The Man with the Red Bag (2 page)

A
s soon as we were moving, I opened my mystery notebook and wrote my title:

The Man with the Red Bag

I liked it. It was definitely grabby, which is very important in a mystery novel. Then I wrote:

Characters

I was going to have eighteen if I counted Declan. That was a lot. I chewed on the end of my pencil and wrote:

1. Mystery man, Charles Stavros. Maybe Greek, maybe not. What's with his red bag?
   

1. Geneva. Don't call her Genny.
   
2. Geneva's father. Where's her mother, by the way?
   
3. Bruce Dove
   and
   
4. Nellie Dove—husband and wife. Old, nice. They hold hands.
   
5. Beth Yokomata
   and
   
6. Millie Yokomata—sisters. Japanese American. Young and cute. Millie is definitely the bossy one.
   
7. Buffo Roberts
   and
   
8. Blessing Roberts—husband and wife. He's an ex-football player and he's huge. She's a beautician and she's huge, too. They have identical red, spiky hair.
   
9. Midge Ketchikan. Don't know much about her yet. She's about my grandma's age.
   
10. First Texan
    and
    
11. Second Texan
    and
    
12. Third Texan
    and
    
13. Fourth Texan—two men and two women. They're “pardners” and they stick together like burrs.
    
14. Grandma.
    
15. Declan—tour director.
    
16. Scotty—bus driver.
    
17. Kevin—me.
    

Too many. Some of them would have to be minor characters. I wouldn't spend much time on them.

Grandma was knitting a blue scarf for my dad. She peered out of the windows happily while her needles clickety-clacked and the blue yarn snaked up from the red bag at her feet.

“Knitting is very ‘in' now,” she told me. “It's not just for old ladies anymore.”

“For old men?” I asked.

She nodded. “Why not?”

She didn't ask what I was writing, which is one of the things I like best about my grandma. If I wanted to talk to her about what I was doing, she'd be interested. If I didn't want to, that was fine, too.

I closed my book and looked out at Salt Lake City. Mostly Mormons lived here. Declan knows his history, and as we drove through the city he told us all these true stories and legends about the Mormons. Like the one about the seagulls who ate the crickets that were eating the crops of the first Mormon pioneers. It's cool stuff.

When I wasn't looking out the window or taking notes, I watched Charles Stavros. You could have
been fooled into thinking he was interested, the way he kept looking right at Declan. But I noticed he never even glanced out the windows. I took out my notebook and wrote: Looks like a man with a mission. But what is his mission? As a writer you must not let a thought or a good phrase slip away. I know a lot about the techniques of writing, but could I pull it off? “Never sell yourself short,” Joan Lowery Nixon had told us when she came to visit our class. “Have confidence!”

Okay, Joan.

When we stopped to see the Beehive House, Charles Stavros stayed on the bus.

“Poor man, that is such an enormous bandage on his hand,” Grandma said. “I wonder if he's in pain.”

“I wonder what he did to it,” I said. Hmm! What, indeed?

 

When the bus pulled in at Temple Square in the middle of the city, Charles Stavros did “disembark,” as Declan calls it. I guess that was because this was the lunch stop.

Declan held up a hand to keep us all in place while
he made an announcement. His red, white, and blue shirt dazzled in the sun that came in through the windows. “You can all leave your stuff in the bus. It will be perfectly safe. The coach will be locked and Scotty will be with it.”

Almost all the passengers, including Grandma and me, left the red carry-ons behind. Cameras and binoculars bounced against chests. But one bag was taken off the bus. Charles Stavros's.

We straggled along behind Declan in pairs or small groups.

Geneva and her dad walked in front of Grandma and me, a gigantic space between them. I decided there was another mystery there, but one was enough for me to concentrate on. I think that's a rule in mystery books. You have to focus on one thing at a time.

Charles Stavros walked alone, the red bag cradled against his chest.

The group met up at the cafeteria. We had tables for eight, and by careful maneuvering I made sure Grandma and I were at Stavros's table. With us were Midge Ketchikan, the two Doves, and Millie and Beth Yokomata. Millie was a paralegal, which
meant she worked for lawyers. Beth was a nurse. Millie was fat, Beth was thin. Millie talked and laughed nonstop. Beth was quiet. Millie ate lots and lots. Beth picked.

Charles Stavros ordered a turkey sandwich on wheat, a green salad, and iced tea. Ordinary. Normal. Not so normal was the way he held the bag on his lap the whole time he was eating. How odd was that? Wouldn't most people put it under the chair? He'd spread his napkin, not over his knees but over the red bag that was balanced there.

The Doves smiled happily around the table. “Isn't this pleasant?” Mrs. Dove said. Her name suited her. She was little and gray and plump. You almost wanted to stroke her.

“How many dogs do you have in your kennel?” she asked Midge.

“Twenty-eight. My husband was going to come. In the end he decided to stay with the animals. We have an assistant, but…”

The Doves nodded, understanding.

So Midge had a dog kennel. Twenty-eight dogs! What a racket at doggie dinnertime!

Charles Stavros poured Thousand Island dressing over his salad.

“I have a dog,” he said.

I was surprised that he was getting into the conversation.

“A puppy, I should say,” he went on.

“Did you board her?” Midge asked. “Or him?”

“She's a female. Yes, I boarded her, and I had a hard time saying good-bye.”

“What kind is she?” Midge sounded sympathetic.

“A golden lab. Her name is Sunshine.”

“She'll miss you. But she'll be fine.”

I took a sip of my lemonade and thought about my story. Would a really bad guy be this nice about his puppy? Would he even have a dog? Even worse, a puppy named Sunshine?

Then I remembered that characters should not be one-dimensional and I cheered up. A bad guy who loved his dog was probably excellent to have in a book. Possible, maybe, in real life, too.

Grandma remarked on how interesting her morning had been. She had been to hear the Mormon Tabernacle Choir and told about how she had heard
them singing like angels once before, the last time she was in Salt Lake City. Which, of course, had been with my grandpa all those years ago. She must be missing him a lot.

I was secretly squeezing her hand under the tablecloth when I heard Millie say to Charles Stavros, “My sister and I are from New York, too, Charles. I'm with Stevens, Smith, and Purdue, attorneys at law, on Thirty-seventh Street. My sister's a nurse at Saint Mark's.”

Stavros nodded.

Then Millie leaned across the table. “You know, Charles, I could swear I've seen you before.” She looked inquiringly at Beth, but Beth just raised one skinny black eyebrow and shook her head.

“I'm sure of it.” Millie tapped her forehead. “It'll come. Maybe you were a murderer and Bryson Smith got you off. He's our defense attorney.” She laughed and added, “Only kidding.”

“I know,” Stavros said, and went on eating. He was having trouble using his left hand. I deduced that he was normally right-handed and also that his injury must be recent. I'd make a note of that in my book as
soon as we got back to the bus.

“Hey! I think I saw your picture in the paper,” Millie exclaimed. “That's what it was. You were one of those guys they rounded up who they thought might be involved in the hijacking.”

Everyone gasped.

Millie put her hand over her mouth. “Oh, shoot! No wonder my sister bought me a T-shirt that said ‘God, put your arms around me and your hand over my mouth.'”

I sat up straight. What was she saying? I couldn't believe my luck. Here was the absolute start. My novel might even turn out to be true-life, nonfiction, like that Truman Capote one. Giddyup! I was on my way.

“I'm terribly sorry, Charles,” Millie went on. “What an awful thing to even think. Just because you look—” She gulped. “In fact, I'm perfectly sure that's not where I saw you. I swear! Those were all suspected terrorists. Stupid words just pour out of me. I should wear that T-shirt every day of my life.”

Charles Stavros didn't smile. “I'm sure you were only kidding,” he said.

“She was, of course.” Beth scowled at her sister.

“She didn't mean it at all.” Grandma's face was a little pink.

The Doves made small cooing noises of dismay.

“Could you pass the rolls, please?” Midge asked loudly.

I took a bite of my sandwich. They were all sorry for Charles Stavros. But what if Millie was right? Suspected terrorists. I was just about positive that's exactly where she'd seen him. She worked in an attorney's office, after all. What if he really, truly was a terrorist? Wouldn't it be great if she'd cut out that picture? And had it with her? And we were able to identify him? But why would she have it with her? If I read that in a mystery book, I wouldn't believe it. If she remembered where she'd seen it, maybe I could track it on my computer when I got home.

Beth spoke into the long, embarrassed silence. “If you need your bandage changed, Charles, I could do that for you. Anytime.”

Stavros looked up. “Thanks. I've arranged to have it re-dressed when we get to Wyoming. I have a friend who's a physician in Cody.”

“What happened to it, anyway?” Millie asked. She'd made a quick recovery from her screwup remark and was back on target.

“I hurt it.” The way Stavros said the words, it was pretty obvious he wasn't going to answer any more questions.

“Must have been hurt really bad to need a bandage that size,” Millie muttered.

Her sister gave her a “shut up” look.

We were all finished eating and there was general rejoicing that Star Tours would be picking up the tab for the meal.

“If I'd known,” Millie said, “I'd have had two desserts.” She added again, “Only kidding.”

“I'm going to the restroom,” Grandma whispered to me, and I nodded.

Mr. Dove and the men from the other table were already heading toward the men's room.

“Mr. Dove, will you keep an eye on my grandson?” Grandma asked.

“Of course.” Mr. Dove gave a little, old-fashioned kind of bow.

Wasn't Charles Stavros coming? I loitered a bit,
waiting, folding my napkin, taking another sip of water, keeping nice Mr. Dove waiting, too.

After a minute Stavros brushed a few crumbs from his red bag, took it in his left hand, and got up.

Mr. Dove and I were right behind him.

He took the bag with him into one of the stalls. Quickly I popped into the one next to him even though it would have been polite to let Mr. Dove go first, since all the other stall doors were closed. Safe inside, I bent down and peeked below the partition.

There was no red bag on the floor of the next stall. Stavros must still be holding it. Or maybe there was a hook and he had hung it up. There was no hook on the back of my door. I just knew there was something so important in that bag that he didn't want to let go of it, even when he was peeing.

I quickly stepped out again and stood washing my hands at the sink, listening for the door of his stall to open.

When it did, he came over to the washbasin next to mine. He set the bag on the counter between us and rested his bandaged hand protectively on top of it. I watched in the mirror as he pumped the liquid
soap on his left hand, having a hard time, pushing the soap button then quickly catching the blob before it dropped into the basin.

I looked at him in the mirror. That heavy black hair, that dark skin, that mustache, those piercing eyes. Was that how Greeks looked? Or…? Suppose what Millie said was true. That he was a terrorist.
What if he had a bomb in that bag and was planning on blowing up our bus?
A shiver chased along my bones. I considered the way he looked; the way he clutched that red bag, the way he kept to himself all the time, aloof from the rest of us; and Millie's memory of the photo.

Realistically, though, why would he want to blow up a tour bus? But what if the bus wasn't his target? What if it was some important building we would pass along the way? I should definitely tell someone. Grandma? Or Declan? What would I say? I needed some kind of proof. And anyway, I could be imagining all this. After all, I was a writer, or I should say, I was going to be a writer. Writers had lots of imagination, which was an asset, like in the Harry Potter books. But this wasn't just a story. This could be a true emergency.

I waited, leaning across the washbasin, using so much soap that the lather bubbled up onto my arms.

As soon as Charles Stavros's left hand was safely under the running water I turned my faucet on stronger and scooched the water that poured out of it onto the red bag, which rested between us. Unfortunately, some of it splashed on his bandage, too.

“Oh!” I gasped. “Oh, no! I'm sorry.”

Mr. Dove was washing up on my other side. “No harm done, I'm sure, Kevin,” he said.

“I don't know how I did that,” I said, though of course I knew exactly how I'd done it. “Here's a paper towel to dry off your bandage,” I said, yanking one out of the dispenser. I snatched up the bag, pulled down a bunch more paper towels, and began frantically wiping it off. “I'll do this.”

The bag was heavy. It felt like there were hard, bumpy things inside. I gave it a little secret shake but nothing rattled. It had dark water splotches all over it, thanks to me.

Stavros seized the bag from me and dabbed at the water himself. “It's all right,” he whispered. His voice was as tender as if he were talking to a baby. My ears
felt like they were on fire. Stavros was talking either to Mr. Dove or to Geneva's dad, who had just emerged from the end stall, or to me. Or to himself. Or to someone or something in that bag. I was pretty sure it wasn't to me or to any of the others. Or to himself, either.