The Spy Catchers of Maple Hill (25 page)

“Well, sure it explains the headstone, but there's still the matter of the safes.”

“I am sure there's some other sort of explanation. An honest one.”

“Maybe.” But even as she said it, a sinking feeling came over her. The sinking feeling of having done something really, really wrong. Like when she told Becky she didn't know why she wasted so much time watching the popular girls when they were never going to let her be one. She was just as bad as whoever had thrown a brick through the Lis' window. It
was like Miss Lerner had said: she'd gotten all caught up in the rumors, and she hadn't been able to see the truth.

“I told you he wasn't a spy. He's just sad. He came back so he could be near her and watch over her.”

“But she's gone,” Hazel said. She had gathered all that evidence, and in the end it had amounted to nothing. Maybe she wasn't such a super-sleuth after all. Nancy Drew would never have made this kind of mistake. Mr. Jones was an honorable man. He'd come all the way from Texas, first to get Alice a headstone and then he had returned to be by her grave.

“Not to him she's not.” Samuel's voice was hard and Hazel knew she had made him angry again, though this time she had no clue as to why. “I wonder if she even had a real funeral,” Samuel added.

“What do you mean?” As far as Hazel was concerned, a real funeral was one in which the body went into the ground.

“Like with an official presiding and folks saying nice things about her.”

“I'm not sure,” Hazel said.

“Not just her, but all those people. They didn't even mark their graves, Hazel.”

Samuel looked near tears again and Hazel was baffled as to why he was so upset; it wasn't like he knew those people. “Headstones are expensive.”

Samuel shook his head. Hastily, he rose to his feet. “I've got to go. I'll see you at school tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Hazel said. “Bye.”

She watched Samuel walk away and wanted to call out to say she was sorry, but she didn't know how to apologize when she wasn't even sure what she had done. Instead she took out a piece of paper and a pencil and started working on her apology note to Mr. Jones. It was going to have to be a good one.

If there was one good thing about being in deep trouble, it was that Hazel would not need to go to Connie's birthday party. Or so she thought. Her mother had a different idea.

Saturday morning Hazel was about to head into the cemetery for more of her forced labor, but her mother stopped her. “Where do you think you're going?”

“Weeding.”

“Not this morning you're not.”

For a moment Hazel let herself believe that her parents had realized that even though she had made a terrible mistake about Mr. Jones, she had done it with the best intentions. Not to mention that the fallout shelter in the mausoleum had been an expression of love. So, she hoped, her mother was going to tell her that the grounding was over.

“You have a birthday party to attend.”

Hazel opened her mouth, but what could she say?

“I've put a dress on your bed. Wear your Mary Janes.”

“But they rub my toes funny,” Hazel protested.

Hazel's mom raised her eyebrows, and Hazel knew not to argue.

The dress her mother had picked out was plain awful. It had been her Christmas dress the year before. She hated it then, and she hated it now. The white top was made of some sort of stiff, satin-like fabric. There was lace around the collar that itched like red ants were biting her. The skirt had crinoline under it that bunched up every time she sat down. She had grown since the previous year, so now the dress was tight around her chest and belly. She wasn't sure how she was going to be able to breathe. In fact, she just might pass out in the Shorts' living room from lack of oxygen. That would serve her mother right.

When Hazel got downstairs, her mother was looking at the sheet of paper that Hazel had torn out of the notebook—the one labeled “Doctoral Dissertation Ideas.”

“What is a dissertation anyway?” Hazel asked.

Her mom jumped a little as if she hadn't been expecting Hazel to be there. “After you finish college, you can keep studying for something called a PhD. It's an advanced degree.”

“Oh, Samuel wants to do that.”

“He'll make a good candidate, whatever he decides to study. So would you.”

“Why do you have a list? Are you going to get one?”

“I thought I was,” Hazel's mom said. She put the sheet back down on a stack of papers.

“Did you fail out?” Hazel tugged at the neck of her dress.

Hazel's mom sighed. “No, Hazel, I didn't fail out. I got married.”

Hazel wasn't sure how to respond to this. “Because you got married, they wouldn't let you get a PhD?”

“It's not that simple, Hazel.”

“But I don't understand what you mean. It's not fair that they didn't let you stay in school.”

“It was my choice, Hazel. A PhD takes a long time, and your father and I wanted to start a family.”

Hazel looked down at her shiny shoes.

“Oh, Hazel,” her mom said. “Sometimes the world isn't set up to give us everything we want. It's changing, and I hope it will be better for you. I just couldn't see a way to be a wife and a mother and an academic. But working here, it gives me a chance to do what I love. Not a lot of women get to do that. Do you understand?” Hazel's mom tousled her short hair the way she had when Hazel was still toddling around spouting nonsense words. “Come on. You're going to be late for the party.”

Hazel's mom drove her in the old Ford, but she didn't say anything. She seemed to be looking at some faraway place instead of at the road.

When they pulled into the driveway, her mother reminded
her, “Be sure to say hello to Connie's parents. Don't just eat the junk food. Say thank you. Sing the right words to ‘Happy Birthday.'”

“I know, Mom,” Hazel said.

“I know you do. But reminding you is my job.”

Hazel's mom waited in the car until Hazel was inside. It was the fanciest-looking party Hazel had ever seen. Not that she'd seen all that many parties. There were balloons everywhere, and pink and white streamers twisted and hung around the living room. Dance music played on the record player, but no one was dancing.

No one was dancing because the only other guest there was Ellen Abbott, who sat in an overstuffed armchair with her feet dangling off the edge. Her long hair was pulled into tight braids. Connie herself stood next to a table with chips, vegetables, and dips. She wore a sparkling pink dress, her hair neatly curled, and she was sucking on her lower lip.

“Where is everybody?” Hazel asked.

Connie sniffed, but didn't say anything.

“That's a nice dress, Hazel,” Ellen said.

Hazel sighed. “It's not a nice dress. It's a baby dress and it barely fits me. Anyone can see that.”

At that, Connie ran out of the room, and a moment later a huge wail came echoing down the hall to them.

Ellen said, “Why do you always have to be such a pill, Hazel Kaplansky?”

Hazel couldn't believe that horsey Ellen Abbott was
calling
her
a pill. Everyone knew the reason they couldn't go on any field trips that year was on account of Ellen Abbott and how she always threw up on the bus.

A moment later, Mr. Short came into the room. His Hawaiian print shirt didn't match the glum expression on his face. “Girls, it seems Connie isn't feeling so well, and I think we're going to cut this party a little short. I'll drive you home.”

“I need to use the restroom first,” Ellen said.

That was the other thing about Ellen: she had a tiny bladder. She probably went to the bathroom six times a day.

“Right down the hall on the left,” Mr. Short said, pointing.

With Ellen gone, Hazel was alone with Mr. Short. She still had one big, nagging question, and she figured it was now or never. “Mr. Short, why'd you bring all those safes over to Mr. Jones?”

Mr. Short didn't look surprised or guilty. “He was unlocking them. When folks lose their keys, they can send the safes back to us. We're supposed to keep duplicates and master keys on hand for all the different kinds of safes, but sometimes something's gone wrong with the lock, or we're missing the key. Mr. Jones can pick the lock.”

Maybe she hadn't been 100 percent wrong about Mr. Jones after all. “Because he's a thief?” she asked.

For the first time, Mr. Short lifted his sad eyes to look at her. “No, Hazel. He's not a thief. He has locksmith training.”

“It seems like you ought to have a locksmith on hand in the factory.”

“We do. But Chuck's getting older, and his hands don't work so well.”

“So fire him and hire Mr. Jones.”

Mr. Short took a sip from his caramel-colored drink. “I don't suppose your parents would like that much. Anyway, Chuck's been there forever, and he's in the union. You can't get rid of a union man just because someone better comes along.”

Hazel nodded. She didn't know a lot about unions, only that the folks who worked at a place banded together to make sure the owners treated them right. “Aren't you the head of the union?”

“I am.”

“And that's why they're investigating you, right, because of union ties with the Communists?”

Mr. Short sputtered on his drink. “Well, now—”

“It's okay, you can tell me. I'm good at keeping secrets.”

Mr. Short put his drink down and ran his fingers through his hair. “It's no secret. All this talk about Communists in our plants—it's not about finding threats to the United States, it's about busting up the unions. Why, at the GE plant they've all jumped ship already. I haven't done anything wrong, and neither has anyone else at the factory.”

“You ought to just tell the investigators that.”

Mr. Short sighed. “If I talk, then other guys who plead the Fifth, they look guilty for
not
talking.”

“Why can't you all just tell the truth?”

“Times like this, the truth has a way of getting twisted.” He looked out at the empty living room. The balloons and streamers seemed a lot less festive. Hazel and Mr. Short were both so quiet, thinking their own thoughts, that Hazel could hear the ice in his drink cracking.

Rumor, whisper, lie
, Hazel thought. And she'd been just as bad as everyone else in town.

After Mr. Short steered his blue Packard into her driveway, Hazel waved good-bye and waited for him to pull out. Then she jumped on her bike. Her parents thought she was at the party, and she was going to use that time as best she could. She needed to find Samuel, to let him know about the safes. She couldn't go to his house, though; they still weren't supposed to spend too much time together. She hoped he might be at the library.

Inside the library, she cruised by Miss Angus, who was putting
The Catcher in the Rye
on a display shelf. “Walking feet, Hazel!” Miss Angus called out. Hazel slowed down until she reached the stairs, which she took two at a time. There were a few families downstairs, and Timmy was sitting in a corner reading a book, which was strange because she had never, ever seen him read a book before.

Breathless, she found Miss Lerner. “Have you seen Samuel?” she asked.

“Good afternoon to you, too.”

“I'm sorry. I just need to find Samuel. It's about, it's about a project we've been working on.”

“I haven't seen him all day. But I'm glad you stopped in. Do you have a minute?”

“Sure,” Hazel replied.

“Come with me.”

Miss Lerner put her hand on Hazel's back and led her around behind her desk to a little office. Hazel's heart began to flutter. This was it. Her lowest moment was about to become her highest. Her exceptional intelligence was finally being recognized and she was going to be honored with a position on the library staff. Miss Lerner shut the door. “Would you like some tea?” she asked.

Hazel considered it. She thought it would be quite librarianish to drink a cup of tea in the afternoon, but she was far too excited. “No, thank you,” Hazel replied. She scanned the room. The office looked fairly normal: a desk, a chair, an electric teakettle, and stacks of magazines with pictures of book covers on them.

“Sorry about the mess,” Miss Lerner said.

“Oh, it doesn't bother me,” Hazel told her. “In fact, I believe that a cluttered desk is the sign of a busy mind. My desk is quite cluttered, too. It drives my mom crazy, and it probably didn't help when I told her this quote I read once: ‘Dull women keep immaculate houses.'”

“Interesting.”

“Thank you.”

“So. How are you these days?” she asked.

“Fine,” Hazel replied. “How are you?” She was truly perplexed now. Maybe this wasn't the job offer she had expected. Had Miss Lerner called her back for some sort of social visit? Maybe she was being invited to a special reading club for the truly brilliant. Oh, Samuel would be jealous! Unless of course Samuel was already a part of the reading club. In which case, well, she would still want to join, but it did make it a little less special. She wondered what kind of books they read. The thick ones, she decided, the ones with the worn brown covers and the funny smell that were always in the stacks.

“You haven't been around the library much lately.”

“I've been busy,” Hazel said. “Samuel and I
have
been to the library, actually. We've been up to the third floor. I'm quite adept on the microfilm machine.”

“I'm glad you brought up Samuel,” Miss Lerner said. “He's actually who I wanted to talk with you about today.”

Hazel slumped a little. So he was in the secret club already, and she was just an afterthought. Perhaps he had even suggested that she be invited since he knew she was feeling bad about the whole Mr. Jones thing. Oh, that would be the worst—to be included out of sympathy!