Ann Martin - Mallory And The Mystery Diary

ory, who's angry about what his nephew did.

Mary Anne is particularly sensitive about this subject because some girls at school played a trick on her (well, on all of us, really) and made us go to Old Hickory's grave at midnight last Hallo ween. They had planned to scare us, but we ended up scaring them!

"Gosh, I wonder," said Dawn. "Grandfather Hickman . . . Old Hickory. And — and this is sort of a long shot, but you don't think Jared, Sophie's father, could be the Jared who's supposed to haunt the secret passage at my house ... do you?"

"Oh, no," said Mary Anne quickly. "How could he be? Didn't the story go that he was the son of farmers who had to leave town in disgrace? Well, so far that much could be true. But then he disappeared. Wouldn't people have noticed if he turned up again and married the daughter of the richest man in town?"

"They're all just stories," Kristy pointed out. "And most of them are ghost stories, so right away we know we can't believe them entirely. What we have to do is find out which parts are accurate and see if anything connects."

"I should go back and check that old history book," said Dawn. "You know, A History of Stoneybrooke. I should read the part about Jared

Mullray again. I don't even remember when that story was supposed to have taken place. Hey, Mal, what's Sophie's last name? Is it Mullray?"

I paused. "I don't think Sophie ever mentioned her last name," I said finally. "At the beginning of the diary, she just wrote 'by Sophie.' I'm pretty sure the only last name she mentions is Hickman, but that wouldn't be her last name. I'll read through the diary again, though," I told Dawn.

"Well, one thing sort of fits," said Claud, our mystery-book fan. "If Sophie's grandfather really was Old Hickory, I think only he would be mean enough to hate Jared so much, no matter what Jared had done, and only he would cut two innocent kids out of his will just because he didn't like their father. After all, Sophie and Edgar didn't do anything to their grandfather."

"Hey!" exclaimed Jessi. "Maybe Sophie stole the painting. No one would suspect her. And that's how you usually solve mysteries, isn't it? You suspect the least suspicious person."

"Then we should suspect Edgar," I said. "Jess, Sophie wouldn't tell lies in her diary. That's not what diaries are for. If anything, she'd confess in it. Besides, she was too pas-

sionate. She couldn't lie so passionately."

"I think we can eliminate Sophie as a suspect," said Kristy. "But Claud does have a point about Old Hickory. He really might be Sophie's grandfather. And that's how you solve hundred-year-old mysteries. By connecting little pieces of information."

"I guess we still have some digging ahead of us," I said, "but I bet we can do it. I bet we can."

"Oh, I have goose bumps," said Mary Anne. "Even if this doesn't turn out to be another ghost story, it is pretty spooky. The missing portrait . . . the nasty grandfather . . . the dead mother."

"I love mysteries," said Claudia, hugging herself happily.

"Easy for you to say," spoke up Stacey. "I'm the one who might have angry ghosts roaming around my house at night." But I could tell she didn't really mean it. Stacey isn't a big believer in the supernatural or astrology or things like that. Even so, she looked just the teeniest bit nervous. The rest of us looked nervous, too. Claudia looked happily nervous, since she loves having a mystery to solve. Mary Anne looked worried and nervous, and

everyone else, including me, looked intrigued and nervous.

All during our ghostly conversation we'd been stopping to take job calls. Now it was nearly six and the phone had stopped ringing. When Claud's digital clock read 6:00 on the nose, Kristy took off her visor and said loudly, "Meeting adjourned!" The BSC members left Claud's room, looking pretty thoughtful.

Chapter 10.

It was another "Tutor Buddy" day. As you know, the first tutoring session had pretty much been a disaster. The second one hadn't been any better. But this time I was going to the Barretts' house armed with a few materials and a lot of ideas. I had finally put Sophie's diary down long enough to catch up on my homework and give some thought to Buddy's reading problems.

Ding-dong.

Buddy answered the doorbell, looking particularly unenthusiastic.

I ignored that. "Hiya," I said, sounding perky, as usual.

"Hi."

Buddy ushered me inside. Mrs. Barrett was home that afternoon and waved to me from the living room. When Buddy and I reached his bedroom, I saw Buddy's reader and work-

book stacked neatly on his desk.

"Guess what?" I said. "We don't need those today." I pointed to his books.

"We don't?" replied Buddy. "Mom put them there so I wouldn't forget my homework."

"Well, we're not going to do your homework this afternoon. You can do it tonight. We'll look at your assignment before I go, to make sure you understand the directions. Now get this — we aren't even going to sit at your desk."

"Where are we going to sit?" asked Buddy, looking outdoors hopefully.

"On your bed. I've got something special for you."

"In that bag?"

"Yup. Come here and sit down." I patted a spot on Buddy's bed and turned on his reading lamp. When he had settled himself against a pillow, I sat next to him and handed him the bag.

"Is this for me?"

"Yup. Well, the things inside are on loan from Nicky and the triplets. We'll have to return them in a couple of days."

"Okay." Buddy looked intrigued.

Then he opened the bag and pulled out—

"Comic books? Archie comic books! What are they for?"

"They're for you to read," I told him. "I think they'll be more fun than your schoolbooks."

"Really?" cried Buddy. "I can read these?"

"Sure/' I replied, but even as the word was coming out of my mouth, an awful thought was occurring to me. Maybe Mrs. Barrett didn't let her kids read comics. Some parents don't, and I can understand why. In our house we're allowed to read comics, but only as long as we read books, too. Mom and Dad said that was fair since they read some pretty junky magazines as well as good books. But not all parents feel that way.

Or maybe, I thought, Buddy's' teacher doesn't let his students read comics. Or maybe Mrs. Barrett had said, "No comics until your grades improve, Buddy."

"You are allowed to read comics, aren't you?" I asked Buddy.

"We-ell, I don't know. My teacher said they're trash. But he didn't say we couldn't read them."

"What does your mother say?"

"About comic books? Nothing."

"Then we're going to read them," I said.

My reasoning was that Buddy didn't think reading was fun. He didn't enjoy it. If I could show him that reading can be fun, maybe (later) he would start reading things besides comics, like mysteries or animal stories. And when his reading improved, his schoolwork would become easier.

I fanned the comic books on the bed between Buddy and me. "Pick one," I told him.

Buddy considered the selection seriously. At last he chose a book. He opened it to the first page.

"I like comics!" he announced, sounding truly excited for the first time since I'd started tutoring him. "I like the pictures!"

"Try the words," I suggested.

Buddy drew in a deep breath — and began reading. He read haltingly at first. Then he began to sound more confident. When he stumbled over the words "ice-cream cone," I said, "Look at the picture. Does that give you a clue?"

"Oh!" he exclaimed. "Ice cream ... I mean, ice-cream . . . cone?"

"You got it!"

"Hey!" Buddy sounded quite pleased with himself.

He read along. When he came to a word he

didn't know, he looked at the pictures and then sounded the word out. Buddy had been right. He could read more easily when he read words "together," instead of single words on flash cards. And he certainly read better when he liked what he was reading.