A Summer of Sundays (14 page)

“What are those?”

I shrugged. “Not sure, but they were in the locked box with the manuscript.” I pulled out the first envelope from underneath the rubber band and handed the next one to Jude. Inside was a handwritten letter. I read it aloud:

I stopped and looked at Jude. He shrugged and read his aloud.

Jude flipped the letter over in his hand. “ ‘Dear Librarian’ and ‘Me.’ Not much to go on.”

A stampede of footsteps thumped overhead. The boys! I folded up the cream-colored paper and slipped it back inside the envelope. Then, grabbing the other three letters, I stuffed them into my backpack and zipped it shut.

“Sunday! Jude!” It was Henry.

“I bet they’re down there,” CJ said. “Maybe they’re making out.”

“What’s making out?” Bo asked.

“Kissing.”

“Ewwww.”

“We’re coming up,” I yelled, exasperated. I put the cardboard box back on the top shelf and thumped up the stairs, Jude at my heels.

I needed to get my brothers out of my hair. The problem was, if they knew I didn’t want them around, then they’d only make sure to stay glued to my side. So I either needed to bribe them (I had ten dollars in my money jar), or make them so bored that they would leave us alone.

I decided to go with option two.

“What are you guys doing?” CJ asked. “You going downtown?”

Bo gave me a big hug, wiping his sticky face on my shorts, and Henry clung to Jude.

“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Jude and I were maybe going to help Mom and Miss Jenny organize and clean up around here, and then we were—”

Jude cut in. “I thought we were going downtown—”

I jabbed him hard in the stomach.

“OW! Sunday! Why did you—?”

“Don’t you remember how we were going to help out around here?”

He rubbed his stomach. “Oh, yeah. Help out.”

CJ looked at me hard and stroked his chin suspiciously.
To be more convincing, I picked up a roll of paper towels and the cleaning spray Mom had left sitting on a windowsill and started wiping down the circulation desk.

“Hey, CJ, will you hand me that garbage can?” I asked, for added effect.

He plunked it down next to me and then started for the door. “Come on. Let’s add booby traps to our fort and then walk to town and see if Muzzy and Papa Gil will give us candy.” The word
candy
was all it took for Henry and Bo to follow after him.

Once the door closed behind them, I got down on my hands and knees and pulled Jude to the floor next to me. We crawled to a window and watched my brothers disappear into the trees. When they were a safe distance away, I grabbed my backpack, and Jude and I snuck outside.

“So we’re going to do some more investigating?”

“Yeah.” I pulled out the letters.

Jude reached for one. “But the letters really didn’t tell us anything.”

“I know. But we haven’t read all of them. And besides, they were locked up with the manuscript in the library, so they probably belong to the same person.”

He shrugged. “Yeah, maybe.”

“The first thing we should do is try and find out who all the librarians have been. I think finding out who these letters belong to will lead us to the author of the story.”

We had taken a right onto Main Street, and Jude automatically turned toward the crepe stand.

Ms. Bodnar greeted us with a wide, warm smile. She swiped a hand across her forehead. “Whew. It’s as hot as Hades back here. How about a crepe? I have one hot off the pan.”

Jude licked his lips and took the plate that Ms. Bodnar handed him, the blob of whipped cream sliding off the side of the warm, rolled-up pancake.

“We’re investigating and wanted to know if you knew the names of any of Alma’s librarians.”

“Hmm. Well, I don’t know them all, but a few.”

She took out a piece of paper and began writing. “Well, there was my husband. Fanny Smith was after him. In my opinion, she’s one of the reasons the library went downhill so fast. Miss Dunghop is the new librarian, but you know that. Before my husband there was Kimberly Nicolas. Cathy Carleton was also one for a little while, and I think old Ben Folger was the librarian, too. Then—”

“So did you know him?” I asked. “Ben Folger, I mean?”

Ms. Bodnar looked up from the paper and brushed a stray curl out of her face, leaving a floury streak across her cheek. “No, I don’t think anyone really knows Ben Folger, at least not now. I heard he was a pretty good librarian, though. He mostly keeps to himself now, so it’s hard for me to imagine him serving the public, but I guess once
upon a time …” She handed me the piece of paper. “I’ll let you know if I think of anyone else.”

“Thanks, Ms. Bodnar. Come on, Jude.” I pulled his elbow and started out of the café.

Ms. Bodnar nodded, wiping down the countertop. “Sure thing. Come back soon.”

“Ben Folger’s name mentioned again!” I said to Jude as we walked down the sidewalk.

“Yeah, but she was just listing off the names of other librarians, and we already knew he was one.”

“I know, I know. But still, I think he has something to do with the story from the library. Maybe he’s the Librarian in the letter.” My heart sped up at the thought. “And if he is, I bet he’s also the author of the manuscript.”

“That’s a pretty big jump, Sunday. Just because—”

A desperate voice called to us from across the street.

“Jude! Sunday!” It was Muzzy. She crossed over to us, wringing her hands. A leash dangled around her neck like a scarf. “Oh dear, what am I going to do?”

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

She looked up and down the street. “It’s Mr. Castor. I can’t find him anywhere. You haven’t seen him, have you?”

“No. But we’ll help you look,” I said.

Muzzy started down the street. “That would be so nice. I really don’t want Gil to find out. He loves Mr. Castor,
don’t get me wrong, but I do admit that our dog is a bit difficult. And when he runs away, it’s the worst.”

“So he’s run away before?” I asked.

“Oh, yes, Mr. Castor is always getting loose. He’s so big, you know, and with the way he pulls, it’s sometimes impossible for me to keep ahold of him. And you might not think it, but he’s quick as lightning. Whipped right by me and out the door.”

We continued down the street, yelling for Mr. Castor. And even though Muzzy had said that she couldn’t find him, she seemed to be walking in a specific direction. We took a right, walked two blocks, then took a left, then a left again. Muzzy slowed down when we reached a small yellow house. The sound of jingling dog tags greeted us.

“Mr. Castor,” Muzzy whispered.

Jude and I glanced at each other, wondering why in the world she was whispering and why Muzzy looked more worried than ever. It was as if she thought at any moment something might come out and pounce on her.

“Come here, Mr. Castor,” Muzzy said again.

A big white furry head with a snout completely covered with dirt poked up from behind a bush. Mr. Castor cocked his ears, snuffled, and then disappeared again.

Jude and I started toward the bush, but Muzzy caught us both in a death grip. “No, don’t! If he sees you coming, he’ll run off again.”

“Then how are we supposed to get him?” I asked, feeling silly for whispering.

Muzzy wrung her hands and bit her bottom lip. “I don’t know. We sort of have to herd him back home.”

“I have an idea.” I set my backpack down and unzipped it. I always kept snacks handy. After digging around for a bit, careful not to hurt the letters that I had stuffed inside, my hand found the small crinkly package of peanut butter crackers. I pulled them out and opened the wrapper.

“What are you going to do?” Muzzy asked, then mumbled to herself, “If Mrs. Potts sees Mr. Castor in her yard again, she’s going to be furious.”

“Don’t worry. I have a dog, Butters. She always used to run away, but I taught her not to with treats.” I walked slowly to where Mr. Castor was snuffling around in a bush. “Come here, Mr. Castor,” I said. “You want a treat?”

At first he ignored me, bounding away, tail wagging. He sniffed somewhere else, stopped, and then started flinging dirt behind him into a pile. I continued to call him, holding out the peanut butter cracker.

“Mr. Castor, come here,” I said again. And just when I thought that maybe I was wrong and there was a dog on the earth that could resist peanut butter crackers, he dashed over. I grabbed his collar and walked him back to Jude and Muzzy.

Muzzy clapped her hands. “Oh, you’re a genius, Sunday!”
She clipped the leash back on Mr. Castor’s collar and smothered the dog with kisses and pats. “My poor, naughty Mr. Castor,” she crooned, seeming to forget how nervous and upset she had been a moment before. “Now, come on, we have to get you out of here before she sees you.”

I turned around and looked at the yard dotted with holes, mounds of dirt, and decapitated flowers. “So I guess he’s come here before?”

Muzzy started down the street after Mr. Castor, who was pulling on his leash so hard he was almost choking himself. “Oh, yes, he always comes here. I don’t know why, but at least I always know where to find him.”

“And she gets really mad?”

“It’s a pretty terrible sight to see. But he doesn’t mean any harm.”

“Maybe you should make sure he doesn’t run away at all,” Jude said. “Then you wouldn’t have to worry about him getting stolen or hit by a car, and Mrs. Potts won’t get mad at you.”

Muzzy turned to me. “You seem to be very good with dogs, Sunday. Maybe you have some advice?”

“I don’t know about that. But I love dogs, and I guess I’ve had enough practice taking care of my brothers, and sometimes they’re worse than dogs.”

“Well, if you think of anything let me know,” she said,
stopping at the corner of a street. “My house is down this way. Do you two want to come in for a snack?”

“Sure,” Jude said.

I grabbed on to his arm and pulled him away. “No thanks. We have stuff that we need to do. Remember, Jude?”

Muzzy said good-bye and then half jogged down the sidewalk toward her house, Mr. Castor leading the way.

The sound of the triangle clanged through the air just as Jude and I were walking up the driveway for lunch. We sat on the front porch thinking about what to do next. In my head, I went over the all the evidence we had:

I bit into my sandwich and stared across the field.

Surely there was a connection between him and the story I’d found. And even if there wasn’t, there had to be a way to get him to talk to me.

“I think I have an idea,” I said.

Jude had been busy seeing how many grapes he could stuff inside his cheeks. He gave a gurgled
wha?
and a grape shot out of his mouth, rolling into the dirt.

I ignored it and stared back over at the house across the field. “How do you like the idea of being a spy?”

Jude followed my gaze to Ben Folger’s house, the rest of the grapes plunking out of his mouth. “No way.”

I nodded. “Tonight.”

“LET’S
go through the plan one more time,” I said, pacing back and forth across the porch. Jude had his head in his hands. “I’m going to sneak out of my house and go to yours. Then, I’ll—” I waited for him to finish my sentence. He didn’t, so I repeated it one more time, louder. “Then I’ll—”