not scared,” Ziggy declared. “We like it.”
There was a distant rumble of thunder, and it was getting darker outside by the moment. Mrs. Creasor set the boys to peeling apples and started making pastry, with Josée’s help. When the rain came, not long afterwards, a sudden rush of tourists came into the inn to get out of the downpour, and Alan, Ziggy and Josée were kept busy serving cups of cider and greeting visitors.
At one point, Alan managed to get away for a few minutes and took the opportunity to go upstairs to the hallway where the trapdoor to the attic was. A couple of tourists were looking at the bedrooms, talking in those hushed voices that people use in museums, but they went back downstairs soon after Alan arrived.
He stood directly under the trapdoor, looking up. Mrs. Creasor had said nobody had been up there for years. Was the attic really empty? Was it a ghost that Ziggy had seen? He looked down at his feet. There was some fine, white dust on the floor below the trapdoor. Couldn’t that mean that someone had been up there recently? The rest of the place was so clean. Why would there be dust just there and nowhere else? Somehow, he had to get the opportunity to investigate, if only to set his mind at rest. There was a mystery here, he was sure of it. Maybe there were more guns stashed up there, or stolen goods of some kind.
“Alan! Your mom’s up at the main building waiting for us,” Ziggy called up the stairs. Alan took a moment to peer out the hall window and saw that it was still raining—hard. He realized that the distant roaring sound he had been hearing, but not really registering, must be the sound of the rain pounding on the roof. They had been meaning to walk home after their first day on the job, but it wouldn’t be much fun right now. He pounded down the stairs and came into the kitchen.
“How do you know my mom’s here?” he said to Ziggy. “I thought there were no phones here.”
“We have walkie-talkies,” Mrs. Creasor said. “We have to keep them hidden, though. Mrs. Tench’s orders. Mine’s in the breadbox by the window, if you ever need to use it. Emergencies only, mind you. The message just came through.”
Six apple pies had just been taken out of the oven of the big woodstove, and they smelled amazing.
“It’s nice of Mary-Anne to come and pick you up,” Mrs. Creasor said, “but it’s too bad you can’t stay and have a piece, after all your work helping to make them. Tell you what—I’ll wrap one of these in a tea towel, and you can take it home with you.”
“Wow, thanks!” Ziggy said. “Can we stay for dinner, Alan?”
“Probably,” Alan said. “Let’s ask.”
“Don’t forget to bring the pie plate back tomorrow,” Mrs. Creasor said. “If you manage to eat it all, that is.”
“It’ll be empty, don’t worry,” Ziggy promised.
They made their way up the path to the main building, huddled together under a big umbrella that Mrs. Creasor gave them, Josée in the middle cradling the pie.
It didn’t take long to change out of their costumes. After a whole day on the grounds, pretending to be pioneers and doing pioneer work, it was a little strange to be back in “civvies”, as Greta the wardrobe lady called their regular clothes.
“It’s your responsibility to keep your site clothes in good order,” she said, when they’d returned from the changerooms. The wardrobe area was in the basement of the main complex, a low-ceilinged, narrow space with racks and racks of dresses, coats, hats and boots.
“Josée, I think your apron will have to be washed, and boys, your coveralls are definitely whiffy. I’ll wash them tonight, but after this, do try to keep them clean, okay? When you’re not in costume, your stuff goes here,” she said, pointing to where three coat hooks were already marked with their names.
“It looks like they’re not getting ready to fire us yet, if they’ve put up labels,” Ziggy whispered to the others.
“And the rule is that you never, ever wear or take your costume off-site,” Greta added. “Some people think they can borrow things, you see, for Hallowe’en parties and so on, and they never bring them back. So be warned.”
“That’s too bad,” Josée said as they went back upstairs to where Alan’s mom was sitting with Mrs. Tench. “I was thinking just that—that my skirt and bonnet would have been perfect for trick-or-treating.”
“Are we going to do that this year?” Ziggy asked. “After all, we’re almost twelve. What’s the cut-off date, do you think?”
“When you’re too old for free candy,” Alan said. “I plan to keep on trick-or-treating until I’m twenty-five.”
“Is there something going on with your Mom?” Ziggy asked later, digging his fork into his second piece of pie.
“I don’t know. Maybe she’s coming down with a cold or something, “Alan said.
His mother had nodded vaguely in agreement when they had asked if Ziggy and Josée could stay for supper, but she hadn’t been her usual, interested self, and she’d left half her pie.
“Have another piece if you want, you three,” she’d said. “And can you clean up for me, please?” Then she’d disappeared into the study.
They’d filled her in on all the activities of the day, but left some things out. She seemed to have forgotten about the gun, until Alan reminded her, and the three had already agreed not to mention Constable Mills’s making them deputies. They turned the paint fight into a kind of “nothing to do with us” thing, and Ziggy did a great impression of Ivor Smith, but she was only half listening. They didn’t mention the ghost either, but that was a no-brainer, as Mary-Anne Nearing was not the sort of person to believe in ghost stories.
“Maybe she’s worried about Candace—maybe she’s in trouble,” Josée said. Alan’s older sister, who was a serious violin student, was spending the month of August at a music camp in Banff, Alberta.
“Well, I know Mom misses her,” Alan said, “but even though she’s almost sixteen, Candace isn’t the type to mess up, I don’t think. She’ll probably come back with a bunch of trophies and awards.”
“Anyway, I was surprised that she didn’t ask more questions about today, that’s all,” Ziggy said.
“Which is probably a good thing,” Alan said. “After all, there are a couple of mysteries around the Village that we need to keep an eye on. We should start a case file.”
“What, so we can give it to Constable Mills when things start to get weird over there?” said Ziggy.
“Exactly. I mean, there are some weird things already, but nothing definite yet. But she’s relying on us, so we better do the thing right. Be right back.” Alan left the table and went up to his room to get something to write with. He thought for a moment about using the investigation notebook he’d started at the beginning of the summer, when the violin had disappeared and he and his friends had helped find it, but there were private notes in there—things that Constable Mills didn’t know about, and it was probably better to start a fresh one so he could just hand it over when they’d solved the case. He rummaged around in his desk and came up with a fresh notebook
