here, Mrs. Tench. We’re really sorry about this. We were painting, and some kids wanted to try it out, and I guess it got sort of out of hand. You can take the dry cleaning out of our paychecks.”
“Hey!” Ziggy started to say, but Josée poked him quiet.
Lisa and Ben’s mother stepped forward, towing Ben along behind her. The boy was pretty painty, still, and looked totally pleased with himself.
“This is my son, Ben,” she said. “He was the one who started the paint fight. If anyone is going to be paying for dry cleaning, it’s him. Okay, Ben. Apologize.” Ben stifled his grin and mumbled an apology, and Mrs. Tench told his mother that there was no problem—it was all worked out. She then produced a sheaf of certificates from the pocket of her old-fashioned apron and started handing them out.
“It’s for a free ice cream cone at the general store,” she said. She gave one to everybody, even Sheldon.
“Bonus,” Alan said, when he got his.
“Well, yes, Alan. But don’t let it go to your head. It was irresponsible of you three to walk away from the job at hand. You know that, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he said.
“Still and all, the fence does look nice. And I’ll bet that there are more than two coats of paint on it, hmm?”
“Four, more like,” Alan said, grinning.
“Tell me, have any of you ever read The Adventures of Tom Sawyer?” They shook their heads. “Well, that’s most interesting. I trust you will all do so, and report back to me about what you discover. Let’s say—next week? Now, take those paint buckets and brushes to the pump over there and wash them up, then go over to the Inn, will you? Mrs. Creasor has a job for you.” She turned back to Sheldon, said something more to him that they couldn’t hear, then headed back up the path to the main building.
The paint-covered people had all gone away, and there were only the three of them and Sheldon left. He stood looking at them, shaking his head.
“If I had my way,” he said, “you’d be outta here on your keisters quicker’n spit, but Mrs. Tench rules the roost here, as you can see. You better watch your step from now on, that’s all I can say. You may not get let off quite so easy next time.” He stumped off to his maintenance shed, calling over his shoulder that they could leave the clean bucket and brushes by his door.
“Wow,” Ziggy said, “that was intense.”
“Did Mrs. Tench just give us . . . homework?” Josée said.
“I think so,” said Alan. “The Adventures of Tom Sawyer. I think I’ve heard of it. I hope it’s short. Maybe there’s a movie version.”
“You think she was serious about us giving her—what? A book report?” said Ziggy.
“I have a feeling that when Mrs. Tench says something, she’s très sérieuse,” Josée said. They picked up the buckets and brushes and headed over to the pump, which was an old-fashioned one, with a handle that you worked to get the water to come out. The water was wonderfully cold, and there was a wooden sign next to it that said “Fresh, clean spring water. Okay to drink.” They each took turns cupping water into their hands and easing their parched throats. It had been hot in the blacksmith shop, their costumes were heavier than the T-shirts and shorts they were used to, and the sun was fierce. Alan and Ziggy did a little splashing at each other, too, until Josée reminded them that they were all on probation.
“Thank goodness that the paint was the kind that washed out with water,” she said. “Otherwise, I think we would have been fired. Sans doute.”
The Inn at the Kuskawa Pioneer Village Park was a two-storey wooden building with several rooms on the top floor, a dining room and parlour on the main floor, and a huge kitchen at the side. The kitchen was a pleasant place to be, because Mrs. Creasor, the staff member who ran it, was always baking something in the big woodstove and liked to see people eating what she made. She always had a big pot of hot apple cider on the stovetop, and as visitors came in to see what an old-fashioned kitchen was like, she offered them a cup of cider and a cookie, or whatever she had just baked.
“You’re like a professional pioneer grandmother,” Alan said, when the three were meeting her.
She laughed. “Sort of,” she said, “but I think the pioneer ones were too busy to fuss over people much. They had to do everything by hand, you know, including the laundry. Oh—you must be the three Mrs. Tench was just talking to me about. She had a wonderful idea today about laundry, and I think she has you three in mind to help us. Now come on in and have a cookie, and explore the inn a little before we start with another job I’ve got for you.”
It was warm in the kitchen, but the windows and doors were open, so it wasn’t stifling, and it smelled wonderful—a mixture of cinnamon and bread, wood smoke and something lemony that Josée said was furniture polish. Just about everything was made of wood, the floors, walls, chairs and tables. There were a few rugs in the parlour, but mostly the whole inn was just smooth, polished or painted wood. The floors creaked a little when you walked on them, and your footsteps echoed. It was very quiet. Not library-quiet, they all agreed, but the sort of quiet that you got when there were no radios or TVs or air conditioners or fridges running. It was peaceful, Alan thought. And sort of sad, in a way he couldn’t quite figure out.
Nobody stayed at the Inn—it was a museum, really. The rooms upstairs were roped off, so you could look in, but not actually touch anything. The museum people had set it up so that it looked like someone was staying in each room, though, with clothes laid out, and some of the beds looking slept-in, old fashioned brushes and perfume bottles on the dressers and slippers on the floor. Josée said it gave her a weird feeling, being up there alone. Mrs. Creasor had sent her upstairs to get an apron from a closet in one of the bedrooms. She had to climb over the rope across the door, and reported to the others when she returned that she had felt a strange tingling feeling, as soon as she crossed over into the room.
“It was like I’d gone back in time,” she said. “Like the person who belonged there had just walked down the hall, but they could come back at any second, and ask me what I was doing in their room.”
“That’s nuts,” Ziggy said. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”
“Oh, I know what she means,” said Mrs. Creasor. “Many’s the time I’ve been up there, tidying up or doing some dusting, and I’ve felt almost a presence watching me. Nothing harmful, you understand, but something, nonetheless. These old places often contain the energies of the past, I think.” She glanced at Josée, who was looking a little pale. “Nothing to be frightened about, though, dear. Now put that apron on, and come and help me peel these apples. I’m making apple pies today, you see, and it’s a big job.”
She handed Josée a small bowl of apples and a peeler, and showed her how to remove the apple skin without taking off too much of the apple at the same time.
“Boys, we’re going to need quite a few more of these. See that tree out there—the one beside the outhouse? That’s your job. You’ll find a bushel basket at the back door. There are quite a few fallen ones on the ground, but they’re not the best for apple pie. There’s a ladder somewhere out there, I think. Don’t be too long. We’ll have these ones peeled
