Who Stole Halloween? (7 page)

“You're kidding,” said Dad. “Aren't you?”

Mr. Blanco bent down and fooled with some switches behind him on the wall. After a few seconds the overhead lights blazed back on. He turned toward us again and shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I don't know if I'm kidding. All I know is this is the fourth time it's happened just that way—wind, howl, flash, thunder, and out go the lights. It's a bother, but it doesn't seem to be dangerous. The only trouble is it scares the customers—some customers.”

“I'm not scared,” Dad said, but I noticed his face looked whiter than usual.

“I am!” I said.

“You don't really believe in ghosts, do you?” Yasmeen asked Mr. Blanco.

“Seems like it's more that the ghost believes in
me
,” said Mr. Blanco. “Besides, have you got a better explanation?”

Yasmeen usually has all the answers. Now she opened her mouth like she was going to fill us in, but then she closed it again. “No,” she said. “I don't.”

At home there was a message on the answering machine. It was from Billy Jensen telling us that Marjie Lee had had a baby girl at six that morning. It might seem weird that a first-grader would be making that kind of phone call, but in our neighborhood it made total sense. Billy Jensen loves to spread news.

I told Dad about the baby, then I phoned Mr. Stone to ask if he would tell us the famous ghost story.

“Oh, you kids aren't interested in an old chestnut like that,” he said.

Mr. Stone can be what my dad calls “difficult” and my mom calls “ornery.”

“We really
do
want to hear it, Mr. Stone,” I persisted. “Oh—and I forgot to mention, Dad bought you a bag of fancy marshmallows, too. They came from Mr. Blanco's new store downtown.”

“A present for
me
?” Mr. Stone said, and I could hear the smile in his voice. “Tomorrow after school then. Three-thirty? I'll make hot chocolate.”

Dad called me for dinner as soon as I hung
up. I sat down at the table in the kitchen and poured myself a glass of milk. Luau sauntered in and glanced at his food dish in the corner. No luck there, so he decided to check out my food dish—my dinner plate, I mean. He jumped into an empty chair and peeked over the edge of the table. He was hoping for fish sticks or tuna casserole, but we were having macaroni-and-cheese from a box with a side of sliced apple.

Luau swished his tail a couple of times and looked at me, which meant,
I never cease to be amazed at the strange foods you humans eat
. Then he stepped into my lap, circled, and curled up for a nap.

Dad had just served his own plate when we heard the whir and squeak of the garage door opening. “Glory be.” Dad looked at his watch. “Mom's home early.”

Two sticky bites later, she walked into the kitchen looking tired.

“Another bad day?” Dad asked her.

Mom nodded and sank into a chair. Dad popped up and got her a plate of food. Mom
thanked him, but didn't eat. Instead, she rested her head on her hand and stared at her macaroni.

“What happened?” I asked her.

She didn't look up. “Two more missing cats.”

“Really?” I shifted my legs, which woke Luau. “Then I'd better call Yasmeen.”

Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “Detecting can wait, Alex. It's rare that we're all together.”

Mom insisted she wasn't hungry, but Dad folded his arms across his chest and said, “Noreen, I want you to eat that macaroni—every bite!”

Mom sampled a single elbow, then two, then finally a regular forkful. Soon her macaroni was gone, and Dad brought her a second serving.

“I guess I forgot to eat today—after my doughnut breakfast, that is,” Mom said.

“Well, no wonder you're a basket case.” Dad put her plate back in front of her. “And eat your apple, too, honey. It's good for you.”

“I don't like apples,” Mom said.

“Oh, for heaven's sake,” Dad said, “
everybody
likes apples.”

I thought of something—not about apples, about cats. “Were these cats taken from ‘negligent' owners, too?”

Mom nodded. “Pretty bad.”

“Did the owners see the thieves?”

“One was asleep. The other thought she saw . . .” Mom shook her head.

“Saw what?” I asked.

“Thought she saw a ghost. Honestly, some of the people in this town. They are
so
superstitious.”

“But, Mom,” I said, “that's what Kyle said, too. I don't know. Maybe . . . ?”

Mom looked at me. “Sweetheart, I have enough to worry about putting bad
people
in jail. If I have to worry about bad ghosts, too, well . . . I'll be seeking a new line of work.”

Mom sounded so exhausted that I didn't want to ask her anything else. “Yasmeen and I are going to get the whole ghost story from Mr. Stone tomorrow,” I said.

“That's good, honey,” Mom said. “If this is all a Halloween prank, maybe it will shed some
light. So far, though, I don't see a connection to the Harvey house.”

“Speaking of the Harvey house,” Dad said, and he told Mom about buying the pumpkin and the lights going out. I noticed he didn't say anything about his new pills, so I didn't say anything either.

Full of macaroni, Mom cheered up some and asked if there was anything new with Yasmeen's and my detecting. If I told her we were annoyed with Officer Krichels for not listening to Kyle's little sister, she would think I was dissing a fellow police officer. So instead, I stuck to what Kyle said in the cafeteria and how Bub thought maybe Kyle had received a ransom note.

“Ransom note?” she said. “Hmmmm. Then I guess maybe tomorrow I should go on over to Kyle's house myself. Fred Krichels might have missed something.”

“That is a really,
really
good idea,” I said.

After dinner, Dad and I planned to carve the jack-o'-lantern. When I stood up I deprived Luau of his bed, also known as my lap. So Luau would forgive me, I put a cat treat on the floor for him. Luau watched it for a few seconds. It didn't move, so he sneaked up to it, wiggled his rump, and pounced.

Dad shook his head. “For a cat who is so smart sometimes, he sure is stupid other times.”

We talked about school while Dad got out newspaper, a big spoon, a marker, a carving knife, a paring knife, and a bowl—in other
words, jack-o'-lantern tools. My job was the gooshy one—scoop out the seeds and the stringy orange crud, and then put them in the bowl. Boy, was I glad to wash my hands when that was done.

“Scary or funny this year?” Dad asked me.

“Funny,” I said, and I drew a face that had extra-wide nostrils. That way I'd be sure to cut out all of the green spot. While I was drawing, Mom came in. She was wearing ratty pink sweats and the fuzzy slippers I had given her for her birthday. Sometimes I wonder what bad guys would think if they saw her like that.

“Can I help?” she asked.

“You can separate the seeds from the goop,” Dad said, “so we can roast them.”

Mom poked the contents of the bowl with her fingertip and made a face. “How come I always get the glamour jobs?”

Dad kissed her cheek and said, “Because you are such a glamour-puss.”

Mom rolled her eyes, but then she went ahead and dunked her hands into the bowl and started picking out seeds. Meanwhile, Dad and I
took turns using the paring knife to carve the face. When we were done, we lit the stumpy little candle inside the jack-o'-lantern and turned off the lights.

“
Oooooh
,” Mom said, like she does every year. “We have two real
artists
in the family.”

“Thanks, honey.” Dad put his arm around her.

“Can we put him on the front step now?” I asked.

Dad shook his head no. “Halloween's Friday,” he said. “You can wait four days.”

Walking to school the next morning, Yasmeen and I came to a significant conclusion about who stole Halloween: We didn't have the faintest idea.

Was it the same person who stole the other four cats?

Did Kyle make the whole thing up?

Was there a ransom note like Bub thought?

Yasmeen said we only knew one thing for sure: Ghosts had nothing to do with it.

I didn't tell her, but I wasn't even positive about that.

School did nothing to cheer us up. We hardly said a word on our way to Mr. Stone's house that afternoon. Inside, I pulled the fancy organic marshmallows out of my backpack. They were slightly smooshed after spending so much time with my math book and my social studies binder.

Mr. Stone smiled. “Thank you, Alex. And be sure to thank your dad, too. Let's try them right out, shall we?”

I could smell the hot chocolate on the stove.

Mr. Stone's house is pretty big, and he has lived there all by himself since his wife died. Most of the house seems kind of cold and deserted, but the kitchen is warm. That's where Yasmeen and I always sit when we visit.

Now he poured a mug of hot chocolate for each of us. “You kids don't really want to hear—” he began.

I cut him off. “We
do
really want to hear.”

“My mom told me that this is a story from your childhood,” Yasmeen said.

“Gracious, Miss Popp, how old does your mother think I am?” Mr. Stone said. “This story comes from my
grandfather's
childhood. It was my
grandfather who told my dad and my dad who told me.” Mr. Stone shifted in his chair like Luau does when he's settling in for a while. He took a sip of cocoa.

“My father,” he said, “was a minister, accustomed to giving sermons, and he had quite the flair for the dramatic, something I fear that I lack. Every year at Halloween he'd gather us kids around and start this story the same way: ‘Wisps of cloud obscured the moon that Halloween night, the night old man Harvey met his maker, murdered by his very own cat.' ”

Yasmeen and I looked at each other, then spoke at the same time: “His
cat
?”