Coop Knows the Scoop Read online

  She dismissed our protests with a wave of her hand. “I made it a broad theme on purpose. You can research a specific event in time or explore how our society has changed over time. And so on. I’ll give you a few minutes to brainstorm ideas with each other. Then I’ll come around and write down the topic you’ve chosen.”

  Liberty scooted her desk up to mine. “Change in technology,” she said. “That’s what you can do.”

  Beau leaned across the aisle. “Bo—ring,” he said, butting into our conversation.

  “No one asked you,” I said.

  Liberty ignored him. “That way you can hunt for typewriters without looking suspicious. Just visit everyone on the suspect list, tell them you’re doing research and need to see how old typewriters work—provided they still have one. Type a few sentences and then you’ll have samples to compare to the goodbye letter.”

  “Suspect list?” Beau sneered. “What are you dorks talking about?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “Lib, that’s a great idea.”

  Justice tapped his fingers on his desk. “I’m going to do something about the Civil War. That’s what I’m best at. If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it.”

  Beau stared out the window. “Whatever.”

  Miss Grupe stopped by and wrote down our topics. I didn’t hear what Beau’s topic was, and I didn’t care.

  * * *

  “How long will this take?” Beau scuffed his feet along the sidewalk. “I want to see my dad.”

  To make my life even more miserable, earlier that morning Mama had said since it was lawn-mowing Friday, Beau and I had to go the Feather sisters’ house together after school, because she didn’t want Beau feeling neglected. She never even asked Beau, but twenty bucks says he would’ve jumped on the idea of being left alone.

  I shrugged. “An hour? It’s not a big yard. Anyway, I’m sure your dad’s still out cold. Tick would’ve said if he wasn’t.”

  “I still want to see him, Doctor Cooper.” He switched to kicking loose gravel when we turned into the driveway. “Why do you call him Tick? It’s dumb.”

  My friendship with Tick, no matter how strained it was at the moment, was none of his business.

  “Look.” I jerked to a stop in the driveway. “It’s pretty obvious the adults got together and came up with a stupid plan.” I finger-quoted “plan.” “They must think if they force us to hang out, that we’ll stop fighting.”

  Beau crossed his arms. “We won’t.”

  That was the first thing we’d ever agreed on in our lives.

  “But if they think it’s working, maybe they’ll stop.”

  He turned to me. “Fine,” he said through a clenched jaw.

  He followed me around to the back, then peered into the shed when I slid the rusted door open.

  “That piece of junk is their lawn mower?”

  “It looks worse in the light.” I pushed Ol’ Feisty out the door.

  “Humph.” He stepped inside to poke around, leaving me to wonder if that was an attempt at a laugh.

  “Cooooop!” Miss Ruth called from the back stoop of the house. “Come inside and join an old lady for a ham-and-mustard sandwich. I just got a new jar in from Argentina.”

  Beau walked out from the shadow of the shed.

  “Oh!” Miss Ruth perked up. “You’ve got a friend with you today.”

  Beau made a sound somewhere between a snort and a choke.

  “Oh goodness me, you’re Angus’s boy, aren’t you? Hello, Beau, dear. So glad to see you two getting on. You come in too.”

  “We’re not getting on,” muttered Beau.

  “Argentina, huh?” I said, leaving Ol’ Feisty near the shed. “Extra spicy?”

  She looked over her shoulder and grinned. “Might melt your ears clean off.”

  Every Friday since I first started cutting their grass, she’d been inviting me in for ham-and-mustard sandwiches. Said she wanted to put more meat on my bones, but truthfully some of her mustards sweated off more meat than they ever put on.

  Beau clomped up the steps after us.

  We followed her down the hallway that begged for a fresh coat of paint. Tucked into an alcove stood a hat rack disguised as a large exotic bird due to the ridiculous number of feathered hats that perched on its wooden arms. A vase of fresh-cut flowers from the sisters’ small front garden bed sat near the kitchen sink. Miss Ruth’s collection of used mustard jars, now filled with a rainbow of colored marbles, sat on the windowsill, twinkling in the sunlight. She had enough to fill each sill in the kitchen.

  Mustard was cheaper than traveling on a teacher’s pension, so whenever she got a hankering to travel, she’d order spicy mustard from a faraway place instead. And if she wasn’t buying them, she was making them. Over the years she and I had both tortured and treated our mouths to some pretty potent flavors.

  “Where’s Miss Meriwether today?” I asked as she handed each of us a ham-and-mustard on white.

  “Suds was headed up to Piggly Wiggly and offered to give her a ride.”

  Miss Ruth and Miss Meriwether had never learned to drive, mainly ’cause they never owned a car. Said that was too expensive too. They walked everywhere or hitched rides when they could.

  She poured a couple glasses of cold milk and set them on table. “And here’s your extinguishers in case you find yourself ’bout to catch fire.”

  “Thanks.” I stood, waiting for her to sit before I joined her at the table. Mama was stricter than a diet when it came to manners.

  Beau held his sandwich plate with both hands, looking nervous. For someone who couldn’t even manage to get along with regular kids his own age, having a snack with eccentric Miss Ruth was probably a nightmare.

  “I don’t bite, dear. I leave that to the mustard.” She chuckled and smoothed her dress under her as she lowered herself into a chair.

  He hesitated, but then sat.

  “Coop and I have been doing this for a long time, haven’t we, sugar?”

  “Yes ma’am. And ’fore me, I guess you and my gran used to have yourselves some ham-and-mustard too.”

  Miss Ruth’s face lit up in surprise.

  “I read that bit in her journal.” I bit off a large chunk of sandwich. In hindsight, it was a poor decision. The mustard set my throat on fire and then whooshed into my nostrils.

  Miss Ruth nodded her head with a grin. “Tabby and I shared many wonderful moments with mustard.” She giggled. “She was such a good sport about trying new flavors. She was the one who suggested I add rosemary to one of my recipes. And wouldn’t you know—I won first place at that year’s Pioneers Days Festival thanks to her.” She patted her curls. “I had my picture made in the newspaper.”

  A human sparkler. That’s what I felt like as heat moved from the back of my throat, up the sides of my skull, and then escaped out through my hair, shooting sparks off in different directions.

  “That’s Mama’s favorite,” I squeaked. “Mine too. And Mama doesn’t even like rosemary, but she loves what you gave us for Christmas last year.”

  She smiled, but her eyes hinted at sorrow. “I miss Tabby. Aside from Meriwether, she was my best friend.”

  Beads of sweat had broken out on Beau’s forehead, and I think his eyes watered more than mine. A tinge of pink crept up his neck but morphed to fire-engine red above his eyebrows.

  Miss Ruth sat up in her chair, ignoring the flames shooting from my ears. “An idea has popped into my head that’s, well, practically next to brilliant.” She faced Beau. “I just happen to have your mama’s old school map in my attic! Did you know she was a teacher? It used to be mine, but I gave it to her during her first year at Windy Bottom. When she died, I hung it back in my classroom as a way to remember her.”

  Miss Ruth, oblivious to our near combustion, continued. “I say we bring it down and look up every country we�
�ve tasted. Then Beau, pumpkin, you can take it home. What do you think?”

  A trickle of sweat ran down my back. My tongue was swollen and prickly. It was a come-to-Jesus mustard if ever there was one.

  I grabbed my milk. “You need us”—chug, chug, gulp—“to go up to your attic”—chug, gulp—“and look for a map?”

  Beau mopped his forehead with his napkin and reached for his milk. “Wow,” he squeaked.

  Miss Ruth grinned. “Habanero chilies—that’s what gives it its zing.” She picked up the jar and showed us. “Tres Fuegos Mustard.”

  I nodded and wiped away a new trickle of sweat running down my face. “That’s probably the strongest one yet.”

  “Meriwether can’t stand the stuff, but we love it, don’t we, Coop?” Miss Ruth smiled and stood. “Let’s go, boys. Meriwether will be home soon, and she’s such a fussbudget about me going up to the attic.” She grinned like a kid sneaking cookies from a jar. “So now’s our chance. We’ve a map to find.”

  Chapter 25

  We followed her back down the hall and up the stairs to the landing. She pointed to a rope cord hanging from the attic trapdoor in the ceiling and turned to me. “Go on, sugar, pull on that rope and bring the door down.”

  I lowered the door and unfolded the narrow ladder.

  “You boys go up first. I’ll be right behind you. A lady in a dress never climbs a ladder first.”

  Frankly, seeing Miss Ruth’s knickers was something I did not ever want to experience. I glanced at Beau. His face was still pink, but whether that was because of the mustard or because he too had been spared from a potential full moon was unknown to me.

  Two things struck me when I climbed inside the attic. The first was the late-summer heat. The second was the dust.

  Grime on the small solitary window set in the far side of the attic kept most of the sunlight on the outside. Dust floated through the air, reminding me of the mist-filled mornings we’d have once the cooler breath of autumn came. The kind where you’d see the actual specks of moisture suspended in air—only in this case it was dirt.

  “I believe there’s a light switch just to your right.” Miss Ruth’s voice called up to me.

  I flipped it on. “Found it.”

  The single bulb was about as useful as the k in Beau’s last name for all the light it gave off. I pulled out my phone and used the flashlight.

  If a junkyard and antique store were to get married, the Feather sisters’ attic would be their love child. To my right was a furniture graveyard made up of broken armchairs, a crib, and a wooden coffee table covered with watermarks. An antique-looking pole lamp lay in three pieces alongside a scarred chest of drawers and random bed frame parts. A rocking chair sat in one corner; a porcelain doll slumped against its spindled back. Maybe hidden somewhere in the mess was a typewriter.

  “Whoa, look at all this stuff.” Beau’s head popped through the attic opening. “Creepy.” He pointed over my shoulder.

  I shined my light where he’d pointed. A ventriloquist doll hung by its strings from one of the rafter nails.

  I shuddered.

  Miss Ruth cleared her throat. “A little assistance, please, boys.”

  Beau turned and helped her through the opening and to her feet. It wasn’t a move I expected to see.

  Miss Ruth patted his cheek when she stood at the top. “Thank you, dear.” She turned her attention to the attic. “Our family’s never been one to throw stuff out, and we’ve years of junk to prove it. Throw away an item, you throw away a memory. And you both know how precious memories can be.” She looked at Beau with softened eyes. “You never know when you might lose someone dear to you.”

  Beau jutted his chin out. “My dad’s gonna be fine.”

  Miss Ruth nodded. “The best doctor this town’s ever had was there to help him.”

  Beau huffed. “He didn’t help my mom.”

  She shook her head. “Doesn’t mean he didn’t try. And that begrudging weight you’ve been carrying won’t help you grow any taller, either, dear. Now, where to start?” She turned to scan the attic and missed the drop of Beau’s jaw.

  I don’t think she meant it as a jab. More like a statement of fact.

  “Like I said,” she continued, “I haven’t been up here in ages. Meriwether’s always been the one to come grab the decorations and such. Says the dust bothers my asthma too much. Such a tender creature, that one.”

  I swiped at a cobweb. “How big is the map, Miss Ruth?”

  She furrowed her brow. “It’s a good size.”

  Whatever that meant.

  “I’ll start over in this corner.” I climbed over a broken armchair and collided with a hat rack. I caught it before it crushed several dusty artificial poinsettia arrangements. It was cumbersome climbing around with one hand grasping my phone, but I wanted to be ready to take a photo for the case closet if I came across a typewriter. I was going to document everything just the way a real detective would.

  Miss Ruth sneezed.

  “Bless you,” said Beau, before I could.

  That was the first time I’d ever heard him say something polite. Either the mustard had sweated some meanness out of Beau, or some of Miss Ruth’s character was rubbing off on him.

  Miss Ruth and I sifted through trunks, boxes, and crates. We peered behind furniture and faded artwork and swiped at more cobwebs than at last year’s haunted house. Beau was on the opposite side of the attic.

  “Miss Ruth,” I glanced behind the hundredth old milk crate stuffed with vinyl records, “do you have a typewriter?”

  She popped out from behind a floor-length mirror with a floor-length crack. “What on earth do you want an old dinosaur like that for?”

  “For school. I got to write an essay on changes in technology.” I said it real official like so she wouldn’t be skeptical. “I’d love to see how a typewriter works, and I thought I’d ask since we’re up here.”

  “I used to have a typewriter back when I taught, but not anymore. Can’t rightly remember what happened to it.”

  My heart sank.

  She hummed as she continued searching. Miss Ruth was so nice. I was sorry Gramps had hurt her all those years back—broken his promise. On the other hand, I never would’ve been born if he’d married Miss Ruth instead of Tabby. I looked over my shoulder. Beau was busy at the far end.

  “Miss Ruth?” I hesitated.

  “Yes.” Her voice came from behind a dress mannequin.

  I bit my lip. Maybe she didn’t want me to know about her and Gramps. What if I was about to embarrass her? Could she still be upset by what had happened all those years ago? It was hard to know what memories she held on to. She looked at me expectantly. I mentally kicked myself for having opened my mouth.

  “It’s just…” I swallowed and took a deep breath. “I heard about you and Gramps. How y’all used to be…you know…together.” Now I just wanted to get it over with. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out. I love my Gramps, but I don’t think it was right that he didn’t keep his promise to you.”

  “Oh, Coop, dear.” She smiled and crossed the floor to me. “I forgave him. It was understandable, your grandmother being an heiress and such. I suppose the temptation was just too—”

  “Wait.” I frowned. “A what?”

  “An heiress, dear. With an enormous trust fund.”

  “An heiress?” A pit formed in my stomach. “I knew she had money but I—I didn’t know that. I just thought…” The words crept out in a whisper. Gramps said she was wealthy, but an heiress somehow sounded way richer than just “wealthy.”

  Where is the money now?

  Her fingers flew to her lips. “Oh dear. Maybe I shouldn’t have said anything.” Her voice trailed off as she looked to the floor. She sighed, and let her hands fall to her side. “Oh well, too late now—cat’s out of the bag. I suppose
the responsible thing to do is tell you everything, so at least you have the facts.”

  Whether or not I’d be getting facts from Miss Ruth was anybody’s guess.

  She knelt and rifled through a steamer trunk that had probably been on the Titanic, it was in such rough shape. “Rumor had it her folks died in a car accident, leaving her with more money than sense.” Her eyes darted to me. “I’m not saying she was dumb, sugar, only that youth and a large inheritance don’t often go well together.” She spoke soft and slow in her usual singsongy tone.

  I looked once more over my shoulder toward Beau, then back to Miss Ruth. “How rich was she?”

  She pulled out an ugly hat. “Oh, I make it a point never to talk about money. It’s not polite. However,” she leaned in, “a little bird told me her daddy was in the shipping business. Your gramps was never left wanting. But when they married, that whole ‘what’s mine is yours and yours is mine’ thing came in handy, that much was for sure.”

  She looked at the hat in her hand. “Isn’t this just awful looking? A red feather would go far in its improvement. Or maybe purple.” She blew on beige felt, and a cloud of dust flew up. Dropping it on her head, she grinned in the mirror. “This is fun. Even if it is hot.”

  I didn’t answer. When rich people die, suspects are everywhere. No one is excluded. Especially not Gramps. Where there’s money, there’s motive. I didn’t think he married Tabby for her money. But some people might wonder. The pit in my stomach grew heavier. I changed the subject.

  “Miss Ruth, the school newspaper wants to do an article on my grandma.”

  “That’s nice. I didn’t know the school had a paper.”

  “It’s a recent thing,” I said. “I’d love to interview you, since y’all were friends.”

  “Anything for you, Coop.” She set the hat back in the trunk and picked up an ugly pink lace fan. She stood, opened the fan, and waved it back and forth.

  I wished I had a list of questions, but I didn’t. “What do you remember about Tabby?”