Free Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson Page A

witches? Fascinating subject—”
    â€œEr, Rowena,” I interrupted hastily, “we’ve just had another sighting of Bald Guy. I really think you should call the police.”
    Rowena drew back. Her rosy, lined face closed up as it always did at the subject of the police. “Never mind about doing that. I understand you mean well, Dinah, but …”
    Her voice trailed off, leaving me with the uncomfortable impression that in fact she thought I didn’t mean well at all. That she thought I was a busybody.
    At that moment, Jack reappeared, Napoleon trotting adoringly at his heels. “No Bald Guy,” he reported. “The canyon swallowed him up.”
    The salmon hatchery was a walk away — or more like a lo-o-ong descent away. Through the towering firs, we walked down a thousand steps or so to the very bottom of the canyon. “Just think, we’ll be climbing all the way back up,” Jack said cheerfully. He paused to remove some of Napoleon’s orange hairs from his T-shirt. “Doesn’t anyone ever groom that cat?”
    â€œRowena’s too busy being mysterious,” I said.
    This wasn’t quite fair. Our neighbor spent a lot of time caring for her cats, not to mention baking organic fruit pies for Madge and me. But I was feeling grumpy at the prospect of struggling up the side of the canyon again, especially after Jack had sounded so smug about it. “She’s hiding something, I’m sure of it. Have you guys noticed that, though she pops over to visit Madge and me a lot, she’s never invited us to her place?”
    â€œNo,” Jack and Pantelli replied together. Pantelli slid through the wooden stair rails to examine a tree stump. Huh! Some help they were.
    I told Jack about seeing Rowena through a window, and how she’d looked so guilty while opening her brassbound trunk. “Maybe she has stolen property in there,” I suggested.
    â€œOr maybe dirty laundry,” returned Jack. “Maybe she hadn’t done a wash in a few weeks, and she was feeling embarrassed about it.”
    Pantelli had lagged behind, squinting through his cracked magnifying glass at every bit of the tree stump. I raised my voice to include him in my reply to Jack.
    â€œNevertheless, there’s something really weird about this situation,” I belted out.
    Too late I realized that we’d reached the end of the path. A crowd of kids was gathered. Heads swiveled toward me.
    â€œTo continue ,” harrumphed Councillor Cordes. He was standing on a small portable wooden stage in front of the Young Scientists. Contrasted against his white suit, his carrot hair flamed like a lit match. “On behalf of the District of North Vancouver, I am delighted to welcome you, the members of the Young Scientists’ League.”
    He made an expansive gesture round at the crowd, which consisted of solemn-looking kids my age laden with binoculars, cameras and notepads. Councillor Cordes looked smooth and confident, nothing like his panicky son.
    â€œSo many of today’s youth scorn their studies in favor of mindless tv shows and video games,” Councillor Cordes was saying. “It’s a rare pleasure to be able to welcome true scholars such as yourselves!”
    I pushed to the front of the crowd.
    â€œTrue scholars know all about salmon — unlike most of the riffraff in our schools,” Councillor Cordes boomed. He smiled down at me. In my wide-eyed state, I must’ve looked very admiring.
    â€œYou, for instance, young lady,” the councillor said heartily. “I bet you know which way salmon swim, right?”
    The Young Scientists, Councillor Cordes and a petite, heavily made-up, chestnut-haired woman behind the councillor stared at me, waiting for a reply. The only sound was the murmur of nearby Capilano River.
    â€œUm.” I glanced around. Behind the Young Scientists, Jack, trying not to laugh, pointed upward. Oh, I