Claudia and the Lighthouse Ghost Page 8

  As the cashier rang up their purchase, I looked at my watch. “We’re running late, you two. I don’t understand why you couldn’t do this another day.”

  “Claudiaaaaaa,” Marilyn said. “It’s for the comet!”

  “The comet won’t care what you look like,” I informed her.

  “Don’t you know what comet means?” Carolyn asked. “It’s Greek for hair. That’s what the tail of the comet is made of. What if it sweeps across the earth and whips around everybody?”

  “With the hair spray, we can stiffen it before it gets to us,” Marilyn elaborated.

  The cashier looked totally bewildered. I think she believed them.

  Armed and ready, we hiked to the parking lot, where Mrs. Arnold was waiting in her car.

  We arrived at Mary Anne’s house to find a big argument raging.

  “Ben, you’re just trying to scare us!” Haley said.

  “I’m only telling you what I read!” Ben retorted. “In the olden days, people always knew that when a comet came, it meant someone was going to get sick and die.”

  “I have a sniffle,” Suzi said, with a frightened look in her eyes.

  “That doesn’t count as sick,” Buddy reassured her. “Nobody here is sick. Just Ben — sick in the head.”

  “I think I need a scarf,” Claire whimpered.

  Matt signed something to Haley.

  “Matt says he has a sore throat,” Haley relayed to us.

  “Oh, noooo!” Margo said.

  With a wheeze and a cough, the Junk Bucket pulled up. Kristy and Abby climbed out, shouting hellos.

  “Hi!” James Hobart greeted Kristy. “Where’s David Michael?”

  “Home,” Kristy replied. “He has the flu.”

  Claire Pike burst into tears.

  Suzi and Margo joined her. Taylor was teetering dangerously on the verge.

  “I liked him,” Buddy said sadly.

  The gathering suddenly looked like a funeral.

  “Was it something we said?” Abby asked.

  Stacey explained everything. Right away we could all see the wheels turning in Kristy’s head.

  “Okay, kid huddle!” Kristy called out.

  The BSC to the rescue. We herded the kids around Kristy.

  “One day,” she said, “I noticed that if I ate waffles in the morning, it became dark at night.”

  Johnny Hobart burst out giggling. “That’s silly!”

  “Really?” Kristy asked. “What would happen if I ate meatloaf?”

  “You’d have a tummyache,” Claire replied.

  “It would still get dark at night!” Vanessa spoke up.

  “Well, maybe. But I always open my locker with my right hand on Friday afternoons, because whenever I do that, we have no school the next day!”

  “No-o-o-o-o!” squealed the little kids.

  “Just because you do those things,” Marilyn called out, “doesn’t mean they make the other stuff happen!”

  “In ancient times,” Kristy said, “people thought that if you killed animals, the gods would make it rain.”

  “They were just as silly as you!” Taylor exclaimed.

  “They also thought that if a comet came, someone would grow very ill,” Kristy went on.

  “People get sick whether a comet comes or not!” Mathew shouted.

  “Precisely.” Kristy smiled.

  Taylor, Suzi, Claire, and Margo dried their tears.

  Thank you, Kristy the Wise.

  Mary Anne’s dad poked his head out the back door.

  “Should be here any minute, guys! Should I cut the lights?”

  “Yaaaay!” came the response.

  At exactly 8:07, a small pinprick of light appeared in the northeast. It grew slowly, until it looked like a tiny streak of skywriting.

  In the telescope it looked enormous. I don’t know why, but it brought tears to my eyes.

  Not all the kids were so impressed. “I like the Fourth of July better,” was Buddy’s comment.

  I took a quick look around as Veehoff streaked across the sky. Mary Anne’s yard was littered with dropped sunglasses, cans of hair spray, and a surgical mask that blew gently into the entrance flap of an empty, foil-covered tent.

  “Revolting,” Stacey said.

  “Disgusting,” Kristy commented.

  “What a hunk,” Abby remarked.

  I looked closely at the drawing I’d found in the lighthouse. “It’s definitely the same face.”

  It was Wednesday afternoon. Mary Anne was at a sitting job, but the rest of us had walked to Stoneybrook High School. Over our heads, above the front doors, a small statue of a hideous, grinning monster leered down at us.

  Why does SHS have a gargoyle over its entrance? I have no idea. It sure didn’t fit the architecture. Maybe the builder had a spare one lying around.

  We’d arrived at the school just after the last-period bell (SHS classes end a half hour after SMS’s). Crowds of high school kids were pouring out the front door, but we hardly noticed them.

  “I mean, even though we know where the face came from,” I went on, “what good does it do?”

  “It narrows the suspects to high school kids,” Stacey said.

  “Or teachers,” Kristy added.

  “Do you think Mr. Langley was ever a teacher?” I asked.

  “He’s mean enough,” Abby replied.

  “Hi, girls!” a voice piped up. “Gargoyle watchers, huh?”

  Mrs. Martinez, an SHS teacher who’s also a BSC client, was walking toward us. “Fred’s fans are getting younger every year,” she went on with a smile.

  I felt as if someone had thrown a bucket of ice water in my face. “Did you say Fred?”

  “That’s what the kids have always called that gargoyle, even back when I was a student,” Mrs. Martinez replied. “You never heard of Fred parties?”

  Kristy, Abby, Stacey, and I all exchanged a Look. “No,” I said.

  “It was a yearly high school tradition,” Mrs. Martinez explained. “We used to dress up as him … er, it.”

  “That’s why Charlie looks the way he does,” Kristy said.

  Mrs. Martinez laughed. “I’m afraid the tradition is long gone. The administration became anti-Fred.”

  “Too many parties?” I asked.

  “No, the wrong spirit,” Mrs. Martinez replied. “About eight or nine years ago, a small group of students — almost a gang, I guess — adopted Fred as its symbol. Biiiig mistake.”

  Before I could ask another question, Charlie Thomas walked out the door and came gallumphing over to us, shouting, “If you think I’m going to give you a ride home, Kristy, forget it! I have to do shopping for Steve’s Christmas party.”

  “Fine,” Kristy snapped. “Go ahead. ’Bye!”

  Mrs. Martinez was looking at her watch. “Oops, I have to pick up Luke from gymnastics. See you!”

  As she ran off, Kristy scowled at her brother. “You spoiled everything!”

  “Huh?” Charlie said.

  Stacey suddenly jabbed me in the side. “Claudia, look who’s coming!”

  We all glanced toward the door again. Heading our way was Paul Langley. “ ’S’up, Charlie?” he mumbled.

  “Hey, Pablo,” Charlie mumbled back.

  Paul did a double take. “Hey, you know these girls?”

  “That one’s my sister,” Charlie replied, jerking his thumb toward Kristy.

  Paul gave us a little half smile. “You look alike.”

  “Thanks a lot,” Charlie said.

  “Paul?” Kristy spoke up. “I need to ask you a question.”

  Paul glared at her as if she were a mosquito on his arm.

  “It’s about your brother, Adrian,” Kristy pressed on.

  Paul’s face became rock-hard. He didn’t say a word.

  “Kristyyyy,” I whispered.

  Leave it to Loudmouth Kristy. Just what we needed, a big fight. I could see the local headline now: RUMBLE AT SHS! MIDDLE SCHOOL STUDENTS SUSPENDED FROM HIGH SCHOOL BEFOR
E THEY ENROLL.

  “Did he belong to any high school gangs?” Kristy barreled on. “You know, like that … Fred gang?”

  “How would I know?” Paul grumbled. “I was just a kid. Why is this your business?”

  “She’s just naturally nosy,” Charlie said.

  “That’s not true!” I blurted out. “Look, I found something that may have to do with the way Adrian died.”

  I pulled the letter from my pack and handed it to him.

  Paul’s face went white. His hand was shaking as he took the letter and read it. “Where’d you get this?”

  “In the lighthouse,” I replied.

  “This face on the bottom,” Paul said. “I remember Adrian once drew it for me.”

  “Is this his handwriting?” Stacey asked.

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t know. I have some of his stuff at home.”

  “Can we see it?” Kristy asked.

  I thought Paul would blow up at her. Instead, he handed me the note and nodded. “I guess.”

  “I’ll drop you all off, if you hurry,” Charlie volunteered.

  I glanced at Abby and Stacey. They looked the way I felt — absolutely horrified about being alone with Paul in his house.

  “Vámonos,” said Paul as he walked toward the parking lot.

  Kristy and Charlie followed close behind.

  What else could Mary Anne, Stacey, and I do? We couldn’t let Kristy go alone.

  My knees were shaking as we headed for the Junk Bucket.

  Mr. Langley was gone when we arrived at Paul’s house. (Thank goodness.) Paul unlocked the front door and led us into a small bedroom in the back. Through the closed window we could hear the Junk Bucket wheezing down the road.

  On the walls were baseball team photos, a couple of perfect attendance certificates, and yellowing posters from rock groups I hadn’t heard about in years.

  “Pop left the room exactly the same,” Paul said softly.

  He opened a drawer in Adrian’s old desk and pulled out a thick scrapbook. As he paged through it, a few loose things fell out: a dried leaf, a few ticket stubs, a drawing …

  “Here it is.” He held out the scrapbook, opened to a fading color photograph of a group of kids standing in front of SHS.

  We all gathered around. The four boys in the photo were totally unfamiliar. One of them was mugging for the camera, grinning evilly. The other were frowning, and two were holding lit cigarettes.

  From the angle, I could tell the photographer must have been kneeling or lying down. The boys were all looking down, and the gargoyle’s head was peeking out from above them.

  “Which one is Adrian?” I asked.

  “Guys, look!” screamed Stacey from Adrian’s bedroom window.

  Kristy, Abby, Paul, and I rushed to her side. Next door, smoke was billowing out through the lighthouse window.

  “What the —” Paul murmured.

  “Where’s your phone?” I asked.

  “In the kitchen!” Paul said.

  I stuffed the photo into my coat pocket and followed Paul into the kitchen. Grabbing the receiver, I dialed 911 and asked for help. Then I dialed my own number.

  “Hello?” Janine answered.

  “Janine, tell Mr. Hatt that the lighthouse is on fire!” I shouted. “I already called nine-one-one!”

  “Hatt?” Paul grabbed the receiver from my hand and hung up the phone. “I don’t want him over here!”

  “He owns the place, Paul!” I said.

  Kristy, Abby, and Stacey were already running out the front door. I followed close behind.

  Three cars had stopped, and the passengers were watching the smoke. We could do nothing but stand and gawk with them.

  But even before help arrived the smoke began to die down. It became a few long wisps that thinned out and disappeared into the air.

  “Maybe it wasn’t a fire,” Kristy said. “Just a smoke bomb or something.”

  “Why would anyone do that?” Abby asked.

  “A warning?” Stacey guessed.

  I could see words scratched into the ground, on a grassless patch near the lighthouse entrance.

  As I approached, the message became clear:

  The fire department arrived then … and left. And then Mr. Hatt’s car screeched to a stop at the curb. He, Laura, and Steve raced toward us. They stopped short when they saw the message.

  “The party …” Steve let out a low whistle. “Someone’s trying to scare my friends and me.”

  “Sure looks like it,” Mr. Hatt said. “And I’ve had just about enough of this.”

  “I guess Steve can’t have his little party, huh?” Laura taunted.

  “That’s not what I said,” Mr. Hatt retorted. “I will not let us be intimidated. Steve, if you want that party, you’re going to have it. In fact, the bigger, the better.”

  “Yyyyyyyes!” Steve said.

  “We’ll all come,” Mr. Hatt continued. “The whole family, the Kishis, the Baby-sitters Club — the entire town if they want!”

  I thought Steve was going to die on the spot. “Whaaaaaaat?”

  Mr. Hatt pulled his keys out of his pockets. “Let’s check for damage.”

  “But Dad, this was my idea,” Steve protested.

  Stacey, Kristy, Abby, and I followed the Hatts to the door.

  On the way, I looked around for Paul.

  He was nowhere to be seen.

  “I’m worried,” I said at the BSC meeting that afternoon. “Steve’s party is just two days away. Whoever is behind all this lighthouse trouble is angrier than ever. He’s already smoke-bombed the place. What if he attacks the party?”

  “How do you know it’s a he?” Mallory asked.

  “I don’t,” I replied. “I’m so confused at this point, you could convince me Janine did it.”

  “That’s it!” Abby exclaimed. “If the Hatts leave, she has her bedroom back!”

  “At least we can be sure Steve didn’t do anything,” I said. “He wouldn’t trash his own party.”

  “I say it’s Mr. Langley,” Stacey spoke up. “He thinks Mr. Hatt killed his son.”

  Kristy shook her head. “He doesn’t seem the type to do stuff like that. He’s so … plain and straightforward. I think it’s Paul.”

  “But Paul was with us when the smoke bomb went off,” Stacey reminded her.

  “That still leaves Laura,” Mary Anne said, “and Jerry, Janine’s boyfriend.”

  Kristy shook her head. “Not Laura. She was at the Kishis’ when Claudia called, after the smoke bomb.”

  “I just don’t know about Jerry,” I said. “I mean, he is angry. You should have seen him looking at Steve. But would he go through all that trouble to show it?”

  “People rejected in love do bizarre things,” Mallory suggested.

  “Yeah, but rejected by Janine?” I said.

  “I’ve got it!” Abby exclaimed, jumping to her feet. “It was the ghost of Shelmadine Veehoff!”

  “Down, girl,” I said.

  “If it isn’t Paul, Laura, Steve, or Jerry …” Stacey wondered.

  “Then who’s doing all of this?” Kristy finished her sentence. “Who would want the Hatts out of the lighthouse?”

  I drummed my fingers on my night table. Adrian Langley’s photo was sitting on my dresser. Absently, I stared into the four angry, sullen faces, wondering which was Adrian, and if one of them had left that weird message in the basement.

  I reread the message, which lay next to the photo: IF YOU LAST THE NIGHT IN THE LIGHTHOUSE, YOU WILL BE ONE OF US — FRED.

  Then it hit me.

  I grabbed the phone book and looked up Langley.

  “What are you doing?” Stacey asked as I tapped out the number.

  On the second ring, Paul’s voice answered. “Hello?”

  “Paul, it’s Claudia Kishi. I —”

  “I don’t have anything to say to you!” Paul snapped.

  “Don’t hang up! I just have one question: Which person in the photo is Adrian?”
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  “The photo you stole?”

  “I’ll bring it back. Promise. Just tell me!”

  “None of them.”

  “None? Then why did he have it?”

  “Buddies, I guess. I don’t know! Why don’t you ask one of them?”

  Click. The phone went dead.

  I slammed down the receiver. Six pairs of eyes were giving me the Big Duh.

  I held up the “Fred” note in one hand and the photo in the other. “Let’s say this group left this note.”

  Six nods.

  “Adrian wasn’t in the picture,” I pressed on. “Maybe he wasn’t in the group at all. But we do know he was locked in the lighthouse overnight.”

  “ ‘If you last the night in the lighthouse, you will be one of us,’ ” Stacey read. “Oh my lord, you think the note was for Adrian? He wanted to be in the group, but had to go through some test first?”

  “One of those guys did it?” Mary Anne asked.

  “Maybe,” I answered. “And maybe he’s the one who’s been vandalizing the lighthouse and scaring the Hatts.”

  “Why would he do that?” Abby asked.

  I shrugged. “Maybe he’s crazy. It’s just a theory.”

  “Stacey,” Kristy said, “remember the guy you saw staring at the lighthouse? Did he look like any of the gargoyle guys?”

  Stacey looked closely at each face. I gazed over her shoulder.

  Caucasian. Dark eyebrows. Curly brown hair. Snarly lips.

  Latino. Wide-set eyes. Big shoulders.

  Caucasian. Blond. The grin. A David Letterman–type gap between his front teeth.

  Asian. Polynesian, maybe. A little overweight.

  “I can’t tell,” Stacey finally said. “The guy was wearing a hat, and he was pretty far away.”

  “Make copies,” Kristy ordered. “We have two days to memorize these faces. Steve’s Christmas party is on Friday, and we’re all going. If we see one of these people between now and then, we have to recognize him right away.”

  “One problem, Kristy,” Jessi said. “They’re a lot older. If they were seventeen then, they’d be twenty-six now.”

  Kristy sighed. “Let’s just hope they haven’t changed too much.”

  * * *

  By Friday night, every one of those faces was locked in my memory. I’d had dreams about them: The overweight Asian guy as a space invader. The gap-toothed blond guy interviewing me on TV. The dark-featured snarly guy sitting for a portrait, and morphing into the broad-shouldered Latino when I was halfway through painting him.