The Hidden Valley Mystery
The Hidden Valley Mystery
by Susan Ioannou
Table Of Contents
CHAPTER 17 – The Mystery Solved
Acknowledgments
The Hidden Valley Mystery
was inspired by and is dedicated to family and young friends.
Copyright © 2010 by Susan Ioannou
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means electronic, digital, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written permission of the author.
First eBook Edition
eISBN 978-0-920835-31-9
Wordwrights Canada
P.O. Box 456, Station O
Toronto, Ontario M4A 2P1, Canada
www.wordwrights.ca
CHAPTER 1 – The Sleeping Bag
Ever since he went to spring camp near Alliston with the Scouts, more than anything Mike wanted a genuine
Explorer
sleeping bag. Freddy had his own—and pro hockey skates, a 16 speed bike, and a championship skateboard. Freddy’s father always bought him the best stuff.
“Well, here in the Steriou family it is different,” Mike’s mother snapped. Her curly black hair was already damp from the morning’s warmth in the small, sunny kitchen. Atop the wooden chair, she wiped her moist, plump hands on the red apron covering her blue flowered dress. “Here, we work for what we want.” She reached inside the yellow cupboard and drew out a stack of plates. Puffing, she leaned down and handed them to Mike. He braced the pile against his red tank top. In the heat, he was glad he wore shorts.
“Yeah, sure,” grumbled Mike, tossing back a hank of dark hair. His green eyes glared up at her. “What work? You and Dad didn’t let me share Tuan’s paper route, or flip hamburgers at McDonalds.”
Mrs. Steriou rose on tip toes. She strained for the top shelf. “Those jobs took too much time from your studies,” she argued. “Besides, you are too young to be so much away from home.”
Mike had heard these arguments plenty of times. His mom made him feel like a baby. She had been afraid of the spring camp. “Sleeping outside in the cold and wet!” she had cried. “No, no. You’ll die of pneumonia.”
Thank goodness his dad had stepped in. “Calm yourself, Effie,” he soothed her. “Your brother Lazo will lend Mike an old sleeping bag and tarpaulin. The boy will be snug as a rabbit in its burrow.” As Mrs. Steriou shook her head, Mike’s dad strode across the kitchen and dialled
Theo
Lazo’s number. “Camping will help make a man of Mike,” he insisted, “like my own two years in the Greek army.”
At the end of the spring camp weekend, as soon as Mike had thumped back in the door, his mother clamped a hand on his forehead. “No fever? No chills? Thank goodness.” She hugged him and smiled. “You are still my Mike, not a sick rabbit.”
After that, many times Mike overheard her on the telephone, bragging in Greek how her son had slept outside overnight, and the temperature hardly above zero! How could she still say he was too young to work?
“But I’m taller than you!” Mike protested. “Everybody says I look 14 at least!”
His mother handed him a serving platter. “Michael Steriou, now that summer vacation has started, there’s plenty to do right here. Clean out the basement, rake the yard, mow the lawn—not to mention keeping your own room tidy. Your father is working long hours in the new restaurant, and I have five customers to sew dresses for. I need your help to run the house.”
“Aw, Mom ...”
Mike’s mother clambered down from the chair. With the hem of her red apron, she wiped the damp strands back from her forehead. Her green eyes softened. “If you work hard at home, and do good at school, maybe St. Nicholas will bring you that, that
freezing bag
, for Christmas.”
“Christmas! But what about Scout camp this fall?”
“Well, maybe if your father’s new restaurant is successful, and you help me lots in the house, St. Nick might come early.” She reached up and squeezed his cheek.
That would be great, Mike thought. The next camp would be the end of September. He closed his eyes and dreamed of Freddy’s uncle’s farm. Freddy knew that 100 acres inside out. This year, when they played
Capture The Flag
, he and Freddy would outfox the other Scouts for sure. No way would Gunnar and Tuan sneak behind them this time, crawling up from the creek bed. Freddy could stand watch on the ridge. When his owl hoot signalled the coast was clear, Mike would dash from the cedars and angle across the slope to the woodpile. From the top he’d snatch the bright orange flag, before anyone could catch a breath. He’d figured it all out. With this new strategy, his team would win for sure.
And at night what fun it would be. Leaving the barn far behind, they would climb to the ridge. The moon was so big and bright, you could see even without a flashlight. And the stars! Mike never knew so many billion stars crammed the sky. That country sky was black as a marker, not the soot grey he saw in Toronto.
Later, after hot chocolate stirred on the propane stove, they’d snuggle into their sleeping bags. It was amazing, drifting to sleep in that huge silence. Now and then branches rustled, and beneath the moonlit bushes small shadows darted. A distant bird cried out. Once they even heard wolves howl.
“You are going to stare the flowers right off that platter,” Mike’s mother broke into his dream.
“Oh, sorry,” Mike mumbled, and set it gently on top of the other plates on the counter.
“I will just fill the sugar bowl,” his mother cheered him. “Then all my good china is ready for cousin Deeta’s shower, and you can go to Gunnar’s.”
Mike helped his mother carry the stacks of dishes to the lace covered, dining room table. He was glad Gunnar had invited him to stay for supper and sleep over. When his mother gave a shower, the house overflowed with chattering aunts and cousins. They
oohed
and
aahed
as the gifts were opened. They giggled, taping the bows together to make a rainbow hat for the bride. If he stayed at home, the old ladies cried how tall he’d grown, and tried to pinch his cheeks. Fat
Thea
Mara always winked, did he have a girlfriend yet?
The telephone rang. Mike dashed back to the kitchen to answer.
“What’s keeping you?” boomed Gunnar’s voice.
“Packing my toothbrush,” Mike replied.
“Hurry up. I’ve got something important.”
“What?”
“I can’t tell you over the phone. Just bring your binoculars.”
“Start counting to ten,” Mike joked, and hung up. He dashed to his room, and stuffed binoculars and pyjamas into his rucksack.
“Mike, did you pack your toothbrush?” his mother reminded, as he rushed toward her down the hall.
Mike chuckled and patted his pocket.
“Mike, what about socks, and a jacket for later?”
“Ma! I’m not a baby!” Mike whirled past, and lunged for the door.
As he flew out, his mother blew him a kiss. “Be sure you’re home before 3:00 tomorrow! We’re invited to
Theo
Lazo’s for supper.”
“Bye, Mom!” Mike dashed out back to his bike. He couldn’t wait to hear Gunnar’s news.
CHAPTER 2 – Gunnar’s Secret
“So what’s the big secret?” Mike yelled, wheels screeching to a stop up Gunnar’s front walk.
“You’re a loudmouth, that’s what!” Gunnar shouted back. Like a tanned daddy longlegs, he sprang down the veranda steps. Beside Mike, he stood a head taller, his straight, white blond hair shining in the sun. Everyone thought Gunnar must be half way through high school, and play on the basketball team. Today, despite the heat, he was wearing beige pants with a long sleeved yellow shirt. “Just drop your stuff in the hall and we’ll go. Hey, take the binoculars with you.”
Freed of his rucksack, Mike slung the binoculars around his neck. At the end of the driveway he locked his bike against the drainpipe and followed Gunnar into the small backyard that edged the ravine. Ever since they became friends in grade two, they had scrambled that steep slope, enough to wear a trail through the grass and trees. Together down they slid and tumbled, landing at last near the bank of a shallow river.
“This way,” Gunnar turned north, the opposite of their usual direction.
“Why go there?” Mike protested. “That’s the golf course. We’ll just get kicked off again.”
“Chicken!” Gunnar laughed, and strode ahead.
They walked along the bank to a small wooden footbridge, crossed the river to the golf course, and circled behind the fourth green.
“Oh, no,” groaned Mike. He heard the familiar hum of a golf cart. The pro was out making his afternoon rounds. “Quick, Gunnar, run!” Mike cried. Just in time, he scrambled behind a clump of pines. He peeked through the branches.
Around the lip of the sand trap, a tanned man in a cream peaked cap and matching shirt drove into sight—straight toward Gunnar. Mike clenched his teeth. The golf cart stopped right in front of his friend.
The pro’s bushy red brows relaxed. He smiled. “Hi there, Gunnar. Hard at work, are you?”
“‘Sure am, Mr. Appleton,” Gunnar replied.
“Atta boy,” the pro said. “I’m glad you take the job seriously. And if you see any kids hanging around, chase them off the course for me, eh?”
“You bet!” Gunnar grinned.
The pro turned the golf cart. It hummed away, toward the third tee.
Mike’s mouth dropped open. He circled from behind the pines and walked to his friend.
“See,” Gunnar pretended to strut, “I got pull.”
“Yeah, sure,” Mike elbowed his ribs.
Gunnar jabbed him back, then picked up a stick from the grass and swung it toward the rough. “Meet the new Don Valley Golf Course ball boy.”
“The what?” Mike sputtered.
“My dad did some electrical repairs in the club house. He got friendly with the pro, and suggested I work for him this summer. My job is to wander around the course collecting lost balls. The really good ones the pro buys back to sell at a discount to players. The rest I can keep and sell myself. When I get a box full, the driving range on the highway buys them.”
Mike kicked a loose patch of grass. He was jealous of Gunnar’s way to earn money. Too bad his dad worked such long hours in the restaurant. He had no time to play golf, or fix things up with a pro. “So is that what you wanted to show me?” he grumbled.
“Nope,” Gunnar smiled. “It’s something ten times better. But you have to cross the golf course to see. Come on.”
Mike followed Gunnar along the edge of the fairway, around the dogleg, to where a wire fence fronting a thick woods marked the boundary of the golf course.
“This way,” Gunnar ordered, and pointed to a rip in the wire near one post. He pushed through the opening and, as they walked, held back tangled brush and branches, clearing a path for Mike. “Watch out for poison ivy!”
“So now you tell me!” Mike snorted, as twigs scratched and stung his bare limbs. No wonder Gunnar had worn long sleeves and pants in this heat.
“Just walk where I do and you’ll be O.K.,” Gunnar calmed him.
Soon the underbrush thinned. The path through the dense trees opened out.
“It’s great here,” said Mike, gazing up and around, “like the forest at camp.” He heard a squirrel chatter somewhere above. “We ought to get Freddy and Tuan to meet us here.”
“We may need them,” Gunnar agreed. “Look ahead, where the trees clear.” Gunnar pointed toward a blaze of sunlight. “But stay down, and be quiet.”
The two boys crept to the end of the trees. Crouching behind a bush, they stared. Another valley spread before them. At the far end, where the river wound back into view, sat a long, dark building. Mike lifted his binoculars. Through their powerful lenses, he saw the large stone house. Its narrow windows with leaded panes looked old fashioned. From the double front doors, a long U-shaped drive, bordered by a hedge, curved around a massive lawn and formed the end of a gravel road.
“Wow,” blurted Mike, “I wonder who lives there.”
“Sh,” Gunnar hissed. “When I was here yesterday at dusk, still looking for golf balls, some dogs started barking like crazy near the house.”
