Summer of the Spotted Owl (10 page)

By the ticket office, a tour guide had been instructing visitors not to rock the bridge. And, normally, Talbot obeyed rules. If Madge had been there, she would have noted with annoying femininity that Talbot must enjoy entertaining me or he wouldn't be going against his nature.

“Bombs away!” Pantelli yelled. He barfed over the railing and down 230 feet to the canyon floor. For someone with motion sickness, a visit to a suspension bridge probably wasn't the most sensible idea. But sensible would have been going against
Pantelli's
nature.

A sleeve of mist curled up from the river, tickling my skin. Chilling me too. I'd ignored Madge's advice about bringing a sweater.

“You almost have to be a navigator in this,” Talbot remarked after briefly being hidden by the mist.

“Yeah,” I agreed — and was reminded of what the blonde instructor had said about Itchy. That he was an expert navigator.

But if so, I asked myself yet again, how could Itchy have landed short of Rowena's yard?

I remembered his stammered excuse:
Listen: I try to
stay out of trouble. It's not my fault.

For the first time I focused on the words
try to stay out
. I gaped at Talbot. “Holy Toledo. I think Itchy deliberately avoided crashing into Rowena's yard. If he were an expert navigator, he'd be able to change his mind about where he landed, even at the last minute. Which means — he changed his mind about being part of the prank against Rowena!”

Then I shook my head. “Itchy is one conflicted guy. I sure wish I could talk to him again.”

Pantelli stuck his face through the shreds of mist. “
I
sure wish I could get off this bridge,” he croaked.

“I'll go with you,” I said at once. Poor Pantelli! He was so pale from throwing up that it was hard to tell where his complexion ended and the mist began.

I turned to let Talbot know we were in retreat mode. However, the mist had settled over this portion of the bridge like a sleeping caterpillar. “Talbot?” I called.

No answer. But he'd find his way back to us. When you're our age, your movements are pretty predictable. Sooner or later you head for the nearest food outlet.

In the Loggers' Grill,
overlooking the bridge, Pantelli immediately regained both his color and his appetite. He and I ordered three salmon burgers plus fries. By the time we polished off our own, we were starting to worry about Talbot.

“He might've headed off on a trail and got lost,” Pantelli suggested.

“Not unless he was wearing headphones and listening to blues music,” I said, layering Talbot's fries with ketchup.

“Which he wasn't,” I added, mouth full, as Pantelli and I helped ourselves to Talbot's food. “Talbot is one of those responsible, direction-conscious types with loads of Boy Scout badges.”

I gulped down a fry and suddenly didn't want to eat any more. I was thinking of how Bald Guy had almost grabbed me in the still part of the forest. How I ran and ran and finally found Zoë Klapper, with her sweet smile and sweeter cupcakes. The whole thing had been like a fairy tale — almost as Grimm as one, for sure.

I stood up abruptly. “We have to find Talbot,” I announced.

I marched outside to the ticket booth. Squishing past tourists, I leaned down to where the ticket seller's hands were briskly dispensing change under the glass.

She groaned. “Not you again.”

“I'll need a helicopter and search team,” I said. No point in beating around the bush, I always say.

“What for?” the ticket seller demanded.

“Yeah, what for, Dinah?” someone said over my shoulder.

“My friend Talbot St. John is lost, possibly kidnapped by a bald —”

Having just registered the sound of that last voice, I paused. I turned and saw Talbot St. John grinning at me.

“Hey, don't tell me you were worried about me, Di.” His dark brown eyes were teasing and pleased, all at once.

“Okay, I won't. But what happened to you?” I demanded of Talbot. “One minute you were in front of me on the bridge, and the next …”

“And the next, ‘the fog crept in on little cat feet,' ” Talbot finished.

Like Mother, Talbot was given to bursting into quotations. Was there no getting away from these poetry spouters? His theory was that the more poetry and lyrics you read, the better you'd write them yourself. And he loved writing songs. He carried a notebook around with him at all times in case a song came to him.

I glared at him. “This is no time to get literary,” I informed him.

Talbot laughed. “When you said you wanted to talk to Itchy, I remembered who'd have Councillor Cordes's home number. My mom! She works at Vancouver City Hall as an executive assistant— and has access to all kinds of vip phone numbers. So I scooted off the bridge to a pay phone and gave her a buzz.”

Talbot waved his notebook at me. “Phone number and address of the Cordes family.”

“Good work,” said Pantelli, joining us. He held the Styrofoam container with Talbot's lunch, or what was left of it, inside. Handing the container to Talbot, he uttered a loud belch — Pantelli's version of a friendly greeting.

When I
got back to the Urstads', Madge was sketching on a large pad.

“Got a new mural idea?” I inquired.

“I think so. We'll see … So what's up?”

I told Madge about Pantelli's, Talbot's and my adventures at the Capilano Suspension Bridge. To my surprise, she listened without rolling her eyes or asking me to leave. She was genuinely interested.

“That was very resourceful of Talbot,” Madge observed. “He's a good researcher. No wonder he does so well in school.”

Talk about spoiling a mood.

Madge then became even more boring and older-sisterly. “Naturally, I forbid you to go over to the Cordeses'. The last thing I need is to have you confront the councillor and Itchy and try to ‘grill' them, as you unattractively put it. You'd probably be brought back here in a police car.”

Cool, I thought, imagining what a dramatic entrance that would be. But I kept the thought to myself.

“Isn't it ironic,” Madge mused. “Here I am trying to paint a lively scene, and you head off, day after day, and live out one.”

She had that dreamy-eyed look again.

“Madge, if you're going to
babble
…” I said witheringly and left the dining room.

ROWENA PICKLES: THE FILE

Pantelli peered doubtfully over my shoulder at the piece of paper I'd attached to a clipboard. “Dinah, you're not organized enough to keep files,” he objected.

We were standing on Rowena's porch. I'd just pushed the doorbell, which was held in place by two layers of Scotch tape. “I don't have to be organized,” I informed Pantelli scornfully. “I have a system. Anything I want to keep, I toss in the laundry basket. When Mother or Madge goes through the basket on laundry day, they find my stuff, and put it somewhere sensible.”

“Uh-huh.” Pantelli was still doubtful, I guess because he himself had an extremely efficient filing system for all his notes — his “findings,” he called them — on trees.

Rowena appeared. She got the wary, slightly hunted look she always had when I showed up at her door.

“I'm checking on the prank situation, whether there've been any in the past few days,” I smiled.

This wasn't really what I was up to, of course. I knew quite well there hadn't been any pranks, not since, come to think of it, Zoë had promised me she'd talk to Councillor Cordes about Itchy. I was here because I was determined to see inside Rowena's house, specifically the brassbound trunk she was so secretive about.

“Nothing's happened,” Rowena assured me. She had the door ajar only a crack.

Dang. I'd hoped she'd feel obliged to invite us in. Well, I'd have to try the subtle approach.

“Could we come in?” At her stare, I invented wildly, “Pantelli isn't feeling well.”

Both Rowena and Pantelli, who was busy emptying a bag of m&ms into his mouth, gaped at me.

“No, you cannot come in,” Rowena replied in a rather sharp tone.

The door shut.

“Rowena could
be a spy,” Pantelli remarked suddenly. He was in the process of capturing yet another of my pawns.

We were playing chess in the pool. Yes, the pool. Why not? You put the board and pieces on an inflatable cushion, and you're all set.

“After all,” said Pantelli as I frowned at the board in frustration — he was a much better player than I was — “spies carry top-secret papers around. When they're not getting caught and having to eat the papers in a hurry, that is.”

I considered this possibility. But not for long. While capturing my knight, Pantelli knocked my queen off the cushion.
Plunk
! Down to the bottom of the pool she sank.

Listen, I didn't say a swimming pool was the
ideal
place to play chess.

Chapter Ten
The Quay to a Disastrous Lunch

M
other phoned and suggested we meet for lunch at Lonsdale Quay. A Galloway girls' reunion, you might say.

Now, I don't mind quality time with the maternal unit. But watching her and Madge slide raw oysters down their throats at the outdoor café was totally gross.

“What are you two, contestants on
Fear Factor
?” I asked as Mother and Madge proceeded to squeeze lemon over more oysters gleaming in their shells. I could swear the oysters wriggled.

“At least we're elegant in our dining choices,” Madge observed. She gave a scornful glance at the lunch I'd ordered: a mega-cheeseburger, bacon, tomato and heaps of onions, and wedge fries. Later I planned to order a huge piece of the butter crumb cake I'd glimpsed on the dessert trolley.

Then she glunked down a huge oyster, whole.

“Elegant” was Madge's favorite word. Since she used it day in, day out, I ignored her. Instead I reached for the ketchup bottle and splattered ketchup all over my food. The bottle, which was plastic, made a tremendous
fthlwp
! sound, just like — well, like you know what. People at other tables shot us distasteful looks.

Which made the Lonsdale Quay experience, in my view, complete. There we were, at a table in the sun, with Burrard Inlet sparkling next to us, jugglers performing nearby, and the bright colors and yummy scents of the market all around.

And the heaviness in my heart about having offended Jack. I hadn't thought he'd continue being mad about the day at the hatchery. But he wouldn't answer the phone messages I kept leaving at the soac office. They were great messages too — long, emotional and very moving.

Chomping a huge bite out of my cheeseburger, I removed a pencil and a crumpled paper from my shorts pocket. I started writing.

Memo to Jack
All the Things I've Done for You,
or Why You Shouldn't be Mad at Me.

1. I introduced you to Madge.

2. I am amusing and entertaining.

3. I always lend a sympathetic ear.

Beside number three I drew an ear, as a way of proving number two. Back at the Urstads', I'd fax this gem of a memo to Jack at the soac office.

Mother leaned over to see what I was writing. “Um,” she said, “is the mountain air maybe a bit rich for you, Dinah?”

“Di's offended Jack,” Madge tattletaled, smacking her lips over the final oyster. She withdrew a compact from her purse, cracked it open, then moved her face this way and that, checking her porcelain skin. “Mother, at what age should one start using anti-wrinkle cream?”

“Madge, you're
seventeen
. Now, Dinah, what did you do to Jack? He's so nice and easygoing. I wouldn't have thought it possible to offend him.”

“Dinah could offend a saint,” Madge commented, still examining herself in the mirror. The usual self-satisfied smile was beginning to crook the edges of her lips.

Perfect Madge, who never did anything wrong. All at once I was furious. If I'd stopped to think, I would've realized it was the Jack situation that had me upset, not Madge and her perfection.

But I rarely stop to think. It slows the momentum, I find. I lifted the ketchup bottle again. “Here's some anti-wrinkle cream for you,” I said, aiming.

Sssppplllaaattt
!

I missed out on the butter crumb cake. I got sent home in a cab.

Well, not home
home. The Urstads'. I sat on the curb, chin in my hands, half-wishing I'd never come to North Van to keep Madge company. All the visit had got me was a cheesed-off future brother-in-law and a wrecked, stolen turtle. Zilch, in fact.

I grew progressively sorrier for myself until tires scraped the pavement in front of me. A small pink convertible pulled over and parked to my right. From the driver's seat, Zoë Klapper twisted round, a smile wreathing her doll-like face.

“Why so glum?” she called.

I shrugged. “Nothing, except that I have enough family problems to go on
Oprah
.”

Zoë laughed, a tinkly sound, like music at a carnival. “I've brought something.” Getting out of the car, she reached into the backseat and picked up a balloon-patterned gift bag with curly white ribbons tumbling out the top. “For you,” she said.

I brightened. Who wouldn't, at the sight of a gift-wrapped package? Plus, Zoë fished another pair of cupcakes from her bag and handed them to me. I unwrapped and stuffed my face at the same time. “This is very nice of you,” I said somewhat indistinctly. I was glad Mother wasn't there. She would have told me to refuse the gift since I didn't know Zoë that well.

Maybe I was still in fairy-tale mode after that chase through the Grimm-like forest, but Zoë reminded me of some magical character. Glinda the Good Witch, maybe. (When I was little, Dad, a mega-fan of Judy Garland, had played lots of her cds and movies for me. Now
I
was a mega-fan too. I must've seen
The Wizard of Oz
twenty-three times. So far.) Like Glinda, Zoë always arrived just when I needed cheering up.