If you don't like the world you're living in, take a look around. At least you got friends.
Chapter 9: Let's Go Crazy
“Trixie, please see me after class.” That was all that was written on my English quiz paper. No grade and no other marks. I approached Mrs. Phillips desk with trepidation as the rest of my classmates poured out of the room on their way to fourth period.
She sighed as she looked at me. “You know, you’d be one of the top students in our school if you only applied yourself more,” she said softly. “You’re no dummy, Trixie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, not so much because I agreed with her entirely as because it didn’t seem too wise to disagree with her on that point. I could definitely apply myself more. I just wasn’t so sure that would necessarily propel me to the top of my class. But Mrs. Phillips seemed more disappointed in me than angry, and I figured I shouldn’t press my luck by arguing with her over something so trivial.
“And I appreciate your honesty,” she continued after a moment, her eyes going to the paper I held in my hand. “Most students try to come up with all sorts of excuses when they fail a quiz.”
By honesty, I assumed she was referring to the fact that I’d not bothered even trying to write anything for any of the questions. Had they been multiple choice or true-false, I would’ve at least guessed, but they were short answer and I had no answer for any of them. Instead, I’d simply written an apology, explaining I’d forgotten we were supposed to have read the chapter by that day, and that I was one chapter behind.
Mrs. Philips regarded me steadily. “Come in early on Monday and take the quiz again. I can’t give you full marks, but at least it won’t be a zero, all right? I’ll start you with a ten-point deduction.”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes! I mean, yes, ma’am. And thank you! That’s very understanding of you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.”
After that? I cruised through the day. While everyone else was excited for the game that night, I was just excited I wasn’t going to be explaining a failing grade to my parents. It was far, far more than I’d dared to hope. Not even Jenny Ratner’s evil glare in Chemistry got me down. If that was the worst she was going to do for the exploding test tube incident, I could deal.
At lunch, I told my friends about the weird conversation I’d had with Dan the previous evening. Like Mart, none of them could understand why he’d been so insistent that we hadn’t seen his jacket by the gatehouse.
“I think Dan has something to do with the stolen books,” I announced dramatically after Honey murmured something about him maybe misunderstanding the location we’d seen his jacket.
“And I think she’s going a bit far with that conclusion,” Mart added. “I know it’s odd - the thing with the jacket – but that doesn’t necessarily translate to book thief.” He shot me a pointed look as he finished speaking. We’d already been through this the night before and were at the “agree to disagree” stage. For the next several minutes, we all debated the matter back and forth, with me and Di on the “he’s a thief” side and the others not willing to fully buy into the idea.
“Has anyone heard any updates on Marv Easton?” Honey wanted to know once we’d exhausted the topic of Dan Mangan for the time being.
“All I know is he’s still missing,” Mart replied. “I think maybe the cops are starting to consider it might not be voluntary. Tad told me his brother was asking him questions about Marv last night, like who he normally hangs out with and if he was known to be a troublemaker or not. It sounds like they're going to take a more active role in searching for him."
That was interesting, I thought. Something to add to my Investigator’s Notebook.
I decided that evening to skip the game. Even though I wasn’t grounded, I really did need to catch up on my studying. Of course, this meant I couldn’t tease Brian about voluntarily staying home for schoolwork on a Friday night ever again. Maybe I had a tiny bit in common with my eldest brother after all, I acknowledged to myself with a wry chuckle. It made sense, though. I needed to read two chapters in The Return of the Native now, and really crack down on mid-term prep. Plus, I wasn’t sure how much time I’d have for studying on Saturday. We were supposed to be meeting in the morning out at the warehouse where the Homecoming floats were built and stored, and I suspected it was going to take several hours of hard work to get ours ready.
At about eight-thirty, I paused for a break. I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of milk. The house was quiet, but not in a spooky or lonely way. Even with no one else there, Crabapple Farm had the cozy, welcoming feeling of home. As I sipped my drink, I thought about the facts as I knew them. I still felt like I had way more questions than answers.
There was one thing I definitely wanted to know more about. Rare editions of books. Could they really be so valuable, someone would not only steal them, but also possibly burn down a building to cover his tracks? The float warehouse was on the same side of town as the public library. I decided I’d convince Mart to make a detour on the way to meeting our friends in the morning. It seemed like a reasonable conclusion to me that if you wanted to know more about books, a librarian was a good person to ask.
My mind drifted again to Dan denying he’d left his leather jacket near the gatehouse. Why? Why was he lying about it? It simply made no sense. Unless there was something about the gatehouse he didn’t want us to discover and so he was trying to draw attention away from it?
No. Could that really be it?
I glanced out the window over the sink. It was dark out, the moon only a tiny, ghostly sliver in a cloudy sky, and I knew the temperature had dropped throughout the afternoon. But still… I could take a flashlight and bundle up. Or, I could sensibly wait until morning and even take Mart with me.
But what if I did that and right now Dan was - I don’t know. Removing something he didn’t want us to find? Like maybe even some stolen books?
That did it. With that thought in my head, I told myself there was no time to lose. I put on my coat and a knit cap, let Reddy know I would return as soon as I could - though he didn’t seem to understand that nor why I wasn’t letting him follow me - and let myself out of my house.
I decided to approach the gatehouse from Glen Road, keeping out of the woods for as long as possible. My breath puffed out in front of me in small faint clouds as I hurried along. I was glad for the streetlights that glowed a yellow-orange and lit my way. They’d been installed relatively recently, as the wealthier residents built their extravagant and luxurious homes along the river. Likewise, Glen Road had undergone a repaving and restriping project and now was a lovely, smooth drive sans what used to be a rather impressive number of pot holes. Money really did make the world go ‘round.
The Manor House was one of a small handful of older homes along the bluffs, unlike most of the newer mansions. Not nearly as old as Crabapple Farm, of course, but it had originally been constructed just after the turn of the century for some wealthy politician’s family as a “summer home” away from the mean streets of Austin. Flashforward a few decades and the family had fallen onto hard times, mainly thanks to a scandal involving the politician’s second-born son and a well-known House of Ill Repute which cost him his subsequent election and limited his power and usefulness to the elites.
After that, the estate passed through a rapid succession of hands until it was abandoned altogether in the early 60s. When the Wheelers purchased it, it took almost a full year of repairing and rebuilding to bring it back to a habitable stage. One thing that had been ignored, though, was the old gatehouse. Unnecessary now to the running of the estate – the gate was operated mechanically through controls at the main house and a remote for any drivers – it sat as forlorn and empty as ever.
A gray mist was rising in scattered patches from the ground as I made my way carefully down a narrow trail that would bring me to the gatehouse, coming around from the side. Dead, dry leaves crunched under my sneakers and I tried not to let myself get too spooked by the eeriness of it all. Probably, it didn’t help that we were only a few weeks away from Halloween, I decided. Everything seemed scarier in October. That was a given.
The gatehouse looked every bit as abandoned as always as I approached it, aiming my flashlight at the old wooden door. There was no lock, presumably because the Wheelers didn’t see any reason to lock up an empty, decrepit structure no intelligent person would ever think to jeopardize their safety by entering.
I reached out and tugged on the black iron handle. The door didn’t exactly open easily, but it wasn’t a major struggle either. I panned my light around and immediately I could tell someone had been inside recently, leaving blurred tracks on the dirt-covered floor. They went in all directions and crossed over themselves multiple times. It also looked like someone had dragged something large and possibly heavy from one back corner to the other. There was nothing else of real interest, though. No boxes or anything else that might contain the missing books, I noted in disappointment. There was a shovel, a rake, and a coil of rope, leading me to think that at some point the gatehouse had been used as a storage shed, probably by a gardener, but that was it.
I pushed the door shut again and turned to go. Really, those tracks didn’t necessarily mean much, I had to admit. After all, maybe Dan had gone inside, but that could’ve been nothing more than curiosity about the building and as Mr. Maypenny’s assistant, it could even be argued it was part of his job to make sure the gatehouse was as secure as possible. It wasn’t proof positive of anything outright illegal.
I was starting back down the short trail to Glen Road when I heard the distinct sound of a tree branch cracking behind me. This was a heavily forested part of the estate and there could be any number of wild creatures roaming about, but for some reason I cannot explain, I felt a presence I was sure was very much human.
Someone was there and watching me. Had probably been watching me as I checked out the gatehouse. I shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold. I opened my mouth to call out a “Who’s there?” but found I couldn’t do more than let out a frightened squeak.
I’m not into those slasher horror movies that are popular with lots of teens. Scary movies are fine, but gory shock-fests are just not my cup of tea. Still, all I could think of as I suddenly found myself running down the path was that I did not want to die some horrible death like a character in Friday the 13th. I stumbled as my shoe caught on an exposed root and I only just caught myself from falling flat on my face by windmilling my arms for balance as I took several hopping steps forward.
I did not slow until I was all the way back home, inside my house with every door locked and lights on in all the downstairs rooms. I recognized that I had likely overreacted big time, but that didn’t help completely lower my heart rate and my hands were still a bit shaky as I prepared myself a cup of hot cocoa. I berated myself for the folly of going out alone at night without so much as leaving a note, then berated myself further for what was likely nothing more than my overactive imagination getting the better of me.
By the time my family had returned from the game with the shocking news that we’d only won by a field goal in overtime - very nearly knocking ourselves out of a run for the championship - I was in bed, reading my new Lucy Radcliffe book and telling myself my little adventure was nothing more than a wasted half hour or so of my time. I hadn’t even finished as much studying as I’d planned, but I’d recognized the futility of returning to my textbooks after my scare. There wasn’t a chance in the world I was going to remember anything I tried to learn or memorize at that point.
As I was getting ready to turn off my light and go to sleep, I decided I’d suggest to Mart that we visit the gatehouse in the morning. Maybe we’d spot something I hadn’t seen in my quick inspection and maybe there’d be a better indication of what the unknown visitor had been about when he – or she, I thought fairly – had been there.
For now, I was just hoping I wasn’t going to have too many nightmares until the sun came up and banished the dark.
She sighed as she looked at me. “You know, you’d be one of the top students in our school if you only applied yourself more,” she said softly. “You’re no dummy, Trixie.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said, not so much because I agreed with her entirely as because it didn’t seem too wise to disagree with her on that point. I could definitely apply myself more. I just wasn’t so sure that would necessarily propel me to the top of my class. But Mrs. Phillips seemed more disappointed in me than angry, and I figured I shouldn’t press my luck by arguing with her over something so trivial.
“And I appreciate your honesty,” she continued after a moment, her eyes going to the paper I held in my hand. “Most students try to come up with all sorts of excuses when they fail a quiz.”
By honesty, I assumed she was referring to the fact that I’d not bothered even trying to write anything for any of the questions. Had they been multiple choice or true-false, I would’ve at least guessed, but they were short answer and I had no answer for any of them. Instead, I’d simply written an apology, explaining I’d forgotten we were supposed to have read the chapter by that day, and that I was one chapter behind.
Mrs. Philips regarded me steadily. “Come in early on Monday and take the quiz again. I can’t give you full marks, but at least it won’t be a zero, all right? I’ll start you with a ten-point deduction.”
I blinked in surprise. “Yes! I mean, yes, ma’am. And thank you! That’s very understanding of you, ma’am. I really appreciate it.”
After that? I cruised through the day. While everyone else was excited for the game that night, I was just excited I wasn’t going to be explaining a failing grade to my parents. It was far, far more than I’d dared to hope. Not even Jenny Ratner’s evil glare in Chemistry got me down. If that was the worst she was going to do for the exploding test tube incident, I could deal.
At lunch, I told my friends about the weird conversation I’d had with Dan the previous evening. Like Mart, none of them could understand why he’d been so insistent that we hadn’t seen his jacket by the gatehouse.
“I think Dan has something to do with the stolen books,” I announced dramatically after Honey murmured something about him maybe misunderstanding the location we’d seen his jacket.
“And I think she’s going a bit far with that conclusion,” Mart added. “I know it’s odd - the thing with the jacket – but that doesn’t necessarily translate to book thief.” He shot me a pointed look as he finished speaking. We’d already been through this the night before and were at the “agree to disagree” stage. For the next several minutes, we all debated the matter back and forth, with me and Di on the “he’s a thief” side and the others not willing to fully buy into the idea.
“Has anyone heard any updates on Marv Easton?” Honey wanted to know once we’d exhausted the topic of Dan Mangan for the time being.
“All I know is he’s still missing,” Mart replied. “I think maybe the cops are starting to consider it might not be voluntary. Tad told me his brother was asking him questions about Marv last night, like who he normally hangs out with and if he was known to be a troublemaker or not. It sounds like they're going to take a more active role in searching for him."
That was interesting, I thought. Something to add to my Investigator’s Notebook.
I decided that evening to skip the game. Even though I wasn’t grounded, I really did need to catch up on my studying. Of course, this meant I couldn’t tease Brian about voluntarily staying home for schoolwork on a Friday night ever again. Maybe I had a tiny bit in common with my eldest brother after all, I acknowledged to myself with a wry chuckle. It made sense, though. I needed to read two chapters in The Return of the Native now, and really crack down on mid-term prep. Plus, I wasn’t sure how much time I’d have for studying on Saturday. We were supposed to be meeting in the morning out at the warehouse where the Homecoming floats were built and stored, and I suspected it was going to take several hours of hard work to get ours ready.
At about eight-thirty, I paused for a break. I went to the kitchen and got myself a glass of milk. The house was quiet, but not in a spooky or lonely way. Even with no one else there, Crabapple Farm had the cozy, welcoming feeling of home. As I sipped my drink, I thought about the facts as I knew them. I still felt like I had way more questions than answers.
There was one thing I definitely wanted to know more about. Rare editions of books. Could they really be so valuable, someone would not only steal them, but also possibly burn down a building to cover his tracks? The float warehouse was on the same side of town as the public library. I decided I’d convince Mart to make a detour on the way to meeting our friends in the morning. It seemed like a reasonable conclusion to me that if you wanted to know more about books, a librarian was a good person to ask.
My mind drifted again to Dan denying he’d left his leather jacket near the gatehouse. Why? Why was he lying about it? It simply made no sense. Unless there was something about the gatehouse he didn’t want us to discover and so he was trying to draw attention away from it?
No. Could that really be it?
I glanced out the window over the sink. It was dark out, the moon only a tiny, ghostly sliver in a cloudy sky, and I knew the temperature had dropped throughout the afternoon. But still… I could take a flashlight and bundle up. Or, I could sensibly wait until morning and even take Mart with me.
But what if I did that and right now Dan was - I don’t know. Removing something he didn’t want us to find? Like maybe even some stolen books?
That did it. With that thought in my head, I told myself there was no time to lose. I put on my coat and a knit cap, let Reddy know I would return as soon as I could - though he didn’t seem to understand that nor why I wasn’t letting him follow me - and let myself out of my house.
I decided to approach the gatehouse from Glen Road, keeping out of the woods for as long as possible. My breath puffed out in front of me in small faint clouds as I hurried along. I was glad for the streetlights that glowed a yellow-orange and lit my way. They’d been installed relatively recently, as the wealthier residents built their extravagant and luxurious homes along the river. Likewise, Glen Road had undergone a repaving and restriping project and now was a lovely, smooth drive sans what used to be a rather impressive number of pot holes. Money really did make the world go ‘round.
The Manor House was one of a small handful of older homes along the bluffs, unlike most of the newer mansions. Not nearly as old as Crabapple Farm, of course, but it had originally been constructed just after the turn of the century for some wealthy politician’s family as a “summer home” away from the mean streets of Austin. Flashforward a few decades and the family had fallen onto hard times, mainly thanks to a scandal involving the politician’s second-born son and a well-known House of Ill Repute which cost him his subsequent election and limited his power and usefulness to the elites.
After that, the estate passed through a rapid succession of hands until it was abandoned altogether in the early 60s. When the Wheelers purchased it, it took almost a full year of repairing and rebuilding to bring it back to a habitable stage. One thing that had been ignored, though, was the old gatehouse. Unnecessary now to the running of the estate – the gate was operated mechanically through controls at the main house and a remote for any drivers – it sat as forlorn and empty as ever.
A gray mist was rising in scattered patches from the ground as I made my way carefully down a narrow trail that would bring me to the gatehouse, coming around from the side. Dead, dry leaves crunched under my sneakers and I tried not to let myself get too spooked by the eeriness of it all. Probably, it didn’t help that we were only a few weeks away from Halloween, I decided. Everything seemed scarier in October. That was a given.
The gatehouse looked every bit as abandoned as always as I approached it, aiming my flashlight at the old wooden door. There was no lock, presumably because the Wheelers didn’t see any reason to lock up an empty, decrepit structure no intelligent person would ever think to jeopardize their safety by entering.
I reached out and tugged on the black iron handle. The door didn’t exactly open easily, but it wasn’t a major struggle either. I panned my light around and immediately I could tell someone had been inside recently, leaving blurred tracks on the dirt-covered floor. They went in all directions and crossed over themselves multiple times. It also looked like someone had dragged something large and possibly heavy from one back corner to the other. There was nothing else of real interest, though. No boxes or anything else that might contain the missing books, I noted in disappointment. There was a shovel, a rake, and a coil of rope, leading me to think that at some point the gatehouse had been used as a storage shed, probably by a gardener, but that was it.
I pushed the door shut again and turned to go. Really, those tracks didn’t necessarily mean much, I had to admit. After all, maybe Dan had gone inside, but that could’ve been nothing more than curiosity about the building and as Mr. Maypenny’s assistant, it could even be argued it was part of his job to make sure the gatehouse was as secure as possible. It wasn’t proof positive of anything outright illegal.
I was starting back down the short trail to Glen Road when I heard the distinct sound of a tree branch cracking behind me. This was a heavily forested part of the estate and there could be any number of wild creatures roaming about, but for some reason I cannot explain, I felt a presence I was sure was very much human.
Someone was there and watching me. Had probably been watching me as I checked out the gatehouse. I shivered and it had nothing to do with the cold. I opened my mouth to call out a “Who’s there?” but found I couldn’t do more than let out a frightened squeak.
I’m not into those slasher horror movies that are popular with lots of teens. Scary movies are fine, but gory shock-fests are just not my cup of tea. Still, all I could think of as I suddenly found myself running down the path was that I did not want to die some horrible death like a character in Friday the 13th. I stumbled as my shoe caught on an exposed root and I only just caught myself from falling flat on my face by windmilling my arms for balance as I took several hopping steps forward.
I did not slow until I was all the way back home, inside my house with every door locked and lights on in all the downstairs rooms. I recognized that I had likely overreacted big time, but that didn’t help completely lower my heart rate and my hands were still a bit shaky as I prepared myself a cup of hot cocoa. I berated myself for the folly of going out alone at night without so much as leaving a note, then berated myself further for what was likely nothing more than my overactive imagination getting the better of me.
By the time my family had returned from the game with the shocking news that we’d only won by a field goal in overtime - very nearly knocking ourselves out of a run for the championship - I was in bed, reading my new Lucy Radcliffe book and telling myself my little adventure was nothing more than a wasted half hour or so of my time. I hadn’t even finished as much studying as I’d planned, but I’d recognized the futility of returning to my textbooks after my scare. There wasn’t a chance in the world I was going to remember anything I tried to learn or memorize at that point.
As I was getting ready to turn off my light and go to sleep, I decided I’d suggest to Mart that we visit the gatehouse in the morning. Maybe we’d spot something I hadn’t seen in my quick inspection and maybe there’d be a better indication of what the unknown visitor had been about when he – or she, I thought fairly – had been there.
For now, I was just hoping I wasn’t going to have too many nightmares until the sun came up and banished the dark.
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