Free Peeled by Joan Bauer Page A

me.
    Boston
    Martin
    “Don’t you think it’s odd,” Baker said, “that with all the security companies here in New York, D&B Security from Boston was checking out the Ludlow property?”
    “What do you think it means?”
    “I don’t know. But it’s a hole in the story. Make a list of what you don’t know and where you might find it.”
    “I don’t know anything about Sallie Miner except that she went to Banesville Elementary.”
    I grabbed the phone, called the school, asked if anyone remembered who Sallie’s third-grade teacher was.
    “Oh, yes,” said the secretary. “That would be Eileen Leary. She’s living in Madison, Wisconsin, now.”
    I turned to Baker excitedly. “I got a lead on the teacher.”
    “Follow it.”
    I called directory assistance, got her phone number.
    Hildy Biddle, ace reporter, had been let loose.
    I made the call. A woman answered. I said, “I’m trying to reach Eileen Leary—who taught third grade in Banesville.”
    “That’s me…,” she said cautiously.
    “Mrs. Leary, I’m Hildy Biddle. I’m researching an article about the Ludlow house in Banesville for my high school paper. I’m trying to determine facts from fiction. Can I ask what you remember about Sallie Miner?”
    “Well, she was always scared of that house, living as close to it as she did.”
    I was writing. “Really? What was she afraid of?”
    “The ghost. Some unnamed evil. Sallie had such an imagination. She was always telling us about seeing something unusual. I think it became her reality. She was a good student. She always brought a valentine for every child in the class, very thoughtful. Have you talked to her father?”
    “No.” I couldn’t imagine doing that.
    “He and his wife divorced after the accident. He’s living in Miami, I believe. He was a good man. I remember him coming to Parents’ Night. I think his first name is Larry. Larry Miner. I don’t know if he would talk to you, but it’s worth a try.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Leary. I’m trying to find the truth.”
    She sighed. “That would be most welcome after all this time. Good luck to you.”
    I sat back in my chair, numbered my notes, and showed them to Baker.
    “You know, Biddle, whoever breaks this story open can really help this town.”
    “I want to do that!” I hit the Miami phone book online.
    There were eleven Lawrence Miners in the Miami area. But what would I say when I called?
    Hi, is this the Lawrence Miner whose little daughter, Sallie, was killed five years ago?
    I couldn’t do that, could I?
    “The thing is,” I said to Mom, “Baker says that breaking the Ludlow story open could really help Banesville, so I’ve got this mission now to track down every lead, and I’ve hardly got time for homework, much less doing school tours at the orchard.”
    “I know you’ll find a way to fit it all in,” Mom answered with a supreme lack of compassion as the yellowschool bus pulled up the driveway. “Here come our little guests.”
    Twenty-nine first-graders, to be exact. They ran off the bus screaming. It was school visiting day at the orchard.
    “Remember, Hildy,” Mom said. “We want them to care about where their fruit comes from.”
    “Cantwell!”
I screamed at the six-year-old boy who swiped a pile of Nan’s chunky apple brownies after major warnings from me
not
to eat, suck, destroy, bruise, toss, spit upon, or touch them in any way. “If you eat them, Cantwell, if you move or do anything other than breathe, your time in the orchard barn will be over. Got it?”
    Cantwell nodded, which technically was moving, but I decided to let it go. I looked at the other children, who looked back at me to see if I meant it and decided I did. The teacher and the parent helpers were off in the corner by the Johnny Appleseed poster.
    The orchard barn was where we gave demonstrations, where we had our small market.
    I took out my guitar and taught them a song that only required three chords—C, D, and E minor—the