Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man (17 page)

“Exactly.”

He stands up and says, “I’m going to head over to LeBard’s and get a report, then I’ll see if I can’t get a search warrant issued for the brother’s residence tonight.” He shakes my hand and says, “I’m sorry you had to witness that … that
scene
. It’s been building up since they teamed us together.” He scratches the back of his neck. “I
don’t know what it is—Gil took a dislike to me the first time he laid eyes on me.”

I laugh and say, “I know the feeling!”

We say good-bye, and he jaywalks across Orange, and I head off to jaywalk across Cook.

For a while I’m caught up thinking about Officer Borsch ignoring so many traffic laws so he could write me up for jaywalking. But by the time I reach Maynard’s Market, this new little twitch in the back of my brain is snapping around louder and louder, until finally I have to admit that this whole Skeleton Man business still doesn’t make any sense. I mean, if it
is
Chauncy’s brother, why did he get rid of the candlesticks? They had sentimental value, too. And why would he rob his brother if he was trying to kill him? If he killed him he would get the inheritance, and he wouldn’t have to rob him. And if he
robbed
him, he’d have what he wanted and he wouldn’t have to kill him.

And the more I think about it, the more I understand that I’m going down the right river.

I’m just on the wrong boat.

It was already too late
not
to be in trouble, but I was hurrying anyway. Instead of going clear around back to the fire escape, I decided to risk it and go in the front lobby and use the elevator. And I might have been able to sneak by Mr. Garnucci, but as I’m coming in, the elevator doors open, and guess who’s coming out? Mrs. Graybill. And under this fuzzy white sweater she’s wearing her honeysuckle hurricane, and on top of her head she’s got neat little curls, like she’s spent all day at the hairdresser. I duck behind this plastic tree that’s collecting dust in the corner, and watch as a man follows her off the elevator. He’s not anybody I’ve seen around the building before. He’s
old
all right, but he looks more like he’s spent his life on the putting green than in a highrise apartment. He’s wearing white shoes, white pants, and a white polo shirt, and everything else about him is tan.

Mr. Garnucci calls over from an easy chair, “Don’t you two look splendid! Have a nice evening, Daisy.” He winks and adds, “You take good care of her, Mr. Belmont!”

Mr. Belmont clicks his dentures into place. “You can count on that, sir.”

Mrs. Graybill waves and calls, “Good night, Vince,” and off they go.

So I’m standing there behind this dusty plastic tree, and the coast is clear for me to zip up the elevator and explain everything to Grams. But I can’t move. My brain is working so hard that my legs can’t work at all. And the longer I stand there thinking, the more covered I get with goose bumps, until finally I just slide down the wall and sit in the corner and stare.

Who knows how long I was there. All I know is that when my legs started working again, they didn’t take me up the elevator. They took me straight out the front door and across the street to Bargain Books.

I didn’t know what I was going to do if I was right. I didn’t think that far ahead. It was a crazy idea, but it made sense. And if I
was
right, there probably wasn’t much time left to get proof.

When I got to Bargain Books, I squatted against the wall outside the door and closed my eyes. Tight. And I left them closed for what felt like an hour. Then I took a deep breath, stumbled to the door, and squeezed in. Once I was inside, I didn’t have to stand around waiting for my eyes to adjust, because right away I could see.

Mr. Bell’s up in the loft helping a customer, so I tiptoe over to his platform, swing open the gate, and sneak behind the register to his desk. There are stacks of books and mountains of papers and all kinds of boxes—on his desk, around his desk, everywhere.

Part of me’s panicking because it can’t come up with a good excuse for being where I definitely don’t belong, but the other part keeps one eye on the loft and starts poking around. I check inside boxes and behind boxes and all
around his desk but I don’t find anything. Then I think to go
through
the desk. So I tug on the bottom drawer, but it’s locked.

This is a pretty old desk—really deep and sturdy-looking—but the keyhole of the center drawer is loose and looks like you could just snap it off. So I’m looking around for something to pry down the lock, but just as I’m reaching over to snag the butter knife that’s lying across a jar of raspberry jam, I hear the steps of the loft squeaking and creaking. Mr. Bell says to the customer, “… that’s the only other author that I can think of. You might want to give Higuera Books in Santa Luisa a call. They may have a few titles by him.”

I take a quick look around, but it’s too late to make it off the riser before I get noticed. So I squeeze in between all this junk that’s under the desk, pull in the chair, and scrunch back as far as I can.

A few seconds later Tommy Bell comes through the gate. And while he’s ringing up his customer I’m holding my breath, trying to scan through the junk under the desk for something to cover me up. There’s a roll of paper towels on top of an old pair of shoes. There’s a box of printer paper with the lid half off, and behind it I see what looks like the corner of a sheet. So very slowly I reach over and pull the sheet from behind the box, but what I wind up holding is a pillowcase.

A green-and-white striped pillowcase.

All of a sudden I can’t seem to breathe right, and my whole body’s got the shivers. And I’m wondering, what was I
thinking
, coming here by myself?

After the customer leaves, I can hear Mr. Bell shuffling some papers, and then here come his feet, right by the chair. He goes over to the table against the wall and pops an English muffin in his toaster. His shiny, brand-new toaster.

As his muffins are heating up, he mixes himself a cup of coffee, and I’m thinking
I’m
toast! I mean, there’s no way a man who’d knock someone out for some old books would find me under his desk and tell me to just run along. No way.

As I’m sitting there shivering under the Skeleton Man’s desk, it hits me that what’s between me and Chauncy’s books is probably only an inch of wood. An inch of really hard, old wood. Just then I hear Mr. Bell say, “May I help you?” and there go his shoes across the platform.

So I’m all by myself again. But I know it won’t be for long, because on the table are two English muffins covered with raspberry jam.

I thought about staying there, scrunched up under the desk all night. But even as I was thinking that would be the smart thing to do, my hand was out, snagging that butter knife. And the next thing you know, I’ve got one eye on the lookout for Mr. Bell, and the other watching my hands wiggle and pry and mangle the lock. And just when I thought the lock was never going to give,
snap!
it broke.

The snap sounded like a shot to me, but I figured it was now or never, so very carefully I tugged open the first drawer.

And what’s in it? Nothing. Just a bunch of folders and papers and stuff. I close it and open the next drawer, and
what’s in that one? Calculators and marking pens and printer ribbons—not one book. By now I’m sweating, and my heart’s about pounding out of my body, but when I open the bottom drawer, there waiting to hop in my lap is a frog. A frog on a plum-colored book. And underneath
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
is
Three Stories and Ten Poems
, and underneath
that
are the other three books.

I get them out of the drawer as fast as I can, and when I look around for something to put them in, there’s that pillowcase just waiting for me. So I hurry to stuff the books in, but I’m not fast enough. One minute I’m by myself; the next minute Mr. Bell is stepping onto the riser.

He knows right off that I’m not there to snag his muffins. He comes charging at me saying, “Why, you little …”

Running through my mind is a picture of Chauncy all slumped over and dripping blood. And there’s no way I want to wind up like
that
, but I’m stuck on the platform and I don’t see how I’m going to get away.

Then I realize that in my hand is a pillowcase full of books—your basic hundred-thousand-dollar weapon. And when Bones gets near me I wind it around my hand and swing with all my might.

I connect, but barely. And it doesn’t really slow him down. He comes at me again, his shirt cuffs dangling and his wild hair sticking out, and in his eyes I see panic. Sheer panic—like a man grabbing on to weeds as he’s falling off a cliff. And I realize that this man will do anything for these books—
anything
.

And I’m backing up, running out of room, scrambling around for some way out, when I decide that I have to try again. I wind up the pillowcase and this time I swing it clear around, and
wham!
I hit him right in the temple.

I wasn’t expecting him to go down, but down he went. And as he’s lying there looking pretty knocked out, I reach for the phone to call 911. But just as I get to the phone, he starts getting up.

I punch in 911, but I don’t have a chance to say a word. Mr. Bell grabs me by the leg, and the phone goes flying, and all of a sudden I’m down on the floor right next to him.

The pillowcase is still wrapped around my hand, but I’m not in a position to use it. He’s got one hand clamped around my leg and the other yanking on the books, and the look in his eye is telling me that any minute he’s going to drop both so he can bash my head against the wall.

I’m kicking him like mad, trying to break free, and as I’m looking around for something to help me out, I notice the toaster right above me. I let go of the pillowcase, pull the plug out of the socket, and with both hands I reach up and yank the toaster free. Then
blamo!
I slam it on his head.

For a second there, he collapsed. And I thought he was knocked out for good, but before I can get back to the phone he starts to groan and move around a bit.

So I’m looking around for a way to
keep
him down, when I get an idea. I sit on his back, hard, then pull his hands together and wrap them up with the cord of the toaster.

He groans and his hands start twitching, and I can tell—he’s coming around. So I put his hands in the slots of the
toaster and push down the lever. Then I pull the end of the cord to the wall socket and say, “Mr. Bell, if you make one little move that I don’t like I’m going to have to toast you.”

He starts to roll over, so I plug the thing in. Just for a second.

He yelps, and his eyes open wide, and he whispers, “You’re crazy.”

I just stay there with the plug poised near the socket. “I’m serious.”

He lies there for a second, looking at me, and then all of a sudden his head flops down and he starts crying. And pretty soon he’s sobbing like a baby, so I drag the phone over with my foot and say, “Hello?”

The emergency lady says, “I’m right here. Are you all right?”

“I could use some help.”

“It’s on the way. Actually, they should already be there.”

The way my luck with the police department had been running I was expecting his Royal Rudeness to come cruising through the door, so I was pretty relieved when two policemen I’d never seen before came barging in.

I call, “Back here!”

They come swinging through the gate and whip off their sunglasses. Then they just stand there, looking at Mr. Bell lying on the floor with his hands in a toaster.

They ask me what’s going on, but I can’t tell them that I’m about to toast this guy because he stole some books from a man with no voice—it just wouldn’t translate right. So I try starting at the top, but telling about being plowed over by a skeleton, stomping out a fire, and finding
Frankenstein tied to a chair isn’t making things clear either. About halfway through, one of them puts up a hand and says, “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”

So I sigh and do something I never imagined I’d do. “Could you just call Officer Borsch or his partner and tell them we’ve caught the Skeleton Man?”

The next thing you know they’re filling the room with static, ten-fouring and ten-nining into their walkie-talkies. Finally one of them says, “Officer Emerson’ll be right over,” and then goes about reading Mr. Bell his rights.

When Muscles comes flexing through the door, he’s waving a paper in his hand. He laughs and says, “You’re telling me I cashed in all my favors for a search warrant I don’t need?”

I kind of laugh too. “Sorry.”

He takes one look at Mr. Bell, handcuffed and looking kind of small in a chair against the wall. “
That’s
him?”

I say, “That’s him. I haven’t found the skeleton suit, but I found the pillowcase, and I found these in his desk.” I hand the books to him, and after a minute of looking them over he says, “
These
are worth a hundred thousand dollars?”

“That’s right.”

They all kind of gawk at them, then Muscles says, “So what happened since I saw you at the courthouse? I thought you thought it was the brother.”