The Pike River Phantom Read online

  CHAPTER 6

  The house was a small, pale-green cottage with marigolds blooming on either side of a winding front walk. The woman who answered Charlie’s knock had bluish hair and brightly rouged cheeks. As soon as he started his sales talk she opened the screen door and motioned him inside.

  “I adore chocolate!” she exclaimed. “Worse luck! I’d be better off if I never touched it. I’ll take two bars—you just wait here while I get my purse.”

  Charlie waited gladly. He’d been going from door to door all morning, but it seemed as if the Middle School band members had already visited every house in town.

  Laughter burst from the living room. “My card club,” the woman explained, bustling back into the hall. “Here’s two dollars, dear. Aren’t you Lou Hocking’s grandson?”

  Charlie nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Well, when you get home you tell her Gert Schwanke said hello. And before you leave, trot into the living room there and see if any of the other ladies want to buy a candy bar.” She seized his shoulder and propelled him through an archway. “Here’s Lou Hocking’s grandson,” she announced, “come to sell us his marvelous chocolate bars.”

  The cardplayers turned to look at him, eyes bright with curiosity. John Hocking’s boy, that’s what they were all thinking.

  “The money is for the Pike River Middle School band,” he said quickly, so they wouldn’t think he was trying to make money for himself. “A dollar a bar. There’s almonds in them.”

  It turned out that most of the women had already bought from their grandchildren or from neighbors, but to Charlie’s astonishment and delight five of the eight decided to buy again. “Just because it’s such a good cause,” one of them murmured, as she poked through her handbag for a dollar.

  Her friends giggled. “You wouldn’t think so much about the good cause if he was selling something else instead of candy,” one teased. But then she bought a bar, too. Charlie hurried around the room, distributing candy and collecting money. Seven bars in one house! Wait till Rachel heard about this!

  “Now you be sure to go down the block to Marie Fisher’s,” Mrs. Schwanke said as she followed Charlie to the door. “She’s at six twenty-one, and she’s a dear little old thing—loves chocolate as much as I do.”

  Charlie felt great. Maybe Mrs. Fisher would be having a card party, too. He decided this would be his last call before he went home and reported his success to Rachel. After that, he’d go to the drugstore to see if his pictures had been developed.

  Grandpa Will had been right: Today was a better day than yesterday had been. His father had gone off to work just as if last night’s explosion hadn’t happened. He’d been sort of quiet, had avoided looking at the others at the breakfast table—but the important thing, Charlie thought, was that he still had a job. Grandpa and Grandma talked more than usual, as if to fill in the silence.

  Charlie was glad things were back to normal, because he didn’t want to leave Pike River if his father didn’t have a job. Now he was free to go. As soon as he had the snapshot of the woman in the old house, he’d write his letter to the family, fill his backpack, and be on his way.

  He’d found some road maps in a drawer in the den and had discovered that Highway H, just west of Pike River, connected with 602. That was an interstate highway, and it would take him all the way to California. He hoped he’d get picked up by a truck driver or a tourist who was going straight to the coast.

  Rachel had disappeared right after breakfast. When he couldn’t find her, Charlie had taken fifteen candy bars from the box in the basement and had put them in the canvas sack he’d carried before. Then he’d written an IOU and left it on Rachel’s bed. I took fifteen bars. Charles Hocking. He didn’t want her to come home and start screaming that she’d been robbed.

  He liked selling candy, or trying to. Walking along the bumpy sidewalks, knocking on strangers’ doors, he felt more comfortable in Pike River than he did at any other time. Unlike Mrs. Schwanke, most of the people he met didn’t know he was a Hocking. He could pretend that he’d grown up here, that this was the place where he belonged. And even when they did recognize him, it didn’t seem to matter. The women at the card party had known he was John Hocking’s son, and now he had seven dollars added to the three he’d collected earlier.

  Mrs. Fisher’s house was another small bungalow set well back from the street. There was a driveway at the side of the house, and there was a battered pickup parked in the rear. The truck looked out of place, like a tramp in a good neighborhood. Shades were drawn across the front windows of the house, giving it an unwelcoming look. Charlie decided to go to the rear door.

  As he reached the backyard, the screen door was kicked open. A young man with longish brown hair hurried out, his arms wrapped around a television set. He put the television on the passenger seat of the truck, before he noticed Charlie crossing the yard.

  “Hey, kid! Don’t go in there!”

  Charlie hesitated at the steps. The man sounded tense. He took a step toward Charlie, his shoulders hunched.

  “I wasn’t going in,” Charlie said. “I just want to talk to Mrs. Fisher.”

  “Well, you can’t. She’s sleeping—she doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  “I wasn’t going to bother her.” Why was he getting so excited? “I just want to sell her some candy.”

  The man took another step toward him. “I told you, kid, she’s sleeping. Now beat it!”

  Reluctantly, Charlie retreated around the side of the house. He didn’t understand what was happening here. If Mrs. Fisher was sleeping, what had the young man been doing in her house? If he was a television repairman, surely he couldn’t just walk in and take the set. Suddenly Charlie had an answer, and it was a scary one. The man was stealing Mrs. Fisher’s television set! Charlie had arrived just in time to catch him at it.

  He thought of Tim Kelly, Aunt Laura’s neighbor in the apartment building in Milwaukee. Tim had come home from work one evening to find his television, stereo, and camera gone. The thief had slipped in during the day and vanished without leaving a clue.

  The old pickup clattered into motion. Charlie darted across the street and waited, looking from one house to another, pretending to decide which one he should call on next. When the truck backed out into the street, he turned his head just enough to see the license plate: AYK-175. He said it over to himself.

  The truck turned the corner, and Charlie went back across the street. His heart pounded with excitement, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. He could call the police and give them the license number, but he wasn’t absolutely sure the man was a thief. A terrifying thought struck him. Maybe the fellow was more than a burglar. Maybe he was a murderer! Maybe he broke into Mrs. Fisher’s house thinking no one was home, and she caught him in the act of taking her television set. She might be lying in there unconscious. Tied up! Bleeding to death!

  Charlie went to the back of the house and looked at the door nervously. He’d have to go in and look. If he didn’t do something quickly, and Mrs. Fisher was badly hurt, it would be his fault if she died.

  He tiptoed up the steps and tried the door. It opened easily. Inside was a small, spotless kitchen and beyond that a hallway leading to the rest of the house.

  Charlie stood in the middle of the kitchen. It was the second time in two days he’d entered a stranger’s house uninvited. This second time he called an uneasy hello and received no answer.

  The first door in the hallway stood slightly ajar. Charlie peeked inside and saw a vacuum cleaner, a broom, and a shelf full of cleaning supplies. He had started to close the door, when there was a rustle of footsteps in the hall. Before he could turn around, someone hit him hard between the shoulder blades and sent him hurtling into the closet. His head struck the shelf with such force that he barely heard the door slam behind him and a key turn in the lock.

  He slid to the floor. His head throbbed, and when he touched his forehead he groaned with pain. As if from a great dist
ance, he heard the whir of a telephone dial.

  “Police—yes, that’s who I want—this is Marie Fisher on Cutler Street. Six two one.” The voice was quivering with fright. “You get over here right away—I’ve captured a burglar! He’s locked in the closet—a great big fellow, mean as poison. I think he was going to kill me!”

  CHAPTER 7

  Charlie fingered the swelling on his forehead. The bump was getting larger and the pain was worse. When he shifted, the broom handle slipped from his shoulders and clattered against the door.

  “You stop that! You can’t get out of there, no matter how you try!” The quavery voice was just outside.

  “I’m not trying to get out,” Charlie muttered. He doubted he could even stand up. His chin rested on his knees, and every time he lifted his head another wave of pain washed over him. He discovered that the fingers of his left hand were sticky. Blood! He groaned. I’m probably bleeding to death in here! Then he sniffed his fingers and recognized the sharp, lemony fragrance of furniture polish.

  Footsteps shuffled away from the closet door. “I’m going outside to wait for the police,” the voice said. “If you do any damage, you’ll just make it worse for yourself.”

  Dear-little-old-thing Mrs. Fisher, Charlie thought. He wondered how things could get any worse.

  If it weren’t for the very real pain, this could easily be a nightmare. Charlie’s stomach lurched as he thought of Grandpa Will and Grandma Lou. What would they say if they could see him now, locked in a closet, waiting for the police to arrive? Like father, like son? No, they wouldn’t say it, but they would have to think it. Everybody would.

  Car brakes screeched, and there was a clatter of heavy feet entering the house.

  “He’s right in there,” Mrs. Fisher announced. “And you’d better get your guns out before you open that door. I didn’t see whether he was carryin’ a gun or a knife. I just sneaked up behind him and pushed him into the closet.”

  “We’ll take care of him,” a deep voice assured her. “You just go out in the kitchen and wait, ma’am. Out of harm’s way.”

  “Oh. Oh, yes!”

  The closet door swung open. Charlie, doubled up on the floor, blinked at the light. The two policemen looking down at him appeared nine feet tall.

  “Hey, now,” one of them said softly, “will you look at that killer!”

  Charlie struggled to his feet. “Not a killer,” he said thickly. He groaned as one of the policemen pulled him out into the hall.

  “What’s your name, kid? What are you doing in Mrs. Fisher’s house?”

  “Charlie Hocking. Selling candy.” Talking was dangerous. If he unlocked his jaws, he was afraid he was going to be sick all over the policeman’s shining boots.

  “You Will Hocking’s grandson?”

  Charlie nodded.

  “John Hocking’s boy,” said the younger of the two men. “You know about him, Eddie.”

  Charlie’s knees buckled. He started to slide to the floor, but the older policeman half-carried him down the hall and into the dim living room. He lowered Charlie into an overstuffed chair.

  “Concussion, I bet,” the young policeman commented. “That’s some egg on his forehead.”

  Charlie leaned back. “I’m okay,” he mumbled. “I just feel sort of—”

  He was interrupted by the return of Mrs. Fisher; at least that was who Charlie supposed she was. A tiny, frail-looking old lady, she clutched a gray bathrobe around her and peered out at them from under a pink crocheted hairnet.

  “So that’s him!” she exclaimed. “Wicked-lookin’, ain’t he? I caught him red-handed, officers. He was just going into the closet—someone must have told him I keep my weddin’ pearls and all the silverware in there. I just tiptoed up behind him and shoved.” She demonstrated, nearly pushing the young policeman off his feet.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Both men looked at her solemnly. “You took a terrible chance, though.”

  “What was I supposed to do—let him take my silver? Not on your life!”

  “I wasn’t going to steal anything,” Charlie protested. “I’m selling candy. Mrs. Schwanke said I should come here.”

  The older policeman looked interested. “What’s Mrs. Schwanke got to do with this?”

  “She lives down the block,” Charlie explained. The headache was beginning to fade, just a little. “I went there first, and she said Mrs. Fisher liked chocolate so I should be sure to—”

  “Ridiculous!” Mrs. Fisher snapped. “Gertrude Schwanke would never send a burglar to walk into my house and ransack my closet.”

  Charlie explained about the man he saw leaving with a television set. “He told me to beat it. He said Mrs. Fisher was sleeping and didn’t want to be bothered. I figured he was making up a story because he was stealing the television.”

  “Stealin’!” Mrs. Fisher repeated. “Of course he wasn’t stealin’! That was my nephew Jacob, and he’s as honest as the day is long. He came over on his lunch hour to pick up the television and take it to a repair shop. I told him I’d be takin’ a nap and he should just come in and get the set. I didn’t sleep a wink last night—you may remember I called the police station twice to report Gregorsons’ barking dog. Stealin’, indeed! What a thing to say about Jacob!”

  The older policeman held up his hand. “You say your name is Charlie Hocking, is that right? You’re John’s boy, and you’re living with your grandpa and grandma now.”

  Charlie scowled. “So what?” he muttered. “My dad doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

  “No need to get sassy,” the policeman said mildly. “You say you came in here because—why?”

  “Because I thought maybe that guy had knocked Mrs. Fisher out or tied her up. Or something.” His suspicions sounded silly now. “He was in such a big hurry to get away. And I couldn’t see why he’d be in the house if she really was sleeping.”

  “You should have called us if you thought something was wrong.”

  “I was going to,” Charlie explained. “As soon as I was sure. I even got the truck license number—AYK-175. I thought if she was hurt”—he risked a glance at Mrs. Fisher, whose pink topknot trembled with outrage—“I’d better find her right away.”

  The policemen looked at each other. “Is that your nephew’s license, ma’am?”

  “How would I know?” Mrs. Fisher demanded. “You just quit askin’ questions and put this boy in jail. Lou and Will Hocking are good people, but everyone knows that son of theirs went bad. And now here’s the new generation headed the same way! If I hadn’t locked him up for you, my pearls and silver would be long gone!”

  The younger policeman went back to the closet and returned with Charlie’s canvas bag.

  “Whole bunch of chocolate bars in here,” he reported. “All smashed up. He must have sat on ’em.”

  Charlie closed his eyes. Well, if Rachel wanted to make a big scene about the candy, she’d have to visit him in jail to do it.

  The older policeman took Charlie’s arm and urged him to his feet. “How do you feel now, kid? Still woozy?”

  “I’m okay.” He wondered if they were going to make him wear handcuffs.

  “Then if you’ll check to make sure nothing’s missing, ma’am,” the policeman suggested to Mrs. Fisher.

  “How could there be anything missin’?” she snapped. “I heard this burglar the minute he came into the house. Called out, he did, just to see if anyone was home. I had him locked in the closet before he could get into mischief. Now you put him in jail—otherwise he’ll go right on breakin’ into houses and stealin’ from defenseless old ladies.”

  Charlie thought Mrs. Fisher was about as defenseless as a tiger. A small tiger, maybe, but a fierce one.

  The younger policeman made a funny sound in his throat. “Well, as long as no harm was done—” he began.

  “No harm!” Mrs. Fisher exclaimed. “What do you mean, no harm? He scared me half to death!”

  “Yes, ma’am,” the older policeman said
, “and I’m pretty sure he’s sorry he did that.” He looked hard at Charlie. “Isn’t that right, boy?”

  Charlie nodded as vigorously as his sore head would allow. “Yes, sir. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then we’ll take you home. You better lie down for a while and put some ice on that bump.”

  “Well, I never!” Mrs. Fisher gasped. “You’re goin’ to take him home! After I went and captured him for you and everything.”

  “I know,” the policeman said sympathetically. “But this boy is truly sorry for the trouble he’s caused.”

  “I am,” Charlie said, “honest.”

  For a moment they all just stood there. Then the policemen led the way though the kitchen to the back door, and Charlie followed. He was free!

  The canvas bag in the backseat of the squad car reminded him of what he still had to face at home. The family would see the police car. They’d see the bump on his head. They’d smell the lemon oil. Rachel would count up the squashed candy bars. There was no way he could hide what had happened.

  I should have gone to California yesterday, he thought. But it was too late for wishing. Even if he left tomorrow, he had to face his family one more time.

  CHAPTER 8

  “Marie Fisher did what?” Grandma Lou stared at Charlie. The hand that had been beating cake batter stopped in midair, and dollops of yellow batter plopped on the kitchen table.

  “Grandma, the cake!” It was Rachel, of course, appearing like magic just when Charlie hoped she would stay away. “You look terrible, Charlie,” she volunteered, “and you smell like lemon furniture polish.”

  Grandma pushed the mixing bowl aside and sank into a chair. “Be quiet, Rachel,” she ordered. “Charlie, you tell me again what happened. I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Marie Fisher is a dear little old thing—wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Charlie sighed. His head still throbbed, one shoulder was getting stiff, and now he had to describe how he’d been taken prisoner by a tiny old lady who wouldn’t hurt a fly. There was no way to escape. Grandma stared at him with something close to horror, and Rachel was obviously bursting with curiosity.