Stacey and the Mystery at the Empty House

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Acknowledgment

  About the Author

  Also Available

  Copyright

  “Ah, Paris!” said my mother. Suddenly, she got this faraway look in her eyes. “Je n’ai jamais oublié Paris.”

  “Mom, I never knew you spoke French,” I said. “What does that mean?”

  “It means ‘I’ve never forgotten Paris,’ ” she said dreamily.

  “Never forgotten?” I asked. “I didn’t even know you’d ever been to France!”

  “Oh, I’ve been there,” she said softly. “I went to Paris for junior year abroad when I was in college. It was one of the most wonderful times of my life.” She wrapped her arms around her shoulders and gave herself a little hug. “I even fell in love,” she said softly.

  “Fell in love?”

  “Fell in love,” she repeated. “His name was Jean-Paul, and his father was a famous chef. I almost married him and stayed in Paris.” My mother still looked dreamy, as if she were off in another world. I’m sure she didn’t notice how stunned I was. My mouth was hanging open so wide I felt as if my jaw were about to hit the floor.

  “That’s awesome.” I said. “What happened?”

  “Oh, my mother wouldn’t have it,” she answered. “As soon as she got wind of the idea she flew over and brought me back home.” She sighed. “I’ll always remember Jean-Paul,” she said.

  Whoa! My head was spinning. In the last three minutes I’d learned three new things about my mom:

  1) She knew how to speak French. (Fluently, from what I could tell.)

  2) She had lived in Paris. (Paris!)

  3) (This one is major.) She had almost married a French guy.

  It was number three that was really getting to me. It wasn’t just that I was having a hard time imagining my mom in Paris, young and in love. I was, but that wasn’t what was weirding me out. It was this: Suddenly I was realizing that my existence was only a matter of luck. I mean, what if she had married this Jean-Paul? I, Anastasia Elizabeth McGill (call me Stacey, please!), thirteen-year-old daughter of Edward and Maureen McGill, would not exist.

  Or maybe I would exist in another form. Maybe I’d be the French Stacey, daughter of Maureen and Jean-Paul. I’d be très sophisticated, used to dressing in Chanel and sipping coffee at cafés. I pictured myself in a little black suit —

  “When are they leaving?” my mother asked.

  The image of the French Stacey vanished. “What?” I asked. “Who? Leaving?” I must have sounded like somebody waking up from a dream, which in a way, I was.

  “The Johanssens,” said my mother. “When do they leave for France?”

  “Oh, the Johanssens,” I said, nodding. Of course. That was what had started this discussion. I’d been telling my mom about this extremely exciting thing that had happened to a girl I baby-sit for.

  Her name’s Charlotte Johanssen, and she’s a favorite of mine. The Johanssens are regular clients of the BSC, which is this club I belong to, otherwise known as the Baby-sitters Club. I’ll explain more about it later. Anyway, Charlotte’s eight, and she and I are very close; in fact, we think of each other as “almost sisters.” (I’m an only child, and so is she.) She’s smart — she skipped a grade not long ago — and pretty (with big dark eyes, chestnut hair, and dimples), and a little shy. She used to be a lot shy, but I think I’ve helped her grow out of that.

  Anyway, Charlotte’s mom, who is a doctor, had just called me to tell me the news: Charlotte’s Aunt Nell (her mom’s older sister), who is an incredibly wealthy and successful art dealer, was planning a two-week tour of France in search of new artists. And, just for the heck of it, she’d invited her sister’s family along for the ride! The Johanssens had accepted, and were taking Charlotte out of school so she could go, too.

  When Dr. Johanssen finished telling me this, she asked if I might be willing to do her a favor. For a heart-pounding millisecond, I thought she was going to ask me to come along on the trip as a mother’s helper.

  No such luck. My assignment was much less glamorous.

  Dr. Johanssen wanted to ask me if I’d walk Carrot, the family dog, twice a day. She also wanted me to keep an eye on the house. So instead of eating croissants in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower, I was going to be house-sitting and dog-walking for the next two weeks.

  “They’re leaving in two days,” I said, answering my mother’s question. “Can you believe it?”

  “Charlotte must be so excited,” said my mom.

  “Oh, she is! At least, according to Dr. Johanssen. I haven’t talked to her yet, but I’ll see her in a little while. I’m going to sit for her today while the Johanssens take care of some last minute details for their trip.”

  “Passports,” said my mom, getting that dreamy look again. “Luggage. Airline reservations … Oh, I do love to travel. I envy the Johanssens so much.”

  I looked at my mom with new understanding. This woman wasn’t just a divorced mom, working as a buyer at a small-town department store and bringing up her daughter. Somewhere inside her was a free spirit, who could be living in France with a romantic, dark-haired (that was how I imagined him) French husband named Jean-Paul.

  “Mom?” I asked. “Are you ever sorry you didn’t marry that guy?”

  “Who — Jean-Paul?” She shook her head. “How could I be, honey? If I had, I wouldn’t have you in my life now.” She gave me a big hug.

  I didn’t mention my theory about the French Stacey. It seemed too complicated — and too silly — to go into. Instead, I just hugged my mother back.

  She and I are very close. I guess that’s partly because of my being an only child, and partly because of the divorce. I’m close to my dad, too, but I don’t spend nearly as much time with him, since Mom and I live in Stoneybrook, Connecticut, and he lives in Manhattan.

  That’s where I grew up: New York, New York. “The city so nice they named it twice,” as my dad used to say. I was a real city kid. As a baby I fell asleep to the sounds of traffic and fire engine sirens. When I was a toddler, I learned to climb stairs on the stoop outside our apartment house. By the time I was eight, I had been to the opera, could tell a Monet from a Picasso, and had seen The Nutcracker four times. By age ten, I knew how to negotiate the subways as well as most adults. And at twelve, I was buying all my own clothes.

  Clothes. They’ve always been very important to me. Maybe that’s also a part of being a city kid: in New York, I think even little children are aware of style. I never wore boring old pastels and ruffly dresses. My outfits were more like miniature versions of the latest fashions for adults. And now that I’m nearly an adult myself, I still seek out the coolest, most trendy clothes to wear.

  Dressing the way I do has given me a certain reputation in Stoneybrook. I think most of the kids I go to school with, at Stoneybrook Middle School, think I’m very sophisticated. It’s because of the way I wear my clothes, I guess, and the way I perm my long blonde hair. But as my friends in the BSC know, I’m really just the same as everybody else: it’s just that the wrapper is a little different.

  Actually, there is one thing about me that’s different from most kids I know: I am a diabetic. That means I have diabetes, wh
ich is a lifetime disease. My body doesn’t process sugars well, so I have to help it along by giving myself injections of insulin every day, and also by being very careful about what I eat. Sweets are out; they can make me really sick.

  Being forbidden to eat sweets sounds like a total nightmare to my best friend, Claudia Kishi. She’s the Junk Food Queen of Stoneybrook. I think she lives on candy bars, chips, and sugar-filled sodas. (Don’t tell her parents, though. She’s not supposed to eat all that junk food.)

  I called Claudia that Sunday afternoon to tell her about the Johanssens’ trip. “Oh, my lord!” she said. “France. Think of all the shopping opportunities!”

  Claudia is Japanese-American, with silky black hair that flows like a waterfall and deep, dark almond-shaped eyes. She’s truly beautiful. And she loves clothes as much as I do. She has a funky, artistic, offbeat style of dressing that matches her funky, artistic, offbeat personality. She may not excel at school, the way her older sister Janine-the-genius does, but Claud has her own talents. I expect to be seeing her artwork at the Museum of Modern Art in a matter of years.

  “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris,” Claudia continued. “You could spend days in the Louvre and never see all the art.”

  “I’m sure the Johanssens will be going there,” I said. “They’ll probably hit all the museums.” I paused and checked my watch. “Claud, I’d better get going. They’re expecting me in a few minutes.”

  About ten minutes later, I was at the Johanssens’ front door. They live in a small white house, with a picket fence surrounding the yard, and latticework trim on the back and front porches. Even though Charlotte’s mom is a doctor, it’s not a fancy house. It’s small and cozy, and I’ve always felt very comfortable there.

  I had barely knocked on the door when Charlotte threw it open. “Bon-jore!”

  “Hi,” I said, a little mystified.

  “That’s what I said,” said Charlotte. “Only I said it in French. Bon-jore!” She grinned and twirled around, as if she could hardly contain herself. “Can you believe we’re going to France?” she asked.

  “It’s great,” I said. “It’s more than great. It’s wonderful. But — um, could I come inside? It’s a little chilly out here.” It was early December, not exactly porch-sitting weather.

  “Oh, of course!” said Charlotte, ushering me in. “Voolay voo lah-vey rue!”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “I don’t know!” admitted Charlotte gaily. “I made it up. It sounds good, though, doesn’t it?”

  I laughed. “I bet nobody will know you’re an American,” I said. Then I switched to a fake French accent. “Your accent is perfect, mademoiselle.” I bent to kiss her hand.

  Charlotte giggled. “Mercy buckets,” she said. “That means thank you very much.”

  Just then, Dr. Johanssen came down the stairs. “Oh, Stacey,” she said. “Thanks so much for coming on such short notice. There isn’t much we can accomplish on a Sunday, but we need to start working on our list.” She held up a piece of paper covered with scribbles. “There’s so much to do!”

  “I’m glad I can help,” I said.

  “Now, about Carrot,” Dr. Johanssen began. “I’ve written up some instructions for his care, and we can talk about it today before you leave. Basically, he just needs to be walked and fed. If he really needs to relieve himself, he can always go out the dog door and into the fenced run in the backyard, so if you’ll come twice a day, he should be fine.”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “Wee, wee,” said Charlotte, giggling. “That’s what he’ll do when you walk him. It also means ‘yes, yes’ in French.”

  Dr. Johanssen smiled down at her daughter. “You’re getting silly, Charlotte,” she said. Then she looked back at me. “As far as house-sitting, there isn’t much to it. Just keep an eye on the place, and bring in our newspapers and mail. I wrote all that down, too. All the instructions will be posted on the refrigerator, along with our itinerary — a schedule of where we’ll be each day.”

  “Fine,” I said.

  “And here’s a key,” she went on. “You can take this with you today.”

  “Great,” I said. “Sounds like we’re all set.” I was actually looking forward to house-sitting. It would be a nice change of pace.

  But my anticipation was nothing compared to Charlotte’s. She was so excited about her trip that she could talk about nothing else all afternoon. I helped her pick out clothes to pack, showed her how to tie a scarf in the European style, and listened to her practice her “French.” And when it was time to say good-bye, I gave her a big hug and wished her “bon voyage.” I knew she was going to have a great time.

  “Well, I know it isn’t exactly a trip to France,” said Kristy, looking over at me and grinning. “But it does sound like it might be fun. And it’s free, that’s the best part. Let’s think it over, at least.”

  It was 5:40 on Monday afternoon and the BSC was in the middle of a meeting. Seven of us were gathered in Claudia’s room. We meet there from five-thirty until six on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, and parents can call us then to set up baby-sitting jobs. That’s the BSC in a nutshell, as my mom would say. It’s a simple concept, but it works incredibly well. (That day, for example, we’d already taken four calls.) All the members of the club get along really well, so we have a great time — but we’re also serious businesswomen (businessgirls?) who know how to make a profitable idea work.

  The idea for the BSC, by the way, was Kristy’s. That’s Kristy Thomas, the president of our club. The one who was trying to convince us to go on a sleigh ride.

  “Did you say sleigh ride or hay ride?” asked Claudia, who is our vice-president. She was sitting cross-legged on her bed, embroidering a sunflower onto a denim shirt.

  “Well, it could be either,” said Kristy. “It depends on the weather. If there’s snow, we’ll be on a sleigh with runners, but if not, it’ll be a regular hay ride, on a wagon with wheels.”

  “And are you sure it’s free?” I asked. I’m the treasurer of the BSC (did I mention that math is my favorite subject?), and money matters concern me.

  “Definitely,” said Kristy. “A client of Watson’s gave it to him as a holiday gift. Watson said he was way too busy to take a sleigh ride — he’s been working really hard lately — and Sam and Charlie thought the idea was totally dorky, so Watson offered it to us.”

  Before I go any further, maybe I’d better explain who Watson, Sam, and Charlie are. Sam and Charlie are Kristy’s older brothers (she has a younger one, too, named David Michael), and Watson (whose last name is Brewer) is her stepfather. Not long ago, Kristy’s mom got married again after many years of working hard to raise four kids on her own. (Kristy’s dad walked out on the family a long time ago. It’s not something she talks about much.)

  After the wedding, Watson, who happens to be mega-rich, moved the Thomas family across town to live in his mansion. He has two kids from his first marriage: a boy named Andrew and a girl named Karen. They live at the mansion every other month. Big family, right? Well, I’m not done yet. Watson and Kristy’s mom decided they wanted to raise a baby together, so they adopted Emily Michelle, who’s Vietnamese. She’s a toddler, and the family adores her. And once Emily Michelle arrived, Kristy’s grandmother Nannie moved in, too, just to help out. Also, in case you think the mansion might still be a little empty, there are a bunch of pets: a cat, a huge puppy dog, two goldfish, and a rat and a hermit crab. (The last two are only there when Andrew and Karen are.)

  Kristy’s family life may be kind of on the chaotic side, but Kristy herself is one of the most normal, well-balanced people I know. She’s energetic, full of ideas, and just a little bossy at times. She has her priorities straight, too: she spends absolutely no time on clothes or makeup, since those things aren’t important to her. Instead, she uses her time to do things she likes, such as coach a little kids’ softball team.

  “Um, Kristy, when did you say this sleigh — or hay �
�� ride would be?” asked Mary Anne. “If you give me the date, I’ll check to see if we’re all free.” She riffled through the pages of the BSC record book, which she, as club secretary, is in charge of. Her small, neat handwriting is on every page. She keeps track of all of our schedules and can tell at a glance which of us is available when a parent calls to set up a job.

  Mary Anne and Kristy are best friends. They look a little alike: both of them are on the short side with brown hair and eyes. But other than looks, they don’t seem to have much in common. Mary Anne couldn’t be bossy if her life depended on it. She’s extremely shy, very sentimental, and one of the sweetest people you’ll ever meet. She’s an only child who was brought up by her dad. (Her mom died when Mary Anne was just a baby.)

  “I don’t think we have a definite date yet,” said Kristy. “It would have to be sometime in the next few weeks, I guess, before Christmas.”

  “I wish Dawn could be here for it,” said Mary Anne wistfully. “I miss her so much.”

  We all miss Dawn. That’s Dawn Schafer, Mary Anne’s stepsister (and other best friend) and another member of the BSC. She’s in California now, on an extended visit with her dad and her brother, Jeff. Dawn grew up in California, but when her parents divorced, she and Jeff moved to Stoneybrook with their mom. Mrs. Schafer had grown up in Stoneybrook, so in a way she was coming home.

  Soon after Dawn moved here, she and Mary Anne became good friends and found out that their parents had dated way back when they were both students at Stoneybrook High. Dawn and Mary Anne schemed to get the old flames back together, and before long, wedding bells were ringing! (Is that the most romantic story you’ve ever heard, or what?)

  Meanwhile, Dawn’s brother Jeff had moved back to California to live with his dad (he couldn’t stand Stoneybrook). And then, not long ago, Dawn realized she needed to spend some time out there, too. She’ll be back in Stoneybrook soon, I’m sure — but not soon enough for Mary Anne, who looked as if she might cry just thinking about Dawn.

  When Dawn’s here, she’s the alternate officer of the BSC. That just means she can step in for any other officer who can’t make it to a meeting. While she’s away, that job is being handled by Shannon Kilbourne, who lives in Kristy’s new neighborhood. Shannon’s normally one of our associate members (Logan Bruno, Mary Anne’s steady boyfriend, is the other), so until Dawn left, she didn’t attend meetings regularly. (Associate members just stand by to help out when we’re swamped with work.) It’s been great to have Shannon at our meetings more often, since we’ve been able to get to know her better. She goes to private school, instead of to SMS, where the rest of us go. Shannon is one of those incredibly good students who get all A’s and also manages to take part in every single extracurricular activity. She’s pretty, with curly blonde hair (naturally curly, unlike mine) and blue eyes. She has two younger sisters, Tiffany and Maria, so she’s used to baby-sitting.