Free Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe

plate.
    My ears must have been the color of the sauce.
    â€œBut sometimes we can catch our mistakes
before
we make them,” my mother added hurriedly, wiping up the spill, still studying her plate. “And then everything’s all right. Because the mistakes were never made. It’s like erasing the past, except that particular past never happened, you see? It’s almost like psychic time travel.”
    My embarrassment turned to confusion, which at least felt more familiar.
    â€œHuh?”
    She looked up at me and smiled widely. “I’m so relieved we had this little talk.”
    After dinner, I moped around for a bit, wondering about what she had said and why. Then I started thinking about Dekker’s next attack. I had temporarily flustered him by calling him “Shorty” yesterday and again today in class. He got back at me through my father. But that backfired and Dekker had gotten in trouble, which meant his next attack would be direct. I had to take preventive action now.
    It was eight o’clock. With the time difference between here and the West Coast, I just might catch someone still in the mill office. I brought Cleo to the living room andturned her bottom-side up. “Sorry,” I whispered, hoping the blood didn’t rush to her head, and then dialed the long-distance phone number stamped on her fanny.
    â€œGranny Greta’s Merry Mill,” answered a man’s gruff voice.
    â€œUh, hello? Can I talk to Granny Greta?”
    â€œWho is this?”
    â€œYou don’t know me. But I’ve got a sack of flour from back when you were Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill.”
    â€œThis is a completely different company. I’ve told you bill collectors that a thousand times.”
    â€œI’m not a bill collector,” I said. While I talked, I laid Cleo on a sofa pillow. “I thought maybe Granny Greta might know how to get in touch with Dutch. It’s an emergency.”
    â€œThat’s what they all say.”
    â€œIt really is,” I tried to explain. “Please, I need to get an extra bag of Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill flour.” Mrs. M. had said I couldn’t do it, but I just had to try.
    â€œYou need a bag of flour?” asked the voice.
    â€œMaybe two. It looks like it’s going to be a very bad week. I’m expecting a terrible accident to happen at any minute.”
    â€œAccident? Are you getting wise with me? That warehouse fire was an accident. Is this the insurance company? Where’s my money? I mean, Dutch’s money?”
    â€œWhat fire? No, don’t tell me, I don’t care,” I said. “I just need a couple of sacks of flour, you know, the ones that read, ‘Dutch’s Old-Time Oregon Mill.’”
    â€œEverything’s in ashes. A complete tax write-off. Hey,are you the IRS? I don’t—I mean, Dutch doesn’t owe you guys a dime. Or, well, that’s what he told me before he left town.”
    â€œDutch is gone?” It was the first part of this conversation I had understood. “Did he take all his flour bags with him?”
    â€œThere was nothing left to take. Listen up! I repeat: warehouse fire. It’s toast. Got it? Crispy critters.”
    Instinctively I backed away from Cleo. Had she heard the loud voice over the receiver? She was the only one left. Did that make her an orphan? I had read about orphans in books, of course. It seemed you couldn’t even be in a kid’s book unless you were an orphan. But I had never known one myself.
    â€œDo you have to shout?” I said. “So . . . there’s nothing left?”
    â€œNot a thing.”
    â€œNot even a few empty sacks?”
    â€œNot a single one.”
    All at once I got an idea.
    â€œYou know how new businesses frame their first dollar bill?” I said. “Did Dutch frame his first sack of flour, just the bag? If he did, could you mail it to me overnight? Then