Abby and the Secret Society Read online

  “Can you believe these old outfits?” Stacey asked, holding up a pair of black-and-white checkered knickers.

  “I love it!” said Claud, who had found a floppy newsboy-type hat to match.

  “Fore!” I yelled as I tried out a swing with one of the golf clubs I’d taken off a rack. Since golf is one of the few sports I know nothing about, I don’t know what “Fore!” means. All I know is that people shout it when they’re about to swing a club.

  “Four what?” asked Claudia.

  “Four tons of stuff to clean up,” answered Stacey, looking around with a sigh.

  We were in the pro shop, which was part of the golf clubhouse. Nikki had been thrilled when we’d volunteered to start cleaning it out. It was the one place in the club that she hadn’t even begun to fix up.

  The clubhouse was in a small, one-story building of its own, just beyond the main building. It contained a locker room and changing area, a small lounge, and the pro shop, where equipment and clothing were sold. The weird thing about the pro shop — about the entire clubhouse, for that matter — was that nobody had touched a thing in it for twenty years. Like everything else at the country club, it had simply been closed up and left alone when Dark Woods went bankrupt. Other places, such as the dining room, had at least been opened and aired before we saw them. But the clubhouse had been sealed up tight until that day.

  There were still golf shoes sitting on the benches in the locker room, and cigar ashes in the ashtrays in the lounge, and price tags (low ones!) on all the old-fashioned clothing in the pro shop. The trophy cases on the walls of the lounge still held trophies for the club’s annual tournament, the Dark Woods Open, plus awards for things such as Best Female Golfer and Most Improved Golfer.

  The trophy cases and everything else in the clubhouse needed major cleaning. And we wanted to investigate every square inch. But we’d decided to start in the pro shop.

  I put down the golf club I’d been swinging and strapped on the white surgical mask I’d brought along. I wear one whenever I’m in a situation where it’s impossible to avoid dust. If I hadn’t had one on that day, I probably would’ve ended up in the emergency room, no joke. It was seriously dusty in there. The counters were dusty, the clothes were dusty, even the cash register buttons were dusty.

  The mask helped, but I was still feeling a little sneezy and stuffed up as I piled boxes of golf gloves into the carton Nikki had given us. She’d asked us to store all the old stuff we found in the shop, to make room for new gear. She was going to try to sell all the old merchandise at a special “nostalgia” sale in the summer.

  An hour or so later, I threw one last box into the carton, folded the flaps closed, and taped them shut. Then I sneezed.

  “Bless you,” Claudia and Stacey said, for what seemed like the fortieth time that day.

  “Thanks,” I said. I looked around. “We seem to be making a dent in this place. How about if we take a break and do some investigating?”

  Stacey and Claudia agreed. We divided the shop into sections, and each of us searched our area, hoping to find clues. But there wasn’t a clue to be found. The closest we came was when I discovered a box of yellow golf tees — tees that looked exactly like the one we’d found in the bottle of wine.

  “This proves that David Follman bought that tee right here in this shop!” I exclaimed.

  “Maybe, but don’t all golf tees look pretty much alike?” asked Stacey.

  “Oh. Right,” I said. My only clue was a nonclue.

  We kept searching, but nothing else turned up. We kept cleaning, too. We worked in that clubhouse for three afternoons, and by the time we’d finished with it, the place was starting to look terrific, but we hadn’t come any closer to figuring out what OPEN WWII meant.

  By the end of the three days, I was tired and a bit cranky. More than a bit cranky, actually, which is why I ended up having a spat with Alan Gray. And believe it or not, that fight ended up being the best thing that could have happened.

  We were taking a break in the lounge of the main building: Cary and Alan (who had been helping Mr. Kawaja again), plus Stacey, Claud, me, Kristy, and Jessi. (Kristy’s team was just as frustrated as ours. They hadn’t found any more clues, either. They had ended up coming back to Greenbrook to help us out.) Mary Anne and Mal had sitting jobs, so they missed the excitement.

  Anyway, there we were, trying to relax, when Alan and Cary started giving us a hard time about who had a tougher job. “Having fun over in the clubhouse while we slave away in the greenhouse?” asked Cary.

  None of us bothered to answer.

  “They probably just sit around all day in the lounge over there,” said Alan.

  “We do not!” I cried. “We work harder than you’ll ever work. We’ve cleaned that stupid clubhouse from top to bottom!”

  “Well, isn’t that special,” said Alan, raising an eyebrow. “What do you want, a trophy?” He stood up. “Come on, Cary,” he said. “We’ve rested long enough. Let’s get back to work.”

  The two of them headed out, leaving me steaming. It’s no fun to be told that you’re lazy, especially when you’ve been working as hard as we had. “Those guys!” I said, shaking my head. “What do you want, a trophy?” I repeated, mimicking Alan.

  Nobody said anything for a few minutes. Then, suddenly, I sat bolt upright in my chair. “A trophy!” I exclaimed. “That’s it!”

  “That’s what?” asked Stacey tiredly.

  “Has anybody cleaned up that trophy case yet?” I asked.

  “I dusted the outside of it, but that’s all,” replied Kristy. “Why?”

  “I just remembered what most of those trophies are for,” I said. “They’re for the Dark Woods Open.” I paused to let that sink in, but none of my friends reacted. “Open,” I repeated. “Like in David Follman’s note. Don’t you think that might mean something?”

  Suddenly, everybody looked a little less tired.

  “What about the World War Two part?” asked Stacey.

  “Maybe — maybe he means to look at trophies won during World War Two,” suggested Kristy.

  “What are we sitting here for?” I asked. “Let’s go check it out!”

  We raced to the golf clubhouse and stood in front of the trophy case. “Which years do we need to look at again, Kristy?”

  She thought for a second. “Nineteen forty-one through nineteen forty-five, I guess,” she said.

  There was only one trophy from the war years, and it was from nineteen forty-two. The plaque on it read, “Honorably recognizing the triumph of Christopher Armstrong.” I opened the case (fortunately, it was unlocked) and lifted the trophy out. My friends gathered around to watch as I inspected it, and when I turned it upside down, we heard a rattling noise.

  It didn’t take long to find the false bottom, and moments later we had opened the trophy to find two small silver keys and a note. With trembling hands, I unfolded the paper, and we read it together. “Shelter Favorite Food,” it said. And it was signed (DF), just as the other notes had been. We stared at it, but nobody said a word.

  Finally, Kristy spoke up. “I think it’s time to talk to Sergeant Johnson,” she said. “Maybe he can make some sense of this.”

  * * *

  Sergeant Johnson scratched his head. “Beats me,” he admitted. “I can’t figure it out.” He was looking over the notes we’d brought him. We’d taken every piece of evidence to the police station, except for the trophy. (Kristy had copied the inscription into the mystery notebook.)

  “We probably should have come to you sooner, when we found the first one,” said Claudia. “But we were so excited. We thought we were about to solve the mystery! Instead, we just found a tougher clue.”

  “Maybe David did too good a job of covering his tracks,” said Sergeant Johnson. “But he must have figured that somebody would know what he meant.”

  I reread the trophy inscription that Kristy had copied. “… the triumph of Christopher Armstrong,” I mumbled to myself. “Armstrong
. Mayor Armstrong — the only man left in Stoneybrook during the war years,” I said, remembering what Dawn’s granny had told us, and what Kristy had discovered about the war years in Stoneybrook.

  Suddenly, I had an incredible idea. “Listen, everybody,” I said. “I have a plan!”

  “Welcome to the Blue Ribbon Club!” Stephen ushered us into the Stanton-Cha backyard.

  Before I could put my plan into action, I had responsibilities to meet. Namely, I had a baby-sitting job the next afternoon. Actually, I had a co-baby-sitting job. Kristy was sitting for Stephen, and I was sitting for Jenny. She and Claire were at the Stanton-Chas’ for the afternoon.

  The three of them had spent quite a few days together, planning and putting together their “country club.” Now it was ready, and Kristy and I were their first guests. They’d made us wait in the front yard while they prepared to greet us.

  “Blue Ribbon Club?” asked Kristy.

  “That’s its name,” explained Claire. “And all the members wear blue ribbons. See?” She showed us a scrap of blue ribbon she had pinned to her shirt. Jenny wore one, too, and so did Stephen.

  “We tried some other names, like the S.J.C. club — you know, for Stephen, Jenny, and Claire — but they didn’t sound right,” said Stephen.

  “Also we kept fighting about whose initial should be first,” said Claire. “I thought C.J.S. sounded a lot better.”

  “But the club is in my yard!” said Stephen. He sounded ready to start arguing all over again.

  “And it’s a beautiful club, too,” said Kristy quickly. “Just look at that sign!”

  Her effort to change the subject succeeded. The kids ran to the sign, which they’d painted on a long banner of computer paper, and hung across the Stanton-Chas’ garage. In huge blue letters, it said:

  It was decorated with yellow stars and swirls of blue.

  “I did the stars!” Claire said.

  “I made all the clouds,” Jenny added, pointing to the swirls.

  “And I wrote the words,” Stephen said proudly.

  “Terrific job, guys,” said Kristy. “Now, why don’t you show us around your club?”

  “What do you want to see first?” asked Claire.

  “You decide,” I said. “We want to see it all.”

  The kids were only too happy to give us the grand tour. They showed us the volleyball/badminton court, the tetherball setup, and the sandbox corner. (“For the little kids,” Jenny explained seriously.) Claire demonstrated the pogo stick, and Stephen showed us a pair of stilts he was learning to use. There was a Nerf football and a Nerf basketball, a Frisbee, and three or four different Koosh balls. There was even a store-bought miniature golf setup. “In the summer we’ll have a wading pool,” said Stephen, “and we’ll play Super-Soaker tag.”

  Kristy and I were impressed. This was a big step up from the Pike kids’ homemade club. The outdoor toys and sports equipment were brand-new. Nikki had obviously indulged Stephen when she saw that the club was making him happy.

  “Let’s play!” said Stephen. He ran to the badminton court, picked up a racket, and waited for the others to join him.

  “I don’t want to play stupid old badmitten,” complained Claire. “I want to play tetherball.” She ran to the tetherball pole.

  “Yuck,” said Jenny. “I hate tetherball. Let’s play Frisbee.” She grabbed it. “Come on, guys.”

  It was a stalemate. Not one of them would give in to the others, and none of them could play their own game by themselves. Kristy and I stayed out of it, not wanting to play favorites by joining one game or another. We stood near the tall evergreen hedge that borders the Stanton-Chas’ yard, watching the kids to see what they would do next.

  “Whoa!” I heard a voice whisper behind me.

  “Awesome,” hissed another voice. “Check out the tetherball.”

  “Real badminton rackets!” said someone else.

  I turned around, peeked through a hole in the hedge, and saw Byron, Jordan, Haley, Nicky, and Carolyn standing on the other side, staring into the Stanton-Chas’ yard.

  “What are you guys doing here?” I asked.

  “Shh!” said Nicky. “Not so loud. We’re spying.”

  “Spying?” asked Kristy. “Why?”

  “Claire’s been blabbing about her dumb club all week,” explained Jordan.

  “We wanted to see if she was telling the truth,” added Byron.

  “I guess she was,” said Carolyn, a little mournfully. She gazed longingly at the tetherball game. “It really does look like a pretty cool club.”

  “Look at those stilts!” said Nicky. “I’ve always wanted to try those.” Suddenly, he squirmed through a small opening in the hedge and ran into the Stanton-Chas’ yard. The other kids looked at each other in surprise — and then followed him in.

  “Hi, Claire,” said Nicky cheerfully. “Nice club.”

  Claire put her hands on her hips. “Thanks,” she said. “But why are you here?”

  “Uh,” said Nicky, backing up a few steps. “We were — we wanted to — can we join your club?”

  “Ha!” said Jenny, mimicking Claire’s hands-on-hips pose.

  “You must be joking,” said Stephen, who was now standing between the two girls. “No way are you invited to join our club.” He waved his hand around at the equipment in the yard. “All of this is ours, and you can’t play with it.”

  Nicky stuck out his lower lip and glanced one more time at the stilts. For a second he looked as if he might burst into tears. Then he caught sight of his brothers and pulled himself together. “Well, you still can’t join our club, either,” he said. “So there.”

  “Who needs your dumb old club, anyway?” asked Claire. “Ours is much, much better.”

  “Sure it is,” Byron said, “if you like playing with a bunch of little babies.”

  “Babies!” yelled Stephen. “Take that back!” He balled his hands into fists. “We’re not babies. Our club is the best. And only certain people can join.” He picked up the stilts Nicky had been eyeing, and started trying to walk on them, but he had a hard time without help.

  Claire ran to the tetherball pole and smacked the ball. Jenny threw the Frisbee in the air and tried to catch it. “This is fun!” she cried.

  “So is this!” said Claire, hitting the ball wildly.

  “These stilts are the best!” called Stephen, just before he took a tumble off them.

  The other kids just stood with their arms folded, watching enviously. Then Byron seemed to shake himself. “Hey, forget this,” he said. “We have our own club, and it has the best members — not just little kids, like this one does. Let’s go back to the Slate Street Kids Club!” He stalked out of the yard, and the others followed him.

  Nicky paused long enough to stick out his tongue at Claire. “Nyah, nyah,” he taunted her. “Who needs your baby club?” But I noticed him taking one last, lingering look at the stilts.

  “Good-bye and good riddance!” shouted Stephen.

  The Slate Street kids walked out of the yard and down the street. Stephen, Claire, and Jenny stopped pretending to play and just stood there, looking a little lost. Suddenly the Stanton-Chas’ yard was very, very quiet. And suddenly I couldn’t take it anymore. Neither could Kristy. We both started talking at once.

  “Why wouldn’t you ask them to join?” said Kristy.

  “This is so silly!” I burst out. “You have equipment but you need more members —”

  “— and they need more equipment but they have plenty of people,” Kristy finished. “What’s the point of being so exclusive?”

  Stephen, Claire, and Jenny looked upset and bewildered. “I don’t know,” said Stephen. “They wouldn’t let me join, so I didn’t want to let them join.”

  “Nicky can be kind of fun to play with,” Claire ventured.

  “I like Carolyn,” said Jenny. “And I bet Adam and Jordan would play Frisbee with me.”

  “I wouldn’t really mind having a few more members,” adm
itted Stephen.

  Kristy and I exchanged glances. “I’ll go after them!” I said. I dashed out of the yard.

  I ran as fast as I could, and by the time I caught up with the Slate Street kids I was breathing hard, but I managed to gasp out my message. They followed me back to the Stanton-Chas’.

  Kristy gathered everybody together near the tetherball pole, and started to talk — about including and excluding people, and about how Dark Woods used to be, and why Nikki wanted Greenbrook to be different. The kids seemed uncomfortable, but they were all listening. A couple of them looked extremely upset when Kristy told how Nikki’s friend had been treated.

  “That’s mean!” said Adam.

  “How dumb,” agreed Margo.

  “So tell me,” Kristy said finally, to Nicky and the others. “Why didn’t you want Stephen and Claire and Jenny to join in the first place? Did you have a good reason?”

  Byron squirmed a little. “Claire and Jenny were being total pests that day,” he said. “We were busy, and they kept bugging us.”

  “What about Stephen?” I asked. I was almost positive that it had nothing to do with his Korean father, but I had my fingers crossed behind my back, hoping against hope that I was right.

  “We just didn’t know him,” said Nicky, shrugging. “I was going to invite him anyway, but he stomped off before I could.”

  “I wasn’t even sure of his name,” Jordan said. “But you seem like a nice kid,” he added, addressing Stephen. “I know Claire’s been having fun over here. She talks about you all the time.”

  “So, how about joining the clubs together?” asked Kristy.

  “It’s okay with me,” Stephen said shyly. He was still glowing from what Jordan had said.

  “Cool!” said Nicky. “Can I play with the stilts now?”

  “Sure,” said Stephen. “And maybe later I can give you a karate lesson.”

  “Karate?” Nicky repeated. “Awesome! This club is going to be the best ever.”

  Kristy and I smiled at each other over the kids’ heads. It looked as if the Slate Street Blue Ribbon Club was going to be a success.