Abby and the Notorious Neighbor Read online

  But it was hard to wait — oh, man, it was hard to wait.

  Finally, the moment arrived.

  “Any new business?” Kristy asked.

  My hand shot up. “I have some!” I cried.

  Everybody looked at me.

  “You have new business?” asked Kristy. “But you’ve been home for the last two days.”

  “I know,” I said. “Believe me, I know. But here’s the thing: I think we have a mystery on our hands!”

  At that, everyone leaned forward, interested.

  Unfortunately, the phone picked that moment to ring, and I had to wait another three minutes while Mary Anne arranged a sitter for a job at the Hobarts’.

  The second she hung up, she turned to me. “Okay, tell us! What’s going on?”

  “Have any of you ever seen the movie Rear Window?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

  “What?” Kristy sounded as if she were about to blow her top. “I thought you were going to tell us about a mystery. Now you want to talk about movies?”

  “You’re kidding,” Mary Anne said to me, ignoring her friend. “What did you see? A murder?” Her eyes grew round. She looked scared, but excited.

  “What are you two talking about?” asked Mal.

  The others were confused too. So Mary Anne — who’s a classic-movie buff like me — and I had to stop to tell them the plot of one of the best Alfred Hitchcock movies.

  “See, there’s this photographer guy who has a broken leg,” I began, “and he’s stuck at home in his apartment.”

  “So he starts watching out the window, just for fun,” Mary Anne added, “and he sees all this stuff that goes on in his neighborhood.”

  “Including —” I paused dramatically, “a murder.”

  “Well, he doesn’t actually see the murder,” put in Mary Anne. “That’s what makes it a mystery. He just thinks that his neighbor killed his wife, based on some stuff he’s seen.”

  “Like, the guy stuffing something into a trunk!” I interrupted gleefully.

  “Ew!” cried Jessi and Mal.

  “But nobody else believes him,” Mary Anne continued.

  “So, did it happen or not?” asked Kristy.

  “For the answer to that, you’re going to have to watch the movie,” I said teasingly. “For now, the main thing you have to know is that the guy sees a crime — or thinks he does — while he’s watching out his window.”

  “So you’ve been —” Stacey began.

  “Spying on your neighbors?” Kristy finished, looking a little uncomfortable.

  “No!” I said. “Not spying. Just watching a little. You know, like when I walk past the window or something.” I thought of myself camped on the window seat with the binoculars and blushed. “Anyway, the point is that I think one of my neighbors might be a criminal!”

  “Whoa!” said Claudia. “What do you mean?”

  I told my friends about watching Mystery Trackers, and how I’d seen the profiles of three criminals. Then I told my friends how one of them had looked familiar, but how I couldn’t put my finger on which one it had been. Finally, I told them about seeing Mr. Finch in his backyard. “It was him!” I said. “I’d swear by it.”

  “Which him?” asked Mary Anne. “The bank robber or the embezzler?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted. “You have to understand, I’ve kind of been in a fog for the last two days.”

  “A fog is right,” said Kristy. “Mr. Finch, a criminal? Are you sure you don’t still have a fever?” She laughed. “Mr. Finch is as normal as they come. You should see this guy,” she told the rest of our friends. “All he does is mow his lawn. I mean, sure, he does it at weird times, but that hardly makes him a bank robber.” She shook her head. “I think you’ve seen that Back Window movie one too many times.”

  “It’s REAR Window,” I said stiffly. “And I never said he was a bank robber. He might have been the other one, the one who abandoned his family.”

  “Whatever,” said Kristy, humoring me. “Okay, let’s just say this isn’t all a product of your imagination. Tell us some more about these criminals. Where are they from? What other names do they go by? Why would they have chosen Stoneybrook as a place to hide? Do they have long criminal records, or were these their first crimes?”

  “I — I don’t remember that much,” I confessed, looking down at my hands.

  “Maybe the show will be repeated,” said Mary Anne helpfully. “Or maybe we could locate a tape.”

  “Right,” said Claudia, unwrapping another Ring-Ding. “And then, if there was more information, maybe we’d have something to go on.”

  “Does Mr. Finch ever do anything suspicious?” asked Mal. “Like go out at odd hours or wear disguises?”

  I shook my head. “Not really,” I mumbled. I appreciated how supportive my friends, other than Kristy, were trying to be. But I knew they were just going through the motions. They didn’t really believe that Mr. Finch was a criminal.

  For that matter, I wasn’t sure I believed it anymore. My friends weren’t convinced by what I’d said, and I couldn’t exactly blame them. Maybe I was imagining things, because of my fever, or because I was so bored I had to make something exciting happen.

  I decided to shut up about it for the time being and investigate some more on my own, without my friends’ help. “I guess it was all in my mind,” I said sheepishly. “What can you expect from someone who’s been burning up with a fever for forty-eight hours?” I gave a little laugh and shrugged my shoulders.

  Then the phone rang again, and we moved on to other business. And by the time Kristy declared the meeting adjourned, I was more than ready to go home. I felt tired and a little dizzy, and I was coughing again. I could hardly wait to be back in my own familiar house, the one I’d been so sick of only an hour earlier.

  I barely remember the ride back to our neighborhood, or anything Kristy and Charlie talked about. At home, I stumbled out of the car and headed straight inside to the couch.

  Mom had come home early — she was making a special effort to be there for dinner each night since I’d been sick — and she and Anna were in the kitchen, talking and laughing while they made dinner. I drifted off for a while, until Mom shook my shoulder gently and led me to the table.

  I didn’t eat much of the chicken noodle soup they served me. I was almost too tired to lift the spoon to my mouth. Finally, I gave up. “I’m going to bed,” I announced.

  My mom was nice enough not to point out that I shouldn’t have gone to the meeting. She just kissed my forehead and told me she’d be up later to check on me. Anna gave me a sympathetic look.

  I trudged upstairs and down the hall to my room. It was twilight by then, and when I looked out my windows I saw that my neighbors’ houses were lit up, including Mr. Finch’s.

  Immediately, I felt a little surge of energy. I turned off my own light, pulled back the curtains, grabbed the binoculars, and sat near the window to watch. My heart was beating fast.

  Soon, though, I was yawning again. Why? Because nothing was happening. Mr. Finch was seated at his kitchen table, eating dinner. A Healthy Choice microwaved lasagna dinner, to be exact. Hardly the behavior of a hardened criminal.

  Maybe I’d been wrong.

  Maybe Kristy was right, and I’d seen Rear Window too many times.

  I started to put down the binoculars, but then something stopped me. Instead, I swept them around to get a good look at the inside of Mr. Finch’s kitchen one last time. As I did, I saw something, and I felt a chill run up my spine. (Really! An actual chill!)

  Kristy wasn’t right after all.

  I was.

  “Kristy! You won’t believe it,” I hissed into the phone. (I wasn’t exactly eager to have my mom know I’d been spying on the neighbors, so I kept my voice down.)

  “What?” Kristy asked. “I thought you told me you were going right to bed.”

  “I was. Except I had to take one little peek at Mr. Finch’s house. And guess what I saw?”
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br />   “Mr. Finch holding a machine gun?” Kristy asked.

  “Kristy,” I said. “Come on, this is serious.”

  “Okay, what did you see?”

  “Well, he was in his kitchen, eating dinner,” I began.

  “Oh my lord! How suspicious can you get?” interrupted Kristy.

  I fell silent. I wasn’t even going to give her the satisfaction.

  After a couple of seconds, she must have realized how mad I was. “All right, all right, I’m sorry. Go on,” Kristy said.

  “Well, I looked all around his kitchen, and there on the refrigerator I saw a bunch of drawings. You know, kids’ drawings.” I paused meaningfully.

  “And?” Kristy said. “What does this prove?”

  “Don’t you see?” I cried, forgetting to keep my voice down. “Here’s a guy who supposedly lives all alone, but he has kids’ pictures all over his fridge! He must be the guy who abandoned his family!”

  “Abby, take it easy. You’re jumping to conclusions.”

  “But —” I began.

  “Think about it,” she continued. “He could have nieces and nephews or grandchildren. Or maybe he’s a schoolteacher. There could be a million reasons why he has those pictures.”

  “But I’ve never seen any kids visit him,” I said stubbornly.

  “Abby,” said Kristy. “Listen to me. I think you need some sleep. Go to bed, okay? We’ll talk some more in the morning.”

  I didn’t like her tone. She sounded as if she were talking to a two-year-old. But she was right. I did need some sleep. Suddenly, I was so exhausted I could hardly hold the phone. “Okay,” I agreed. “Good night.”

  “Good night, Abby,” said Kristy. I could picture her shaking her head in amusement. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was just overtired.

  I stumbled into bed without even brushing my teeth or changing into my nightgown. I had a vague memory of my mom coming upstairs later and helping me undress, but it was like a dream. The next thing I knew, it was morning.

  And I felt lousy.

  Absolutely terrible. I still had bronchitis, plus there must have been some new load of pollen in the air that was making my allergies act up big-time. I couldn’t stop sneezing, and sneezing made me cough, and coughing made my throat sore, and — just take my word for it, I was sick as a dog.

  The second I opened my eyes, I groaned. Another day home from school, and feeling worse, not better. How could I stand the boredom? Then I remembered Mr. Finch.

  The minute my mom and Anna left, I slid out of bed and grabbed the binoculars. I aimed them at Mr. Finch’s house, but I saw no activity over there at all. Bummer.

  I swept the binoculars over the rest of the neighborhood. Then I put them down and yawned. Bo-o-oring. Everybody was off at work or school. Even the birds and squirrels seemed to be settled in for the morning.

  Then, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed movement. I picked up the binoculars again. Yesss! It was him. Mr. Finch. He had come out the back door with a watering can, and he was watering the plants on his patio.

  Why wasn’t he at work like everybody else?

  Did he even have a job?

  Maybe he was living off money he’d stolen….

  It was time to find out more about Mr. Finch. I put down the binoculars and headed downstairs to find a phone book. Believe it or not, that can be a great place to start when you have a mystery to solve.

  Edwards, Falk, Ferber. There it was. Finch. I ran my finger down the listings. Finch, Agnes. Finch, Donna. Finch, Finch, Finch. I never knew there were so many Finches in Stoneybrook. Where was the one I was looking for?

  Then I saw it. Finch, O., 2105 Kemp Avenue. That had to be it! Kemp is the next street over. But why didn’t the directory show his first name? How annoying. I tried to think of the names “O” could stand for, and could only come up with Oliver and Oscar.

  Oliver Finch? Somehow the name didn’t fit the man. I went back upstairs and spent some more time monitoring his activities. First he washed some dishes. Then he sat in a recliner near the living room window for a while, reading the newspaper. After that, he made a phone call, jotting down some notes on a pad that sat on a table near the phone. (I would have loved to be able to read them, but my binoculars weren’t quite strong enough.)

  Then Mr. Finch disappeared into another part of the house. I watched for a while longer, but he didn’t reappear.

  He stayed out of my sight all morning, so I took the opportunity to nap. When I woke up, he still wasn’t in view, so I went downstairs and had some chicken noodle soup for lunch. Afterward, I checked on him again, but he was still out of sight. I read for a while, until I started to feel sleepy again. I didn’t really want to nap anymore, since I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night if I did. That’s when I checked the clock and realized with a little twinge of excitement that it was time for Mystery Trackers.

  I made a comfy little nest on the couch and settled in to watch. This time, the program had a theme: “Nasty Nannies.” It featured three different women who had posed as nannies in order to steal from their employers. I enjoyed the program, even though none of the women reminded me of anyone I knew.

  At the end of the show, the 800 number was flashed on the screen again. “Remember,” intoned the announcer in that important-sounding voice of his, “you can help. We need your eyes and ears. If there’s a criminal in your community, do the right thing — call Mystery Trackers today.”

  Of course! I’d forgotten about their hotline. I threw off my quilt and scrambled for a pen and paper. The credits were rolling, but the number was still displayed on the bottom of the screen. I scribbled it down. Then I grabbed the phone and dialed.

  Busy.

  Naturally. There were probably three bazillion people out there who thought they’d seen one of the “Nasty Nannies.”

  I waited a few seconds and punched REDIAL.

  Still busy.

  I gave up and made myself a cup of tea. After I’d finished it, I tried one more time.

  “Hello, Mystery Trackers, this is Amy Shapiro speaking. How may I help you?”

  “Uh —” Suddenly, I was at a loss for words. Where should I start?

  “Have you spotted one of our featured criminals?” prompted the woman on the other end of the line.

  “Yes! I mean, I think so,” I said. “It was one of the guys on your show earlier this week. He was either the bank robber or the embezzler who abandoned his family.”

  “Oh, sure,” said the woman. “I remember. Did you really spot one of those guys? Cool!” She sounded young — and nearly as excited as I felt.

  “Was one of them named Finch?” I asked eagerly.

  “Finch? I don’t think so,” she said. “Let me check the records.” She put me on hold, which gave me time to think. That’s when I realized I’d made a dumb mistake. I mean, duh! Of course the criminal’s name wouldn’t be Finch. He would have changed his name. That’s what criminals do.

  “Hi, I’m back.” It was Amy Shapiro. “Sorry it took me so long. I’m a summer intern here, and I just started a few days ago. I don’t know where everything is yet.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “Did you find the names?”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “But neither of them is Finch.”

  Just what I’d figured.

  “The bank robber’s name is Harry Bronson, and the other one, the embezzler, is named Arthur Maguire.”

  I scribbled down the names and thought of another question. “Where were they from?” I asked.

  “Let’s see,” said Amy. “Bronson was from San Francisco. At least, that’s where his last robbery was committed. And Maguire, he was from Des Moines, Iowa.”

  I wrote that down too. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Anything else I can do?” she asked. “Should I notify the authorities?” Amy certainly was enthusiastic.

  “Oh, no, not yet,” I said. “Let’s wait until I’m really sure. I mean, I’m pretty sure, but I’m not positive.”
r />   “Tell you what,” she said. “If you give me your name and address, I’ll see if I can round up a copy of that show to send you. That way you can make a positive ID.”

  A positive ID. The words made me shiver. “Great,” I said. This was truly exciting. If I could put a good case together, that would blast my boredom away for good.

  Amy and I said good-bye after she’d promised to mail me the tape and I’d promised to call her with any new details about Mr. Finch. Then I headed upstairs for some more Finch-watching.

  He was back in the recliner, reading again, or maybe napping, with the newspaper draped over his face. I couldn’t tell.

  For a second, I had a wild idea. What if I called him up, using the number I’d found in the phone book, and asked for Harry Bronson or Arthur Maguire? I could watch through the binoculars and check the expression on his face when he heard the name. If he looked horrified, I’d know for sure that he was a crook. I reached for the phone.

  But he’d also know something. He’d know that someone was on to him. And then he’d probably move away in the middle of the night and I’d never see him again and my brilliant career as a Mystery Tracker would be over. Hello again, boredom.

  I put the phone down.

  Then I went back to watching. And waiting.

  It was a long, boring afternoon. Mr. Finch didn’t do a single interesting thing, unless you count ironing a few shirts.

  Eventually, school buses began delivering kids home, and the neighborhood came back to life. When I spotted a certain BSC president hopping off our bus, I waited a few minutes and then dialed Kristy’s number. I had a job for her.

  Kristy’s entry in the mystery notebook wasn’t exactly supportive, but seeing it made me happy anyway. She’d brought the notebook to my house to prove that she was ready to play along with my “fantasies” about Mr. Finch.

  What’s the mystery notebook? Well, it’s another of Kristy’s great ideas. See, the BSC members have been involved in solving quite a few mysteries. And when you’re collecting clues and speculating about suspects, you need a place in which to keep notes. I guess the club members used to write stuff down just about anywhere — on the backs of their hands or on napkins from a pizza place — but sometime before I joined the club Kristy came up with the idea for the mystery notebook. Ever since then our investigations have been a lot more organized.