The Ghost of Ernie P. Page 2

  Jeff nodded and headed for the storage closet at the far end of the gym. He opened the door and flicked the light switch. Nothing happened.

  Uneasiness gripped him. “The light’s burned out in here,” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “So?” The coach sounded impatient. “You need a road map, Keppel? The balls are in back on the left, same as always. Step on it!”

  Jeff opened the door as far as it would go. The closet extended to his right, a sort of long, narrow cave lined with shelves of sports equipment. He could see almost to the back. Move, he told himself, aware that the class was waiting, and probably watching. Step on it, Keppel.

  He plunged into the shadows, stumbled over a hockey stick, caught himself on a shelf, grabbed a basketball, and bounded back to the door. Made it, he thought triumphantly and started dribbling across the floor.

  He had almost reached the class when he saw the letters imprinted on the ball: T S P.

  He skidded to a stop. T S P. Thomason Sports Products. He’d seen that a million times before. It didn’t mean a thing. He knew it didn’t. So why was he shaking? What was the roaring in his ears?

  “Keppel!” The coach charged across the gym. “What’s wrong—you sick or something?”

  The ball slipped from Jeff’s hands. “I guess I don’t feel so good,” he admitted. His voice shook.

  “You don’t look so good either,” the coach told him. “Sort of greenish.” Then he nodded, as if he’d just figured something out. “You’re upset about your buddy Barber,” he said. “It’s tough to lose a pal, right?” He rested a hand on Jeff’s shoulder and turned him toward the door to the locker room. “You go on home,” he said. “Take it easy for the rest of the day.”

  Jeff almost ran out of the gym. He knew his classmates were watching curiously, and by tomorrow morning everybody in Lakeview School would have heard that Jeff Keppel went home sick because he was mourning his friend Ernie Barber. Well, it didn’t matter what they thought. He just wanted to get away. There had to be someplace where the Top Secret Project couldn’t follow him.

  The house was quiet when he let himself in, and he remembered that today was his mother’s golf day at the club. She wouldn’t be home for another hour. Jeff stood in the front hall, listening. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to be alone in the house. Ernie’s ghost could be lurking around any corner. Just the thought of it made him want to start running and never stop.

  Walking on tiptoe, looking over his shoulder at every other step, he went out to the kitchen. Maybe a nice, ordinary peanut-butter sandwich would help. He could take it out to the backyard and wait for his mother to come home. Later, he’d try to talk her into going to a nice, ordinary fast-food restaurant for supper.

  He had made the sandwich and was just pouring a glass of milk when he saw the note at the end of the counter.

  Jeff, dear, it said, t s p.

  It was in his mother’s nice, ordinary handwriting.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Well, of course I wrote it, Jeffrey.” Mrs. Keppel stood in the kitchen doorway, her hands on her hips. “And I don’t like that accusing tone, young man. I hit four balls into the lagoon today, and I five-putted the ninth hole, and now I’ve come home to a son who acts as if I’m trying to poison him.”

  Jeff blinked. He hadn’t said anything about poison.

  “You—you wrote t s p,” he said. “Why’d you write that?”

  “I wrote that because I care about you.” His mother spoke slowly, as if she were talking to a small child. “I wrote that because I wanted you to take a teaspoonful—that’s what tsp means, Jeff—a teaspoonful of vitamin concentrate. It’s in that large bottle that’s holding the note in place.” She shook her head. “You haven’t been yourself, ever since Ernie’s funeral. I thought maybe a dose of my concentrate might help.”

  Jeff looked at the end of the counter. The bottle was there. He just hadn’t noticed it. Seeing those three letters—again—had driven every sensible thought from his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, “I didn’t think.”

  “You certainly didn’t.” Mrs. Keppel smiled at him forgivingly. “And now that that’s over, how about going out for hamburgers? I’m in no mood to cook.”

  By the time they returned home, Jeff had begun to relax. The day had been full of frightening coincidences, but maybe that was all they were. Tomorrow was Saturday, and with only two days of school next week, it was almost as if summer vacation had already begun. He decided he’d put up his tent in the backyard tomorrow morning. He and Art, and sometimes two or three other friends, would sleep out there a couple of nights a week, all summer long.

  But in the morning his plans changed. The ring of the telephone woke him, and a few minutes later his mother knocked on his door and peeked in.

  “Mrs. Barber just called,” she said. “You know—Ernie’s mother.”

  Jeff pulled a pillow over his face. He knew who Mrs. Barber was.

  “She wondered if you’d stop over there this morning. She has something she thinks belongs to you. She found it with poor Ernie’s things.”

  Jeff groaned. “Tell her I can’t come,” he mumbled. “Tell her I’m busy, okay?”

  “Not okay.” The faintly apologetic note disappeared from Mrs. Keppel’s voice. “Not okay at all. If you think I’m going to tell that unhappy woman that her son’s friend is too busy to come to see her … I’d be ashamed to say such a thing.”

  “I’ll go later,” Jeff pleaded. “Maybe next week.”

  “Maybe today,” his mother said in her no-arguments voice. “You always put things off, Jeff. You drift! That’s going to get you into trouble one of these days.”

  It already had, Jeff thought mournfully. If he’d told Ernie Barber they couldn’t be buddies, he would never have heard about Ernie’s Top Secret Project.

  The door closed, hard, and he was alone. Alone and trapped! He knew his mother was right. If he didn’t go to see Mrs. Barber today, he’d keep putting it off forever.

  An hour later he walked with dragging steps up the walk to the sprawling house that had been Ernie Barber’s home. Before he could ring the bell the door opened, and a big woman with puffy eyes and a sad expression invited him in. Jeff remembered seeing her at the cemetery.

  “I’m Jeff Keppel,” he said nervously. “I’m really sorry about …” He let his words trail off, because Ernie’s mother looked as if she were going to cry.

  Mrs. Barber patted his shoulder and pulled him into the house at the same time. “He was such a darling boy,” she said. “Always so kind to those less fortunate than himself. I hope you’ll be able to find someone else to help you with your schoolwork, Jeffrey.”

  Help me with my schoolwork! Jeff stared at Ernie’s mother in astonishment.

  They were in a long narrow living room, facing a life-size portrait of Ernie and a dog. Ernie was grinning. The dog looked as if he wanted to get away.

  Mrs. Barber smiled at the portrait and wiped her eyes with a flowered hanky. “Every morning that dear boy was up early so he’d have time to tutor you before school. He stayed after school to help people, too. I really think Ernest was perfect,” she added, and turned to Jeff expectantly.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Jeff gritted his teeth. Ernie had had a lot of nerve, pretending Jeff was the one who needed help with his math.

  “My boy was looking forward to this summer so much,” Mrs. Barber went on. “He said you and he had all kinds of plans.”

  More lies! Jeff tried to smile and couldn’t. Ernie may have had plans, but Jeff didn’t know what they were and didn’t want to know.

  “Maybe you’d like to see Ernest’s bedroom,” Mrs. Barber said. “It’s such a lovely room.”

  She disappeared down a hall, and there was nothing to do but follow.

  “We’re going to keep the room just the way Ernest left it,” Mrs. Barber said, motioning Jeff through a doorway. “Except for the pictures, of course. Mr. Barber and I put up a few of our fa
vorites last night. To help us remember.”

  Except for at least fifty pictures on the wall, Ernie’s room looked a lot like Jeff’s. There weren’t as many books, and there was a computer on his desk instead of a typewriter, and a VCR on the television set, but otherwise it seemed almost familiar.

  “Look at this, Jeffrey,” Mrs. Barber urged. She was gazing at a photo next to the door. Jeff peered over her shoulder at a small roly-poly Ernie, aged about three.

  “He was such a mischievous child,” Mrs. Barber quavered. “This was taken right after he’d released the brake on his father’s new Buick. We were living on a hill then, in California. The car went down the driveway with Ernest in it, up the hill on the other side of the road and into our neighbor’s garden, and then down again into a ditch. Just look at that naughty little smile.”

  Jeff nodded. He’d seen that smile many times.

  “What about this one?” he asked, pointing to the next picture. It showed Ernie at five or six, his face almost hidden by a broad-brimmed black hat. A black cape covered him from neck to toes, and he was waving a stick over his head.

  “Oh, isn’t that adorable!” Mrs. Barber exclaimed. “That was his Halloween costume. Every year he wanted to be either a magician or a wizard, and I had to make him a new cape and find a hat and a wand. The hat was the hardest part. Ernest had a very big head.”

  Jeff moved from one picture to another, with Mrs. Barber behind him, describing the circumstances in which each photo was taken.

  “This one was taken the day Ernest accidentally set the garage on fire. He even helped us put it out, the dear,” she said proudly. “He was such a brave boy.”

  Another picture showed little Ernie grinning over the edge of a bathtub. “The little dickens poured all my perfumes and colognes into a bowl and then spilled most of the mixture over himself,” Mrs. Barber said proudly. “Wasn’t that funny?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Jeff said, becoming more uneasy by the minute. It seemed to him that as they worked their way around the walls, the room was growing darker.

  “Here is my absolute favorite,” Mrs. Barber said. She pointed to a large picture above the bed.

  Jeff looked at it and turned away quickly. Thank goodness his parents had never taken a picture of him like that! The photo was of baby Ernie lying naked on a bearskin rug. It was the only picture in which Ernie was scowling.

  “I do think that’s simply precious,” Mrs. Barber crooned, wiping her eyes again. “I do think my Ernest was the most precious baby who ever lived.”

  Thunder crashed around the house. The picture of Ernie on the bearskin rug fell off the wall and vanished behind the bed.

  Mrs. Barber went to a window. “Another storm!” she exclaimed. “That thunder seemed terribly close, didn’t it?”

  “Yes, m-ma’am.” Jeff was surprised to discover his teeth were chattering. “I think I’d better go home. My m-mother will be worried.”

  He wanted to get away before Mrs. Barber noticed that the “precious” picture had fallen and asked him to hang it up again. Next time the lightning might score a direct hit.

  “Yes, of course.” Mrs. Barber turned back from the window with a little sigh. “You mustn’t worry your mother.”

  She opened the top drawer of the desk and took out a manila envelope. One look at it drove every other thought from Jeff’s head. Across the front, in bold black letters, was printed: ASSIGNMENTS FOR JEFF KEPPEL—T S P. Below that was a single word: PRIVATE!!!!!

  “This is what I called your mother about this morning, dear,” Mrs. Barber said. “I suppose it’s some homework my dear boy was helping you with. I didn’t want to open it—it says Private, after all—but you mustn’t ever be ashamed about asking for help. I’m sure Ernest was glad to assist you.”

  Jeff looked from Mrs. Barber’s kind, teary face to the envelope. He wanted to run right out of the house. He thought he could pick up a rattlesnake easier than he could take the envelope she held out to him. But once again he was trapped.

  “Thanks.” He took the envelope.

  “Well, now, will you look at that!” Mrs. Barber exclaimed, turning back to the window. “You won’t get wet on your way home after all—the sun is shining again. Isn’t this weather the strangest thing!”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Mrs. Keppel was spraying roses at the side of the house when Jeff got home. He waved and hurried inside before she could ask him about his visit.

  There was a good smell in the house. His mother had been baking bread. This could have been a really great Saturday, Jeff thought. Instead, he had Ernie’s manila envelope, which was practically guaranteed to turn the day into a disaster.

  He sat on the edge of his bed and opened the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of paper. He read it quickly, his heart thumping.

  MASTER PLAN was lettered across the paper. TOP SECRET PROJECT. Below the main heading was a numbered list labeled Assignments for Keppel.

  1. He should hide the evidence in a really safe place.

  2. He should talk to Muggin.

  3. He should arrange the payoff.

  What evidence? Who was Muggin? What kind of payoff? Jeff raced through the list again, trying to figure out what it meant.

  The Top Secret Project apparently involved some evidence—a secret—and this evidence had something to do with a person named Muggin. The only Muggins Jeff knew were a very proper old couple who lived in the biggest house in the neighborhood. Jeff had seen Mr. Muggin, a retired banker, once or twice. He’d said hello to Mrs. Muggin at church a few times, when he was with his mother. It was hard to imagine either one of the Muggins having a terrible secret to hide.

  And even if one of them had done something wrong, how could Ernie Barber have found out about it? Mr. and Mrs. Muggin had lived their quiet life in their big old house for as long as anyone could remember, while Ernie had arrived in Treverton just three months ago.

  The mention of a payoff was puzzling, too. Jeff thought of the computer and the VCR in Ernie’s bedroom. He’d always seemed to have plenty of spending money, and after meeting Mrs. Barber, Jeff was sure Ernie could have whatever he wanted. Then why had he been so interested in a payoff?

  One thing was certain. Ernie may have thought up the Top Secret Project, but he’d intended to give the dirty work to Jeff. Jeff was supposed to hide the evidence. He was supposed to make the arrangements for the blackmail, if that’s what it was. If anything had gone wrong with the T S P, Jeffrey Keppel would have been the one to get most of the blame.

  A screen door banged, and Mrs. Keppel called from the foot of the stairs. Jeff stuffed the sheet of paper back into the envelope and slid it under last year’s history notebook in the bottom drawer of his desk. Just forget it, he told himself. There isn’t going to be any T S P. Those dumb assignments don’t mean a thing.

  He went downstairs and found his mother in the kitchen wrapping a loaf of bread in foil.

  “I have an assignment for you,” she said cheerfully.

  Jeff stared at her.

  “This morning I suddenly remembered that I’d promised Celia Muggin the recipe for my sauerkraut rye. She bought a loaf at the church sale last March, and she asked me for the recipe the next Sunday.” Mrs. Keppel hesitated, looking a little puzzled. “At least, I think she asked for it. I do remember she said her husband liked the bread very much. Anyway, I’ve made a batch, and I’ve copied the recipe, and I want you to take them over to Mrs. Muggin right away.”

  “Now?” Jeff asked in a weak voice.

  “Now, please,” his mother said. “I woke up this morning thinking about it, for some reason, and I won’t be able to rest till she has the recipe. You know how it is with promises, dear.”

  Jeff nodded miserably. It was no use telling himself this was still another coincidence. Upstairs in his desk drawer was a list of assignments from Ernie Barber including an order to “talk to Muggin.” Now his mother was giving him the same “assignment.” Jeff had a feeling that if he turned a
round fast, he’d see a round-faced ghost with a mean smile lurking in the hallway behind him.

  “And please try to look a little more cheerful,” Mrs. Keppel said. “Was it very painful visiting Ernie’s mother?”

  “Not so bad,” Jeff mumbled. “She showed me a bunch of pictures.”

  “Well, I’m sure it was sad,” Mrs. Keppel said, “but the best thing you can do now is think about something else.” She handed him the foil-wrapped package, a recipe card neatly taped to the top. “Life goes on, dear, and you must keep busy. It’s what poor Ernie would want.”

  She was right about that, Jeff thought grimly. He clenched his fists and tried to think of some way to say No to a ghost. He wanted to yell and kick and refuse to leave the house, but what good would that do? His mother would probably burst into tears and decide she was a failure as a mother.

  The winding road that led to the Muggins’ house did not have sidewalks. Jeff walked slowly, his mind on the puzzle of the Top Secret Project. It was easier to think outside in the sunshine.

  The big question, he realized, was not whether Ernie Barber was haunting him. He was. The big question now was WHY? Ernie was dead; he couldn’t enjoy the payoff of his Top Secret Project. So why was he still determined to have Jeff carry out the T S P? And what was it all about?

  The wrought-iron gates of the Muggin estate stood open. More of Ernie’s work, Jeff supposed; usually when he passed this way the gates were padlocked. He turned in and followed the gravel road that wound across the lawn. Huge oak trees made islands of shadow.

  Jeff’s steps became even slower as he neared the front porch. With its towers and gables and high narrow windows the house looked kind of spooky, even on a bright day like this one. Maybe it’s just me, Jeff thought. Everything looked spooky to him now.

  He lifted the big knocker on the front door and let it fall with a crash. Almost at once, a voice called, “Coming,” and the door swung open. Mrs. Muggin, a tiny, white-haired lady in a crisp pink-checked housedress, looked at Jeff with surprise.

  “Why, aren’t you—” She frowned. “I do know you, don’t I? I’m sure we’ve met.”