CHAPTER 42

 

As I plot how to help Jeff Cohen casually bump into Victoria (in his cow costume, of course) and watch Schuyler flirt with Sophia over pizza, I wonder why I’m still thinking about Bob when, according to Meredith, I really like Bill.

It’s the summer. All that sun makes everybody go a little boy-or girl-crazy. I guess that’s why there are so many songs about summer lovin’. I think that’s why they put Valentine’s Day in the middle of the winter. There are no winter love songs. When it’s February and freezing outside, you need a romantic reminder on the calendar. And cards. And chocolate. And those tiny little candy hearts that say stuff like BE MINE and LET’S KISS and LET’S NOT AND SAY WE DID.

Anyway, that night after dinner, Schuyler entertains us all with his new Sony Walkman.

A Walkman was sort of like an iPhone but without the phone part or the apps—just the music. Instead of earbuds, it came with foam-covered headphones. Plus, you needed to pop a cassette tape into its clunky case before you could hear any music. Downloads did not exist in 1991. Except on elevators.

I guess Sony called it a Walkman because it was easier to carry while you walked than a record player, something you guys have probably only ever seen at a museum or inside a hipster’s house.

“This is the kind of Walkman that college professors use,” Schuyler explains. “You can record stuff on it.”

“Like love poetry?” says Sophia, batting her eyelashes.

“For sure,” says Schuyler. “Or, you know, speeches. TV shows. Songs off the radio.”

“Or poems about love,” says Sophia.

“How about music?” I say this so we don’t have to listen to any more mushy stuff while our stomachs are full. “Can you play music on your Walkman? Like, right now?”

“Sure,” says Schuyler. “But so far, I only have one cassette.”

Turns out, it’s the brand-new Paula Abdul album, Spellbound. Schuyler cranks up a funky tune. We all take turns slipping on the foam-covered headgear and listening to it. It has a good beat. You can really dance to it. So we do. One at a time.

When Schuyler needs to head home, Sophia walks him out the door.

And probably down to the boardwalk. I don’t tag along. I can’t handle smoochy-face yucky stuff immediately after dinner. It makes me hurl.

The next morning, over a classic cop breakfast (doughnuts with a side of doughnuts), Dad explains why he was working so late the night before.

“We’re dealing with a theft and shoplifting crime wave,” he reports.

“Where?” asks Mom.

“On the beach and the boardwalk. It’s really snowballed in the past few days. Stores are reporting all kinds of petty thefts. Tourists are having things stolen right out of their beach bags.”

“That’s horrible,” says Mom.

“Yes,” says Dad. “And if we don’t put a stop to it soon, it could really hurt the town’s tourist business.”

“But, Father,” says Victoria, who, as you recall, is a know-it-all, “look on the bright side. If you’re the police officer who cracks the case, you’ll definitely be offered a full-time job in the fall.”

“Hmm,” says Dad. “I guess you’re right. I should go interview that angry professor again. Dig up some clues.”

“What angry professor?” asks Mom.

“He’s from Princeton.”

“Does he know Sydney?”

“He didn’t say. He just yelled at us about his missing Walkman. Someone grabbed it off his towel when he went in for a swim.”

My eyes dart around the breakfast table. Nobody else is thinking it, but I sure am.

Schuyler’s Walkman.

He said it was the kind college professors use.

Probably because he stole it from one!