They walked together up to Ida Nee’s circular driveway.

Ida Nee was still down on the dock, marching back and forth and twirling her baton and talking to herself. Raymie could hear her voice — a low, angry murmur — but she could not understand what she was saying.

“I hate Little Miss contests,” said Beverly. “I hate bows and ribbons and batons and all of it. I hate spangly things. My mother has entered me into every Little Miss contest there ever was, and I’m tired of it. And that is why I’m going to sabotage this one.”

“But there’s one thousand nine hundred and seventy-five dollars to win,” said Louisiana. “That is a king’s ransom. That’s an untold fortune! Do you know how much tuna fish you can buy for one thousand nine hundred and seventy-five dollars?”

“No,” said Beverly. “And I don’t care.”

“Tuna fish is very high in protein,” said Louisiana. “In the county home, they only serve you bologna sandwiches. Bologna is not good for people with swampy lungs.”

This conversation was interrupted by a loud noise. A station wagon with wood paneling on its side was coming toward Ida Nee’s circular driveway very fast. The driver’s-side back door of the station wagon was partially unhinged; it was swinging open and then slamming shut again.

“Here is Granny,” said Louisiana.

“Where?” said Raymie.

Because it truly did not appear that anybody was driving the car. It was like the headless horseman, only with a station wagon instead of a horse.

And then Raymie saw two hands on the steering wheel, and just as the station wagon pulled into the driveway, spraying gravel and dust, a voice called out, “Louisiana Elefante, get into the car!”

“I have to go now,” said Louisiana.

“It sure seems that way,” said Beverly.

“It was nice to meet you,” said Raymie.

“Hurry!” shouted the voice from inside the station wagon. “Marsha Jean is somewhere close behind. I’m certain of it. I can feel her malevolent presence.”

“Oh, my goodness,” said Louisiana. She got in the backseat and tried to pull the broken door closed. “If Marsha Jean shows up,” she shouted at Raymie and Beverly, “tell her you haven’t seen me. Don’t allow her to write anything down on her clipboard. And tell her that you don’t know my whereabouts.”

“We don’t know your whereabouts,” said Beverly.

“Who is Marsha Jean?” asked Raymie.

“Quit asking her questions,” said Beverly. “It just gives her an excuse to make up a story.”

The station wagon shot forward. The back door swung open, then shut with a loud bang and stayed closed. The car accelerated at an alarming rate, the engine roaring and groaning, and then the station wagon disappeared entirely, and Raymie and Beverly were left standing together in a cloud that was composed of dust and gravel and exhaust.

Phhhhtttt, as Mrs. Borkowski would say.

Phhhhtttt.