The Incredible Polly McDoodle (The Polly McDoodle Mystery Series Book 4) Page 5

  Polly wished she had her sketchbook. She needed to jot down a few notes. She’d pass the word about the bank incident on to Kyle. Nothing like a suspect.

  “Which teacher?” Polly needed to talk to whoever it was.

  But Isabel and Mrs. Specchio were talking about the old days. She listened half-heartedly for a few minutes. Meanwhile she thought more about the mail thieves living near the school. How could she and Kyle find out? Later, she’d think about it later.

  “I suppose Mrs. Specchio was one of your former students, Isabel?” Polly chuckled. “Everywhere I go I meet someone that knows you.”

  “Isabel supervised me when I was in teacher’s college,” Mrs. Specchio said.

  “You were one lively art teacher in training, Gabriella.” Isabel bit her lip. Polly noticed how sad her eyes were when they looked at her former student, now in a wheelchair.

  “Little did I know what I had in front of me.” Mrs. Specchio patted her blue skirt. Her nearly useless legs peeked out. The navy blue flats were hardly worn. “I do what I can despite the MS. The art and the kids help.”

  “Can I bring anyone anything?” Polly asked. MS. Multiple Sclerosis. So that was it. Her ears burned and her tongue was tied in knots. Compared to Gabriella Specchio, she, Polly McDoodle had everything. She took orders for drinks and ran to the bar where Kyle and his dad were turning out glasses of punch, pop, and mixed drinks.

  The squirrel scolded from the garage roof next door. Polly’s mom was talking to Mrs. Clay nearby. Polly tuned in. She wanted to hear what her mom said.

  “We miss him. But he’s got great prospects in hockey.”

  “Will he write you?” Mrs. Clay asked.

  “I doubt it. We’re on Internet and we phone him often. Hopefully Ted and I can drive over for some games. The whole family is going for Thanksgiving.”

  Jan McDougall sipped a frosty glass of punch. The ice cubes rattled against the inside of the glass. “I’m a little worried about Polly though. She and Shawn were close. I’m afraid she’s trying to do too much. She’s tried out for Oliver. She’s minding George.”

  Mrs. Clay sighed. “At their age we have to let them make most of their own decisions.”

  “I know.” Polly’s mom shook her head. “I still worry.”

  “Where’s my drink?” Isabel glanced around and spotted Polly.

  The eavesdropper pulled herself away and took the tray of drinks to Isabel, Gabriella Specchio, and her husband. Knowing her mother worried about her made Polly feel better. But what if she had no mother around to worry about her like Mandy.

  Why wasn’t Mandy joining in the fun? Maybe she would have to drop a hint in Brian or Karen’s ear about Mandy’s loneliness.

  No one could read minds. Polly’s dad always said talking about problems was best. The important thing was keeping all the lines of communication open.

  7. A Lost Lunch

  When Polly woke up the next morning George was curled on the end of her bed. He was going to spend the days in his apartment and nights at McDougall’s. The dog yawned, stretched his legs out straight, shook his head like it was a dusty off-white floor mop, and jumped down onto the floor. He sat looking up at Polly expectantly, his short tail wagging and his floppy ears jiggling.

  “Isabel will be flying south by now, dog.” Polly stretched her arms over her head and pulled back the covers. She sat, slumped and sleepy, on the edge of her rumpled bed. “I’ll take you for a fast walk before I leave for school. You can stay in your own apartment until I get home. If you’re lucky Mike Payne will take you for a stroll at lunch time so you don’t have to cross your legs and worry about going pee on the carpet.”

  “Have you started talking to yourself, Polly?” her dad joked from the other side of the door. “Ready for breakfast?”

  “I’m not hungry.” Polly sniffed the black T-shirt thrown on her chair. It was bad. She tossed it toward the laundry basket and grabbed a clean one from her drawer. She pulled a brush through her tangled hair and frowned at the weary face in the mirror above her maple chest of drawers. She’d stayed up too late last night.

  The big kids had hung out in the parking lot while the grown-ups talked and listened to gross, numbing, easy listening CDs on the roof of the bike shed. Mandy, Kyle, Tony, and Polly had talked about teachers, and kids they couldn’t stand. Tony went to St. Michael’s down the street so he had a whole different batch of kids to deal with. There hadn’t been any mail robberies over by his school.

  As she let George out of her room Polly couldn’t help thinking how Antonio DeCosta had changed since he had come from Latin America. Tall and angular with skin the colour of brown beans, short hair black as her leather purse, and big dark eyes with thick lashes and brows, Tony seemed so sure of himself now, so settled. He played soccer well and his father was finally coming to join them. A far cry from the shy boy he had been just last Christmas. Now he was cool. Cooler than Polly or Kyle.

  Polly grabbed a fleece jacket, fastened George’s leash and stuffed a plastic baggie in her pocket. “Back in ten minutes,” she shouted as she passed the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon and toast followed her into the hall. Maybe she would have time for a little breakfast after all.

  Speak of the devil. Who should be opening the bike shed as Polly walked across the parking lot but Tony DeCosta? Polly blushed.

  “Pretty early,” she said. George wagged his tail in greeting.

  Tony ruffled George’s head and ears. “Football practice.”

  “I thought you played soccer?’

  “Not in the fall. The coach wants me to try out for football. I’m a good runner.” He climbed on his bike and zipped down the lane. George pulled Polly after the bike.

  Polly walked the dog to the pocket park and back. She noticed that Tony had left the bike shed open. The squirrel was thinking about running in there so she shooed him away, dug out her key, and bent to lock the door. That’s when she spotted a dumped lunch bag just inside to the left. It looked like one of the plain brown plastic sacks that Mandy usually carried. It was full of lunch: a ham sandwich, carrot sticks, an apple, two Oreo cookies, a bag of ketchup chips and a root beer. That’s what the squirrel had been after.

  Polly picked up the lunch, locked the shed door, and headed up the steps to her apartment with George right beside her, sniffing at the lunch in her hand.

  She dropped George off at Isabel’s empty apartment and made sure his water and snack bowls were filled. The apartment felt lonely already and smelled of dog hair and artist’s supplies. Polly took the lunch with her back home.

  “I insist you eat breakfast. It’s the most important meal of the day. Why kids insist on skipping it, I don’t know.” Her mom glared at Polly. “How do you expect to think on an empty stomach?”

  Polly sat down at the table. Her dad placed a hot plate with bacon, toast, and scrambled eggs in front of her. A tall frosty glass of orange juice sat in front of the plate.

  “Wash your hands, Polly,” her mom continued. “You’ve just walked the dog. There’re germs.”

  The chair legs scraped the floor as Polly got up. Some mornings her mother needed more than a shower. She needed a whole makeover. Polly found it best to cooperate and stay low. Today she ate quickly and excused herself. Her dad gave her one of his shrugs that said he understood how she felt.

  Polly cleaned her teeth, grabbed her own lunch bag and homework, and scooped up Mandy’s discarded lunch. By the time she got to the bus stop Kyle was there, humming a tune and tapping his foot.

  “You look like some kind of freak humming and tapping.”

  “What’s eating you?” he asked as the bus doors coughed open and the motor roared. The Edmonton city bus was filled with university, college, and high school students all sleepy-looking and rumpled. “What’s with all the lunches? You extra hungry? Trying out for football?”

  “Ha! Ha!” Polly stood beside two older men reading newspapers. She read over the nearest one’s shoulder as the bus sputtered
its way down Ninth to Jasper.

  “Mail thieves strike apartment buildings on south side. Undelivered ad mail discovered in recycle box by Kirby strip mall. Post office officials suspect lost keys. Anyone with information is asked to phone.” Polly drew in her breath as the old guy turned the page before she could read further. She couldn’t very well complain and say, “I wasn’t finished reading that.” The Nosey and Nervous McDoodle heaved a sigh.

  She and Kyle had to run for their next bus, the one that would take them to the south side and drop them near their school. “Lend me fifty cents, Kyle.”

  “You’ve got a massive lunch. What do you need money for?”

  “Don’t ask questions.”

  “Are you that hungry?”

  “One of these is Mandy’s, I think. I found it in the bike shed.”

  “But Mandy doesn’t take her bike.”

  “I know that.”

  “So why put her lunch in there?”

  “Maybe because the door was open. Maybe because she doesn’t like the lunch the Beamishes make for her. Maybe because she’s trying to stay thin as a dancer. I don’t know.”

  There was a long pause. So long that Polly thought the subject was closed, forgotten, or stored in Kyle’s massive memory bank. Then her old buddy the clam spoke up again.

  “She’s thin enough already.” Kyle shook his head. “No way would I go without lunch. Even if it became major uncool.” Their bus pulled up to the school. “I love food. When I grow up I’m going to be a gourmet or a gourmand.”

  “Right, goofus.”

  As Polly stuffed junk in her locker and stared around watching for Mandy, she thought about how different school was. It wasn’t just that the kids were bigger, there were many more of them. Kirby—with its special arts program, French Immersion, and big brain baccalaureate program—had as many as eight classes in each grade. A kid could get lost in the whole scheme of things. A kid had to have a lot of friends or be pretty sure of herself. Polly sighed. At least she had friends and she knew what she was good at. She knew her way around the school, the bus system, and the neighbourhood.

  Polly didn’t envy Mandy with a new school, new neighbourhood, and living with her uncle and aunt. It was tough.

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Mandy said.

  “Hi.” Polly blushed, glad Mandy couldn’t read her mind.

  “You were staring off into space,” said Mandy. “Something bothering you?”

  Polly shook her head quickly back and forth as if she was a wet dog. “I brought your lunch. At least it looks like yours.”

  “Oh.” Mandy took the brown sack. “Oh, thanks. I guess I forgot it.”

  “Inside the bike shed?”

  Mandy looked puzzled. “That’s funny.”

  “Sure is. Surely is funny,” said Polly. “Why would anyone who takes the bus leave their lunch in the bike shed?”

  A bell sounded. The two girls headed to Language Arts with Mr. Stone, the young teacher who was making the fashion statement from Geekville.

  Polly offered Mandy one of her mom’s oatmeal cookies.

  “I’m not hungry.”

  Polly glanced at Mandy and sighed. “I want to get out of here.” She needed some things at the drugstore.

  “I’ve got dance after school,” Mandy said. “Let’s go at noon.”

  “I thought you had dance this morning,” Polly said. “You left early, didn’t you?”

  “Too early. I’m rehearsing a number for Oliver. The whole family was up early. Uncle Brian cycled to work. He left first. He’s the big non-polluter. Aunt Karen drove me. Then she was off to work.”

  Polly wanted to say—so you hid your lunch in the bike shed hoping no one would notice. You didn’t want one of my mom’s great cookies. Did you eat breakfast? Alarm bells went off in Polly’s head.

  “Take your seats, class.” Mr. Stone stood at the front of the class in all his glory. He was wearing a faded yellow sweater with ragged sleeves, holes in the elbows, and a dark smudge on his belly. His trousers were cuffed olive drab polyester.

  “He must shop at Value Village,” whispered the classy kid beside Polly. “But even the homeless have a better sense of style than he does.” Today she was wearing a short gold T-shirt and tight black pants. Her earrings matched her shirt and her clunky shoes looked brand new. It must have hurt to get that butterfly tattoo on her neck.

  The girl’s name was Tommie Lee and she had a bit of a Southern accent. “He should find himself a woman with taste.”

  Polly grinned. “Or sign up for a makeover,” she said. She laughed, thinking of the makeover contests in all the fashion magazines. “He’ll never find a girlfriend looking like he does.”

  “Miss McDougall, what’s so funny? Would you like to share with the class?”

  Polly blushed to the roots of her wavy red hair. “No, sir.”

  “Then maybe we could get back to an appreciation of this short story by Martha Brooks. And don’t forget, class, your first short story is due the end of October. Maybe Ms. McDougall can pour her humour into storytelling.”

  Polly ducked her head and stared at the top of her desk. There were initials carved in ballpoint pen by her left hand. DD and SD were here. Duck and Dive and Scooby Doo. The initials rang a bell. Dig and Delve. Then Polly stopped being silly.

  Out of all the desks in school had she picked one where Sydney and Darrell Dell had sat? That was too weird.

  How many kids had sat at this desk over the last seven years? Her mind darted off on a trip of its own. Where were they now? What kind of a life were they having? How far had they travelled? How far would she travel? Polly couldn’t help herself. She spaced out.

  The brochure acting as a bookmark in her book was one advertising a free flight for four to Europe with Air Canada. Answer the skill testing question. She’d been planning on getting her father to enter. Good old Ted would go along with it. He was game for anything. Her mom didn’t believe in contests.

  Mr. Stone droned on. Usually Polly loved stories but Stone seemed to suffocate the life out of them by asking too many questions. Dumb questions. She doodled squirrels scampering across the schoolyard on the bottom of her lined page.

  Tommie Lee was dabbing lotion on her hands. A faint aroma of aloe vera and honey floated in the air. She had a flowered makeup kit tucked in her desk. As well as the butterfly on her neck, Tommie Lee had a tattooed ankle and right wrist. The tattoos looked like chains with charms on them. Her black lycra pants and cropped T-shirt must have been a size four. She had blue eye shadow, mascaraed eyelashes, and purple lipstick and nail polish. Her blond ponytail was held by a flashy silver band. Gold earrings lined her right ear, three or four of them. She was a walking fashion statement. Polly felt absolutely naked beside her. All she ever did was wash her face and pull a brush through her hair. So maybe she was the Unglamorous, Unfashionable McDoodle, after all. But then—how long would it take each morning to put yourself together if you were a Tommie Lee? Ages, maybe. Or aeons, as Kyle, the vocabulary freak might say.

  Harvey Newhouse shuffled past her seat on his way to the pencil sharpener. “Solved any crimes lately, Folly? Retrieved any lost junk mail in the last week or is it too much for your feeble brain, Lolly.” He arched his heavy brows at her and laughed.

  Polly clenched her fist and felt the cords in her neck tighten but she didn’t say anything. If she’d been younger she would have stuck out her tongue at Harvey. Instead McDoodle, the Determined and Deliberate Detective, packed up her books as the bell sounded and headed to the door. Mr. Stone had already left with his cell phone and moved to the closest exit.

  The rest of the kids had stormed out. Polly ended up being the last one out of the room.

  As she sailed past Mr. Stone’s desk her backpack dragged a pile of papers off the front corner. “Good move, Polly,” she said. No one was around to criticize her but herself.

  She knelt to pick up the mess. The contents of a file folder were spread all over the floor.
Polly knew they were resumes because her dad always brought home the resumes from job applicants for positions at Excel Sports. A business card floated to the ground. “Wendell J. Stone, Stone Insurance, Regina, Saskatchewan.”

  So in a former life he was an insurance agent.

  She picked up the resumes and put them back in the file folder. None of them seemed to be the same. Some were longer than others. There were a couple for Belinda J. Stone as well. That must be his sister. Maybe they were still both applying for jobs. But hadn’t he said his sister was at Grant McEwan College?

  She stacked the lot of them neatly back on the corner of the desk and left.

  8. Banking and Bussing

  Polly hurried from choir practice that same day, waving goodbye to Tommie Lee. They both sang alto so stood close together to help each other with the tough bits. Polly was pleased to be in the chorus for Oliver. Some of the tunes ran in her head like a continuous play.

  She ran down the cement steps past the gold and copper bushes that leaned close to the red brick building. A few dropped leaves crunched under her feet like tissue paper, disintegrating as she scrunched them into the pitted sidewalk. She drew in a deep breath enjoying the scent of leaves and musty earth. The Purposeful and Practical Polly McDoodle crossed at the light and went in the corner building.

  After reporting to the receptionist she plopped in a plum tweed office chair facing the front window in the CIBC bank. She was waiting to see someone about opening an account. She didn’t know for sure whether 12-year-olds were allowed to, but she hoped so. She wanted to save up for her big trip and she wanted to ask some questions. Her heart beat fast. She rolled her half-chewed gum in a tissue and put it in the garbage.

  All the pamphlets on the table beside her were about investing money or buying mutual funds, so she stared at her ratty sneakers and then out the window. Tommie Lee walked past. She was talking to Flora from the drugstore. They chattered away as they walked. They moved with the same gait like a matched pair of fine horses. Flora has to be Tommie Lee’s mother, Polly thought.