Closed for the Season

  Closed For the Season

  A Mystery Story

  Mary Downing Hahn

  * * *

  Clarion Books

  Houghton Mifflin Harcourt

  Boston New York 2009

  OTHER GRIPPING STORIES BY

  Mary Downing Hahn

  All the Lovely Bad Ones

  Deep and Dark and Dangerous

  The Old Willis Place

  Time for Andrew

  The Doll in the Garden

  Wait Till Helen Comes

  Clarion Books

  215 Park Avenue South

  New York, NY 10003

  Copyright © 2009 by Mary Downing Hahn

  The text was set in 11-point Charter.

  All rights reserved.

  For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book,

  write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company,

  215 Park Avenue South, New York, NY 10003.

  Clarion Books is an imprint of Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company.

  www.clarionbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Hahn, Mary Downing.

  Closed for the season : a mystery / by Mary Downing Hahn.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When thirteen-year-old Logan and his family move into a

  run-down old house in rural Virginia, he discovers that a woman was

  murdered there and becomes involved with his neighbor Arthur in a

  dangerous investigation to try to uncover the killer.

  ISBN 978-0-547-08451-0

  [1. Mystery and detective stories. 2. Murder—Fiction. 3. Neighbors—Fiction.

  4. Friendship—Fiction. 5. Virginia—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.H1256Cl 2009

  [Fic]—dc22

  2008046846

  QUM 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  FOR JAMES CROSS GIBLIN

  Editor, mentor, and friend

  for thirty years

  1

  By the time Dad pulled into the driveway of our new house, all I wanted was to go inside and jump in the shower. If we had a shower, that is. Or even any water. Dad had warned us the house needed a lot of work, but the place was in worse shape than I'd imagined, old and run-down, paint peeling and flaking, a broken downspout dangling from the eaves, old papers littering the porch. The grass was at least two feet high, choked with towering thistles and milkweed. The bushes and trees had a wild, shaggy look. Mom, who'd described it as a quaint Victorian cottage "with tons of potential," grew strangely quiet at the sight of it.

  Dad took one look, sighed, and opened the car door. "It seems the realtor forgot to have someone mow the lawn." He shook his head and sighed again. "It's a good thing I don't start teaching until fall. We have some time to get this place in shape."

  "Please don't tell me this is our house," I said to Mom. "We aren't really going to live here. It's Dad's idea of a joke—right?"

  Making a big effort to infuse her voice with enthusiasm, Mom said, "For heaven's sake, Logan, wait till it's painted and the lawn's cut. It will be adorable."

  With a cynical sigh, I followed my parents toward the front door. A black mutt about the size of a German shepherd watched us from the porch. Mom edged behind Dad, but there was no need to be scared. The dog got to his feet and wagged his tail as if he was greeting old friends.

  "Does he come with the house?" I asked.

  Mom eyed the dog as if she suspected his friendliness was an act. "I think he belongs to the people next door."

  As if on cue, a boy appeared at the hedge separating his yard from ours. "His name's Bear," he said. "Part rottweiler, part lab. He used to belong to the lady who lived in your house, but now he's mine and Grandma's."

  The boy and I stared at each other over the low hedge. He was shorter than I was—younger, too. Probably no more than eleven. His straight yellow hair hung in his eyes and straggled down the back of his neck, his glasses were held together with tape, and he wore a faded T-shirt big enough for Dad that said, MENZER'S HARDWARE—IF WE DON'T HAVE IT, YOU DON'T NEED IT.

  "I've been waiting all day for you." The boy frowned as if he expected me to apologize for inconveniencing him. "Grandma was sure you'd be here by noon, and it's almost six o'clock." He held up a skinny arm to show me the time on an enormous watch that was way too big for his bony wrist.

  I'd been trapped in the back seat of an un-air-conditioned car for almost two hours. The temperature was over ninety. I was hot, I was tired, I was in a really bad mood. I definitely did not feel like being friendly. Especially with such a weird-looking kid.

  "My name's Arthur Jenkins," the boy went on. "What's yours?"

  "Logan Forbes."

  I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see Mom or Dad beckoning me to come inside and help unpack or something. But no one was in sight. Now, if I'd wanted to stay outside and talk to Arthur Jenkins, you can bet my parents would have been hollering at me to get my butt in the house.

  "How old are you?" Arthur asked. Without giving me a chance to answer, he said, "I'm almost twelve. Next fall I'll be in sixth grade at Oak View Middle School. You can't really see any oaks from there because they cut them all down to build a bunch of big expensive houses. Fair Oaks, it's called, in memory of the trees, I guess. Mostly everyone our age lives there. They're all snobs."

  "I turned thirteen last month," I said. "I'll be in seventh grade, a whole year ahead of you."

  Arthur shrugged. "We can be friends anyway. Living so close—that's propinquity." He paused to see if I knew what "propinquity" meant. In case I didn't, he added, "That means proximity or nearness. Also kinship and similarity in nature." He flashed a crooked grin. "I have the biggest vocabulary in my grade. I'm also the best speller and the best reader. I read five hundred and three books for last year's read-a-thon. Not Dr. Seuss, either—thick ones, like the Harry Potter books. I won so much free pizza, I don't even like the way it smells anymore."

  While Arthur bragged, I looked longingly at the house. I could hear Dad hammering, but no one came to the door to call me inside.

  Arthur pulled a stick of gum out of his pocket. Without offering me any, he stuffed it in his mouth. I watched him chew with lip-smacking relish, blow a big bubble, and suck it slowly back inside his mouth.

  When he was ready to talk again, he said, "You've got some nice furniture. Expensive, Grandma says. We watched the moving men carry it in yesterday. How big is your TV screen? I've never seen one that size except in a store down at Peckham Mall."

  I shrugged and glanced at the house, still hoping someone would rescue me from Arthur.

  "Grandma and I didn't think anybody was ever going to buy old Mrs. Donaldson's place," Arthur went on. "It's been empty for almost three years. I guess the real estate company was hoping some folks from out of town like you-all would buy it without knowing what happened in it."

  He paused to blow another bubble.

  "What do you mean?" I asked, curious in spite of myself. "What happened in our house?"

  He leaned across the hedge, his face so close I could smell his gum. "Mrs. Donaldson died there.... She was murdered."

  "Murdered?" I stared at Arthur, shocked. "No way."

  "Ask Grandma. She's the one who found her." His eyes widened behind the smeared lenses of his glasses. In a low voice, he went on with what I hoped was a story he'd concocted to scare me.

  "One night, Bear woke up Grandma and me, barking like he'd gone crazy or something. We both kept hoping he'd shut up so we could go back to sleep, but he didn't stop. Finally, Grandma went downstairs, and I followed her. Bear was at our back door, making a horrible fuss.
" Arthur paused and glanced at the dog, who'd raised his head at the mention of his name.

  "Mrs. Donaldson never let him out unless he was on a leash," Arthur went on. "Not only that, his head was bleeding, like somebody had whacked him hard enough to kill an ordinary dog." He paused again, and I found myself staring at Bear, who was now scratching his ear.

  Arthur sighed. "Grandma and I knew something was wrong. It was one of those weird feelings—you know what I mean?"

  I nodded. "Like in a movie, when the music gets scary and you can tell something bad is going to happen?"

  "Exactly." Arthur crossed his arms across his skinny chest and took a deep breath. "Grandma told me to stay inside while she ran to Mrs. Donaldson's house. The back door was wide open, and the kitchen was a wreck. Drawers emptied out, stuff strewn everywhere, furniture turned over. Bear ran down the cellar steps, whining and crying, and Grandma followed him. Mrs. Donaldson was lying on the floor. Dead."

  Despite the warm summer sun, goose bumps raced up and down my arms. "Maybe she just fell down the steps, maybe—"

  "Even the police said it was murder," Arthur interrupted. "Somebody broke in and killed her. Then they tore the whole house apart—not just the kitchen, but every room, including the attic. They were looking for money, I guess."

  I glanced at Bear, who'd gone back to sleep on our porch. "Is he really her dog?"

  "Mrs. Donaldson loved that dog, and he loved her. He must have done his best to protect her. But..."Arthur shrugged. "The cops were going to take him to the pound, but Grandma said we'd keep him. The sad thing is he spends more time at your house than ours. I guess he's hoping Mrs. Donaldson will come back someday."

  While Arthur talked, I found myself staring at my new home. Before I'd learned its gruesome secret, it had seemed like an ordinary little house, kind of homely and run-down. Now it had a sinister look, as if it were hiding behind the overgrown trees and bushes, keeping dark, scary secrets.

  Our back door opened then, and Mom leaned out. "Logan, how about giving us some help in here?"

  At the same moment, a woman appeared on Arthur's porch. Like him, she was skinny as a stick. Her hair was blond or white, I wasn't sure which, and it stuck up like a cockatoo's crest. Her eyebrows were black, drawn on a little too high, which gave her face a startled look. I didn't have any idea how old she was—anywhere from middle-aged to ancient was the closest I could guess.

  "Hello, there," she called to me. "Welcome to Bealesville. I'm Arthur's granny, Darla Jenkins. Tell your folks I'll come on over for a visit after they get settled."

  To Arthur she said, "Dinner's ready, Artie. Come in and wash up."

  "See you later." Without another word, Arthur ran to his house, which was smaller and in worse need of paint than ours. Taking the sagging steps two at a time, he yanked open the screen door and disappeared.

  In the sudden silence, I heard his grandmother say, "Arthur Jenkins, how often must I tell you not to slam that door!"

  I headed for our house, eager to confront Mom and Dad with the truth about our new home.

  2

  As soon as I entered the kitchen, I blurted out, "Why didn't you tell me the old woman who used to live in this house was murdered here?"

  Mom looked up from the pots and pans she was trying to organize. "What are you talking about?"

  "Who told you that?" Dad asked at the same time.

  "The boy next door. Arthur. His grandmother found the body. Down there." I pointed to the cellar door. "At the bottom of the steps."

  "Mrs. Donaldson did die of a fall down those steps," Dad said slowly. "But she wasn't murdered, Logan."

  "We thought it might worry you to know someone died here," Mom put in. "We should have known you'd hear it from somebody else—with embellishments."

  "Worry me?" I repeated. "It's bad enough she died, but she was murdered, Mom. K-I-L-L-E-D. That definitely worries me!" "She wasn't—" Mom began, but the doorbell interrupted her.

  "That must be the pizza I ordered," Dad said.

  We followed him to the front door, and, sure enough, a guy holding a pizza box stood on the porch. While Dad went through the business end of the delivery, the pizza guy said, "I'm glad to see somebody's finally moved into poor old Mrs. Donaldson's house. It's been empty for a long time. I guess it was hard to sell, considering what happened—"

  "Yes, the place has really been neglected," Dad broke in before the delivery guy could finish. "I've got my work cut out for me."

  "If you need any help, just let me know," the pizza guy said. "My name's Johnny O'Neil." He scribbled something on a card from the pizza place and handed it to Dad. "Here's my phone number. I work nights at Golden Joe's Pizza Go-Go, so I'm free in the daytime."

  "How are you with a lawn mower?" Dad gestured at the weedy yard.

  "No problem," Johnny answered. "I can cut the grass tomorrow, if you like. Twenty dollars front and back, guaranteed neat job. I used to do it for Mrs. Donaldson before—"

  "Great." Dad grinned. "How about ten A.M.?"

  "It's a deal."

  We watched Johnny run to his car, which sported a big pizza sign on the roof, and drive away fast. No doubt some hungry family was wondering where their pizza was.

  "Why do you think Johnny said 'poor old Mrs. Donaldson?'" I asked Mom.

  She handed me a slice of pizza loaded with all the things I love—mushrooms, sausage, pepperoni, and extra cheese—and shrugged. "Probably because she died, Logan."

  Turning to Dad, she said. "Did you notice his tattoos?"

  "Really professional work," Dad said, totally missing the tone of disapproval in Mom's voice. "The detail and color, the intricacy—"

  "He'll be sorry when he's older," Mom interrupted. Giving me a sharp look, she added, "I hear it's a very painful and expensive process to have tattoos removed."

  I'd been thinking Johnny's tattoos were pretty cool, but I decided to keep that thought to myself.

  "I hope he shows up tomorrow," Mom went on to Dad. "He doesn't look like the responsible type."

  His mouth full of pizza, Dad simply shrugged.

  Just as I helped myself to the last slice, I heard a footstep in the kitchen. I whirled around, half expecting to see Mrs. Donaldson's ghost, but it was only Arthur standing in the dining room doorway, holding a cake.

  "My grandmother sent this to welcome you," he told Mom. "It's devil's food with chocolate icing, the best you ever ate. She'd have brought it herself, but her hip's bothering her."

  Since Arthur was practically drooling, Mom invited him to join us for dessert. In one second, he was sitting beside me, holding a fork, watching Mom cut into the cake. "Don't tell Grandma," he said. "I'm not supposed to have any. She told me it's all for you."

  "Your secret's safe with us." Mom handed Arthur the first piece, intending him to pass it down to Dad, but he kept it for himself. Before Mom had the second slice cut, Arthur had his mouth full.

  I guessed the word "etiquette" and its definition were missing from his enormous vocabulary.

  As we ate, we learned more about our house than we wanted to know. According to Arthur's grandma, the back yard flooded every time it rained, the roof was in bad shape (and no doubt leaked), and the porch suffered from dry rot.

  "Termites, too, most likely," Arthur said gloomily. "Mrs. Donaldson was getting too old to keep up with the repairs. Grandma says the place is about to fall down."

  Dad smiled a little stiffly. "We had the house looked at before we moved in, Arthur. The inspector gave it a clean bill of health."

  "Was it Mr. Lacey?"

  When Dad nodded, Arthur looked glum. "Grandma says Errol G. Lacey would rather stand outside in the rain and lie than come in the house and tell the truth. He is positively and absolutely mendacious. She wouldn't trust him as far as she can throw him—which isn't very far, because he must weigh at least three hundred pounds stark naked."

  Mom flashed a worried look at Dad, but he was studying our neighbor as if he were an unknown speci
es. Unaware of Dad's scrutiny, Arthur accepted another piece of cake and lit into it with relish.

  "I saw Johnny O'Neil deliver a pizza to your house," he said through a mouthful of crumbs. "I bet it was cold. He always stops and talks to people. Grandma doesn't know how Joe stays in business with Johnny doing the deliveries. Must be lots of folks like cold pizza."

  He paused to lick the icing off his fingers. "I guess it's because Johnny is Joe's nephew. Plus Golden Joe's is the only pizza place in town. Not that I'd ever eat there. The health department's after Joe big-time. Roaches in the kitchen, rats—"

  Seeing that Mom was turning greenish, Dad cut into Arthur's monologue. "What's this story you told Logan about Mrs. Donaldson being murdered?"

  "It's true," Arthur replied. "Ask anybody. Someone broke in and pushed her down the steps. They almost killed her dog, too. Then they ransacked the house."

  Mom glanced at the closed cellar door. "The real estate agent told us Mrs. Donaldson died falling down the steps," she said. "But she didn't say anything about murder."

  "Mrs. DiSilvio didn't tell you an out-and-out lie," Arthur said with a shrug. "She just left out a few details."

  "I'm disappointed in her," Mom said. "Rhoda and I—"

  "I warned you not to think of that woman as a friend," Dad interrupted. "Rhoda's a real estate agent. She wanted to sell us the house, pure and simple."

  "Well, if she'd told us the whole truth, I wouldn't have bought the place," Mom said.

  "And that's exactly why she didn't." Dad picked up the empty pizza box and headed toward the kitchen. "Let's get cleaned up. We've had a big day, and I for one would like to go to bed early."

  "Did they catch the killer?" Mom asked Arthur.

  He shook his head. "Grandma thinks he's still in town. Most likely he'll strike again. You know, like those serial killers you hear about."

  Just then the shrill sound of a police whistle shattered the evening. Mom gasped in alarm, and I choked on a mouthful of cake.

  "Don't worry," Arthur said. "That's Grandma calling me. Gotta go."

  At the kitchen door, he turned and grinned at me. "I'll show you the sights tomorrow. Which will take about one minute. Then we can go to the library."