SummerHill Secrets, Volume 2 (47 page)

Suddenly, I realized I hadn’t taken Levi Zook into consideration. Guess I thought of him less as a boy and more as a young man. Maybe…

“See you to your locker?” Jon asked. His smile was as blissful as it was big.

“Okay.” And we walked into the school together.

Later, when the bell rang, my yesterday’s daydream came true. The former Alliteration Wizard and the reigning Alliteration Queen walked side by side down the swarming, yet seemingly silent, hallway.

After school, my cats helped me pack. Well, they didn’t actually do anything except curl up in the golden sunbeams that spilled into the guest room from each of the dormer windows.

“We’re going home,” I sang, trying not to think about Abednego. Here it was Thursday, nearly a week since the storm had scared him away. I missed him terribly, ornery and spiteful as he was.

Looking in all the empty drawers, on the closet floor, and under the bed, I made sure nothing was left behind. Then I realized what a wonderful, old-fashioned bedroom this really was. For a fleeting moment, I actually thought I might miss this quaint place.

“Come on, little ones,” I said to my snoozing, perfectly contented cats. “We have to tell Miss Spindler good-bye.”

Surprisingly, they got up, stretched, and followed me down-stairs, where Miss Spindler was waiting, all smiles.

“I hope you had a right nice time, dearie,” she said, filling my backpack with a plastic container of homemade cookies.

“Oh yes, I did.” I glanced down at my cats. “I should say
we
did. Thanks again. I know it took a lot of worry off my parents’ minds while they’re gone.” I paused. Now was a good time to apologize for sneaking around in the old woman’s house. “I shouldn’t have gone snooping in your attic, Miss Spindler. My parents would die if they knew about it. I’m sorry,” I said, meaning every word.

“Forget it, dearie,” she said and patted the box of cookies through the backpack. “Remember, now, there’s more where these came from…and you and your brother are gonna be all alone over there. If you need anything at all, give me a holler. Dessert, ice cream…you name it. I’ll even bake you up some pie.”

I was chuckling. “And the same goes for you, Miss Spindler. If ever you need anything, just let me know.”

That’s when her eyes got big and round, like coat buttons. “Come to think of it, Merry, dear, there
is
something I could use some help with.” Then she waved her hand, shooing me off for home. “Aw, shucks, it’ll wait till you get yourself settled in again. Tell that big brother of yours hello from this here neighbor, ya hear?”

“I will,” I promised, eager to find out if what she needed help with was her e-mail messages. I don’t know why it intrigued me—her pushing eighty and doing the high-tech thing. But then again, this was the same old lady who drove a hot red sports car all over SummerHill.

My brother was more excited to hear about the attic “find” than he was glad to see me, I think. He got all caught up in my story right off.

“Won’t Mom and Dad freak?” Skip said, face aglow. “I mean, this has gotta be the biggest story in all of Lancaster County. Except maybe that drug bust among the Amish out east of town.”

“Hey, I wonder if we should call up the newspaper?”

Skip sat at the kitchen table. “The media would be more than happy to sensationalize a story like this.” He helped himself to some of Miss Spindler’s cookies. “I can see the headlines now: ‘Plain Folk Chat With Hot-Rodding Spinster on Net.’ ”

Laughing, I poured him a tall glass of milk. “I think we’d better keep the media out of it and just enjoy the wackiness ourselves.”

He pulled out a kitchen chair for me, and I was surprised at his gentlemanly gesture. “Who else knows about this?” he asked, breaking the stillness.

“Only Jon.” I thought about it. “And some of my girl friends.”

“They knew about your investigating Old Hawk Eyes’ attic?”

I nodded. “But they haven’t heard what I found. Least, not my girl friends.”

Skip drank half the glass of milk straight down. “Are you still doing that weird word thing with Jon?” he asked.

“How’d
you
know about that?”

Leaning back on the chair, he devoured another cookie. “Jon’s sister talks about it every now and then.”

“Oh, so you and Jon’s sister are still writing love letters? Or are they e-mails?” I teased.

He couldn’t contain the pink color that crept into his face. “That’s none of your business,” he said flatly.

“Well, it’s gonna be my business if Nikki’s my sister-in-law someday!”

He sneered—his old self was showing through. “And if I marry her and you marry Jon, our kids will be brousins—closer than cousins. Get it?”

I shook my head at him. This was a pitiful conversation. “I’m going upstairs,” I said, getting up from the table.

“Who’s cooking tonight?” he asked, looking worried.

“You are.” With that, I disappeared up the kitchen flight of stairs and headed to my room. I made myself comfortable on the bed and spread out the scrapbook of my dad’s retirement party. Time to finish my project. I wanted Dad
and
Mom to be surprised when they arrived home this Saturday.

The phone rang an hour later, but I ignored it, letting Skip get it for a change. When he didn’t call for me right away, I figured it must be for him.
Probably Nikki
, I thought. She had always been one to chase after my brother.

“Merry, it’s for you,” Skip hollered up to me.

“I’ll be right there!” Scurrying down the hall to Mom and Dad’s bedroom, I picked up the phone. “Hello?” I said, out of breath.

“Merry, dear, it’s Miss Spindler.”

“Oh hi. Is everything all right over there?”

She snickered. “That’s
my
line, dearie.”
How’s every little thing
was what she always said first off.

“Yes…well, I forgot. Sorry.”

“Oh my, there’s no need to apologize,” she said. “I just thought I’d call and check with you about supper plans.”

Supper plans?

Then I remembered my brother was in charge of the kitchen. At least, I’d told him he was cooking tonight. “Uh…yes, we’re open to suggestions,” I said rather quickly.

“That’s what I hoped to hear,” said Miss Spindler. “I made a ravioli casserole that’s downright too big—family size, I dare-say—and, well, since there ain’t much of a family over here, I thought I’d invite myself to supper.”

I looked up to see Skip standing comically in the doorway, motioning for me to say yes. Which I was more than happy to do.

“Aren’t you the lucky one,” I told Skip as I hung up the phone. “Somebody who can actually cook is bringing pasta for supper.”

“Hallelujah!” he sang.

I was mighty glad about it, too. But I couldn’t help wondering what Miss Spindler had on her mind. Surely there was something.

Quickly, I dialed Ashley Horton. I filled her in on everything she’d missed since my snooping expedition in the refurbished attic across the yard from me.

“I’m not one bit surprised,” Ashley said. “Anyone that old who still likes to drive fancy cars is probably a good candidate for the computer age. Don’t you think so?”

Leave it to Ashley to throw in her homegrown philosophy. In the short time I’d known her, she always managed to pick exactly the right time to insert her strange-but-true comments.

“Curiosity killed the cat, right?” she said, laughing.

“Excuse me?”

“Your curiosity got the best of you,” she began to summarize. “So you nosed around in Miss Spindler’s attic.”

“Right.”

“Merry, you really can’t expect to be too surprised at the result, can you?”

“I’m not dead, am I?”

“No…no, that’s not what the old proverb means.” Once again, she tried to get me to see the light. “What you did—out of pure inquisitiveness, of course—was bound to get you into trouble in the long run.”

“But I’m
not
in trouble,” I insisted.

“Well, I think you might be if Miss Spindler ever finds out.”

I proceeded to tell her that Miss Spindler knew all—and about the old lady’s e-mail pals. “I guess you could say she wanted to be found out. Maybe she wanted us to know that she’s a truly ‘with it’ old lady.”

“She’s cool, all right. And I’ll be the first to congratulate her,” Ashley said.

“Well, I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”

“Why not?”

“Because she doesn’t realize that very many of us know yet.”

Ashley’s sigh came through to my end of the phone. Loud and long. “Now I’m completely confused.”

“I don’t blame you.” I was dying to tell her that I wouldn’t be playing the Alliteration Game anymore. (The thought was triggered by the
c
words she’d used.) But I thought better of it and decided to keep that decision secret—just between Jon Klein and me.

Miss Spindler came for supper with bells on. She was all dolled up—a touch of lipstick and pinkish cheeks. She wore a long, floral broomstick skirt and a hot-pink blouse to match the rosebuds in her flowing skirt.

“Now, dearies, I brought along Parmesan cheese to sprinkle on the pasta and enough warm garlic bread to feed every last one of our Amish neighbors.” She said this with a playful smile on her wrinkled face.

“You’re getting to know lots of them?” I blurted without thinking.

“Who’s that, dear?” she asked.

“Our Amish neighbors,” I repeated.

Skip was trying not to explode in the corner of the kitchen between the wall and Mom’s African violet plants. I could tell by the way he was smashing his lips together—and that silly grin on his face. Man, was I crazy to bring this up, or what?

“As a matter of fact, I
have
been getting myself acquainted with a whole bunch of Plain folk, come to think of it,” she said.

“Oh?” I had to play dumb. I wasn’t supposed to know this.

“I’m sure your nice young man—that Jonathan Klein, was it?—told you all about my little chat with him yesterday afternoon.” Her beady eyes were on me now. I had a mighty powerful feeling that there was no way out. I had to fess up.

“Well, first of all”—I said this for Skip’s sake—“Jon’s not my nice young man. I don’t mean that he’s
not
nice, just not mine. At least, not yet.” I was sliding deeper and deeper, right to where Skip was most interested, no doubt.

She ignored the explanation and placed the casserole dish on the table. Then she called my brother over. “The food’s hot, but not for long. We’d best get started.”

After the prayer, I asked if I could start again. “Please do,” Skip had the gall to say. Grinning, no less.

Sighing, I decided to back up to the real point of Miss Spindler’s earlier comment. “I was very surprised to hear about your e-mail friends,” I began. “And, yes, Jon did fill me in on that.”

A beautiful smile, pure and sweet, spread across her face. “Ah, Merry, dearie, I’m ever so glad to have dreamed up such a right fine name for my cozy attic office,” she said. “It’s
Windows on the Hill
, you know.”

I knew but didn’t dare let on.

“My, oh my, I’ve met a good many folk on the Web.”

I had to work hard at chewing my food—keeping it in my mouth—and not spraying it across the table. But the laugh insisted, and I grabbed for my napkin.

Miss Spindler looked worried. “What is it, Merry?”

I was shaking my head, patting my chest. “I’m all right, really I am.”

Now she had the most peculiar look on her face. Like she thought she must’ve said something quite comical. “Well, I daresay my sense of humor must surely be improving.”

I was nodding, eyeballing Skip. He started nodding his head, too. We talked awhile longer about computers and how easy it was to connect unknowingly with weirdos and strangers who might not be good for us. Miss Spindler agreed and said that she was being careful of that.

During dessert, Skip brought up the subject of Abednego. “Did he ever show up?”

I slouched sadly. “Don’t get me started. Honestly, I thought I’d never give up on him, but I have to admit I’m starting to wonder if God had other plans for my old cat.”

Skip’s eyebrows rose, and he pursed his lips. “He was always such a crafty creature.”

“
Was?
Don’t say it that way. It sounds like you think he’s already dead.”

“Hold on, now, Merry,” Miss Spindler was saying, reaching over and patting my hand. “We don’t know yet, now, do we?”

“He’s been missing for six days—unbearable days. Cats always come home after a storm, don’t they?”

Miss Spindler was quiet for a moment. “They do, I suppose, unless someone comes along and claims them for their own.”

I sat up in my chair. “Do you really think someone stole my Abednego?”

Skip leaned his head into his hands and rubbed his face, while Miss Spindler tried to calm me down. “Wouldn’t that be far better than finding out the poor thing had up and died?”

I thought about that. Miss Old Hawk Eyes Spindler was right. Still, I found it terribly confusing when she insisted that I come right home with her after supper dishes were finished. “Let’s talk some more about that lost cat of yours,” she said.