Paperquake (17 page)

Violet started working on the second piecrust. She was pleased at the way the firm circles held together in her hands. Mrs. Lauer showed her how to crimp the dough around the edge. Annabel carried the big bowl of spiced pumpkin over to the table.

"My turn now?" she asked.

Mrs. Lauer helped Annabel spoon the creamy orange mixture into the crust Violet had prepared. From beneath the table, Jasmine poked Violet in the leg.

"We wanted to know about a letter you gave to the historical society," said Violet, returning Jasmine's poke with a little kick under the table.

Mrs. Lauer looked startled. "Now, how would you know a thing about that?"

"I saw it when I was on a field trip," explained Violet, "and it really interested me because it seemed to be written by the same person who wrote other letters we found in our shop."

Mrs. Lauer raised her eyebrows. "How fascinating. And you cared enough tp track me down? Now why would that be, I wonder."

Violet hesitated.

Rose took over. "Well, Vi is doing a science report on the 1906 earthquake. And so she was wondering if maybe you had any other stuff from that time."

"And she was wondering who Hal was," added Jasmine from under the table.

"Hal who?" asked Mrs. Lauer.

"The guy who wrote the letters," said Beth eagerly, standing up again. "You see, at first Vi thought the letters were written to her somehow, but now she doesn't, not exactly. But still, there is a link because the letters and diary entries keep coming true, and so the letters are sort of a warning—"

"Never mind about that!" interrupted Violet, and Beth broke off abruptly.

Violet bit her lip. It was hard work trying to be a detective and deal with a sensitive best friend at the same time.

Mrs. Lauer had stopped beating eggs and cream into a new batch of the pumpkin mixture. She raised her eyebrows. "A warning! This sounds more and more intriguing—"

Sam was staring across the table at Violet with unabashed curiosity. "You think the letters were written for
you?
But they're a million years old."

Before they could say anything more, Violet spoke quietly. "I just need to know where the letter came from in the first place."

Mrs. Lauer had resumed mixing the eggs and cream. "Well, dear, all I know is that I found the letter inside one of the boxes I bought at our annual Chance Street sale a few years back. The boxes were full of old fabric scraps. Real pretty bits of lace, lots of ribbon, and pieces of felt. Even some feathers! Only a dollar a box. Seemed a bargain, because I'm always buying ribbon and suchlike for the wreaths I make to sell for the church."

Violet's mind was racing to process all this information. Rose spoke up first. "What
is
the Chance Street sale?" she asked Mrs. Lauer.

"It's like a block party and yard sale mixed together," explained Sam. "It's totally cool. Every year at the end of August, the street is roped off so there isn't any traffic. And then everybody on Chance Street can set up tables outside their houses. People sell all sorts of stuff real cheap. Last year I got a skateboard for five bucks—and it was hardly used."

Jasmine and Beth emerged from under the table to listen. Anthony crawled out of the room and Annabel followed him. "Go get them, Sam," said his mother. "They'll be up to mischief in there all alone." She turned her attention back to the girls.

"The merchants on the street have tables outside, too," Mrs. Lauer continued. "And the café sells sandwiches and drinks for half price. When the yard sale business slows down—usually around five o'clock—the people from other neighborhoods who came to shop go home, and then all the families have a big picnic. It's a wonderfrd tradition. Gone on for years now."

"And that's where you bought the box," murmured Jasmine. "But who was selling it? Do you remember?"

"Now that I
do
know," said Mrs. Lauer. She examined the pie shells Violet had made. "These are just fine. You have a nice touch."

"The box had to have come from our shop," pressed Violet, who had been silently listening. "But who lived there then?"

"It was old Miss Stowe," said Mrs. Lauer.

Stowe! The girls nudged each other.

"After I found the letter," explained Mrs. Lauer, "I called to ask if she wanted it. But she said she was leaving Chance Street to move into a nursing home. She didn't know anything about the letter and didn't want it back." Mrs. Lauer shook her head. "She's been gone about three years now—and her place has been empty all this time. The street doesn't seem the same without her."

Sam returned to the kitchen with Annabel on his shoulders and Anthony tucked under one arm like a sack of potatoes. "Nothing seems the same without the witch," Sam growled in a low, spooky voice, and then let out a piercing cackle. "And who's complaining?" Annabel laughed and pounded her hands on his head.

Violet looked at him sharply. "The witch?"

"Now, Sam, I don't like to hear such talk," chided his mother. "Old Miss Stowe was crotchety, I'll give you that. But she was having health problems. No one likes to hear skateboards whizzing up and down in front of their house when they're not feeling well."

"Stowe is the name of the family who used to live in our shop," said Jasmine.

"They made hats," added Rose.

"That's right," nodded Mrs. Lauer. "There were three sisters. Miss Stowe was the last of the family alive, if I recall rightly. The eldest sister died quite young, I remember hearing. Miss Stowe and her other sister were identical twins. The twins inherited the shop from their parents and kept it going until after World War Two, I believe. Then one sister died, and our Miss Stowe couldn't keep on by herself. None of the sisters ever married, and I guess there wasn't enough money to hire an assistant. The last Miss Stowe became something of a hermit—hardly ever came outside in later years. I hear she even had concrete poured over the back garden so she wouldn't have to go out and do the gardening."

It seemed criminal to Violet. "Those beautiful flowers and shrubs—all covered over by cement?" she protested.

Sam was looking at her intendy. "Sounds as if you'd
seen
the garden."

"The old hat shop went out of business years ago," Mrs. Lauer said. "Long before we ever moved to Chance Street. People just don't wear hats the way they used to. I think Miss Stowe was living on her Social Security payments. We didn't know her well. She kept to herself, though I helped her from time to time with her shopping. As she grew older, she had one of those metal walkers and could only go a few feet before resting. It was hard for her to walk and pull her shopping cart along at the same time." Mrs. Lauer washed her hands and dried them on her apron. "Ah, well, we'll all grow old, God willing. It's still better than dying young, if you ask me!" She smiled over at Violet. "I'd like to see your letters, dear."

"Sure," said Jasmine brightly. "Vi?"

Violet shot Jasmine a look. She felt the folded pieces of paper in her back pocket. "Sure," she echoed slowly, feeling backed into a corner.
The letters are mine!
she wanted to cry.
It's up to
me
to decide whether to show them to people or not!
"Sometime. But, um, not today. Um, what we were hoping is that you would have more letters for us. Like the one you gave to the historical society. Maybe there are more in those boxes of lace and stuff you bought."

She noticed that Sam was looking at her intendy, his brown eyes thoughtful. Did he suspect she had the letters in her pocket now, after all?

"Well, I'm fairly sure there aren't, but you girls are welcome to look. Sam, honey, go fetch the other box. It's up in the back of my closet with the craft supplies."

"This is really nice of you," said Beth politely as Mrs. Lauer led them from the kitchen into a living room littered with wooden blocks and plastic animals. They had to watch carefully to avoid stepping on them.

Violet and Beth sat with Mrs. Lauer on the couch, while Jasmine and Rose settled into the two armchairs by the fireplace. Annabel started building a tower with the blocks, and Anthony knocked the tower down. Violet braced herself for her screams of protest, but none came. Instead, she patiently started rebuilding the tower. Again Anthony knocked it down, laughing. Annabel laughed, too, and built a new tower.

Sam entered the room, lugging a large cardboard box. "Here it is. A zillion pounds of felt and lace and yarn. Mom's always making stuff—especially around Christmas."

Mrs. Lauer opened the flaps. The girls came forward to peer inside at the jumble of fabric. Violet's excitement died. She'd half expected to see bundles of letters from Hal tied up with ribbon. Carefully, Violet lifted the fabric and dug down to the bottom of the box. Then she turned to the girls.

"Nothing. There's nothing here." Their faces mirrored her disappointment.

"No, I didn't think there would be," said Mrs. Lauer. "Miss Stowe told me she was getting rid of all of her old things when she moved out. Her own personal stuff, she said, as well as old family things—even stuff left behind by the hired help."

"You can't take it with you," Sam intoned.

"But maybe she did!" Violet said. "Maybe she took some things to the nursing home with her. Maybe we could call and ask her."

The other girls grinned. "Good idea," Rose nodded. "Can you tell us where she lives?" she asked Mrs. Lauer.

"I think it was over in Oakland," the woman answered "But—"

"Do you know the name of the place?" pressed Violet.

"I'm sorry. I have no idea. But I'm afraid it wouldn't do you any good even if I did. I heard from someone at church that Miss Stowe passed away last year. That's why your house—your new shop, I mean—came on the market."

Dead. The surviving Miss Stowe was now as dead as her two other sisters, and the trail of clues had reached a dead end as well. Violet stroked a swatch of blue velvet. She had been so certain that they were on Hal's trail. Now she felt lost again.

A spicy aroma wafted into the living room. "I'd better check on those pies," said Mrs. Lauer. She reached for Anthony as the little boy crawled past. "And this little one doesn't smell so good at all. Time for a diaper change, my sweet."

"I guess we'd better get going," said Rose regretfully, "if we're going to get any cleaning done at the shop."

"Yeah." Jasmine stood up, brushing off her jeans.

Beth nudged Violet, who remained sitting on the floor, stroking the cloth. Slowly Violet removed her apron and handed it to Mrs. Lauer. She made an effort to smile. "It was nice to meet you," she said. Annabel skipped along to the front hallway, leading the others.

"We're delighted that your parents bought old Miss Stowe's place," said Mrs. Lauer. "A pretty little florist shop ought to go a long way toward brightening up this old neighborhood."

They reached the front door when the floor dipped alarmingly and the glass panes rattled in the windows. "Uh-oh!" cried Mrs. Lauer, snatching Annabel's hand and pulling the child to her.

"Not again!" squealed Beth.

"Hang on!" shouted Sam. "There—it's over already."

The others stood waiting, braced for whatever would come next, almost ready to laugh about it. Only Violet was holding her breath. Only Violet felt darkness lapping behind her closed eyes and saw the shadowy figures running in panic.
Flames!
The little girl fleeing from ruins of twisted metal, her mouth open in an anguished cry for help—

Sam laughed. Violet opened her eyes, dazed. She couldn't speak. The frightened pounding of her heart nearly drowned out the voices of the others.

"It was just that little old swarm of quakes," joked Rose. "Buzzing by again." And Jasmine giggled weakly.

"It's totally horrible the way you never know if a quake is just—you know, just a little one," complained Beth. "Or if it's the first of a whole lot of big ones."

"Well!" Mrs. Lauer hugged her little ones. "That seems to be all for this time. Everybody okay?"

"I guess so," said Jasmine.

"But I wish they'd stop," added Rose. "We've had enough."

Just as the girls started out the door, Sam brushed up against Violet and surreptitiously pressed something into her hand. Something smooth and square. Automatically, Violet closed her fingers around it. She raised her eyes to his questioningly. He winked.

Mrs. Lauer turned to her son. "Sam," she said, "why don't you go along and help these girls with some of the cleaning over there? Make yourself useful instead of risking your life on that skateboard all day."

"Sure," said Rose eagerly, turning back in the doorway. "We could use another pair of hands to pull down the old wallpaper."

"Yeah," said Jasmine. "You know the old saying, don't you? 'Many hands make light work.'"

Sam shuffled his feet and looked embarrassed and pleased at the same time. "What about 'Too many cooks spoil the broth'?"

"Nonsense," said his mother. "You can smell how well the pies are turning out after all the help I had. Now run along."

Sam leaped down the front steps, followed by Jasmine and Rose. The three of them raced each other across the street while Beth and Violet followed more slowly.

"Are you okay?" Beth asked quietly. "You look really, I don't know,
freaked.
"

Violet would never be okay on a planet that wouldn't keep still. But she took a deep breath and once again forced her fear back inside. "I'll get over it." She changed the subject. "I was so sure we'd find something at the Lauers. Oh well."

"We found Sam, though," said Beth cheerfully. "And his family. I like them. And know what? I think Sam likes
you.
In fact, maybe he's your Hal!"

Violet felt her cheeks grow warm. She went ahead of Beth into the shop, passed the others in the living room, and climbed upstairs on legs that shook. In the little bathroom, she sat on the edge of the tub and stared down at the thick square of paper Sam had given her. She could hear her heart beating. Was this a love note? Was he her Hal?

She unfolded the paper carefully. It was old, too old to be from Sam. It was a thin sheet of lined paper, the fold lines yellowed and brittle. The page was filled with the now-familiar, elegant brown script of the unknown diary writer. The date at the top was June 20, 1906.
That's after the big earthquake,
Violet remembered,
and after the other entry I found.
She began reading.