Free The Ghost of Fossil Glen by Cynthia DeFelice Page B

midair. Slowly, she lowered it to her plate.
    Mr. Nichols looked up with interest. “Allie’s journal?” he asked.
    â€œThat’s what I thought of right away,” said Mrs. Nichols. “All he said was that when he was clearing out the house he was supposed to keep his eye out for a red leather-bound book, and it slipped his mind. He said it was very important to his boss to get it back. Mr. Curtis seemed quite distraught, poor man. I got the feeling his boss wasn’t at all happy to hear it was missing.”
    Allie had been quiet throughout this exchange, her thoughts whirling. Her red book hadn’t been with the things in her mother’s shop; it had arrived in the mailbox. But it seemed logical to Allie that there was some connection between her red leather-bound book and the one Mr. Curtis was looking for.
    â€œDid you tell him about my journal?” Allie asked.
    â€œYes, of course. But when I told him it was empty except for what you’d written in it, he said it couldn’t be the book he was looking for.”
    Allie thought about the words “I am L,” which she certainly hadn’t written, but she decided that this was not the moment to bring that up.
    â€œThere was only one book, wasn’t there, Allie?” her mother asked.
    Allie nodded.
    â€œWell, it’s interesting that you’re using it as a journal,” Mrs. Nichols went on, “because the book he’s looking for is a diary, too.”
    â€œA diary?” said Allie. “Whose?”
    â€œHe didn’t say,” answered Mrs. Nichols. “He just repeated that it was very important to his employer to get it back.”
    â€œSo can I keep mine?” Allie asked.
    â€œI guess so,” said Mrs. Nichols. A quizzical expression remained on her face. “Although it’s rather an odd coincidence, don’t you think, that he’s looking for a book just like yours?” She shook her head, perplexed.
    â€œIt sure is,” said Mr. Nichols.
    â€œIt sure is,” piped up Michael.
    â€œIt sure is,” Allie repeated with a grin in Michael’s direction. “But it doesn’t sound as if it’s the same book at all,” she added, getting up from the table. She asked to be excused and carried her dishes out to the kitchen.
    It was time to write her next journal entry.
    Sitting at her desk, she opened the book to Mr. Henry’s last remarks. With a thrill of excitement, she saw that there was a new entry, written below Mr. Henry’s, in the same slanting hand as before. This time, the letters were firmer and steadier.
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    Look in the desk .
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    She stared at the words for a moment. Then, with trembling hands, she lifted the lid of the desk. The slanted writing surface gleamed in the light from her reading lamp. The cubbyholes that lined the back were still empty.
    She opened the long, thin center drawer. Nothing. One by one, she opened the large drawers on the right side, then the left. Empty.
    The words on the page insisted:
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    Look in the desk .
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    â€œAll right already,” she said aloud. “I’ll look again.” This time, she used her fingers to feel into every corner, nook, and cranny in the desk. She even tapped the underside of each drawer, hoping to discover a false bottom. But each time she heard the same hollow, empty echo.
    There was nothing in the desk. Zip. Zero. Zilch.
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    Look in the desk .
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    Sitting back in her chair with a frustrated groan, she pounded her fist on the desktop, right on one of the raised brass hinges. It let out a metallic click.
    Carefully, she examined the hinge and saw that her banging had caused a small latch to pop open. The latch was cleverly disguised as part of the hinge. More gently this time, she tapped the same place on the left hinge. Again she heard the metallic click and another latch popped open.
    Her heart beating fast now, Allie saw that the hinges at the top of