Christmas Chiller Page 8

  “You haven’t?” I said incredulously.

  “Kristy,” said Anna, “It’s practically dawn, still. No one else is up.”

  I half rose from my chair.

  “I’m not doing any clue hunting until I finish breakfast,” said Abby. “And it is a well-known fact that lox is brain food.”

  I groaned and sank back into my chair. “Hurry up,” I urged her.

  “Two places get ‘naughty’ and two ‘nice’ in the same neighborhood,” Anna mused. “That’s a pattern, isn’t it? I mean, we must all have something in common if the burglar is so focused on us.”

  “True,” I said, forgetting my impatience for a moment. “Hmm. Well, we’re all neighbors. We all live in big houses.” I thought hard. None of the adults worked in the same profession, so that wasn’t a link.

  Abby said, “All of the families have children.”

  I said slowly, “Two of the families have children for whom we baby-sit. You are one of the baby-sitters, and so am I. Do you think there’s a connection there?”

  “Oh, no,” said Anna. “Not again.” It had happened before. Someone with a grudge against the BSC had gone after us, and it had been terrifying.

  “Of course, that’s just one theory,” I said. “We have plenty of other connections. The same letter carrier comes to our houses, we use the same guy to shovel our walks and the same gardener….”

  Abby said, “Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. Watson the Master Plantman and your grandmother, the Guru of Gardens, let a gardener touch the sacred flower beds?”

  I could tell Abby was trying to lighten this up and ease Anna’s fears, as well as our own.

  I made my own voice seem unworried as I answered, “Okay, okay, you’ve got me. We have a gardener, Mr. Nixon. Watson and Nannie do love to garden, but they don’t have time to do everything, so they need a little help. We were going to use a garden service, but we ended up with Mr. Nixon.”

  “Most of the people around here use Gandy’s Greenhouse Service,” Abby informed me snootily. “It’s the latest thing in the neighborhood, in case you haven’t noticed. We use Mr. Nixon too, but Mr. Hsu thinks we should switch to Gandy’s. What do you think? Should we — to keep up appearances?”

  “It depends on what kind of appearances you want to keep up. Have you seen their truck?” I said. “It’s bright green, with a small metal sculpture of a tree as a hood ornament.”

  Anna smiled a small smile, but I don’t think she was fooled by our banter. She said, “Speaking of letter carriers, what about the delivery services? There have been delivery trucks all over the neighborhood this week. Christmas is their busy season, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe someone is casing the neighborhood using a fake delivery service truck!” Abby exclaimed. “That could be it, Anna!”

  “It still doesn’t explain the ‘naughty’ and ‘nice’ thing, though,” I said. “But maybe it’s a code or maybe it refers to Santa, like the song.”

  Abby said, “Well, Santa is a delivery person, sort of.”

  I said, “We got the notes saying ‘nice’ and our houses weren’t trashed. What in the world makes the Hsus and the Papadakises ‘naughty’?”

  It didn’t make any sense to begin with, and the more we talked about it, the less sense it made. “I hate this!” I declared. “If we can’t stop this burglar something terrible could happen.”

  Anna said, “What’s happened is already pretty terrible.”

  I stood up. “Come on,” I said. “Time to look for clues.”

  We put on our jackets, hats, and mittens and went outside to inspect the area beneath the kitchen window. Unfortunately, we emerged from our search more or less clueless. We saw a couple of smudged sneaker prints in the soil but nothing that was distinct enough to be useful. None of the bushes had been broken or trampled on, no bits of clothing had caught on snapped-off twigs, nothing. Whoever it was had been very neat and careful. It was frustrating.

  How could we catch a thief who left only useless clues? I looked at my watch. Maybe the meeting of the group to form a neighborhood watch, which was being held at my house at noon, would offer more information.

  * * *

  Sergeant Johnson stood up and faced the crowd of people assembled in our family room. He cleared his throat. “A neighborhood watch has been proposed for this neighborhood, an excellent idea at any time, but particularly now, in light of recent developments.”

  We listened intently as Sergeant Johnson talked about the recent break-ins and outlined how most neighborhood watches operate. “One good tactic is to post signs in the neighborhood saying that a neighborhood watch is in effect,” he said. “If you can convince a burglar that it is too much trouble to break into your houses, you will have solved the problem before it begins.”

  He talked about the importance of communication — neighbors telling each other when they were going to be away; letting people know when they expected deliveries and asking neighbors to watch out for the delivery people; and being willing to call the police when something didn’t look right.

  I naturally was struck by Sergeant Johnson’s example of delivery people, since we had already thought of that. Were Abby and Anna and I onto something? Was it a common ploy for people to pretend to be delivering things in order to case a place they planned to rob?

  “Alarm systems are a great deterrent. So are dogs. But one of the best deterrents of all is people who are willing to participate in taking care of each other,” Sergeant Johnson concluded. “And whatever you do, don’t try to catch the burglar single-handedly. It could be dangerous. Whoever’s behind this is a very destructive person with a plan.”

  I felt a chill. But I pushed my fear down. It wouldn’t help.

  As the adults gathered around Sergeant Johnson to talk about the best way to set up the watch, I pushed in beside him and took the first opportunity to ask about the delivery truck ploy.

  He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “It’s not uncommon for thieves to use a disguise of that sort. In fact, I know of one case in which a group of thieves rented a van, disguised it as a moving truck, moved everything out of a house, and then drove away. The neighbors all thought it was odd that someone would move so suddenly, but no one questioned it. That’s why it is so important to know your neighbors and to communicate effectively.”

  “Thanks,” I said.

  Mrs. Korman, who was standing with Abby’s mom next to Sergeant Johnson, said suddenly, “It doesn’t have to be a delivery truck, does it? I mean, what if a car or a truck just doesn’t look right?”

  That got Sergeant Johnson’s attention. “What do you mean?”

  “Well, I just remembered that I saw a pickup truck last night, driving down McClelland, that I had seen earlier in the day. And I don’t think it belongs to any of our neighbors. But it did look vaguely familiar. Maybe that’s why I didn’t pay much attention.”

  “License plate? Make of vehicle?” Sergeant Johnson rapped out.

  But Mrs. Korman shook her head. “I didn’t notice the first time. And when I saw the truck again, it was too dark to tell. I didn’t see the license plate, either.”

  “Keep an eye out for it,” Sergeant Johnson said. “It might be a useful lead.”

  I turned away. Aha! A clue, sort of. I’d have to tell Mallory to put it into the mystery notebook with the other clues. It didn’t fit anywhere now, but sooner or later, everything would make sense.

  I just hoped that happened before it was too late — before someone got hurt.

  Or maybe even killed.

  “It’s dark out here,” I said, stepping into the hall outside Stacey’s father’s apartment.

  “Tell me about it,” Stacey said, fumbling to turn the key in one of the nine gazillion locks on the apartment door. Even though Mr. McGill lives in a nice building with a doorman, his apartment has a ton of locks. That seems to be an unofficial law in New York City.

  And I admit that since all these weird things have been happening, I’ve
grown to love every single one of those nice locks Stacey’s father has.

  Trying to match another key to yet another lock, Stacey said, “Claud? I think one of the lights blew out. But could you check? There’s a light switch on the wall near the elevator.”

  “Okay,” I said. It wasn’t as if we were in total darkness, just a deep gloom. I hurried down the hall and found the switch. It was in the ON position. I flipped it a couple of times to be sure.

  Nothing happened.

  “Maybe it’s a fuse or something,” I said. “Or maybe …” I tipped my head back and stared up at the ceiling. I frowned. I squinted.

  “What?” said Stacey. She finished the ritual locking of the door and stood beside me.

  “Or maybe someone unscrewed the lightbulbs in your hallway and took them,” I said, pointing upward where the long tubes of fluorescent light had been. Sure enough, the fixture was tube free. In fact, every single fixture in the hall was, except for one, which was why we weren’t in total darkness.

  “Great,” said Stacey. “Now people in this building are stealing the lightbulbs.”

  “Maybe they just borrowed them. Maybe someone needed …” my voice trailed off. It was a silly suggestion and I knew it.

  “We’ll tell the doorman,” said Stacey. She punched the button for the elevator.

  It didn’t light up. She jammed it again.

  No light. No little arrow pointing down, indicating the elevator was on its way to take us to the lobby. “Oh, this is just great,” said Stacey. She bent forward and squinted at the button, jabbed it, then jabbed the UP button.

  Nothing.

  I took a stab at it. The button was immovable. Or rather, it felt squishy, but I couldn’t press it in. “It feels like something is stuck underneath it,” I said. “If we could pry the button up … Too bad I don’t have a Swiss army knife. I should.”

  “Would a nail file do?” asked Stacey, producing a small metal one with a plastic tip from a zippered case inside her pack.

  “Perfect.” I went to work on the button. It took only a moment to pop it off, and then we discovered …

  “Gum. Ick,” said Stacey. “Is this somebody’s stupid idea of a stupid joke?”

  She sounded very cross and I didn’t blame her. Our Christmas vacation wasn’t going quite as planned. Ethan was acting like the boyfriend from the Weird Zone, so much so that when he’d phoned to say he had an art seminar to attend all day Monday, Stacey sounded almost relieved and assured him we would find plenty to do. Someone was following us and sending us spooky gifts and notes, and now some practical joker had run amok with the lights and the elevator.

  At least, I hoped it was a practical joker. But maybe it wasn’t. I knew Stacey was thinking the same thing.

  I dug the gum out, flicked it into the garbage, and reattached the button. I pressed down, and the light went on.

  “Well done,” said Stacey.

  “Chewing gum, in texture, is not unlike some of the media with which I work in art,” I said loftily.

  “I thought chewing gum was an art form,” said Stacey.

  “Only under the desks at SMS,” I replied as we stepped into the elevator.

  Carl was on duty downstairs and we told him about the lights. He shook his head. “I’ll send maintenance right up.”

  “Great,” said Stacey. To me she said, “Let’s shop!”

  “Good luck,” Carl called as we headed into the battle.

  And I’m not kidding about the battle. The streets were crowded. We walked downtown, and the closer we drew to Fifth Avenue, the more crowded it became. When we actually reached Fifth Avenue, people surged around us in a human flood, wielding their bulging shopping bags like battering rams.

  We went single file, holding onto each other so we wouldn’t be separated. We walked and shopped and walked and shopped and walked and shopped until I thought my feet would fall off. We went into Tiffany’s and pretended we were shopping for diamonds and pearls. Stacey even tried on a pair of tiny diamond earrings. I think the salesperson knew we were goofing, but she was nice, not at all snobby. “Dad’s going to get me a pair of earrings from Tiffany’s when I graduate from high school,” Stacey explained. “He promised.”

  “Well then, you definitely should start shopping now,” I agreed.

  It was fun. I totally enjoyed it. But by the time I had helped Stacey pick out a silk scarf for her mother from Saks, my feet were screaming for surrender.

  “Foot failure,” I gasped as we staggered out into the street. “Can we take a taxi?”

  Looking doubtfully up the street, Stacey said, “We could. But there’s so much Christmas traffic that it would take us hours to get home. And the buses are going to be even slower and packed like sardine cans. The Lexington Avenue subway is our best bet.”

  “How far is it?”

  “A few blocks.”

  “That’s about all that’s left in my feet,” I said. “Lead on.”

  Once we turned down the side street away from Fifth Avenue, the traffic eased up a little. It was late in the afternoon, and the darkening gray of the sky promised snow, big-time. I was hungry. And I hoped Mr. McGill was going to take us somewhere good for dinner.

  Then I remembered I was in New York City, the center of the junk food universe. I stopped and bought a pretzel with mustard from a street vendor before following Stacey down the stairs into the subway.

  The platform was crowded with a combination of shoppers and people beginning to head home from work. We threaded our way through the crowds toward the far end of the platform and found an opening at last, near the edge. I sighed with relief and bent over to wedge my shopping bags between my aching feet.

  Stacey did the same with her shopping bags.

  “Have some pretzel,” I said. “It’ll keep your strength up until dinner.”

  “Thanks.” She reached out and took the pretzel. Suddenly, I felt a ripple in the crowd, and Stacey was flailing, off balance, tilting toward the edge of the platform. I heard her strangled scream as she stumbled and lurched, trying not to plunge headfirst onto the tracks.

  And then I grabbed her arm with both hands and was yanking her back.

  “Hey,” someone said in an annoyed tone of voice as we crashed into him.

  “Sorry.” I gasped, too confused and frightened to think clearly. Keeping Stacey’s arm in a death grip, I pulled her back through the crowd to the wall.

  “S-Someone pushed me!” said Stacey in a shaking voice. “Did you see anyone?”

  Still holding onto Stacey, I scanned the crowd. No one even seemed to have noticed how close to danger Stacey had come. People were reading, talking, peering down the track for the train.

  Stacey said, “Ethan? Is that Ethan?”

  I looked in the direction in which she was staring and saw a figure, dressed in black, slipping between two clutches of people and their packages.

  With a push, Stacey hurled herself from the wall and toward the figure. I grabbed our bags and followed after her. We threaded and dodged, murmuring, “Excuse me, pardon me, sorry” in a sort of mantra. We caught up with him as he pushed through the exit gate and marched toward the token booth.

  “Ethan,” Stacey cried.

  The boy didn’t turn. He said to the subway clerk, “I want to go to the Metropolitan Museum. Does this train, please, go to Seventy-seventh Street?”

  It wasn’t Ethan. I knew that before he turned around and walked toward us again and waited for the subway clerk to let him back through the turnstile. He spoke with a faint French accent. And his face, seen full on, was nothing like Ethan’s.

  Stacey let out a shaky laugh. “What would Ethan be doing here anyway?”

  “Right,” I said. “Come on, let’s go back to the platform.”

  We made our way back through the crowd without speaking. By unspoken consent, we took places near the wall to wait for the train. It finally came, and we crammed ourselves onto it with the rest of the passengers.

  The
snow had begun to fall when we got out at Sixty-eighth Street, near Hunter College. Stacey sighed. “Why did I think I saw Ethan?”

  I didn’t know how to answer that, so I didn’t.

  “I didn’t think Ethan was the one who pushed me,” she went on. She said it loudly, as if she were trying to convince herself. “I mean, he’d have to be some kind of psycho to do that.”

  “Maybe it was an accident,” I finally said. “After all, it was crowded on the platform.”

  “It was a push,” said Stacey. She frowned, thinking it over. “Not a hard push. I mean, if someone had really wanted me to fall on the subway tracks, he would have had to push a lot, lot harder than that. But it was definitely a push.”

  “But why?” I said. “Why would anyone push you?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s some weirdo’s idea of Christmas fun.”

  We opened the front door of the building. We looked at the elevator and exchanged a glance. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be in that elevator. The idea of taking the stairs sounded much safer, and I could tell by Stacey’s expression that she was thinking the same thing.

  “Hi, Carl,” Stacey said.

  “Hi,” I echoed.

  “Good afternoon, ladies,” said Carl. When he saw us headed for the door to the stairs he said, “Whoa. You don’t want to go up those stairs.”

  “Why?” asked Stacey. Then she said, “Oh” as Carl pointed to the OUT OF ORDER sign.

  “There’s trouble on the stairs. But maintenance has taken care of the lights on your floor.” He shook his head. “Just when you think you’ve heard of everything, some nut goes and steals the lightbulbs! Now, who in this building would steal lightbulbs?”

  We had no answer for that. We trudged back to the elevator. When the elevator doors opened, I was more relieved than I cared to admit to see that the floor and walls weren’t splashed with blood.

  “Going up,” said Stacey as the doors closed behind us. She pushed the button.

  Nothing happened.

  “Oh, puh-lease,” I said. I leaned over and gave the button my meanest glare. “File,” I said.

  Stacey brought out her nail file. I slid it under the button.