Anna Maria Junus

The town of Marina Colleen lies along the coastline just off the main highway of east Vancouver Island. It's a tourist town. The population expands in the summer months when the fishermen, the sailors, the surfers, the swimmers, the adventurers, the campers, and the shoppers come, many of them long-time vacationers who own condos and cabins and are as much a part of this town as the full-timers. It expands again in the winter when the skiers and snowboarders take advantage of the unique climate, snow on the mountains in the day, and a cool evening walk by the ocean at night.

It is here, in this Scottish-Irish town that I grew up, left, and returned to.

On my street, you will find various Victorian and Edwardian homes, one with a totem pole in the front yard, others with Canadian and American flags, almost all with large front porches where we still say hello to neighbors as they stroll by.

The stone house on Michael Street belonged to Aunt Judith who was never really my aunt, but my mother’s best friend. She was too close to call Mrs., but convention demanded that she not be called by her first name, and so she became Aunt Judith. She's gone now, her house sold to a young family and the proceeds divided up by her children.

Mr. Talbot still lives in the brick house two doors down from Aunt Judith's. He was old thirty-five years ago when I was a teenager here, and he's still old. Or perhaps it was merely my perception of old back then. Now a retired school teacher, his former students stop by and visit. I know. I'm one of them.

And this tall blue and white Victorian, is the family home. We've had it for generations handed down from Shane McTavish. Yes, we are those McTavishes, although we didn't inherit the castle on the hill. You can walk up the steps to the wide front veranda which my sister Ivy decorates with plants according to the season, go through the front door into the large foyer, and walk down the hall to the kitchen. The sun porch is beyond that. Once you get there, if you turn right you'll come to the doors of my studio. Of course, there is an outside route to go as well, and it's especially lovely in the spring and summer when Ivy's gardens are in full bloom, but it's easier to grab a cup of coffee and say hello to whoever greets you, if you go through the kitchen first.

If I'm home, you will most likely find me in my studio, either writing a children’s book or painting a picture to be sold at my art store in the Orchards. Usually, I'm alone, or with a good friend or two.
But this wasn't usually, and it wasn’t a good friend or two. This was Fern.

“Here, Holly, sign this.” Fern thrust the paper in front of me.

I picked it up from my drafting table. “What is it?”

“It's a petition to stop those religious freaks from baptizing in the river.”

I should explain my sister, but there isn't any explanation for Fern. She just is.

“Unless they're grabbing passersby and holding them under the water, I don't see what the problem is.” I took my glasses off and handed the paper back to her.

“The problem is that they are having their church services in public.”

I nodded. “I see, much better to have them in secret where you have to knock on doors and whisper passwords to gain entrance.”

“You mock me, but if we allow them to do this, then what next?”

“I don't know, Fern, what next? They'll hold live nativities at Christmas time in the park? Oh wait, they already do that. Watch out, Fern! They might kidnap you, dress you in a blue robe and make you ride a donkey's back!”

Fern threw up her hands. “They still do that? Unbelievable! In this day and age? One more thing to fight against.”

“While you're at it, you should get after them for feeding the poor, setting up after-school programs for teenagers, and the annual blanket drive.”

Fern sighed. “It's insidious. The whole good works thing just so they can brainwash people into believing in something that doesn't exist. They make money doing that you know. It's no different than the Romans believing in Zeus and...and... Hercules.”

“Hercules? That's the best god you could come up with? Why not say Cupid and sound really stupid.”

“It's all the same. All mythology is the same whether you believe in Cupid or Hercules or Egyptian mummies or Jesus...”

“Don't bring Jesus into this conversation.”

“I have a right to say what I think.”

“So do Christians, Fern. And they have a right to worship too. Here's a thought, if you don't like what they're doing, don't go.” I grabbed my empty coffee cup brushing past her as I wove my way past the empty canvases, past the finished canvases, past my desk and computer, past the easel set in front of the large window, and out into the sun porch, Fern close behind me. I didn't need coffee. I needed to get Fern out of my studio. “You've only been here two weeks and you want to create problems already?”

“I think it's important that I become part of the community,” she said as I stumbled over the wicker ottoman.

“Dang, Fern, why do you have to move the furniture around?”

“I can't help it if you don't look where you're going. You and Ivy are terrible housekeepers. I just cleaned things up and made a few little changes. I can't wait to get my hands on that room of yours...”

Danger Will Robinson. Danger. I heard the robotic voice from Lost in Space in my head. I should explain that too, but I'm too angry.

I spun around to face her, “You are not touching my studio!”

“But it's such a mess, you could be a lot more efficient if...”

“If I can't find anything? Leave my studio alone!” I spun around again and went through the French doors into the kitchen straight for the coffee pot because now I did need coffee.

“I don't understand how you can work in that mess.”

“It is not a mess. It’s controlled chaos,” I corrected her, pouring a cup of decaf. My doctor says I need to drink more decaf, especially late at night. I wish my doctor wasn't right because I need the real stuff right now even though it was almost midnight. Of course, there was always Tim Horton's.

“Mess, chaos, what’s the difference?”

I started to say something but decided to let that one go. Instead, I unplugged the coffee maker and returned it to the place on the counter where it belonged, plugging it back in.

“I don't understand how an artiste (she said it mockingly as she emphasized the last syllable) could have such a disaster for a house. Mother would have been so upset.”

I contemplated the knives in the butcher block. Did Fern forget that Mother was an artiste too? Fern hadn't been anywhere around when Mother had been sick, leaving it to Ivy and me to uproot our lives, Ivy from Alberta, and me from Italy, to take care of her until she died last June. In fact, Fern hadn't been around much at all in the past thirty years, claiming she couldn't stand the small town we had grown up in. I reached for the knives - and moved the block to its original home.

“I'm trying to make things better,” Fern sniffed.

Better? Ivy and I had discovered a comfortable existence together when we moved back into the family home. Now Fern, instead of letting us buy out her share in the house, had decided to move in after her divorce and torture us.

There was a scream from the living room.

I think I body checked Fern into the fridge in my rush to answer it. Accidentally, of course. Not that it matters.

We found Ivy staring up at the bare wall over the fireplace, her arm trembled as she pointed to it. “We've been robbed!”

I glanced around the room and sighed. Fern had struck again and everything had been moved around into an impossibly unlivable arrangement. Who puts the furniture facing away from the T.V. and the fireplace, and why was the stereo placed up on top of a bookshelf where no one could reach it?

“Now dear,” Fern said, her hand patting Ivy's shoulder, “we haven't been robbed, I just took the painting down and I'll find a replacement for it. I have a lovely Picasso print that would look stunning there.”

I went over in my mind images of Picasso prints that could be described as lovely. I couldn't think of one. “You mean that creepy skeletal man playing the guitar?” I asked.

“He is not creepy.”

“Oh, he is so creepy,” Ivy said. “Besides, I don't want a replacement. I want that painting,” Ivy demanded.

“I found it distasteful and frankly, offensive,” Fern replied. “I've had to...”

“You found a picture of Jesus with children offensive?” I asked. “I painted that picture.”

“And it's a beautiful one too,” Ivy added. “Holly gave it to me for my birthday.”

“Oh, Gag!” Fern said.

“Oh, Gag?” I asked.

Fern sighed and rolled her eyes. She rolls her eyes a lot. I’m expecting them to one day roll right out of her sockets and right onto the floor – like marbles. “I'm sure you meant well, but there's too much religion in this house and in this town. Now that I'm living here, you need to make some concessions for me.”

Ivy and I looked at each other. It was my turn to roll my eyes.

“It's like those fanatics who are baptizing in the river.” Fern thrust the petition out at me again. “They can afford a college but not a baptismal font?”

“Someone burnt down their church two weeks ago,” Ivy said.

“That wasn't you, was it?” I asked Fern.

“She did move here at the same time,” Ivy said.

“It is suspicious,” I added.

“Would you two stop it? I didn't burn down any church. I follow the law and one of the laws state that I have the right of freedom from religion...”

“That's freedom of religion, you nitwit,” I said. “Huge difference.” I grabbed the petition, crumpled it up and threw it into the fireplace.

Dang.

No fire.

Fern retrieved it, smoothing out the wrinkles, “Religion is for the weak and simple-minded. Really, Holly, I can somehow understand Ivy's fanaticism, but you're better than that.”

“Hey!” Ivy looked ready to hit her. I wouldn't have held her back.

“I'm not going to argue the merits of religion with you, Fern,” I said. “It serves no purpose other than to make each of us more convinced of our own arguments. We'll put the picture problem to a vote. All those in favor of keeping the picture wave your arms high in the air and say aye.” Ivy and I raised our hands with resounding noises of approval. “All those opposed?”

“That's not fair...” Fern said. “You two always gang up against me.”

“The ayes have it, the picture goes back up. Where is it, Fern?”

She folded her arms and stuck her nose up in the air like a five-year-old. “I'm not telling.”

I closed my eyes and pictured in my mind, grabbing her bottle brown hair and swinging her around and around in circles. I let go and watched her sail away into the darkness.

“What are you doing?” Fern demanded.

“Shhh! I'm in my happy place.” I opened my eyes. “Ivy, I'll hold her down while you get the hair clippers.”

“You wouldn't dare!” Fern threw her hands up to her head. “Besides we're too old for this. You can't do this type of stuff to me anymore.”

“Oh, yes I can,” I nodded.

“So can I,” Ivy agreed.

“I decided when I turned forty that I wasn't going to be too old for anything anymore,” I smiled rubbing my hands together. “Thirteen years later I'm still happy with that decision.”

“Oh fine!” Fern stomped her foot. “Some Christians you are. The picture is right where it belongs.”
 
*****
 
Twelve thirty at night and I was making my way across the lawn to the dumpster out in the back alley, tripping over the hose and cursing at myself for not fixing the back porch light. The painting lay right on top of the garbage. Stupid, evil, Fern. Even if she didn't like the picture the fact that I had painted it and it belonged to Ivy should have meant something. It's not like I'm a bad painter. I have enough success to prove otherwise. And she didn't have to throw out the frame too. Those things are expensive.

I grabbed it and started to make my way back when I heard an odd sound. Sneaking over to the fence I peeked through the slats to our neighbor's backyard and discovered that the noise was a shovel breaking dirt. I watched Sam Wainwright dig a large hole. A very large hole. Why was he digging a large hole in the middle of the night in October? I looked up at my house and noticed Ivy watching me, so I motioned to her to come quietly.

Side by side we sat on the ground and watched through the slats of the fence, barely breathing, and puzzled. When Sam seemed satisfied that his hole was deep enough, he picked up a large covered object and struggling with it, dropped it into the deep recess. Ivy gasped, and I quickly put my hand over her mouth. We sat there stunned as he covered the body with dirt.
 
*****
 
After Sam tamped the earth, he walked to his car parked outside his garage, threw the shovel into the trunk, got in the car, backed out into the alley, and drove away.

“Hurry,” I said as I struggled to stand. I turned and ran toward the house.

I could hear Ivy close on my heels as we sped into the sun porch and then into the kitchen. She stopped at the kitchen counter and picked up the phone. “What are you doing?” I asked, one foot on the bottom step of the back staircase.

“Calling the police,” Ivy said, her finger poised over the buttons. “What are you doing?”

“I'm getting changed.”

“Getting changed for what? Are you hoping to snag a date with a cop? Hate to tell you this, Sweetie, but most of them are too young for you.”

I walked over to the phone. “I know that. I'm not getting changed for the police. You can't call the police.”

“What do you mean I can't call the police? We just watched Sam bury a body. What if it's one of the kids? Or his wife? Did you really believe him this morning when he said that th family went to their cabin at the lake? It's October. Nobody goes to their cabin at the lake in October.”

“We just watched Sam bury something that looked like a body. We have to find out if he actually did.”
Ivy put the phone down. “And what exactly do you have in mind?”

I went over to the counter by the fridge, unplugged the toaster oven, and moved it over near the stove where it belonged. “We'll dig up what he buried.”

“Why would we do that? That sounds like work. And usually, I'm the one that does the work.”

“Look, we can't call the police. What if it's nothing? Like the time that Pearl Alcott called them because she heard an intruder in her attic and it turned out to be a squirrel. Do you remember what everyone called her?”

Ivy sighed, “Squirrelly Pearly.”

“Squirrelly Pearly, that's right, and then when someone remembered that her maiden name was Shirley...”
“I know, I know.”

“That happened a year ago and she's still Squirrelly Pearly Shirley. And knowing this town, ten years from now she will still be Squirrelly Pearly Shirley. She may always be known as Squirrelly Pearly Shirley. Long after she's dead and gone....”

“I get the point.”

“We have enough trouble with our names, if we call the police about a dead body and it turns out that he's buried, I don't know...a cedar chest...”

“That did not look like any cedar chest.”

“You would be called Poison Ivy and I would be Homicidal Holly - although if Fern continues to live with us we may very well earn those names.”

“I hated that song.”

“There was a song called Homicidal Holly?”

“No, Poison Ivy. Great. Now it's stuck in my head.” She lifted up her hand and brushed at her forehead pushing energy towards me. “I'm sending it to you.”

“And if it is a false alarm, do you want to be responsible for them not being at a house break-in, or a rape, or a bank robbery because of us?”

Ivy folded her arms in front of her. “Because those are common occurrences in our town.” I will admit, she can deliver a line dripping with sarcasm far better than I can.

“And what about Sam?” I continued my argument, “What if it isn't a body and here we are accusing him of being a murderer. See, you or I might find that amusing, but he doesn't have that good of a sense of humor.”

“That's true. He was not amused by the snowman you built out in the front yard last winter.”

“You would think he would feel honored to have an artist sculpt him.”

“Not when the artist sculpts him wearing a donkey suit.”

“It was a metaphor,” I said.

“Yeah, he got that.”

“He overreacted.” I touched her arm. “Look, we'll check it out and if it turns out that it is a body, we'll call the police then.”

“Why do I feel like I'm Ethel and you're Lucy?”

“I liked it better when Ethel was Vivian. No Fred, no Ricky, just Lucy and Vivian, off on wacky adventures.” I put my arm around her. “Like the old days.”

Ivy glared at me.

“I'll take that as a yes.” I said.

“Why would you take that as a yes?”

“Because Ethel-Vivian always said yes. Grudgingly, of course.”

Ivy pointed at me, shaking her finger. “Fine. Grudgingly yes.”

“We have to be quiet. We don't need Fern getting in the way.”

“Why don't you get Fern to do these things with you?”

“Ferns sense of adventure begins and ends with moving furniture around in strange formations. I admit, she does risk her life doing it...”

“Oh!” Ivy suddenly headed for the sunroom door.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“We forgot Jesus.”
 
*****
 
I dressed in black jeans and a black turtleneck quickly and then went to Ivy's room. She was standing in her underwear looking through her closet when I came in.

I pointed at her. “You cursed me with the Poison Ivy song! Why aren't you ready?”

“I can't find anything black. Well, except my beaded cocktail dress, but I don't think that's appropriate for the occasion.”

“You don't have any black clothes? I asked.

“I guess I wasn't thinking when I took my middle of the night grave digger outfit to the cleaners.”

I rifled through the drawers in her dresser. “Everything has bunnies and bears.”

“Wearing black scrubs doesn't instill confidence in the pediatric unit.”

I slammed a drawer shut. “You'll have to borrow something from me.”

“You have another set of middle of the night grave digger clothes?”

“Actually, they're my cat burglar clothes handed down to me from Great Aunt Cynthia, but you can borrow them.”
 
*****
 
We managed to sneak out of the house without Fern knowing. If it had been a story in a T.V. show she would have snuck up behind us, scared us and then demanded to know what we were doing, and then, we would have made up a lie about acting out parts in a play or having a séance in the backyard, and then, she would have wanted to come, because Fern can't stand being left out of anything, and then, we would have either had to let her come and help us or put on some kind of show until she was satisfied.
But that didn't happen.

“Hey, Fern didn't get to the garden shed yet. Everything's the way we left it.” I emerged from the shed carrying a tool in each hand. “We have a spade and a snow shovel.”

“You can't dig a hole with a snow shovel,” Ivy said.

“Oh, I guess I can't.” I handed her the shovel. “But you can.”

“Oh, no you don't. I'm taking the spade,” she said, grabbing it from my hand.

“Fine with me,” I answered, following her as we went out the back alley, around the fence and into Sam's backyard.

“I can't believe I let you talk me into this,” Ivy said as she thrust the spade into the dirt. “What if Sam comes back and catches us?”

“We'll offer him tea and cookies and hope he doesn't murder us.”

“Oh, that's reassuring.” She flung a load of dirt. “You know what this is like? This is like the time you made me pretend to be Olga Fitzhiemmer, a Swedish Olympic skier, when we took that trip to Banff.”

“We got the guys, didn't we?”

“Yeah, but I was on the slopes breaking my leg and you were with the handsome French ski instructor.”

“I needed ski lessons.”

“In front of the fireplace?

“You got Frederico the Italian bullfighter.”

“He wasn't a Frederico and he wasn’t Italian and he wasn't a bullfighter. He was Fred, an accountant from Red Deer. He was pretending to be an Italian bullfighter.”

“Like you were pretending to be Olga the Swedish Olympic skier.”

“Only because you introduced me as Olga the Swedish Olympic skier.”

“I'm not seeing the connection.”

“This,” she thrust the spade into the dirt, “is just like that,” she flung the dirt. “I'm out here digging myself into a hole and you're standing there watching me. Why aren't you digging?”

“I can't dig with a snow shovel.”

“You didn't even try.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You did not.”

“Did too.”

“Oh fine.” Ivy stopped digging and handed me the spade, grabbing the shovel from me. “It's not like you have to really dig. The ground's already broken up. See.” She thrust the shovel into the dirt.

“You do that very well,” I commented as I watched her fling the soil.

She stopped for a moment and glared at me. I think she glared at me. It was too dark to see. But I could feel her glare at me. “Get over here and help me out!” she shouted in a whisper.

I took the spade and began digging beside her. The earth came up easily and smelled like...well like dirt. I don't know how to describe dirt smell. I wasn't sure what else I expected. Decaying body smell?

“Bullfighters aren't Italian,” I said.

“I know.” Ivy snapped.

Last year before mother died, I had been living in Italy. It had been a whim of mine to move there. I was newly divorced and my kids were grown and gone when I saw the movie Under the Tuscan Sun, about a newly divorced woman who moves to Italy and finds a handsome Italian man. It sounded perfect. I saved up and went to Italy with visions of studying art and design and finding a handsome Italian man. I studied art and design and found many handsome Italian men although none of them found me. But I stayed for several years coming back frequently for visits before returning to Marina Colleen to take care of my mother. Poison Ivy...stupid song still stuck in my head. I had a thought.

“I just thought of something,” I said.

“What?” Ivy asked. I could hear the frustration in her voice.

“I don't like dead things.”

“Nobody likes dead things.”

“Morticians like dead things.”

“Fine, morticians like dead things.”

“And taxidermists like dead things.”

“Is this going somewhere, or are you meandering?”

“And coroner's like dead things.”

“So you don't like dead things. What's your point?” She flung the dirt with more anger than I thought necessary.

“No, I mean I really don't like dead things. You know when you're driving down the road and there's like a dead porcupine or gopher or deer or something. I get that horrible shiver down my spine, and I have to look away.”

“That explains it!” Ivy suddenly stopped shoveling.

“That explains what?”

“Last week you almost veered off the road and into the ocean. You looked away from the dead deer.”
It didn't exactly happen that way but I didn't want to argue. “And when there was a dead bird on the patio, I couldn't go out there until you cleaned it up.”

Ivy dug her shovel back into the hole we were creating. “You knew about the dead bird and didn't do anything about it?”

“I couldn't. It was dead.”

Ivy flung another load of dirt. “You saw Mother in the casket.”

“Yes, but she didn't look...you know. She looked like a wax figure, like in that museum in Victoria.”

“I hated that museum. You made me go through the Chamber of Horrors.”

“That was the best part.”

“You jumped out at me. I almost had a heart attack.”

“I know. That was the best part.
”
Ivy stopped shoveling. “Okay, so you can get joy out of going through the Chamber of Horrors and seeing that guy hanging by a meat hook through the chest, but you can't look at a dead bird on the patio.”

“Weird, isn't it? I can't explain it. I just know this to be true.”

“So that means I have to identify the dead body.”

“You were a nurse. You saw dead bodies all the time.”

I swear she growled at me. It was this low guttural noise that came from somewhere in her throat, and for a while as we dug, all I heard was the sound of shovels against dirt - and her growl.

“What if we find them?” Ivy stopped again. “What if we find Sam's wife and children in this hole...”

“We'd only find one. We only saw him bury one body.”

“Okay, so we find one of them in this hole. What do we do then?”

“We dress them up in costumes and put them on display like that gopher museum in Alberta.”

“That's sick, even for you.” Ivy turned from me and threw more dirt.

“I'm scared. You know I make jokes when I'm scared.”

“You must be scared all the time.”

“What do you think we do? We call the police.”

Ivy stopped shoveling again. We were never going to get this job done if she kept stopping. “And how do we explain why we were digging out here?”

“We tell them the truth. That we saw him burying the body and that we...Oh, I see. We could get in trouble for not calling and disturbing the evidence.”

“You think?”

“Okay, so after we find out if it's one of them, we cover the body back up and then we call the police.”

“How do we explain the time difference between when we saw him bury the body and when we call the police? ’Cause you know, the time difference is bound to show up somewhere. It always does. Don't you watch CSI?”

I didn't know what to say. “Let me think about it,” I answered throwing another shovelful of dirt.

“I sure hope it's not one of the kids,” Ivy said as she resumed shoveling.

“You would rather it was Maureen?”

“No. I...I...I don't know.” I'm sure I heard a whine in there. I can't blame her. I felt like whining too.
Ivy didn't say anything for awhile as we shoveled. I went over in my mind what we were going to do if we did dig up a body. We could tell the police the truth even if it didn't look good. Ivy was right. They always found out anyway and it would look bad if we covered it up...literally. Like we were guilty of something.

“What are you two doing?”

The voice made me jump and Ivy scream.

I turned to find Fern standing over us, dressed in her bathrobe and slippers.

“We're building a swimming pool. What are you doing?” I asked, flinging dirt somewhere near her. Okay, at her.

“You're building a swimming pool with a snow shovel?” Her arms were crossed in front of her, like she was our mother or something.

“Actually, Ivy's building a swimming pool with a snow shovel. I'm using a spade.” I flung another load of dirt at her. It hit her feet. Score!

Fern jumped. “Hey! That was not nice!” She shook the dirt off her feet.

“Sorry,” I said. Okay, I lied. But if she was going to stand there hounding me I should get a little fun out of the deal.

“Why are you digging in the middle of the night?”

“Because,” I stopped and looked at her with what I hoped was patience and exasperation, “We work in the middle of the day.”

“Come on. What are you two really doing? You guys leave me out of everything,” Fern whined.

“If you want, I can let you use my shovel and you can dig for a while,” Ivy said.

“Oh sure, abandon me in this hole with Fern,” I said.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Fern said, her hands on her hips.

My spade hit something that didn't feel like dirt. “Ivy, I think I found it.”

“Let me guess, you found a map to buried treasure and this was the spot marked X,” Fern said.

Ivy and I ignored her as we uncovered the object wrapped in a blanket.

“That looks like a dead body,” Fern peered over the edge. “You've been burying bodies in the neighbor's yard?”

“No, we're unburying bodies in the neighbor's yard,” Ivy answered. “Can't you tell the difference?”

I stepped out of the hole and turned my back. “Take a look, and tell me what you see.”

“Now, what are you doing?” Fern asked me.

“Holly can't look at dead things,” Ivy explained.

I heard Fern roll her eyes.

“Fern, could you take the shovel?” Ivy asked her. Fern sighed, went over to the hole, grabbed the shovel from her and walked back to roll her eyes at me. There was a moment of silence.

“It's Petey,” I heard the sob in Ivy's voice.

“Petey? Is that a little boy?” Fern asked, going closer to the hole. Why would you go closer to look if you thought it was a little boy? Like I said, I couldn't explain Fern although she needed explaining.

“Poor Petey,” I sighed, turning around and seeing that Ivy still had him covered.

“You hated that dog,” Ivy said. “He was always yapping at us every time we came out into the backyard.”

“Dalmatians don't yap, they bark. Big loud barks that announce that you're going to be dinner.”

“Why are we digging up the neighbor's dog?” Fern asked.

“Why are you digging up the neighbor's dog?” A male voice asked. We all jumped and turned to see a police officer with a flashlight.

“Kelsey!” I smiled. “What are you doing here?”

“Kelsey? You know the cops by their first names? Why does that not surprise me?” Fern muttered.

“I got a call that there was someone skulking around the Wainwrights residence.” Kelsey said. Did I mention that Kelsey is very handsome? Think rugged forty-something with a touch of silver, a great smile, and no slouch in the working out department. It was too bad he already had a serious girlfriend.


“Oh, no one's skulking. It's just us.” I answered.

“Did you get permission to dig up Sam's backyard?” he asked.


“She made me do it,” Ivy pointed her finger at me.
“I'm sure she did. And I'm sure it will make an interesting story. You can tell it down at the station.”

“How about if we go into our kitchen and tell it there,” I suggested. “I have a cappuccino machine.”

“We don't have a cappuccino machine,” Fern said.

“Okay, we don't. But I make better coffee.”

“Everybody makes better coffee. Are we doing this with or without handcuffs?” Kelsey dangled the object in front of him.

Fern giggled. “Boy are you two in trouble.”

Kelsey turned to her. “You're under arrest too.”

“What! I had nothing to do with this.”

“You're holding a shovel.”

“It's a snow shovel.”

“I don't see snow. I see a lot of misplaced dirt. And you confessed.”

“Confessed? When did I confess?”

“When you said to Holly, 'Why are we digging up the neighbor's dog?' You said 'we'. I heard you say 'we'.”

“Oh, now this is not fair...”

“Hey, you're always complaining that we leave you out of everything,” I grinned. “See, we want you to be part of this. Don't we Ivy?”

“We sure do, Fern,” Ivy said as we walked to the patrol car.

“But I'm in my bathrobe and slippers. At least you two are color co-ordinated.”

After reading us our rights, Kelsey settled all three of us in the back seat. “Now if you're good,” he said, “we may be able to avoid the whole booking process. You really don't want this on your record now, do you?”
We all shook our heads in unison. Kelsey got into the car and called his dispatcher.

“There is something I don't understand,” I whispered to Ivy.

“What's that?”

“When Sam drove away, why did he take his spade with him?”

Ivy stared at me with her mouth open and her eyes wide.