Nobody thanks you for sticking your neck out.
—Rebel Without a Cause, 1955
STILL SHAKY FROM my call with Eddie, I received another jolt when I spotted the double-parked police car in front of my store. When I pushed through the front door, I found the sales counter empty, and a customer-free shop—no surprise there. Weeknights around the dinner hour were usually pretty slow. Unfortunately, customer-free didn’t mean empty. Alongside a pale and fretting Aunt Sadie, I found a most unwelcome visitor.
Officer Bull McCoy—Chief Ciders’ nephew and not one of Quindicott PD’s brightest bulbs—waited to greet me. The yellow “safety-first” vest over his QPD jacket reminded me that Bull had been assigned to police the school, so the fact that he was in my shop could mean only one thing.
“Spencer!” I cried with worry. “What are you doing home? You’re supposed to be working on your science fair presentation.”
My son frowned and said nothing. But Bull McCoy was more than happy to speak up.
“Mrs. McClure, there won’t be any science fair presentation for this young man”—he squeezed Spencer’s shoulder until my son winced. “Mrs. McConnell, the principal, wanted me to inform you that your son has been suspended from school indefinitely—”
“What?”
“You’ll be getting an official letter from the school board in a day or so.”
“Why is this happening?”
“Spencer McClure’s suspension is based on the school’s zero-tolerance policy toward violence—”
“Violence!”
“—and the possible criminal charges which may be filed against your son.”
“Criminal charges!” I was likely shouting by now.
Sadie was too upset to speak.
“That’s ridiculous!” I argued. “I know my son. He would never hurt anyone. What possible violent crime could he have committed?”
McCoy sniffed. “Food tampering. Possibly poisoning—”
“Poisoning?” I faced Spencer. “What on earth did you do?”
“I caught the thief, Mom. The person who was stealing from Miss Merrimac. I set a trap in the teachers’ lounge and the perp fell for it, hook, line, and sinker—”
His tone was defiant and instantly won Spencer one admirer.
Your kid dropped a dime on a thief, Jack said. Who cares what the law thinks? Spencer has done just swell in my book.
I faced Bull McCoy again. “What happened, exactly?”
McCoy shuffled his shiny-booted feet. “The school nurse, Mrs. Falstaff, went home in a highly emotional state, claiming your son poisoned her.”
Spencer broke free of Officer McCoy’s grip and stepped back to face him.
“I didn’t poison anybody!” he shot back. “All I did was prove that Mrs. Falstaff is a thief—and her stealing was hurting another teacher.”
I got down on one knee and gripped Spencer’s arms, forcing him to meet me eye to eye.
“Did you tell Principal McConnell your side of the story? Did you tell Officer McCoy here?”
He shook his head. “I pleaded the Fifth, Mom, just like the accused do on Shield of Justice. Anything I say can and will be used against me in a court of law. So . . .” He shrugged. “I didn’t say anything.”
Then my son turned to look Bull McCoy right in the eye. “Isn’t that right, Officer?”
“Heh-heh,” McCoy chuckled through a rictus grin. “Looks like you got yourself a little lawyer there, Mrs. McClure.”
“I just knew enough to keep my lips zippered,” Spencer proclaimed with Jack Shield bravado.
“Well, now you’re going to talk—to your mother,” I informed him. “You landed yourself in a pot of trouble, Spencer, and I need to know everything.”
Spencer shook his head so hard his copper bangs waved back and forth. Then he jerked his thumb in the direction of Officer McCoy.
“I’m not saying a word until he hits the road.”
“Fine,” I said, rising to face the policeman. “I think I can handle things from here.”
“You do that, Mrs. McClure. And watch for that letter . . .”
When Officer McCoy was gone, I sat Spencer down in the stock room and got the straight story out of him.
“I filled up Miss Merrimac’s old cranberry juice bottle with Kool-Aid, purple food coloring—”
“Food coloring?”
Spencer nodded. “I mixed it with Kool-Aid so the drink would smell fruity. I took it to school, waited until classes were over and Miss Merrimac was gone for the day. Then I snuck into the teachers’ lounge and planted it in the refrigerator. The juice was always stolen after school—and I was working on my science project near the lounge, so I could watch. And it worked. Mrs. Falstaff had purple lips and Mr. Burke and the whole science class saw her.”
“Honey, why did you do this? Just to catch a thief?”
“No, Mom! I thought Mr. Burke was guilty. All the evidence said it was him. But deep down I never believed it. I just knew Mr. Burke wouldn’t do something like that.”
“So, you wanted to clear his name?”
Spencer vigorously nodded. “Only for myself. I was the only one who knew about the fingerprint, and it bothered me so much I had to find out the truth.”
“So, this Nurse Falstaff drank the juice?”
Spencer nodded.
“You know that was wrong. That the end doesn’t justify the means. You could have hurt her. She could have been allergic to the food coloring. What she drank could have made her sick.”
Spencer’s expression was horrified. “But, Mom—”
“What you did was wrong, Spencer, and you’re going to have to be punished. I just hope she doesn’t press charges. It’s going to be hard enough getting you back to school without juvenile delinquency charges hanging over your head.”
Lighten up on the little tyke, Jack insisted. You should be proud of your son. He cared enough about a stranger to stick his neck out. Caring, and trying to solve the problem, are the kid’s only mistakes.
Well, Jack, between Nurse Falstaff and Max Braydon, Spencer and I might both land in detention, indefinitely.
SEYMOUR TARNISH ARRIVED at my bookshop a few hours (and a few aspirins) later. He brought along the circular I asked for and Professor Parker, too.
“Sorry to barge in,” Brainert said. “With my car in the shop, I have to hitch rides with Seymour to get anything done.”
“I understand, because I’m going to need a ride from Seymour tomorrow. Do you mind?”
Seymour shrugged. “So long as you’re not going to the airport.”
I reminded them about my experience with insurance investigator Max Braydon, and how my car was no doubt in some police pound in Newport or Providence, and probably not in one piece.
“So, are we going to pick up your car tomorrow?” Seymour asked.
“I wish, but no. Let’s look at that circular and I’ll explain.”
Seymour produced the mailer and spread it out on the counter.
“Who’s that woman on the front there?” Brainert asked.
“That’s our state senator,” Seymour replied. “One of thirty-eight state senators in Rhode Island. Don’t you know who your state senator is?”
“No,” Brainert and I said in unison.
“Apathy.” Seymour shook his head. “That’s why things are going to—”
“Stick to the subject, Seymour,” I insisted.
“Well, our esteemed state senator helped fund the reclamation of Millstone Creek. She printed a map of the project on the second page.”
We studied the simplistic rendering for a moment. According to the scale provided, there were about five miles of creek that flowed through the once-polluted section of Millstone, culminating at Michaelmas Pond.
“That’s a lot of ground to cover,” I muttered.
“What are we covering ground for?” Seymour asked.
“We’re looking for Norma.” I explained my logic for believing Norma might still be in the area and hiding somewhere along Millstone Creek.
Seymour dug out his phone and checked the map.
“The creek roughly parallels the rural route to Millstone, which I guess is why they call it Millstone Creek.” Seymour kept on scrolling. “There are a couple of places where the creek bank is less than half a mile from the road. Here’s one spot Brainert might recognize—”
Seymour displayed the street-view image on his phone.
“Gad!” the professor cried. “That’s the very curve where your friend Norma sideswiped my car.”
“Good,” I said. “Then it’s as good a place as any to start searching for her.”