Summer of the Spotted Owl (12 page)

“Poor Zoë,” I commented to Talbot. “Bullied by a mean employer, and yet she's still nice enough to go around handing out sweets to kids. A true Glinda.”

“Glinda gave out sweets? I knew she supplied footwear, but—”

I heard scratching. Itchy was nearby. Talbot and I ducked. Peeking round the computer desk, we saw him warily descend the stairs.

Talbot tapped me on the shoulder. “Listen, I can deal with being arrested for trespassing, which is no doubt what's about to happen. I refuse, however, to die of thirst in the process. I'm going to find us some water.”

He headed downstairs. A few moments later, over the windowsill, I saw him take two bottles of water from a cooler. Not only that, but Councillor Cordes beamed kindly at him.

Adults love Talbot.

The councillor resumed talking loudly to a cluster of guests.

“Yup,” he said, waving a sandwich. “I'm expecting a cash influx shortly — investments, dontcha know,” another nasty-sounding laugh, “and then it's yacht time for the Rockster. The beauty is, since I'm a councillor, every party I throw aboard my new boat will be tax-deductible!”

His guests laughed appreciatively.

A wispy-moustached young man in a striped suit about two sizes too large for him jumped up and down, pretending to grasp the air with his hands. “I'll pull strings for you any day, Councillor!”

“Can it, Herbert,” Councillor Cordes barked.

Ah, I thought. The only funny jokes are those the councillor himself tells. Some host! Looking hurt, Herbert retreated to a table, where he began stuffing back salmon and cream cheese. I felt sorry for him, even though his attempt at humor had been odd, to say the least. Comedy was definitely
not
a career for everyone.

Solemnly Talbot stepped up to Councillor Cordes. “I'd like to ask you something, sir.”

Oh, no. Talbot was going to try the
direct
approach.

“I'd just like to say that I appreciate your support for the Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee.” Talbot raised the bottles of water to Councillor Cordes in salute.

The councillor viewed him in surprise. “This is a reception for my supporters, young man. I hope you're not one of those
activists
.”

“I support you supporting soac,” Talbot replied with calm logic. “You
were
sincere about supporting soac, right?”

Councillor Cordes's pink features briefly pursed in disdain. He then stretched them into the same gritted-teeth smile he'd given Jack at the soac rally. “Right.”

Like a beach ball in a gust of wind, the councillor spun and zoomed off to another cluster of guests.

Talbot looked as perplexed as I felt. What was all that about? The councillor had been annoyed at the mention of soac— yet, to the tv cameras, he'd made himself out to be soac's best buddy.

I sat down in the desk chair and swiveled thoughtfully. I didn't get it. Councillor Cordes couldn't get out of supporting the spotted owl bylaw at the July 19 meeting, just a few days from now. There'd been too much favorable publicity.

Yet something was wrong, I was sure of it. Jack had been right to feel uneasy.

In front of me gleamed the councillor's computer screen. Some wallpaper he had: a large photo of his smiling face.

On impulse I did a file search on “soac.” Talbot walked in just as the search function wound down. “Zero files found,” I read, accepting a water bottle from him.

“Try typing in the whole name,” Talbot suggested.

I typed, “Spotted Owl Advocacy Committee.” We glugged back water together.

A document icon popped up:
Results of the Spotted
Owl Advocacy Committee Research on Spotted Owls off
Marisa Drive
.

“That's a soac file. It's the one they gave all the councillors,” I said. “No reason Councillor Cordes shouldn't have that. In fact, Jack
wanted
him to read it.”

“It's Rowena you've been concerned about, not soac,” Talbot pointed out. “Try ‘Rowena Pickles.' ”

I bashed it in. From outside we heard Mrs. Cordes's voice, sharp and shrill. “Rock, who was that boy taking water from the cooler?”

“Just a thirsty youngster, m'dear. Why?”

Mrs. Cordes snapped back, “That boy was one of the intruders at the door a while ago, along with that redheaded girl who sings about salami on tv. Also, an odd boy was nosing around our trees.”

“Trees? I don't quite —”

“The tree boy fled. The other two— I'll track them down,” Mrs. Cordes said ominously.

Talbot and I traded wide-eyed looks of dismay. The sensible option was to peel out of there.

Neither of us moved. “Try just typing ‘Pickles,' ” said Talbot.

I typed it in.

A document icon sprang up. PICKLES.

“Unless Councillor Cordes is into cucumber recipes, I bet this is about Rowena,” I muttered. “I also bet he's one of the ‘they' Itchy kept on about.”

I clicked on PICKLES. Out ballooned lots of lines, straight, curving, crisscrossing, with numbers scattered all over. I squinted. “A map, maybe.”

“Naw,” said Talbot. “They're blueprints.”

Thundering footsteps on the floor below. Mrs. Cordes on the not-so-stealthy prowl.

Itchy's half-sob came back to me.
All their finely detailed
plans and blueprints
.

“If these are the Pickles blueprints, this must be the Pickles house,” Talbot whispered.

We scanned them, but the lines and numbers stretched on forever, making my eyes ache.

“Why would Councillor Cordes keep Rowena's house blueprints on his computer?” I hissed. “Not very interesting. Not like a good game of Solitaire or Hangman.”

“Dinah, we gotta go.”

“And here's my son!” we heard Councillor Cordes's voice from outside, extra-loud with fake enthusiasm. “A chip off the old Rock, I like to say. Though I'm still waiting for you to forget this hang-gliding nonsense, young Rockster. Do something serious with your life!”

“I'm serious about hang gliding, Dad.”

“Balderdash!” A bark of fake laughter.

Itchy's voice trembled. “It's not balderdash to me, Dad.”

Pound
,
pound.
Mrs. Cordes was mounting the stairs.

“Close down,” Talbot hissed.

Pound
,
pound
.

“
Wow, guys.
” Pantelli goggled in appreciation. “Choco-late flatbread!”

The three of us were reclining in the Urstads' green-and-white patio chairs. Talbot was strumming out idle notes on his guitar.

“Actually, that flatbread started life as a chocolate muffin,” I said as Pantelli took a big, crumbly bite. “It kind of morphed when I stuffed it in my pocket.”

Pantelli shook his head admiringly. “And you found time for food while fleeing. Incredible, Dinah.”

I smiled modestly. “A maid appeared with a platter of muffins when we were zooming across the Cordeses' foyer. She offered me some. So I took a few, but explained I had to eat and run.”

Talbot shot me a look from under his dark forelock. “No more skin-of-our-teeth escapes for the next while, okay, Di? I don't want to be the world's first thirteen-year-old with an ulcer.”

Pantelli couldn't comment. He'd squashed the rest of the muffin into his mouth. Pantelli was able to tuck back vast amounts of food and stay as thin as the twigs he was so fond of studying.

I looked down at my own pudgy form. I kept hoping I'd have my much-longed-for growth spurt and slim out, the way a blob of Silly Putty does when you stretch it.

I shoved these unsatisfactory thoughts aside. “Why would Councillor Cordes have blueprints of Rowena's house?”

Pantelli swallowed the last of the chocolate muffin. “There's something about the house that interests him. My guess is,” and he lowered his voice with a glance at the hedge, “Rowena's secret papers.”

Strummm
! Talbot hit a dramatic chord on his guitar.

I said impatiently, “Pantelli, I grant you Rowena is weird. But she's not a spy. Spies don't keep state secrets in pieces of luggage. These days they use tiny rolls of film or whatever.”

“Hey, guys,” said Talbot.

Pantelli glared at me. “Yeah? So maybe Rowena's retro!”

“Yeah? So maybe you're a doofus!”

“Hey,
guys
.” Talbot was staring past us, at — Rowena!

The Urstads' neighbor stood, shaking with anger, by our side of the privet hedge. The wild gray stands of Rowena's hair wobbled round her head like an electrified halo. Pantelli and I had been too busy squabbling to notice her arrival.

“Um,” I began and gulped. The situation was so embarrassing I didn't know how to proceed beyond “um.”

It didn't matter. Rowena cut in scathingly, “Those papers you're so interested in could greatly upset certain people if made public. However, the papers — and I — won't be here much longer. I decided several days ago to sell my house. I didn't tell you, because secrecy was part of the agreement. Probably I shouldn't be telling you now, but we've been friends …” Rowena shrugged. I suspected she wasn't feeling overly friendly to us at this moment.

I started to burble out questions. Rowena lifted a hand. “It's all happening very fast, I know. But it's a matter of urgency. You see, the district's bylaw-enforcement branch sent an officer round to my house the other day.”

I nodded, remembering the cross man with the badge and the scowl.

Rowena shrugged unhappily. “Either I move or my cats will be taken to the pound and destroyed, if not adopted.”

There was a moment of silence. The prospect was too awful for anyone to speak.

Then I said, very slowly, “They finally got to you. They couldn't buy you out. They couldn't annoy you out. So, at last, they thought of the cats.”

“I don't know who you mean by ‘they,' ” Rowena said.

“
They
. The
Somebodies
.”

Rowena tossed her long gray locks back impatiently. “The house is being sold to that nice woman I told you about, the one with the poodle.” She mustered a smile. “It'll be nice for a dog, having all my land to romp on. After all, it's the biggest piece of property on Marisa Drive. And I — well, I'm looking at acreage properties in the Valley. A farm, maybe, where no one can complain about my kitties.”

“Rowena,” I said miserably, “I'm sorry you have to move. And I'm sorry about what we said. We don't think you're capable of being a spy. I mean,” I floundered, this hadn't come out quite right, “not that we see you as stupid —”

“Quit while you're behind,” Rowena advised and walked away.

“
Well, whoever
‘they' are, they'll be happy now. No more weird Rowena in the 'hood,” Talbot commented and strummed his guitar rather fiercely. This, more than anything, summed up our feelings.

“All those pranks — just because she was weird?” I shook my head.

Loud creaks and rattles from the front of the house. Pantelli lifted his eyebrows. “Either Rowena's bones badly need oiling, or Jack has pulled up in his Jeep.”

“It
is
Jack,” I exclaimed, jumping up. “I bet it's about the fax I sent him. He's come to forgive me! I better position myself next to a sofa.”

We trooped into the Urstads' gigantic family room. From the foyer we heard Jack tell Madge, “Weird thing happened. I got a call from one of our volunteers. Seems her mom was a guest at a Cordes family garden party today. The impression her mom got was that Councillor Cordes isn't friendly to soac at all.”

“That can't be possible, Jack. Not after the councillor agreed to adopt soac's proposed bylaw without even arguing,” said Madge.

“That's just it, darlin'. It's not like the Councillor Cord-eses of the world to agree so easily. Otherwise, Canada would have legislation that truly protects wildlife, like the Endangered Species Act in the United States. Here we've just got this dinky Species At Risk Act, which applies to federal land. In other words, marine systems, post offices and military bases are protected. Like, c'mon. How many spotted owls live in your neighborhood post office?”

“I can see why you're skeptical, Jack. But once the council passes the bylaw on the nineteenth, there'll be no more development off Marisa Drive.”

“Yeah. I guess you're right.” Then Jack sighed. “I still think there's something fishy about Councillor Cordes.”

“As long as they're not
endangered
fish,” Madge said. But I didn't think she meant it as a joke, and, sure enough, neither of them laughed.

“You should check your facts,” Pantelli whispered.

“Jack knows his facts,” I whispered back, offended.

“Your
fax
, Dinah.” With a chocolaty forefinger, Pantelli pointed to the Urstads' nearby fax machine. A sheet of paper lay in the receiving tray.

A familiar sheet of paper, since it bore my handwriting. My agonized memo to Jack, to be exact.

It had been faxed back from soac headquarters with brisk, angry capital letters scribbled on top of my message:

LAY OFF WITH THE FAXES, DINAH. WE'RE BUSY AROUND HERE. — JACK

Chapter Twelve
A Little Too Pretty in Pink

B
y the next morning, Madge demanded to know why I was being so quiet. “Not that it isn't refreshing, but it's not like you,” she said, plopping beside me on the sofa.

I passed her the offending fax, all the while continuing to play
Deathstalkers
on the Urstads' laptop.
Bam
!
Blast
! I exploded an entire planet. Chunks of rock whirled around the screen.

Madge read Jack's scrawled reply, then my original message — and erupted in a snort of laughter.

“Fine,” I said, hurt, and resumed blowing up planets.