Alan showed Ziggy and Josée the knife as soon as he got them alone.
“You shouldn’t have touched it,” Ziggy said. “It could have fingerprints on it.”
“Actually, I agree with Alain,” Josée said. “I think the police would probably say, ‘so what? It’s just an old knife.’ Especially if it belongs to Ellen. It probably fell out of her pocket some time when she was in there.”
“But what if she was in there when the guy with the gun was there? Or what if she was the one who hid the gun?” Ziggy said. “That was a possibility, too. Right, Alan?”
“I guess the best thing to do is interrogate her about it, before we decide what to do about the police,” Alan said. “We’ve got that card to give her, right?” They were talking quietly in the costume area downstairs, where they had gone to get Alan’s case notes. It was private down there. Greta was down at the schoolhouse, dressing up some of the camp kids.
“I was thinking that we were going to visit her in hospital to cheer her up, not upset her,” Josée said. “She is still there, right, Ziggy?”
“Yep. Ivor said she was going to be there for at least three days.”
“Did he tell you how the accident happened?” Alan asked.
“Well, it was too busy in there to talk much, and you know Ivor’s deaf and talks loud.”
“Loudly, “said Alan and Josée, together.
“Yeah, yeah. So there wasn’t much chance for, you know, a private conversation. He did say, though, that the guy who was driving the motorcycle was airlifted to a hospital in Toronto, so he must have been really badly hurt. Ivor sounded mad at him, though.”
“Who was he?”
“Ellen’s boyfriend, like you guessed, Alan. Dave-something.”
“Quelle crise,” Josée said. “Imagine lying in hospital not knowing if your boyfriend was alive or dead.”
“Oh, he’s alive, I think. Ivor didn’t say he’d died.”
“I just meant—oh, never mind. You wouldn’t understand.”
Alan exchanged a look with Ziggy. It was one of those girl things. Change the subject, quick.
“How’s the card-signing coming along?” Alan said.
Josée showed them the cards. She’d managed to get both filled with signatures.
“I haven’t got everybody yet, but most,” said Josée. “We took a break this morning from carving, and I ran around everywhere.” On Mrs. Creasor’s, some people had written little notes, like “Couldn’t live without your cookies!” or “You’re our favourite grandma.” But on Ellen’s, people had mostly just signed their names.
They compared the handwriting on the cards to the thank you note in Alan’s case note book. “Handwriting analysis is harder than I thought,” Alan admitted after a while. “The note was written in pencil, though. Everybody signed the card with pen.”
“That doesn’t mean anything,” Ziggy said. “Just that the note-writer didn’t have a pen. But anyway, if nobody’s writing looks like the note, then doesn’t that just prove that it was probably Ellen who took the pie?”
“I still don’t think she did,” Josée said. “Thin girls don’t eat whole pies.”
“Yes, but maybe she stole it for her boyfriend Dave,” Ziggy said.
“We’ll have to ask her,” Alan said. “It’s okay, Josée. We won’t shine a light in her eyes or anything. But we do need to ask a couple of questions, and she won’t be able to say she’s got work to do, because she’ll be in bed.”
“A captive audience,” Ziggy said.
“You guys are so mean,” Josée said. “Mrs. Creasor signed the card for Ellen, and she said to go down there before we leave, because she’s making up a basket of goodies for her.”
“So we’re going after work on our bikes, right?” Alan said.
“Speaking of food, I won’t have the strength to go anywhere if I don’t get some lunch,” Ziggy said. “Race you to the cafeteria.” Alan took a moment to stuff the case notes back in his backpack, then ran to catch up with the others.
After lunch, Josée went back to the woodworking shop, where she said she would be helping Mr. Scott work on the log house.
“What’re you going to be doing?” Alan asked. “You can’t lift one of those logs—none of us could.”
“We’re going to use saws to cut notches in the end of the log,” Josée said. “I can use a saw. Grandpère taught me.”
“We’re making more nails,” Ziggy said. “By the end of the day, I’ll have made enough to build my own house, I bet.”
Alan drove the donkey cart again. Sheldon was there to oversee the hitching up of Fred, but he just stood back and let Alan do it.
Fred did stop on the hill—twice, in the course of the afternoon. The second time, quite late, he simply refused to budge, no matter how many times Alan tickled him with the switch. This was particularly annoying to Alan, because the horse-girl from the camp was in the cart, and he wanted to make a good impression. Her name was Grace, and she had been sitting on the front seat with him.
“Okay, everybody. Pile out,” Alan said, reaching for the carrot bag. There were only two left. Grace helped the two little kids who were in the back get down and called out, “Do you want us to push?”
“Probably not a good idea for them,” he said, meaning the little ones. “Can you hold out the carrot at this end? I’ll push.” They switched places. Alan pushed with all his might, but Fred just stood there. And he wasn’t interested in the carrot, either.
“What do we do?” Alan said, exasperated.
“I think he’s just really tired,” Grace said. Then she leaned over, stroked one of Fred’s ears, and whispered something into it. Fred took a long, deep breath and began walking, very slowly, up the hill, with Grace keeping her hand on his neck.
“What did you say to him?” Alan said, joining her. She was smiling.
“I said, ‘let’s go home’,” she said. “It sometimes works with Jessie—that’s my horse, when she’s had a good workout and she just decides she’s had enough. They know the word ‘home’. At least, Jessie does.”
“I guess Fred does, too,” Alan said. The little kids were told that Fred wasn’t taking any more passengers now, and they scampered away. The donkey finished the last part of the circuit and headed straight for the animal enclosure, stopping when he got to the gate. Together, they unhitched him from the cart, and he walked in and stood expectantly beside a bucket hanging on the outside wall of the pen.
“He’s thirsty,” Grace said.
“And he’ll be wanting a bit of a rubdown, and some of his special grain, too,” said Sheldon, coming up beside them.
“Is there a curry comb in there?” Grace said.
Sheldon gave her a look. “I’m guessing you have some donkey or horse experience, missy,” he said. “I’ll leave you to it, then. The grain’s by the door. Two scoops in one of them smaller buckets, and the tack’s on the shelf, there. That is, unless you’ve got somewhere else to be.” He winked at Alan, which made him blush.
Grace looked at her watch. “We’re all supposed to meet at the front gate at four,” she said, “so I’ve got a while. Come on, Alan.” Alan filled the water bucket at the pump, while Grace measured out the grain. Fred wouldn’t look at the grain until he’d inhaled most of the bucket of water. While the donkey had his nose in the grain bucket, Grace showed Alan how to brush his rough coat with the curry comb.
“He’s in great shape,” she said. “You look after him really well.”
“Well, Sheldon does,” Alan said. “I’m new here.”
“I bet you’ll be looking after him from now on, though,” she said.
“Maybe. It makes the idea of shovelling manure not as bad, once you get to know the person—well, the donkey, making it.”
After they’d finished, and Fred was leaning against the tree in the yard, daydreaming, they headed towards the front entrance.
“Do you have email up here?” Grace asked.
“You mean at the Village?” Alan asked. “I guess.”
“No, I meant at home. Here in—what is this town? Laingford.”
“Why wouldn’t we?”
“Well, I thought being way north and everything . . .”
“We’re not that far north,” he said. “And I think everybody has email now. Even people in the Arctic.”
“So you want to give me your email address? We could write to each other when I get back home.”
“Uh—okay. Sure. That’d be great.” He didn’t have a pencil, but she did, and he wrote his on her Pioneer Village brochure.
“Hey, Gracie!” some bigger kids by the gate called out. “Who’s your boyfriend?”
“Yikes,” she said. “You don’t want to meet them. They’re the cool crowd, and they’re not very nice.”
“Oh. I guess I’d better go, then. I have work to do anyway. It was nice meeting you,” Alan said.
“You too,” she said. “Goodbye. I’ll write you.” She touched his arm, then turned away, walking towards the gang at the gate, who jeered and whistled at her. Alan, his face burning, headed up the path towards the woodworking shop, not really knowing where he was going.
At the top, he met Josée, coming down.
“Who was that you were talking to?” she said.
“Oh, just some girl from the camp,” he said.
“Ah. Nice, was she?”
“I guess . . .”
“That camp,” she said, “is for rich kids. They’re all snobs.”
“Grace wasn’t.”
“Oh, Grace. I see. Well, fine. Just watch out, that’s all.” Josée was walking faster and faster, and it was hard to keep up with her.
“Where are we going?” Alan said.
“I’m going to find Ziggy, because it’s almost time to go,” she said. “My bike tire needs some air, and Zig said he’d lend me his pump. You can do whatever you want.”
A little while later, after they had got out of their costumes and were heading out to the staff parking lot where their bicycles were chained to a bike rack, Ziggy whispered to Alan, “What’s up with her?”
“I’m not really sure,” Alan said. “She’s mad at me for some reason. But I didn’t do anything.”
“Vati says that if a woman is mad at you, the best thing to do is apologize.”
“She’s not a woman, she’s—oh, wait! We forgot to go to the inn. Mrs. Creasor’s stuff for Ellen. Josée! Wait up. We have to go back!”
Josée turned. “Why?” she said. “You want to say goodbye to Grace again?”
“Who’s Grace?” Ziggy said.
“Nobody,” Alan said. “Josée, we forgot to get that basket of stuff—you know, for Ellen.”
“Oh, crud,” Josée said. “Do we have to put our costumes on again do you think? To go back on the site?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “I’ll go, if you want.”
“No, let’s all go,” Ziggy said. “There’ll be food, maybe.”
There was food. Tons of it.
“We’re closed tomorrow, you see, and all these cookies and buns will be stale by Monday,” Mrs. Creasor said. “Take some home to your mother, Alan.”
“She’s away, Mrs. C. But that’s okay. We’re all going to Ziggy’s place tonight. We’ll be very hungry.”
“Yeah, like my grandfather, he doesn’t believe in feeding kids,” Ziggy said, grinning.
“That’s funny. You look pretty well-fed to me,” Mrs. Creasor said. Even so, she gave them a whole bag of cookies and sticky buns, which fitted perfectly into Alan’s backpack. Josée, whose bike had a carrier on it, would take the basket for Ellen.
“I’ve put cookies and buns in there, plus a couple of apples and some candy from the general store,” she said. “I know what hospital food is like. She’s a thin little thing, but I bet you dimes to donuts she’ll be glad of some home baking by now.”
“And we have something for you, Madame Creasor,” Josée said, giving her the card she’d made. “It’s from everybody, really. For being so nice to us.”
“Oh, how . . . well, isn’t this sweet?” Mrs. Creasor said. “Oh, look—that’s me, isn’t it? Did you draw it yourself? How talented you are. And look at all these names—why, I’m all overcome.”
She really did seem very pleased. She hugged them all, called them “dear things” and even got a little teary.
As they were unlocking their bikes, Alan said, “Do you think Mrs. C is a real grandma? I mean, she’s like a professional one, but would she be like that with her family, too? Or would she be too tired after working here all day?”
“Maybe she doesn’t have any family,” Ziggy said. “Here’s the bike pump, Josée. You want me to do it?”
“No, thanks. I’ve got it,” she said. “It just needs a little.” She pumped up her tire and handed the pump back. “I have a feeling that some people, like Madame C, are just born nice,” she said.
“Unlike us,” Alan said. “About to visit an innocent accident victim and then pump her for information. Got your interrogation costumes, everybody? Okay. Let’s go.”