I wrote that down.
“We should talk to Mr. Henry,” added his sister. “He knows a lot about the town’s history.”
I wrote that down too.
“You and I should look around and see if there are any Lovejoy family papers at home, Truly,” Hatcher suggested. “Like you said—letters, or a map or something. Maybe up in the attic or stashed someplace like the original Truly’s diary was.”
Last Spring Break, I’d found a diary belonging to my namesake, which had revealed some long-hidden family secrets. Could lightning like that strike twice?
Lucas raised his hand. “While we’re here, can we talk about the missing trophy?”
In all the excitement over Amanda Appleton, I’d almost forgotten about the other mystery we were trying to solve.
“Sure,” I told him, and he and Scooter and Calhoun showed us a couple more pictures they’d gathered and flagged as suspicious. After inspecting them carefully, we were able to identify one of the people in them.
“I’m pretty sure that’s Reverend Quinn’s cousin,” said Jasmine, examining a picture of a skinny man in baggy shorts. “I remember him from the crowd along Main Street. He almost hollered himself hoarse cheering on the Speedy Geezers.”
“We should still talk to Reverend Quinn about him, though,” I said, and wrote down a reminder. “Just because we recognize somebody doesn’t eliminate them as a suspect. Well, except for my uncle Rooster.”
The other picture was a slightly out-of-focus shot of a woman at the finish line. She was wearing a red-and-white-striped sundress—Mr. Henry’s signature colors—and her hair was styled in dreadlocks just like his.
“Do you think they’re related?” asked Cha Cha.
“We can ask when we go see him at the library,” I said, jotting that down too.
“So to recap, we have half a dozen potential suspects right now,” said Calhoun, counting them off on his fingers. “The man in the Grateful Dead T-shirt, the lady in the Red Sox baseball cap, the two teenagers, and the man-who-may-be-related-to-Reverend-Quinn and the woman-who-may-be-related-to-Mr.-Henry.”
“My money’s still on the guy in the Grateful Dead T-shirt,” I told my friends. “But let’s keep showing the pictures around town and see if anyone has any more information. You guys will have to do it, though—my dad took my cell phone.”
“What about trying to get more information about Dandy Dan?” asked Scooter, who was clearly more interested in pirate treasure than the lost trophy. “How are we going to do that? With you being grounded and all, I mean.”
I pondered my dilemma. My grounding came with three concessions: piano lessons, play rehearsals, and working at Lovejoy’s Books. I’d tried to get my father to add swim team to the list of exceptions too, but he’d dug his heels in on that one.
“This is punishment, young lady, not summer camp,” he’d snapped when I’d asked.
Maybe there was still a way, though. “I have a piano lesson tomorrow morning, and Ms. Patel’s apartment is just around the corner from the library.”
“Perfect!” said Jasmine. “We can meet there afterward and talk to Mr. Henry.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hatcher shaking his head. “You are going to be in so much trouble if Dad catches you!”
What was the worst that could happen? I’d be grounded for all of eighth grade, instead of just the foreseeable future?
“In for a penny, in for a pound, right?” I told my friends. “I’ll see you guys there. Are you in too, Hatcher?”
My brother shook his head. “Can’t. Lobster Bob hired me to work at a clambake tomorrow.”
With our sisters away at camp and Danny still at work—now that he was home from the wrestling clinic, he’d gone back to his summer job washing dishes at a restaurant in West Hartfield—it was just Hatcher and me and our parents for dinner. Hatcher made the salad while I set the table, stepping carefully over Miss Marple’s sleeping form. Mealtimes always found her under the kitchen table, pretending to nap but actually keeping a sharp eye on the proceedings. Miss Marple lived in hopes of food falling to the floor.
“Thank you for helping your aunt close up the shop,” said my mother as we all took our seats a few minutes later.
A guilty flush crept over my face. I hoped nobody noticed.
“I went ahead and fed Bilbo, since you were both at rehearsal earlier.” She passed a platter of chicken enchiladas to my brother. “How did it go?”
“Great!” he replied. “It’s going to be really fun.”
I focused on my plate as Hatcher offered a blow-by-blow of our first meeting at the Grange. When he was done, my mother turned to me. “And how about stage crew, honey?”
“Fine.”
My father cupped his hand behind his ear and frowned.
“Fine, ma’am,” I corrected myself. I told her we’d run into Ella Bellow after the rehearsal—I didn’t say where—and that she already knew about Aunt True and Professor Rusty’s engagement.
“Of course she does,” said my father. “There’s no keeping anything from that woman!”
“Now J. T.,” said my mother, “Ella is—”
“—a busybody!”
“I was going to say inquisitive,” my mother said mildly. She’d gotten into big trouble last winter when Pippa had overheard her call Ella a busybody and then repeated it in public.
My parents smiled at each other across the table. My father reached over and picked up my mother’s hand and kissed it gallantly. The two of them had been all moony since their week alone. It was embarrassing.
“Inquisitive it is,” he said.
“More like the Inquisition,” Hatcher whispered to me, and I choked back a laugh, nearly expelling a bite of enchilada in the process.
“While you two are taking care of the dishes,” said my father when we were finished with dinner, “your mother and I are going for a walk.”
Hearing the word “walk,” Miss Marple sprang to her feet.
“Okay if I head next door afterward?” asked Hatcher. “The Sox are playing the Minnesota Twins tonight and the Mitchells have cable.”
My father nodded. “I’ll come join you when we get back.” He slipped Miss Marple’s leash off the peg by
