Sammy Keyes and the Skeleton Man (18 page)

So I tell him that the candlesticks winding up at the Thrift Store bothered me—how it didn’t make any sense for Chauncy’s brother to throw away something with a lot of sentimental value. And then I tell him how Mr. Bell had said that he was looking for a buyer for his store and how
when I mentioned Chauncy he acted like he didn’t even
know
him.

Then I start telling him how Mrs. Graybill and Mr. Belmont were talking to Mr. Garnucci and how Mr. Garnucci called Mr. Belmont “Mr. Belmont” because he didn’t really know him, and how he called Mrs. Graybill “Daisy” ’cause he
did
know her. And I’m just warming up to the point of all this when Muscles shakes his head and says, “Sammy, you’re losing me again.”

I take a deep breath and say, “When I was at Chauncy’s today and we found out about the books, I offered to ask Mr. Bell if anyone had tried to sell him some rare books. And Chauncy said, ‘They wouldn’t go through
Tommy,’
like he knew him. At the time I didn’t think about it, but after I heard Mr. Garnucci talking in the lobby, well, it all clicked.

“I think that Mr. Bell is the one who appraised Chauncy’s books and that he’s been dying to get his hands on them ever since. Chauncy could tell you for sure. So could his brother.”

Mr. Bell is sitting with his hands handcuffed in his lap, and he’s crying. He looks up at me and says, “Sammy, I’m
so
sorry. I never meant to hurt you. Or Chauncy. Things just got out of hand. I couldn’t stop thinking about them! And then the nightmares started. That place going up in smoke … those books, wasted. Gone forever …” He puts his head in his hands and starts bawling. “Why couldn’t they have been mine?”

One of the police officers puts a hand on his shoulder and says, “Come along, Mr. Bell. It’s over.”

So they take him away, leaving me with Muscles to answer a bunch of questions for his report.

When Muscles finishes writing everything down, he walks me to the curb and shakes my hand. And as he’s pumping away, saying thanks for all the help, this guy pops out of nowhere and takes our picture. We’re both kind of stunned, wondering what’s going on, when the photographer puts down his camera and says, “Joseph Jennings,
Santa Martina Times
. We understand there’s been an arrest made here tonight. It was Thomas Bell, the bookstore owner—is that correct?”

Before I can say a thing, Muscles puts one of his iron arms up and says, “I’m sorry, we’re not at liberty to answer any questions at this time.” Then he says to me, “You need a ride home?”

I just laugh and say, “No thanks,” because getting a ride from him would take a whole lot longer than jaywalking.

So I wave good-bye and cut across the street. I suddenly remember that I stashed my backpack and as I’m digging it out of the bushes I’m thinking that I’ll probably be up all night explaining everything to Grams.

And normally that would have been fine. It’s just that the next day was going to be a big day at school.

A really big day.

Grams forgave me around midnight. Then she wanted to spend the next hour talking about what
not
to say at Mr. Caan’s meeting the next day. And after she went to bed I still had to do my math homework, so it felt like I’d slept for all of ten seconds when the alarm clock went off.

While I’m in the shower trying to jump-start myself, Grams is in the kitchen making oatmeal and talking to someone on the phone. And when I get done inhaling my breakfast, Grams puts on her coat and says, “Hudson’s on his way over to give us a ride. He’s probably already waiting.”

A ride. What a relief! I throw my backpack on my shoulder and say, “I’ll meet you out front.” Then I run down the fire escape, around the building, and over to the parking lot where Hudson is just pulling up in Jester.

The whole way to school Hudson kept asking me questions about Tommy Bell and the books, and by the time we pulled into the school parking lot he was saying, “I think it’s about time I paid Chauncy LeBard a visit. This recluse business has gone on far too long.” He turns to Grams. “I’ll be right here when you get done.” Then he says to me, “Any chance you’ll be coming home with us?”

I grin and say, “Oh, there’s a
big
chance of that, but if my plan comes off it’ll be just you and Grams.”

Grams is halfway out of the car, but when she hears that she stops cold. “
What
plan? We didn’t discuss any plan!”

“Grams, don’t
worry
. It’s nothing bad. I just hope it works.”

She gets out of the car, and I can see her shaking her head at Hudson, but he says, “Just relax, Rita. The meeting will be over before you know it.”

So off we go, up the steps, in the front door, past Mrs. Tweeter and straight to Mr. Caan’s office. And right there in the hallway are Heather and her mother, waiting.

Mrs. Acosta’s outfit is a little more conservative than the one she was wearing at the Halloween party. At least, I think
she
thinks so. She’s got on white high heels, a purple mini skirt, a fluffy white blouse, and only three bracelets.

And we’re all standing in the hallway pretending like we’re not looking at each other, when Mr. Caan comes over and ushers us to a meeting room with a table and some padded folding chairs. He says, “I think we’ll be more comfortable in here,” and then motions for us to have a seat.

Grams and I sit on one side of the table, and Heather and her mother sit on the other, and we’re all kind of staring at our hands folded nice-and-neat in our laps. Mr. Caan sits at the head of the table and says, “I’d like to begin by thanking you for coming.” He clears his throat. “I realize there is a history of tension between these two young ladies, and I feel it’s time we dialogued about the root of the problem so that maybe we can eradicate it once and for all. To start with, though, I’d like to address yesterday’s events.” He
looks at me. “Now then, Samantha. I understand your frustration over the rumors about you and Jared. However, do you agree that using the school’s public-address system to settle the score with Heather was entirely inappropriate?”

Before I can put together a nice way of not lying, I blurt out, “What would
you
have done if you were in my shoes, Mr. Caan?”

Heather snickers, which makes Mr. Caan turn to her and say, “You find that humorous, Heather?”

“I’m sorry, sir. I just can’t see you in a pair of green high-tops.”

Mrs. Acosta elbows her and whispers, “Heather!”

Heather just shrugs. “Well I
can’t
.”

Mr. Caan takes a deep breath and then says to me, “What
I
would’ve done in your position is talk to one of my teachers or a counselor or even an administrator. What I would
not
have done is taken it upon myself to hold the entire school hostage to my revenge!”

I look down and say real quietly, “Mr. Caan, if I’d thought of another way to prove she was lying I would’ve done it. But you’ve got to understand—Heather is not
rational
. She gets mad over
nothing
, and she’s got this way of getting the popular kids to believe her. How can I compete with that? What am I supposed to do? Run around to all the kids at school and say, ‘Hey, listen to this! This is proof that I haven’t been calling Jared—Heather has’? Like they’d believe me. And you can’t reason with Heather. She gets so mad over stuff and, really, I never know what’s going to set her off next.”

I’m keeping my voice low and steady and mostly staring
at my lap, but I’m keeping an eye on Heather, too. When I get to the part about her getting mad over nothing, she starts to say something, but her mother puts a hand on her shoulder and stops her. And I can tell that she can’t wait for her turn to say some pretty choice things about
me
, so I finish by taking a deep breath and looking straight at her when I say, “I’m sorry to say this, but I really think Heather needs professional help.”

Her mom jumps up. “
What?
How
dare
you! If anyone around here needs a psychiatrist, it’s you! The lies you make up, the embarrassment you’ve put my daughter through! This is beyond belief!”

I give Grams a secret little wink, but she’s looking pretty worried.

Mr. Caan stands up. “Now, calm down, Mrs. Acosta. We need to get to the bottom of this, and I think we’re off to a good start.” When Heather’s mom sits down, he says, “Okay now, Heather, what do you have to say in response to Samantha’s observations?”

Heather bats her eyes at Mr. Caan and sniffles, “She’s just a mean, mean person. I don’t do
anything
to deserve being treated the way she treats me. That tape … it was just something she faked. Can you believe anyone would
do
something like that?”

Now as she’s trying to come up with some tears to make her lies a little more convincing, I’m pulling a pair of earrings out of my sweatshirt pocket. A pair of rubber ring earrings with fake rubies on them. And as Heather’s whining away I very slowly reach up and clip one to my left ear. Then I clear my throat just a little so Heather’ll glance over
at me. And when she does, I give her a little smile and clip the other earring to my right ear.

For a second she just stares. Then she chokes out,
“Where did you get those?”

I shake my head back and forth so the earrings dangle a bit. “At a party. I told the hostess they were the coolest earrings I’d ever seen, so she gave them to me.”

Heather starts breathing real hard through her nose, and you can just see her thinking, It can’t be … It
can’t
be! So I give her a little smile and say, “They didn’t exactly go with my princess costume, but it was real nice of her anyway.”

That does it. Heather lets out a screech and comes clawing across the table at me. And before anyone can stop her she’s on top of me screaming, “I hate you! I hate you!
I hate you!
”

I fall backward and call, “Help! Mr. Caan, help! There she goes again! She’s crazy! Somebody, please! Help me!”

Mrs. Acosta yells, “Heather stop it! Stop it! What’s gotten
into
you? Heather!”

Before Heather can gouge me up too badly, Mr. Caan pulls her off of me and holds her arms behind her back. But does that stop her? No way. She kicks and screams, “I’m going to get you for this! I hate you!
I hate you!
”

Mr. Caan yells at Mrs. Acosta, “Follow me!” and then hauls Heather out of the room.

Twenty minutes later he finally comes back. He sits down and says with a big sigh, “Her mother’s taken her home.”

Grams gives him a prim look. “I do hope you’ll have her seek some professional help. You can’t have that kind of
behavior in a learning institution, for heaven’s sake.” Then she says, “Do you understand now what kind of stress Samantha has been under? What with the way that girl taunts her and teases her and got the whole school believing Samantha was calling that boy?”

Mr. Caan puts up his hands. “I can understand why Samantha did what she did, but there still has to be some disciplinary action for her use of the P.A. system.” He looks at me and says, “My inclination yesterday was to suspend you.” He chuckles. “Indefinitely.” He takes a deep breath and says, “In the light of what’s just transpired, I’m not going to do
that
, but a detention is going to have to be assigned.” He straightens his watch a bit and then looks me in the eye. “Last night I added up the hours you should serve for your various infractions, and it came to twenty. Twenty.”

Grams says, “Mr. Caan … really!”

Mr. Caan puts up a hand. “Twenty hours of after-school detention does seem a bit extreme, considering the circumstances, so what do you say we have Samantha put those twenty hours to better use—maybe doing a community service of some sort?”

I’m still stunned, thinking Twenty hours! but Grams is right on top of things. “St. Mary’s Church is always looking for volunteers this time of year to help with the Thanksgiving food drive. We could have her help out at the church and get Father Mayhew to verify her hours for you.”

Mr. Caan thinks about that for all of two seconds. “Great idea.” He looks at me and says, “And now I think
you should be getting to class, young lady. You’ve missed enough school as it is.”

So I jump up, give Grams a kiss on the cheek, and off I go. And I could probably have just skipped English altogether since there were less than ten minutes left in class, but I didn’t want to push my luck. I tried just sneaking in, but Miss Pilson turned around from writing on the board just as I was scooting into my seat.

She stares at me like she’s seeing a ghost. Then she blows up at her bangs and finishes assigning an essay for homework. When the bell rings and everyone else goes charging for the door, she says, “Samantha! A word, please,” which, translated, means she’s going to use a lot of big words to tell me how mad she is at me.

I go up to her, but before she can get a good string of adjectives together I say, “Miss Pilson, I’m sorry that I interrupted your assembly. I really liked Mr. Yates, and I was
into
hearing about his book.” I let out a sigh and say, “I know his coming to the school was a big deal for you. I’m
sorry
.”