Andi Unexpected (3 page)

“I hope you guys like Kool-Aid,”
Amelie announced, her head peeking through the open hatch. “What happened in here?” She climbed the rest of the way into the attic and put the drink bottles on top of an old dresser. “What on earth?”

Colin’s face turned an astonishing shade of red.

I jumped up. “I can explain.” I waded through the clutter toward my aunt and grabbed her hand. “Look what we found!” I led her back over to the corner. “There was a door hidden behind the wallpaper. And look! There was a trunk inside.”

Amelie grinned. “What’s in the trunk?”

“We don’t know yet,” Colin said, his color fading back to normal. “We haven’t opened it.”

Amelie squatted down and looked at the lock and the name etched in brass. “Andora,” she whispered.
She stared at me in amazement, and I shrugged. “Colin, there’s a black crowbar hanging on the far wall of the garage that should do the job. Will you go get it, please?”

After Colin clattered down the ladder, Amelie said, “Well, we know one thing.”

“What?” I asked. I stared at the trunk trying to guess what was inside. Gold? Rubies? Diamonds? Valuable old baseball cards? Or just old clothes?

“Whatever is in that box is yours,” Amelie said.

“But …”

Amelie ran her hand over the trunk and grinned at me, “Hey, your name’s on it.”

I grinned back. “You’re right. It is.”

A moment later Colin’s head appeared through the hatch. Out of breath, he handed the crowbar to Amelie, who then handed it to me. “You do the honors, Andi.”

I placed the flat tip between the lock and the trunk lid and pressed down with all of my weight. The lock was stubborn and held for a few seconds until—
crack!—
it swung from its hinge and crashed to the floor.

We squatted in front of the tiny trunk again. Using the crowbar to pry it open, I lifted the lid. A thin layer of tissue paper covered the contents. I gently picked up the paper and set it on another box nearby. The tissue crackled like dry leaves. Beneath the paper was a doll—a lovely, fragile china doll like those I’d seen in old Shirley Temple movies. The doll’s face was snow white with bright red lips. Her cheeks were perfectly round pink circles just below her large blue eyes. She
wore a faded dress the color of summer cornflowers. I picked up the doll and handed it to Amelie.

“She’s beautiful,” Amelie said.

Colin wasn’t impressed with the doll and peered past it into the trunk. “What else is in there?” I think he hoped the little blue trunk contained a hoard of gold coins or rubies. Maybe I hoped the same.

The doll had been lying on some folded pieces of fabric. I unfolded each one and found two dresses—for a toddler maybe—and a white dress for an infant. One of the little girl’s dresses was pink. The other was pale yellow. Both were covered in ruffles. Amelie said the infant’s dress looked like a baptismal gown. Yellowed like the sailboats’ paper sails, the gown had a matching bonnet covered with tiny pearls.

At the very bottom of the trunk, we found three wooden blocks labeled A, B, and C with circus clowns and animals painted on the other sides. A clown put his head into a lion’s mouth; an elephant balanced on his hind legs on top of a beach ball; and six tiny clowns stuffed themselves into an even tinier car.

“What is all this?” I asked after we’d sorted through each piece. “How old do you think this stuff is?”

Amelie looked at the dresses and wooden blocks. “Probably mid-twentieth century, I would guess. Maybe around World War Two, possibly earlier.”

That got Colin’s attention. “Cool!”

It must have been the war part.

Amelie held the baptismal bonnet in her hand and gave it to me before standing up. “Looks like you have a mystery on your hands.”

At dinnertime, I asked Amelie again, “Are you sure you don’t know who Andora is?”

She popped a tater tot into her mouth and said, “When your dad told me he named you Andora, it was the first time I’d heard that name. It’s pretty unusual. I think I would’ve recognized it if I’d heard it before.”

“But don’t you think it’s weird that there’s a trunk in the attic with my name on it?”

Bethany pulverized her tater tots, smashing them into barely recognizable potato shreds. “Andi, you’ve been talking about it
all day
. What does it matter? If that stuff is really that old, then Andora is probably dead by now.”

I dropped my eyes to the boxed macaroni and cheese on my plate.

“That’s not necessarily true, Bethany. The person would be very old, in her eighties or nineties, but she could still be alive,” Amelie said.

I let out a breath. “Maybe you can help Colin and me tomorrow. I bet you’ll find stuff to use for your art projects.”

Bethany hopped off her stool. “I’m going upstairs to send my
one
text message for the day.”

“Okay,” Amelie said.

Whenever Bethany used that snippy tone with our parents, they grounded her on the spot. But life with Amelie was different, and maybe it was just what Bethany needed.

That night, I crept out of my bedroom and climbed the ladder into the attic. With a weak flashlight beam to guide me, I picked my way through the decades of
castoff, forgotten keepsakes until I was back by the hidden door and the little blue trunk. I opened it again and examined each piece slowly. No answers jumped out at me, but in the dim glow of my flashlight, the trunk seemed so much more mysterious. I had to find out where it came from.

I held the wooden block with the elephant painted on it. I turned it over and over again in my hand until the images blurred. Tomorrow, I would find out who this other Andora was and why her life was hidden away in a little blue trunk.

The next morning
, I stepped onto the porch a little after seven. No one else was up yet. Just like Dad used to do, I always wake up with the sun. He told me dawn was the best time of the day in Guatemala City, when the city shook itself awake. He promised he would take me there someday.

“You’re up early!” A voice interrupted my thoughts.

I spun to the left and saw Bergita with a mug in her hand. She was pitching back and forth on one of the cane rocking chairs on her front porch. Jackson snoozed on his pillow by the front door.

I skipped down the porch steps and trotted across the lawn. I paused at the foot of Bergita’s porch steps.

“This is certainly a pleasant surprise. I like to see young people up bright and early, ready to tackle the new day. Have a seat.” She motioned to the opposite
rocker. On the small table between us, a perspiring teapot and a second mug waited as if they’d been expecting me. Also sitting on the table was a small plate holding two lumpy pastries I didn’t recognize.

Before sitting down, I patted Jackson on the head. The snub-nosed dog opened one brown eye, closed it, and made a happy snuffle sound.

Bergita set down her Daffy Duck mug and poured some tea into a faded mug with Bugs Bunny wagging a carrot on it.

She held the plate of pastries out toward me, and I took one, realizing for the first time how hungry I was. The night before, I’d barely eaten a thing because I’d been so excited about the mysterious Andora.

“What are these?” I asked, taking a small bite. It tasted both salty and sweet, and it had the consistency of an extra thick biscuit.

Crumbs fell onto my lap, and Jackson was up in a flash, sitting beside me with an I’m-starving-to-death look on his face. I brushed the crumbs off my T-shirt and shorts. He licked them off the floorboards.

“These,” Bergita held up her own pastry, “are called scones. They are an English pastry, and I just love them. I’ve eaten one every day for the last forty years, so they must be good for something.”

I took a bigger bite. When Bergita wasn’t looking, I broke off a small piece and slipped it to Jackson. He ate it and snuffled my palm with his nose. Now friends for life, the dog lay across my feet and went to sleep. He was surprisingly heavy.

Bergita licked her index finger to pick up the
crumbs off her plate. “The perfect start to any day,” she declared. “Colin enjoyed himself yesterday.”

I stiffened, wondering if Colin had told his grandmother about our discovery. It was my story to tell. After all, my name was on the trunk. “I’m glad,” I said, before sipping my tea. I held the mug in both hands—just like Bergita. One hand grasped the handle; the other cupped the bottom rim. “What did Colin say?”

She grinned and resumed rocking back and forth, “Not much. Just that he helped you clean up the attic. Colin’s a funny kid like that. Perhaps he enjoyed the company more than the activity.” She winked at me.

A blush much hotter than the tea crept up my cheeks and into my pink hairline. I gritted my teeth.

I stumbled over the use of her first name, but somehow “Mrs. Carter” didn’t seem right. “Bergita?”

“Yes?” Bergita rocked gently in her chair. She sipped her tea while looking out over her lawn and flower gardens.

I gnawed the inside of my cheek, wondering if I should ask the question that nagged me. But my mother had said the most important characteristic of a scientist was not being afraid to ask uncomfortable questions. I figured if I wanted to be a scientist like my parents someday, I’d better get used to asking the tough questions now. “Did you know someone else named Andora?”

She didn’t seem surprised by the question. She rocked and sipped, and rocked and sipped. I shifted in my chair, waiting, holding back the dozens of other questions that were now bouncing around inside my
head.
A scientist must also be patient and wait for the results
, I told myself. Scone and impatience gurgled together in my belly. I sipped the tea carefully, hoping to settle my stomach.

Bergita placed a hand on her chin. “I
have
heard your name before. Long, long ago when I was just a child.” She smacked her lips in thought. “I was seven years old during the summer of 1946, and I was excited about starting the second grade because I’d have my own Aunt Maribeth for my teacher. One afternoon, I attended a church picnic and ran around with the boys, as usual.” She wrinkled her nose. “I was a real Dickens back then.”

“Dickens?”

She smiled. “A trouble-making child similar to the street urchins in Charles Dickens’ novels. The boys and I tried to snatch extra cookies from the picnic table. I knew my mother didn’t want me to have any more.

“Anyway, two women were standing at the table: Mrs. Frieda Baptist and Mrs. Louanne Mayes. Both of them are gone now, of course, but I overheard their conversation. Mrs. Baptist said, ‘Poor man. Nothing seems to hold him together.’ And then Mrs. Mayes said, ‘He still has the boy.’

“I wondered who they were talking about, and I snuck closer because I knew they were talking about someone at the picnic. I loved overhearing all of the scuttlebutt around church and then reporting back to Grandma Daisy. She was too ill to attend services with us.

“Mrs. Baptist said, ‘Andora, too,’ but then Mrs. Mayes snapped, ‘Bite your tongue!’ Her tone was so
harsh, I jumped and knocked the plate of gingersnaps onto the grass.”

Bergita laughed. “Boy, were they furious with me for eavesdropping! And as well they should have been. They threatened to tell my daddy, and I certainly didn’t want them to do that. He was a huge bear of a man and had just gotten back from the Pacific. He’d been stationed there during the Second World War. I was glad to have my daddy back, and I didn’t want him disappointed with me.

“So I ran home and told my Grandma Daisy what I’d overheard. I just knew she’d eat it up and give me some of her homemade ice cream as a reward. But she didn’t have the reaction I’d expected. Usually, she’d grin and rub her hands together, eager for the smallest tidbit of gossip. When I told her this story, however, her lips pursed like she’d taken a big bite of lemon and couldn’t spit it out.

“I asked her, ‘Who’s Andora?’ And she snapped at me. I remember it was the first time Grandma Daisy had ever spoken harshly to me in my whole life. ‘Shush your mouth, Bergy,’ she said. ‘I don’t want you to ever say that name again. And don’t listen to people like Mrs. Baptist who don’t have enough sense to leave it alone.’”

“And you never found out which man the two women were talking about?” I asked.

“Never.” Bergita took another sip of her tea with a faraway look in her eyes.

The front door to the house opened, and Colin stepped outside. His hair was still wet from a shower, making it appear black. He grinned. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I replied.

I looked at Bergita and stopped smiling. A smirk played around the corners of her lips. “Andora here was just asking me about her name.”

Colin’s eyes grew wide as he looked at me. I barely shook my head, hoping he’d guess that I hadn’t said anything to Bergita about the hidden trunk. He climbed onto the porch railing, and his bare feet swung back and forth between the smooth maple posts.

“When I met you the other day and I told you my name, you looked …” I paused, searching for the right word, “… you looked afraid. Why?”

“You have a good eye, my dear.” She sighed. “I suppose I was remembering Grandma Daisy’s reprimand. Like I said, she’d never yelled at me before. For her to be so upset with me, I knew I should leave it alone. So I never mentioned it again until now.” Bergita stood. “I’d better go inside and get my things together for painting class.”

“Bethany likes art too. Amelie told her about the class and asked her if she wanted to go.” I picked up my mug from the table. “I don’t think she will though.”

Bergita folded her arms. “She should. It would be a good way for her to meet some other artists in town. Leave it to me. I’ll talk your sister into it.”

Good luck
, I thought but decided to let Bergita come to her own conclusions about Bethany.

The scones long gone, Jackson followed Bergita inside, probably hoping for an after-breakfast snack.

The door latched behind them, and I told Colin the story Bergita had just shared with me.

Colin scratched his chin. It was a gesture that reminded me of someone much older, like Mr. Cragmeyer. “Sounds like there’s something about this Andora that the whole town wanted to hide.”

“But why?”

Colin jumped off the railing and snapped his fingers. “Let’s find out.”

I almost dropped my Bugs Bunny mug. “Find out?” I set the mug on the table and brushed the rest of the scone crumbs from my jean shorts.

“You know, investigate.” His eyes gleamed, reminding me of Jackson right before I slipped him a piece of scone.

I had to admit that I liked the idea. I’d already planned on doing as much on my own, but maybe I could use Colin’s help. He knew more about Killdeer than I did.

“I’ll be right back,” Colin said, dashing into the house.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and lurched back and forth in the old rocker, thinking about Andora and wondering why my parents named me after someone no one remembered. Had my dad remembered her? I wish I could ask him.

Colin was back within seconds carrying a medium-sized red notebook and an orange pencil with a football eraser on the end. “This is it!” He wrote on the first page, T
HE
C
ASE OF THE
F
IRST
A
NDORA
. And under that he added, B
OGGS AND
C
ARTER
I
NVESTIGATIONS
.

He grinned. “We’ll list all of our clues in here and solve the case. First, we need to catalog everything we
found in the trunk and where and when we found it. Then we need to copy down Bergita’s story.”

I dropped my legs to the floor. “We do have one excellent clue so far.”

“Yeah, the stuff in the trunk.”

“And we know that whoever this Andora was, she was alive before the summer of 1946 when Bergita overheard those ladies gossiping at the picnic.”

Colin hopped up and down. “That’s right!” He made a note in our new casebook. “I know the perfect place to start looking for more clues.”

“Where?”

He slammed the casebook shut. “Do you have a bike?”