Shadowmaker (17 page)

But who was the thief? In this perfect town of Sheriff Granger’s Kluney, who could he be—and was there more than one? Could they be the beach bums who’d been seen around here?

At the sound of a faint rustling in the corner, I quickly left the attic and raised the stairs into place, making sure the door was snug.

With Mom away, I had no desire to call the sheriff and
show him what I’d found. I wasn’t sure it would do any good, aside from a couple of people getting their stolen property back, and they could wait. They didn’t need it tonight.

I made a mug of hot tea, with lots of lemon juice and honey and cinnamon in it—comfort tea, as Mom calls it—and curled back up on the sofa to sip it.

One, two, three
kept coming back to my mind.
One, two, three. One
 … shoplifting;
two
 … petty burglaries;
three
 … major thefts;
four
 … If there was a pattern to the crimes in Kluney, each group of crimes getting more severe, then drifters or beach bums couldn’t be responsible. The criminals had to be local—someone on hand to make the pattern work.

The answer came so suddenly I jumped, sloshing tea down my shirt and onto my jeans.

I snatched Lana Jean’s journal pages out from under the sofa cushion and began reading, more carefully than I’d ever read anything before.

Travis, Travis, and more about Travis. I came to a mention of B.J. checking out Mrs. Walgren’s set of four black hoods for a skit in drama. “Very funny,” Lana Jean wrote, “because B.J. hadn’t signed up for drama, and neither had his friends.”

Lana Jean went on to describe what Travis ate for lunch. I lay the pages on my lap and concentrated on what I’d read. Black hoods. Black cloth? Could the scrap of black cloth I’d found have come from one of the hoods?

What had she written earlier? “One, two, three, four,
five, getting harder all the time, and if you don’t, you’re out.”

Four
 … The crimes were getting more difficult and more daring. Could
four
have been a planned armed robbery? And could that armed robbery have gone wrong and turned into murder?

“The guys in Blitz have to prove themselves,” Lana Jean had said.

With Lana Jean dead it was up to me to do some proving. I owed her that.

In agony I closed my eyes, but I could see Travis’s face, his smile, his dark eyes … I could feel his kiss.

“No,” I groaned, and dove into the journal pages again, concentrating on what I was reading to keep from dwelling on my own feelings about Travis. I read Lana Jean’s entire entry about the carnival: how Travis and his friends had gone on some of the rides, what they had eaten, which carny games they’d played, even a jealous mention of the cheerleader Travis had met behind the Ferris wheel. And, finally, I read that one by one Travis and his friends had slipped away into the woods to find … a pigeon?

I was stumped. It actually took me a few minutes before I realized that Lana Jean had taken literally what she’d overheard. Now I knew better. I could see Travis and the others following the tracks of a carnival worker who had probably been looking for a quick and private place to goof off from his job. Their pigeon.

Travis, the leader of his friends in Blitz … Had he robbed the worker at gunpoint, then pulled the trigger?

Lana Jean hadn’t been simply a victim of wishful thinking.
She’d been telling the truth about Travis asking to take her out. Travis had been the one who had lied. Filled with an aching, cold misery, I realized that when Travis discovered that Lana Jean must have seen or overheard enough to place the members of Blitz with the carnival worker, he must have killed her. I was grief stricken. Pathetic Lana Jean dead and Travis a killer.

But who would believe me? How could I possibly prove it?

My head throbbed as I tried to put everything together. I must have fallen asleep on the sofa because I woke the next morning to see that the sun was rapidly burning away the fog. I stacked Lana Jean’s journal pages. I had to hide this important evidence. Now I knew why Travis was so eager to get his hands on these pages—he wasn’t embarrassed—he was protecting himself. I folded them and decided a safe place was to stuff them inside the outside packaging for a frozen carton of chicken à la king, and put it underneath an assortment of frozen stuff in the freezer compartment of the refrigerator. If Travis came searching for the pages, I doubted he’d think of looking there.

In order to dispose of the frozen chicken à la king, I stuck it into the oven and ate it for breakfast.

Mom would be home soon. I hadn’t called her because I didn’t want her to be worried. After giving the situation plenty of thought, I finally decided to keep everything to myself for just a little while. Mom would naturally call the sheriff, and all my suspicions would be out in the open, with no one able to prove things one way or another.
There’d be even more reason for people to want us out of here, and Mom would never get her novel written.

I had an idea, and I was counting on B.J.’s mean disposition to help me follow through.

When Mom got home, she was so busy, it was easy to tell her that she could see I was still in one piece, and avoid any other questions. Two inspectors came with her from Austin, and they all headed for the Hawkins Brothers Waste Disposal company. Mom asked if I’d like to go with them, but I knew they didn’t need me, and I had other things to work on.

“Can’t,” I said. “I’ve got a lot of homework to do, and first, I’ve got to make a trip to the library to check out a copy of
The Three Musketeers.
”

“You read that last year,” Mom said. “Is your class repeating it?”

“No,” I said. “This is for an interpretation.” In answer to the question in her eyes I said, “Interpretations are complicated. I’ll explain later.”

Mom gave me a lift to the library, and after I’d checked out the book I walked home, talking to each of the dogs who guarded the road to our house. They barked at me anyway. That was their job, and I was glad they were good at it.

I worked the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by a few angry, anonymous telephone calls and people who just called and hung up. Word about the Hawkins brothers company was getting around town fast.

Late that evening at dinner, Mom explained to me what a great day she’d had. “There exists a Resource Conservation
and Recovery Act,” she said. “Violators must pay fines.” Then she went on about a superfund of federal money that could be used to clean up certain waste dump sites, with the companies responsible for the dumping having to pay back the money. When Bubba and Billy Joe Hawkins were faced with the inspectors, they’d named other violators, so a massive inspection and clean-up was going to take place in this part of Texas.

“The Hawkinses won’t go out of business,” Mom said. “They’ll just have to change the way they do things.”

“Some people called here. They didn’t give their names, but they were pretty steamed about what you were doing.”

“They just don’t understand the dangers of toxic waste,” Mom said, looking kind of sad. “All some people think about is making money, no matter what, and they don’t want to face any problems that might threaten the loss of their jobs.”

“What will happen to Anita Boggs and her little boy?”

“She finally gave permission for soil testing, as did the other three homeowners on that block. The Hawkinses may relocate them to new homes, or there may be lawsuits that take care of the problem, but, believe me, it’s going to be taken care of, as it should be.”

She put down her fork and smiled at me. “Enough about the Hawkins brothers. You are a great daughter. I hated to leave you alone, and I hope you don’t mind that I had the sheriff check on you. The fog was so bad.…”

I didn’t have to answer. We got three angry phone calls in a row. Mom tried to explain, then gave up because the callers didn’t want explanations, and neither did the others
who continued to call. Mom finally took the phone off the hook so we could go to bed.

On Sunday, after church, Mom and I went to call on Mrs. Willis to offer our sympathy and support. I knew how it felt to lose someone you love. So did Mom. We had the loss of my father only six years ago. But next to that, facing Mrs. Willis was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do.

T
he next morning, just before Mrs. Walgren called the class to order, I searched her prop closet. There was no sign of the four black hoods, so I told her I needed them for my interpretation and asked if someone had checked them out.

She looked through a little spiral notebook and called, “B.J.—those black hoods you borrowed for your drama assignment … Is the assignment over? Can you bring the hoods back to class? Katie wants to use them for her interpretation.”

He mumbled something, and I said, “I need them tomorrow.”

“For practice?” Mrs. Walgren asked.

I’d rehearsed what I was planning to say, and I let it all spill out. “I know you gave us two weeks to work on our
interpretations, but mine is ready, and I hope you’ll let me put it on tomorrow.”

Mrs. Walgren’s look of surprise quickly disappeared and she clasped her hands together. “I’m counting on you for a top-notch interpretation,” she said. “You know, it might be a fine idea for you to give yours first. It may inspire a few others in the class.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“Suppose you choose the students who will help you enact your interpretation,” she said, and added a little dubiously, “I hope you’ll have enough time to rehearse.”

I said the first thing that came into my head. “The success of my interpretation is based on spontaneity.”

It must have sounded good, because she smiled and said, “My goodness! This will be something different. I can hardly wait to see it.”

As I walked back to my seat, B.J. glared and stuck out a foot to trip me, but I’d been expecting something. I stepped over his foot and sat down.

Wait until tomorrow
, I thought as I stared at the back of B.J.’s head.
Tomorrow, when you find out what I’m going to do to you, you’ll be in for a big surprise.

Everyone at school was discussing Lana Jean’s murder. I knew there was no way in the world I’d be able to talk to Travis and disguise what I’d learned, so I went to the nurse’s office during lunch, told her I had an upset stomach—which I would have had if I’d met up with Travis—and spent the time lying on a cot. I recovered when the bells rang for my next class, and after school I went out a side
door and cut behind the lineup of cars to get on the school bus in order to avoid him.

On the ride home, Tammy asked me questions about Lana Jean’s murder, which I couldn’t handle and told her so.

“I understand. You were her only real friend,” Tammy said, and she changed the subject to how much fun she’d had visiting her aunt.

A real friend? When I’d been only too eager to drop Lana Jean and spend my time with Tammy and Julie and anyone else who showed even a scrap of friendliness. When I kissed
Travis,
who’d—

“Did you just groan?” Tammy asked. “Is something the matter?”

“I’m okay,” I said, but I wasn’t.

I didn’t sleep much Monday night. I tried hard not to think about Lana Jean, and went over and over in my mind what I was going to say and do the next morning in English lit. It was either the worst idea I’d ever had or the best, and I wouldn’t know until I tried it out.

What if B.J. wouldn’t cooperate? What if he didn’t bring the black hoods? What if he brought three of them, but not the one that was torn? What if I had guessed wrong, and the hoods hadn’t been worn by the members of Blitz? My bedclothes were tangled when I woke up in the morning, and I couldn’t eat a bite of breakfast.

“You’re coming down with something,” Mom said. “Are you running a fever?”

I shook my head. “It’s the interpretation for English lit.
I’ve never done one before, and it counts a lot toward our final grade.”

I could shoot my grade down too
, I realized, but at the moment that was the least of my worries.

As I entered Mrs. Walgren’s classroom that morning, I spotted the hoods wadded on the edge of her desk. With trembling fingers I picked them up, carried them to her props closet, and examined them. All four hoods were there, and one of them—at the back—was missing the piece I’d found in the woods and had stuffed into my pocket before leaving home that morning. I shoved the other three into the closet, folded the torn hood so the hole didn’t show, and got into my seat. My legs were so shaky they could hardly hold me up, and no matter how hard I tried to breathe normally, my breath kept coming in thin little gasps.

The minute the announcements were over and the intercom had squawked to a logical end, Mrs. Walgren took roll call, brought the class to order, and, with a wiggle, settled into her chair. She informed the class that I would be the first to present my literary interpretation. She called me to come up to the front of the room.

I picked up the black hood and slowly walked to the front. “I need B.J. to help me out,” I told Mrs. Walgren.

“B.J., did you hear that?” Mrs. Walgren asked.

“I’ll help you.” Billy Don eagerly waved his hand.

“Thanks,” I said, and gave Billy Don a smile. “But it’s a special kind of part. It has to be B.J.”

“No way,” B.J. muttered, and slid farther down in his seat.

“I expect complete cooperation,” Mrs. Walgren stated in a no-nonsense tone. When he didn’t budge, she said, “Are you interested in repeating this class next semester?”

Grumbling under his breath, B.J. reluctantly shuffled up the aisle.

I slid a straight-backed visitor’s chair from its usual place in the corner, and asked, “Will you sit here, please?”

As B.J. did, I stepped behind him, raised my voice, and said, “We are hereby gathered to bring charges against His Majesty’s unworthy subject, d’Artagnan, who will henceforth be hooded.” I slapped the hood over B.J.’s head before he knew what had happened to him.

“Hey! What’s …?” He reached up to pull off the hood.

But the sharpness in Mrs. Walgren’s voice brought him to a halt. “Keep your hands in your lap, B.J.! This is an intriguing beginning, and you are not to spoil it. Do you understand?”