Summer of the Spotted Owl (7 page)

Itchy continued running. Briefly he removed one hand from the metal bar to give his right side a hefty scratch.

Slowly the hang glider lifted Itchy off the ground and bore him away. “So arrogant,” the instructor commented. She blinked at the increasingly speck-like Itchy as if unable to believe what had happened.

Mr. Lake jabbed an accusing forefinger at her. “This was
not
covered in the training manual.”

Chapter Six
Sylvester's Spirits Get Dampened

T
he next day, Madge and I obliterated a flowery meadow. Madge was glum about the non-progress of her work, but I enjoyed myself.
Swish
,
swish
! With a wide, white-painted brush stroke I blotted out a winsome daisy and a smiling bumblebee.

“I don't see what was wrong with your meadow,” I said. “Mrs. Urstad said she wanted a cheerful mural.” I stood back to survey the dining room wall, now almost whitened back to its original blandness.

“But the meadow didn't
mean
anything,” Madge fretted. “It was just some silly greeting-card fantasy. It wasn't real. I'm into
real
.”

I thought of Madge's usual paintings, like garbage cans with morning glory frothing around them, or doorways splattered with sun and shadow. Yeah, they were better than these greeting-card murals she kept attempting.

We finished painting over the field, cleaned the brushes with stinky paint remover and then soaped and washed them in a large pail.

“What you need is a break from your painting,” I said. “Why don't we go to Rock Cordes's office — Rock Cordes Senior, I mean — and grill him about his son?”

Madge dried the brushes. She shook her head at me. “Why don't you stop pestering Itchy? The guy crashed into the Urstads' pool and is embarrassed about it. When he sees you, he runs away. So he's too much of a geek to apologize. So what? The hang glider's been removed and the incident is closed.”

“It's open,” I contradicted her. “Wide, wide open. Question marks are bobbing around like the bumblebees in your mural. Your ex-mural,” I corrected myself. “Why did Itchy, who's supposed to be a good navigator, crash into the Urstads' pool? Why did he steal my inflatable turtle? Why'd he dump kitties on Rowena's doorstep? Why does he keep saying it's not his fault? What is ‘it,' anyhow?”

I adjusted my glasses. “I'll tell you one thing. This ‘it' is bigger than we think.”

Madge stood up. She gave the dining room wall a despairing glance and patted me on the head. “There
is
no ‘it,' ” she said, not unkindly. “Itchy's dad is a big wheel in North Vancouver. Kids of big wheels have an extra responsibility to stay out of trouble. When they don't, headlines erupt. Bad publicity for them — and for their famous dad or mom.
That's
why Itchy gets scared when he sees you, Dinah. You remind him of the trouble he got into.”

“You mean the pool he got into,” I corrected. “That all makes sense, Madge— except for one thing. My turtle. Why would he steal a wrecked inflatable turtle?”

Madge shrugged. “Maybe he's a kleptomaniac.”

“Huh?”

“Can't help stealing things.” Madge was gazing dreamily at the newly white wall; she had lost interest in mysteries and was picturing a fresh mural. “As for the kitties, well, maybe he was honestly trying to find a home for them.”

I knew that what she was saying made sense. Grown-up, logical sense.

I also knew in my bones that she was wrong.

Madge's gaze shifted from the blank wall to the mirror on the opposite wall. At the sight of her reflection, my sister's dreamy look faded and was replaced by a satisfied smile. She patted her hair.

“Tell you what,” she said. “I think you and I, after our hard work, deserve a swim. Why don't you empty the soapy pail out in the laundry room? By the time you get out to the pool, I'll have a cheese and fruit plate for us to snack off between dives. Or, in your case, between belly flops.”

I was too busy thinking about Itchy to be insulted by Madge's belly-flop comment. There was something else strange about him, I mused, absentmindedly stirring the soapy water.

I went over the times I'd seen Itchy. In the Urstads' backyard, in Rowena's front yard, atop Grouse Moun-tain — in each place, Itchy had fled from me. In fact, his fleeing seemed to be the basis of our relationship. He hadn't even stuck around to check that the cats he'd left were safely taken care of.

I sighed. Maybe Madge was right. Maybe Itchy was just plain nervous about bad publicity. After all, Sylvester Sloan from the
Bugle
had appeared after Itchy deposited the cats.

Soon
after. Too soon.

Whoa.
That
was the other strange thing about Itchy. Sylvester had shown up knowing about the cats Itchy had deposited. I clapped a soapy hand over my mouth. Had someone tipped off the
Bugle
that Itchy was going to leave cats on Rowena's doorstep?

Was Itchy linked to the people trying to drive Rowena out of the neighborhood?

But that didn't make sense. Itchy had crashed the hang glider into the Urstads' property, not Rowena's.

“The more I try to put the pieces of all this together, the more jumbled they get,” I sighed. Without thinking, I stood up and banged my foot against the pail. Suds sloshed all over the floor.

“Dinah, let's go out to the pool,” called Madge from the kitchen.

“Be right there,” I called back. Grabbing a spare towel, I swiped at the spilled suds.

I peeked round the corner. Madge was carrying a platter of gleaming fruit and creamy cheese wedges out to the deck.

Some chores were made to be shortened. There was no need to lug this pail downstairs to the Urstads' laundry room when I could just as easily chuck the soapsuds out the front door. Heck, the porch and stairs could use a good wash.

With Talbot's electric-guitar version of “Sweet Sue” in my head, I sang, “Without you, dear, I don't know what I'd do!”

Who said household chores had to be dull? Just whistle while you work. Or, in my case, belt out while you work.

My head tipped back, and singing at the top of my lungs, I pulled open the front door. With a vigorous heave, I tossed out the pail's contents.

“AAAGGGHHH!”

I left “Sweet Sue” dangling somewhere in the high notes. Before me, Sylvester Sloan was sopping like a pile of seaweed.

“Was this really necessary?” Sylvester asked sadly. His long, thin hands flipped back the top of his steno pad, then twisted and wrung out the sodden pages.

“Er — sorry.”

“That's quite a singing voice you have,” Sylvester informed me through dripping strands of hair. “What did you say your name was?”

I told him, but rubbed my hand over my upper lip so that the syllables came out garbled. My agent, Mr. Wellman, was always warning me to avoid bad publicity. I had a feeling he wouldn't appreciate headlines about me nearly drowning reporters.

“At least you won't have to shower for a while,” I joked lamely. “What brings you here, anyhow, Sylvester?”

The
Bugle
reporter squelched past me and into the Urstads' marble foyer. “Got a tip about another sign being posted on Rowena's lawn,” he said. Now he was craning round to examine the dining room. “Huh! Been painting, I see.”

“My sister's creating a mural,” I said, wishing Sylvester would leave.

Instead he took his time scanning the now totally white wall. “Oh, yeah? What's she gonna call it— ‘Polar bears in a snowstorm'?” Beneath his
Bugle — your darn-tootin' neigh
borhood newspaper
T-shirt, Sylvester's bony shoulders shook with laughter.

And I'd thought my joke was lame. “Sylvester, this time you're two days late on your tip about Rowena. What gives? Another visit to your mom?”

“A cold,” Sylvester sighed. He took a wet Kleenex from a drenched shorts pocket, blew his nose into it and stuffed it back again. “I was off, so didn't get the voice-mail message till today. But, yeah, he or she —the voice is so high-pitched I can't tell — left the message all right. Say, do you have a towel I could borrow?”

I barely heard him. Rowena's anonymous caller had a high-pitched voice too. I bet the caller and the tipster were one and the same.

“The strategy could be, dump cats on her doorstep, leave eyesores on her lawn and generally make her appear to be a neighborhood nuisance,” I murmured. “Not to mention tipping off the
Bugle
each time one of these things happens. It's all a campaign to embarrass Rowena into leaving the neighborhood, but why?”

“Oh, you're one of those
bright
children,” Sylvester groaned, rolling his eyes. “Just my luck. I ask for a towel and I get theories.” He sneezed. “I'll tell you what I really need, though.”

“A dry Kleenex?”

“A crooked politician.” Tucking his steno pad under an arm, Sylvester wrung out his dripping bangs. Luckily Madge had covered the Urstads' gleaming pinewood floor with plastic. “Where are the crooked politicians when you need them? How long do I keep getting assigned stories about pranksters? Where's my big break in journalism?”

“Try searching for it outside,” said Madge acidly. She'd entered the dining room quietly to find out, I guess, what was taking me so long. When there was food available, I didn't normally keep her waiting.

“We don't approve of intruders,” Madge informed Sylvester, her blue eyes narrowed and dangerous. She held up one of the Urstads' portable phones. “Get out, or I'm dialing 911.”

“Madge, meet Sylvester Sloan,” I said hastily. “Sylvester shows up when anything disastrous happens.”

Madge's brow cleared. “Oh, a
reporter
. Well, we have no disasters happening here, unless you count my failed attempt at a mural, so if you wouldn't mind —”

“I'd never mind,” Sylvester breathed. Gaping at my sister, he whispered, “Aphrodite, rising from the foam,” and gave a heavy lovesick sigh.

Huh? Foam? Madge had been in the pool, that was all. She had a thick white towel wrapped round her bathing suit, and her burnished red hair was tied up in a wet ponytail. Comparing Madge to a goddess was a bit of a stretch.

I waved a hand in front of Sylvester's goggling face. “Do you read me … Repeat, do you read me…”

Startled, Sylvester stepped sideways — and into the puddle he'd created by wringing out his bangs. He slipped, and—
splat
! Sylvester hit the wall's wet paint. Now he had a fat white stripe down one side.

“Sylvester, you look like a confused skunk,” Madge observed, and she and I burst into unkind laughter.

Bored by yet another gawky admirer, Madge returned to the pool. However, I felt a bit sorry for Sylvester, so I walked him out to the
Bugle
car. It was the least I could do.

Some kids playing hockey on the street jeered at him; a couple of cars slowed so their drivers could stare and snicker.

“Maybe Mom was right: Journalism isn't the career for me,” mourned Sylvester, tossing his steno pad on the driver's seat. It landed with a
squelch
! “I toldja how she always thought I should go into insurance. Y'know, selling door-to-door.” He slid into the car, transferring a good portion of his white streak onto the driver's seat.

“But then you'd have to wear a business suit and look smooth and efficient,” I pointed out. “Somehow I can't picture you being smooth and efficient.

“Anyhow,” I continued, leaning on the open driver's window, “you do have a talent for showing up after disasters.” I surveyed his drenched hair and smothered a laugh. “When not actually participating in them.”

“That's true.” Sylvester cheered up a bit. “Every time something happens at Rowena's, I'm on it like an ant on picnic food.”

A slow ant sometimes, I thought, but didn't say this aloud. Instead I remarked, “You also showed up the time something happened at the Urstads'. ” I could tell Sylvester yearned to leave. He was fidgeting with the car keys, and his Adam's apple bobbed agitatedly. But I didn't want him to go, not yet.

“The hang-glider crash, for example,” I elaborated. “
That
happened at the Urstads'. ”

“Huh? So there
was
a hang glider. Well, it was supposed to happen at Rowena's,” Sylvester said crossly. He shoved in the ignition key.

“‘Supposed to'?” I reached over and pulled the key out. I'm one of those behaviorally challenged kids. “What do you mean?”

“I mean the high-pitched tipster,” Sylvester said crossly. He grabbed the key ring and we had a mini-tug-of-war. “He, she, or, Lord knows, maybe
it
, informed me that a hang glider was about to miss the landing field and come down into Rowena's backyard by mistake. That I could get a great picture not only of the smashed hang glider, but of how disgracefully messy Rowena's garden was.”

I was so surprised I abruptly let go of the ignition key. Sylvester's head struck the steering wheel. “Owww!”

“You're saying the hang glider was
supposed
to miss the landing field?”

“No, I'm saying, ‘Owww.' ” Sylvester clutched his head. “My skull is permanently dented, I'm sure of it.”

“Let me see, Sylvester.” I slid farther in for a proper look. “What a fuss! Your head isn't even bleeding.”

Then, in my excitement, I hopped up and down beside his car. “You know what this means, don't you? Itchy is definitely connected to the people playing pranks on Rowena. Think how tidy and well-pruned this posh neighborhood is. I myself noticed it from day one. Then think how a
Bugle
photo of Rowena's ultra-messy backyard would've prompted tons more demands that she move.”

“I don't want to think,” Sylvester complained. “I want to be home with some hot lemon tea, aspirin and leaflets on how to register for an insurance-selling course.”