Mary Anne and the Silent Witness, Page 2

  Stacey’s a diabetic, which I think gives her a certain perspective on life. That is, she doesn’t take it for granted. Diabetes is a serious, lifelong disease. Stacey’s body doesn’t process sugars correctly, which means that she has to be very, very careful about what she eats, and must give herself shots of insulin, which her body needs but doesn’t produce.

  We all paid our dues, and just as Stacey was closing the envelope, the phone rang. Kristy grabbed it. “Hello, Baby-sitters Club,” she said. She listened for a few minutes, making little “mmm-hmm” noises, and then hung up, after promising she’d call right back.

  “That was a new client,” she explained with a smile. Kristy loves new clients. Hearing from them proves, according to her, that the BSC receives great word-of-mouth advertising from our regular clients. We used to advertise a lot, with fliers, but we find we don’t need to much anymore. “Her name’s Mrs. Martinez,” Kristy continued. “She teaches science at the high school, and so does her husband. They’re in a bind because their regular sitter just quit, and they need someone to watch their kids every afternoon — starting tomorrow — until they can find a new one.” Kristy turned to me. “Is there any way we can take on a commitment like that?” she asked.

  I pulled the record book onto my lap and opened it. I’m the club secretary, and I pride myself on my neat, accurate record-keeping. I can see at a glance which of us is available for any particular job, and let me tell you, keeping track of all our schedules is not easy. “Hmmm, doesn’t look good,” I said. “Nobody has every single afternoon free. But if we each take a few afternoons here and there, we could do it. I can take the first shift tomorrow.”

  “I’m sure Mrs. Martinez wouldn’t mind, as long as the hours are covered,” said Kristy, reaching for the phone. She talked to Mrs. Martinez for a few minutes, then hung up, looking surprised. “She says that’ll be fine,” she informed us. “But listen to what else she told me. Mrs. Martinez says that their house is a bit of a mess. They just had a small fire, and she says things are still a little smoky and smelly. Guess where they live.”

  I knew right away. “Near Miller’s Park?” I asked. Kristy nodded. “Theirs must be the house that the paper mentioned this morning. The one that Fowler needs to buy in order to develop Miller’s Park!”

  “Isn’t that the most amazing coincidence?” Kristy marveled. “Here we were, just talking about what’s happening over there, and she calls.”

  “I may have to put off sitting for the Martinezes until they have things cleaned up,” said Abby. “That smoke might make my allergies kick into high gear.”

  Abby Stevenson is the newest member of the BSC. She was invited to join after Dawn moved back to California, and she’s taken over Dawn’s position in the club, which is alternate officer. That just means she fills in for any of the other officers who might be absent from a meeting.

  While Abby has taken Dawn’s position, she can never exactly take her place. I like Abby a lot — we all do — but she and Dawn are very different. Abby just moved here from Long Island, which is about as much on the East Coast as you can be, while Dawn will always love California. And Abby is full of energy and rushes into things, while Dawn is more laid-back.

  Abby is an identical twin. Her sister’s name is Anna. I don’t know Anna too well yet, but I do know that she’s an amazing musician. She plays violin on practically a professional level. Abby, meanwhile, loves sports and almost any kind of physical activity. She runs, she plays soccer, she skis. And she does it all despite the fact that she’s allergic to just about everything. As if that weren’t enough, she also has asthma.

  Abby and Anna live in Kristy’s neighborhood with their mom, who commutes to work in New York City. Their dad died in a car wreck a few years ago. Abby never talks about that, but I can tell that his death affected her in some really major ways. Maybe it’s just that I can identify with her, since I’m what I call a “half-orphan,” too.

  Since no other phone calls came in for a few minutes, we started to talk about the new clients. “How old are the kids?” asked Mallory. Kristy told her the Martinezes have an eight-year-old boy and a three-year-old girl. “Maybe Nicky knows the boy from school,” said Mal.

  Mallory Pike and her best friend Jessica Ramsey are the club’s junior officers, which means that since they’re eleven and in the sixth grade (unlike the rest of us, who are all thirteen and in the eighth grade), they aren’t allowed to sit at night unless it’s for their own families. They take care of a lot of our afternoon jobs.

  It was a good bet that Mal would have a sister or brother to match the new kids’ ages. She has seven younger siblings, including a set of identical triplets. If you ask her, she can say all of their names in one breath, like this: “ByronAdamJordanVanessaNickyMargoClaire!” The Pike kids are a handful, no doubt about it. Mal has had a lot of sitting experience for someone her age.

  Mal is white, with reddish-brown hair, glasses, and braces. She’s cute now, and she’s going to be really pretty someday, but she doesn’t believe that. She’s smart, too, and a good artist and writer. When she grows up she wants to be an author and illustrator of children’s books.

  Jessi has a smaller family. She lives with her parents, her little sister Becca, her baby brother Squirt (real name: John Philip Ramsey, Jr.), and her Aunt Cecelia. Jessi is African American, and has cocoa-brown skin, deep velvety brown eyes, and legs that seem to go on forever. She’s a serious ballet student and an incredible dancer.

  There are two more members of the BSC, but neither of them said anything that afternoon, for the very simple reason that neither of them was at the meeting. They’re both associate members, which means that they help out when we have more jobs than we can handle. One of them happens to be Logan. The other is Shannon Kilbourne, who lives in Kristy’s and Abby’s neighborhood but who goes to a private school called Stoneybrook Day School. She’s super-smart, pretty, and fun to be around.

  Our meeting wound up soon after Mrs. Martinez’s call. I was excited about having new clients, especially because I would be the first to sit for them. And I was glad they lived near Miller’s Park, if only because I wanted to spend some time there before Fowler destroyed it. I knew that might happen, even if the BSC did everything we could to stop him. We’re the best baby-sitters in Stoneybrook, but I had to admit that wouldn’t mean anything when it came to fighting Reginald Fowler.

  “I know, the odor is awful. We’ve had the windows open forever, but it still smells.” Mrs. Martinez was showing me where the fire had started, in the garage, and she’d noticed me wrinkling my nose at the acrid smell of smoke that hung in the air.

  It was Tuesday afternoon, and I had just met Mrs. Martinez and her two children: Luke, the eight-year-old, and Amalia, who is three. All three of them had dark hair, dark eyes, and infectious smiles. I liked them already. Their house was small and cozy, and fortunately had not been severely damaged in the fire. The garage was going to need a lot of work, and they’d lost practically everything that had been stored there, but it was the only place where you could see the effects of the fire. The smell, on the other hand, pervaded the entire house.

  “How did the fire start?” I asked Mrs. Martinez as we headed back into the house.

  I could hear snatches of the “Circle of Life” song as we sat in the kitchen, talking. Mrs. Martinez had brought home a Lion King sing-along video and was letting the kids watch it so that she and I would be able to talk uninterrupted. “This being the first time you’re here, and all,” she’d explained. I was glad she wasn’t the type to run off after a hurried hello. I think it’s important to take the time to talk with new clients and learn a little about their kids, their schedules, and what kind of household rules the family has. Mrs. Martinez seemed to feel the same way. She’d arranged to stay home for a half hour after I’d arrived.

  “We still don’t know how the fire started,” she answered. “All we know is that it began in the garage. Fortunately, our baby-sitter at the time
smelled the smoke and was able to move the kids out of the house. Luke ran across the street and told the neighbors, who called the fire department. They showed up quickly. The garage door was open, so they charged in and put the fire out before it could spread into the house.”

  “That’s great,” I said.

  “It sure is. We were so lucky,” said Mrs. Martinez. She sighed. “It’s going to be a while before we have things back in order, though. My husband and I are both so busy. We run an after-school tutoring program at the high school, and we both teach adult education classes in the evenings. That’s why we need a sitter every day. We’re so glad your club could fill in; we thought we were done for when our other sitter told us she had to quit.”

  “Well, I’m glad we could help,” I said. “Personally, I love this neighborhood. Miller’s Park is so pretty! I’ll be glad to sit for you whenever I can.”

  “We love Miller’s Park, too,” said Mrs. Martinez. “And Ambrose’s Sawmill. I’d hate to see it destroyed.”

  I nodded. “So you won’t sell out to Fowler?” I asked.

  “Never!” she replied. “We’ve worked too hard for this house. We would never give it up and start all over again.” She shook her head. “I can’t stand the arrogance of that rich developer. He thinks he can just waltz in here and do anything he likes to Stoneybrook. Well, he’ll find out just how wrong he is. Not everybody can be bought.”

  She sounded angry, and I didn’t blame her. After all, who was Fowler? Some guy who thought he could make a lot of money by ruining our town. I was glad to know that the Martinezes were going to stand up to him.

  Mrs. Martinez showed me around the kitchen, and pointed out a list of emergency phone numbers she’d posted on a bulletin board by the phone. Then she said good-bye to the kids, gave me a few last-minute instructions on afternoon snacks, and headed off.

  “Hey, Luke. Hey, Amalia,” I said, joining them in the living room as their video ended. “What would you guys like to do now?” It was time to become acquainted with my new charges.

  “Polly Pocket?” Amalia asked hopefully, holding up a tiny doll. She had crawled onto my lap the second I sat down. I smiled at her. She was very affectionate.

  Luke rolled his eyes. “No way am I playing with that dumb doll,” he protested, more to Amalia than to me. So far he hadn’t met my eyes once or talked directly to me. I figured he was shy, which I could relate to. I decided to give him space and hope he’d eventually become more friendly.

  “Tell you what,” I said. “How about if we have a quick snack, and then go outside and explore Miller’s Park for a while?”

  Amalia agreed happily, once I’d said it was fine with me if she brought Polly Pocket. Luke didn’t seem as enthusiastic, but he said that if I was going, he’d go.

  I told them I was going to put together their snack, and that I’d be right back. Amalia curled up in the corner of the couch, crooning to her doll. But Luke followed me into the kitchen. I smiled to myself. Maybe he was already losing his shyness. “Want to pour out some juice for everybody?” I asked him.

  “Okay,” he mumbled, looking down at his sneakers. He still wasn’t acting too friendly, but he did seem to want to stay close by me. I was a little confused by his behavior, but I tried not to let it bother me. Every kid is different, and as an experienced sitter I’ve learned to accept those differences and enjoy them.

  I wondered what it would take to reach him, to make friends with him. I decided to try flattery. “I hear you were really brave, the way you ran across the street for help on the day of the fire,” I said as I spread cream cheese onto a bagel for Amalia.

  “How did you know about that?” he asked, sounding angry. He was looking directly at me for the first time.

  “Um, your mom told me,” I answered.

  “Yeah? What else did she say?”

  “Just that you all were able to leave the house safely,” I replied lamely. Something about Luke’s attitude didn’t seem quite right. Why was he so defensive about the fire? “That must have been a scary day,” I continued, trying to sound neutral.

  “It was no big deal,” he said, staring at his sneakers again.

  “Were you the first one to smell smoke, or was it your baby-sitter?” I asked, more to keep him talking than because I was interested.

  “I don’t know,” he answered quickly. “I really don’t remember much about that day, okay?” He returned the juice carton to the refrigerator and closed the door — hard.

  “Okay,” I said. It sounded as if Luke knew — and remembered — more than he was letting on. But if he didn’t want to talk about it, I wasn’t about to force him. After all, I wanted to make friends with him, and I hoped we could both enjoy the time we’d be spending together. I didn’t want him to feel angry at me, or on the spot. “Would you go tell Amalia that the snack is ready?” I asked.

  “You come, too,” he insisted.

  What was going on here? Luke didn’t want to let me out of his sight, that was obvious. But why? I knew it wasn’t because I had suddenly become his favorite person in the world. I wondered if the fire had been so traumatic that he was now afraid to be alone. Or maybe he’d always been that way. In any case, I decided not to make waves. “Okay,” I agreed. “We’ll both go tell her.”

  Half an hour later, when we’d finished eating and cleaning up, the three of us headed outside. It was a warm spring afternoon, and everywhere we looked we saw trees budding, daffodils blooming, and birds singing. The sun was so warm that I took off my sweatshirt and tied it around my waist. Amalia ran ahead, picking dandelions and carrying them back to me. Luke dawdled, staying close behind me and ignoring most of my comments.

  Miller’s Park is a beautiful, peaceful place. There’s all sorts of history attached to it, too, but I can never remember the details. All I know is that there’s a stream running through the grounds, and that at this time of year purple violets bloomed beneath the weeping willows. We saw a robin bringing a worm to its nest, and a squirrel digging for nuts, and a duck swimming around on the millpond, acting as if it owned the place.

  We poked around Ambrose’s Sawmill, and I read out loud from the sign posted in front of it telling about the planned renovations. The Historical Society had big plans for the site. I felt angry all over again when I thought about Reginald Fowler knocking the place down. Not to mention bulldozing the whole park. I mean, where would the robins and squirrels and ducks go? Didn’t he care?

  I kept most of my feelings to myself, though. Amalia wouldn’t have understood anyway, and I didn’t want to be negative around Luke. I was still hoping he’d open up a little more. He did seem to enjoy our walk in the park, but while he never strayed far from my side, he didn’t talk much, either.

  The same was true when we found ourselves back at the house.

  On the way inside, Luke had opened the mailbox and retrieved the day’s mail. He stood in the hall leafing through it while I helped Amalia out of her jacket. At one point, he glanced up to see if I was watching, and I looked away quickly. But I turned back in time to see him pull a sheet of paper out of an envelope, read it quickly, then tear it into pieces and throw the scraps into a trash basket beneath the hall table.

  Now I was really curious.

  But it took the rest of the afternoon before I could satisfy my curiosity, because Luke never left my side. Finally, when he went to the bathroom at one point, I made a dash for the trash basket, grabbed the pieces of paper, and tucked them into my pocket.

  Later that night, when I returned home, I pulled them out. Unfortunately, I hadn’t been able to grab all the pieces. I could see that there was printing on the note, in large, dark capital letters. But the only words I could read were these: “IF YOU” and “YOU WILL BE.”

  What did it mean? There was something strange going on at the Martinez house. I had a feeling that Luke knew something about it, too, but he wasn’t talking. I was going to have to find out for myself.

  I couldn’t wait to tell
my friends about Luke’s strange behavior, and the torn-up note. Both things seemed pretty mysterious, and if there’s one thing everyone in the BSC loves, it’s a mystery. But, as it turned out, I came very close to forgetting about my sitting job with the Martinezes. Why? Well, because something much more exciting happened the next day.

  It all started when I came down to breakfast on Wednesday morning. Sharon smiled at me when I walked into the kitchen, and started applauding. Then my dad joined in. “There she is,” exclaimed Sharon. “Our own young celebrity! We’re proud of you, honey.” She gave me a hug.

  I rubbed my eyes. I had no idea what they were talking about. For a second I thought I wasn’t really awake yet, and that this was all a weird dream. But after I’d rubbed my eyes, I found I was still standing in the middle of the kitchen, and Sharon and my dad were both still smiling at me. “Um, what are you guys talking about?” I asked. “Did I win an Oscar or something?”

  “You don’t know?” asked my dad.

  “Show her! Show her!” cried Sharon. She grabbed the newspaper and, folding it back to the editorial page, handed it over to me.

  I took a glance, and nearly passed out. There was my name, in the middle of the page, beneath the letter I’d written on Monday after our BSC meeting. “Mary Anne Spier, Secretary, Baby-sitters Club,” it said, right there in black and white. (Kristy had convinced us that using our BSC titles would be “more impressive.”) And there was Kristy’s name and title, and Stacey’s. In fact, every one of the letters that the BSC members had written to the editor of the Stoneybrook News had been printed. They were grouped together, under a big headline that read CONCERNED YOUTH TAKE ON DEVELOPER. “Wow,” I breathed. “That was quick. Claudia took those letters down to the newspaper office only yesterday.” I felt sort of queasy. I mean, I’d written my letter because I believed the issue deserved attention, and I had been proud to sign my name. But seeing it there in print made me feel a little exposed.