeah, like that other fellow who was out here on your boat,” the man said. “That Oliver Asquith fellow who's on TV all the time. You friends of his?”

Mr. Malone's smile seemed to freeze. “In a manner of speaking,” he said in measured tones. “He is one of our colleagues—”

“Oh, he's more than that, Emerson!” trilled Mrs. Malone. She said confidingly to Mr. Cameron, “He's actually a very close family friend. In fact, he's Franny's godfather.”

“That right?” Mr. Cameron said. “I heard he was going to film one of his TV shows here. Something about a lake monster.”

“Yes,” Mr. Malone said coolly.

“Do you like Dr. Asquith's work?” asked Mrs. Malone. “It's too bad he's gone. He loves to meet his fans.”

Mr. Cameron shrugged. “Well now, I don't know that I'd say I was a
fan
, exactly,” he said. “His show's interesting but I think he was barking up the wrong tree when he came to Austin. This lake's never had a monster that I heard of, and I've lived here all my life.”

Mr. Malone perked up. “Exactly as I thought! Oliver has a tendency to believe every half-baked story he hears.” He shook his head sadly. “It's a terrible thing to be so gullible, especially when one claims to be a scientist—”

“Now, Emerson,” said Mrs. Malone sternly. “Perhaps Oliver is a little more open-minded than the rest of us, but he does have a track record of investigating strange stories and finding that there's some truth behind them.”

“The only story I ever heard around these parts was about Mugwump,” said Mr. Cameron. “Now there have been plenty of sightings of that old fellow. In fact, one of my buddies saw him, oh, let's see”—he squinted as if trying to remember—“just about a year ago.”

“Really?” Mrs. Malone cast a triumphant look at her husband. “So Oliver was right! There
is
a monster here.”

“Well, no,” said Mr. Cameron. “Not unless you count a big ol' catfish. And
mean
! I wouldn't want to hook that ol' Mugwump, I tell you what.”

Mr. Malone snorted. “An overfed catfish? That hardly ranks with the Loch Ness monster.”

“You don't know that, Emerson,” said Mrs. Malone. “After all, we haven't seen this creature. Perhaps it's some kind of mutant!”

Mr. Cameron shrugged. “Could be, I guess. But that's not the strangest thing I've seen out here. Now, if you wanted to look into some seriously weird stuff, I could tell you things—”

“Where is Mugwump?” asked Rolly. “I want to see him.”

Mr. Cameron chuckled. “Why's that?” he asked. “You want to catch him?”

Rolly's eyes narrowed. After some thought, he said, “Yes. I do.”

He said that in the firm and resolute voice that made every other Malone shiver.

“Stop right there,” said Mr. Malone. “You are not—I repeat,
not
—going to try to catch this Mugglegump.”

“Mugwump,” said Mr. Cameron.

Mr. Malone swept on. “The last thing we need is a gigantic catfish with a bad temper flopping around on the deck,” he said.

Rolly gave him a black look and headed for the wheelhouse.

“Er . . . exactly how big is this Wumgum supposed to be?” asked Mrs. Malone as she nervously kept one eye on Rolly.

“Mugwump,” corrected Mr. Cameron. “My buddy said maybe five feet long, and near on fifty pounds. 'Course, he's a little prone to exaggeration. I remember one time he said he saw a possum that was as big as a polecat. Well, it turns out that possum was actually about the size of my wife's miniature poodle—”

“Mom!” Rolly trotted back, carrying a fishing pole. “I need some bait.”

Mrs. Malone gave Rolly a stern glance. “You are not going to try to catch this Wugmup,” she said firmly.

“Mugwump,” Rolly said absently.

“I don't care what his name is!” Mrs. Malone said. “Something that big could drag you right off the boat! It's far too dangerous.”

Rolly turned to Mr. Cameron. “What does a monster catfish like to eat?”

“Well, worms wouldn't be more than a nibble to a monster like that,” Mr. Cameron said. “Maybe you could try a raw chicken, if your mom would let you have one instead of cooking it for dinner.”

He winked at Mrs. Malone in a way that showed he wasn't taking Rolly's new ambition very seriously.

The rest of the Malones—who knew only too well where Rolly's obsessions could lead—were.

“Rolly. You are
not
going to try to catch that fish,” said Mrs. Malone in measured tones. “I absolutely forbid it.”

But Rolly was not listening. His gaze had locked onto a box of donuts that Mr. Malone had brought on deck to keep Poppy, Franny, and Will from grumbling too much as they helped hang up the alien poster. The box was open. Only half a donut and a few crumbs were left. Rolly grabbed the piece of donut, stuck it on his fishhook, then dropped the line over the railing.

“Rolly, I said—” warned Mrs. Malone.

“Oh, I wouldn't worry too much about the boy if I were you,” said Mr. Cameron easily. “People have been fishing in this lake for years, and no one's got so much as a nibble. Now, if you wanted to look into some seriously weird stuff, I could tell you a few things. Take those little buggers right there.” He nodded at the alien spotting poster. “I'm here to tell you, those things are real,” said Mr. Cameron. “You know how I know? 'Cause I've seen 'em.”

“You have?” Mr. Malone sounded friendlier. “Where? When?”

“Right here on this lake.” Mr. Cameron waved expansively at the water. “I've seen weird lights in the sky, oh, maybe half a dozen times. Lights that zip back and forth too fast to be an airplane, you know what I mean?”

“Of course! That's one of the classic signs of a UFO,” said Mrs. Malone. She pulled her shopping list out of her one pocket and a pencil stub from the other and began scribbling notes. “Tell me, did you notice any problems with your electrical equipment? Or maybe you experienced a strange loss of time—”

“Hey, you know what I read in
The Rational Scientist
last month?” Poppy said. “There was an article about a study of UFO encounters. The woman who did the study interviewed people who had seen UFOs. You know what she found out? Nine out of ten people who saw UFOs said that they had really,
really
wanted to see a UFO. Doesn't that seem like quite a coincidence?”

Mr. Cameron held up his hands in protest. “Hey, I never wanted to get anywhere near one of those things,” he said. “I've heard stories, you know. They might just beam me up and shoot off to another galaxy. Now that would not suit me—I'm just too much of a homebody—but as I understand it the little green men don't give you much of a say in the matter—”

“Did you report your sighting to anyone?” asked Mrs. Malone. “Was there an investigation?”

“Of course I did! And would you believe, the Austin Police Department, the Texas Rangers, and the United States Air Force all told me that I was seeing things?” He shook his head in disgust. “They must think I just fell off the turnip truck.”

“Where did these sightings take place?” asked Mrs. Malone. Her glasses had slipped down her nose. She peered over the lenses at Mr. Cameron. “Can you show us the spot?”

“Sure. It was right over there, Cowart's Cove,” he said, pointing to the far side of the lake. “I'd be glad to take y'all over there and tell you the whole dang story.”

“That would be wonderful.” Mrs. Malone turned to Mr. Malone, beaming. “Emerson, dear, we must calibrate the AlienScope immediately! It would be awful if UFOs suddenly appeared and we weren't ready.”

“You're absolutely right, my dear, as always.” Mr. Malone rubbed his hands together briskly. “Now, let's see . . . Poppy, you're the best person to take charge of the calibration, of course. Will, why don't you set up the spectrometer and show Henry how to use it to scan the skies. I think you two can take first watch tonight. And Franny—”

“I can't,” said Franny quickly. “Ashley invited me to go on their boat.” She gave Mrs. Malone a pleading look. “You have to let me go. She's telling me all about middle school. It will help me with the trauma of transition.”

Ashley opened her eyes wide and nodded vigorously. “It's a stressful time for a preadolescent,” she said. “I'd be glad to help Franny orient herself to a new school environment in order to ensure that she has the best academic and social experience possible. After all, if she doesn't receive the support and encouragement she needs, the experience could end up”—Ashley whispered the last words—“damaging her self-esteem.”

Mrs. Malone took a deep breath. “Thank you, Ashley, but I think Franny's self-esteem is strong enough to survive on its own,” she said evenly. “At a moment like this, everyone in the family has to—”

“Pitch in,” Franny interrupted. “Of course. You're absolutely right, Mother.”

Mrs. Malone's mouth hung open slightly in surprise.

Poppy caught Will's eye and raised one eyebrow.

“Something's up,” she whispered. Will nodded.

“And I
do
want to help out,” said Franny earnestly.

“Wait for it,” muttered Poppy.

“I really do.” Franny widened her eyes. “In fact, I have an awesome idea!”

“Brace yourself,” said Will.

“I'd like to interview Mr. Cameron about the time he saw a UFO,” Franny finished smoothly. “It would be good to have a transcript for our records, wouldn't it?”

Poppy and Will looked at each other in astonishment. Franny was right. That was a brilliant idea—at least, it was a brilliant idea for getting to spend time with Ashley, on the Camerons' houseboat, far away from Mr. and Mrs. Malone's doomed attempts to spot UFOs.

“Yes! You are absolutely correct!” cried Mr. Malone, pointing to Franny as if she'd just offered the winning answer on a TV game show. “Excellent plan, Franny. Take one of the tape recorders from the equipment trunk and a copy of our standard Paranormal Event Witness Questionnaire. And don't forget to ask Mr. Cameron to make sketches of what he saw.”

“I won't, Dad! Thanks!” With a triumphant flip of her hair, Franny ran below to grab a tote bag from her berth.

Will watched her go. “Okay,” he said to Poppy. “I'm officially impressed. Franny always seems like such a ditz—then once in a while, she pulls off something clever like that. It's enough to make you wonder if it's all just an act.”

“You mean, maybe she's secretly brilliant but she's hiding it from us?” Poppy asked.

“Yeah.” His eyes slid sideways to meet hers. They grinned at each other.

“Nah,” they said together.

It had been, as Mrs. Malone said, a long day. That was her excuse for making everyone go to bed early. Poppy knew this really meant that Mrs. Malone desperately wanted to go to sleep, but for once she didn't mind. The combination of unpacking their gear and the heat of the day had made her tired.

The houseboat had several bedrooms. Mr. and Mrs. Malone had one, of course (with Rolly safely tucked into a small bed in the corner, where they could keep an eye on him). Henry and Will were sharing the other large bedroom. Poppy and Franny each got their own tiny room that had a small window and a single bunk with two drawers for clothing tucked under the bed. Franny muttered a bit about the lack of space, but Poppy was delighted. When she put on her pajamas and got into bed, she felt as snug as a turtle in its shell.

Yawning, she turned out the light, then turned on her side to look out the window. A new moon floated in the dark sky. She could just see the silhouettes of a few other boats anchored some distance away, and the faint moonlight reflecting off the water's ripples.

She felt her eyes closing. Before I know it, it will be tomorrow, she thought sleepily. The first day of a whole week on the lake . . .

She yawned again and punched up her pillow.

Then something—later, she could never say what—made her open her eyes one more time before falling asleep.

That was when she saw the lights dancing along the distant shore. She blinked. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. The lights looked like fireflies, although of course they couldn't be. There was no way she could see fireflies from this far away.

But they flickered through the air like fireflies, randomly darting this way and that, tiny trails of cold green light. At least . . . she narrowed her eyes, trying to watch carefully. At least the movement of the lights
seemed
to be random at first. But the more she watched, the more she realized that there was pattern to what she was seeing. A pattern . . . almost like a dance.

They're just lights from a campout someone is having on shore
, she told herself.

Then she remembered how she had (most sensibly) researched Lake Travis's water recreation and safety rules the night before.

She had learned that life jackets were required when kayaking, that anyone who threw trash in the lake would be fined—and that no campfires were allowed on shore, due to a drought that had lasted for three months.

She stared harder at the lights—and at that moment, they suddenly arced into the air in unison, fell toward the water, and disappeared.

Poppy blinked, then flopped down on her berth and gazed out the small porthole. The moon had risen and was floating, round and glowing, in the dark sky. The sight of moonlight—a perfectly natural and explainable source of light—comforted her. There was something a little spooky about those green lights and the way they seemed to follow each other around. . . .