Ann Martin - Mallory And The Mystery Diary

"You want to stay for awhile?" Stacey asked me. "Claud's here. She's helping Mom and me. Believe it or not, we're pretty much unpacked. But there are cartons and crumpled-up newspapers and those little Styrofoam things everywhere. So now we're trying to clean up. Claud's in the living room. Come take a look around."

It was funny. I'd always lived behind the

house Stacey had moved into, but I'd never been inside it. So I was pretty eager to look around, especially since it was such an old house.

Stacey took me on a tour. "This is the dining room. And this is the back hall. See? Those steps go upstairs, and there's another set of stairs at the front of the house."

"Cool!" I said.

Stacey led me all around the first floor and I looked at the low doorways, the funny wavy panes of glass in the windows, and the floors that tilted a little.

We met up with Claud and Mrs. McGill in the living room. Claudia was stuffing newspaper and Styrofoam bits into big garbage bags.

"I think we should save the boxes, though," Mrs. McGill said.

"Are you kidding?" said Stacey. "You better save them — after all the trouble I went through collecting those things in New York!" She turned to me. "I had to go begging at the grocery store nearly every day while we were packing. I thought the manager was going to kill me. There's no way I'm throwing them out."

"Why don't you take them up to the attic?" suggested Mrs. McGill. "We can always use boxes."

"The attic?" repeated Stacey. "I don't even know where it is. It's not one of those ladders you have to pull down from the ceiling, is it?"

"No. It's that doorway next to your bathroom, upstairs."

"You're kidding. I thought that was a linen closet. I didn't even bother to look inside!"

"That's because you hate changing your sheets," said Mrs. McGill, and we laughed.

Claud, Stacey, and I each nested some boxes together. We climbed to the second floor with them. Then Stacey opened the door to the "linen closet."

"What do you know?" she said. She put her boxes down and groped for a switch plate. "I am not going up these stairs in the dark," she announced.

"What are you afraid of? Bogeymen?" asked Claudia.

"Yes," replied Stacey. "We didn't have bogeymen in New York."

Stacey found the switch then, turned on the light, and we climbed the stairs cautiously.

"Phew, is it ever dusty here," said Claud.

"Really," I agreed, and sneezed.

We reached the top of the stairs, put our boxes on the floor, and just stared.

"Whoa," said Stacey. "Would you look at this."

Claudia and I were speechless. The attic was small, but it was crammed with stuff. I saw an old rocking chair, a brass headboard for a bed, several stacks of old magazines, a bird cage, a box full of books, one of those big, dome-shaped radios, a huge trunk, and more.

"I wonder who all this belongs to," Stacey whispered, and shivered. "Not the last people who owned the house. It looks like it's been around forever. Anyway, why wouldn't they have taken it with them?"

"An awful lot of people have lived in this house," I pointed out. "If every family left a few things behind, then — "I swept my hand around as if to say, "Well, you see what can happen."

Stacey took a step forward and tripped over one of our stacks of boxes. "Sheesh! There's barely room for these. But we'd have a lot more space if we got rid of that." She pointed to the trunk.

"Got rid of that?!" I cried. The trunk was handsome. Dusty, but handsome. Its lid was rounded. It was made of a rich-colored leather,

and the fastenings were brass. "You can't get rid of it! It's beautiful!" I exclaimed. "Besides, think what might be in it."

I crossed the attic, stepping over the boxes, and reached the trunk. I tried to open it. "Uh-oh," I said. "It's locked." I tried to lift it. I couldn't get it even an inch off the floor. "It must be stuffed," I added.

"I wonder what z's in it," said Claud, joining me. Her eyes had sort of glazed over. I knew she was thinking of Nancy Drew and mysteries.

"Girls?" called Stacey's mother then. "What are you doing up there?"

"Come see what we found," Stacey yelled down the stairs.

Mrs. McGill, sneezing, climbed the stairs to the attic. "Goodness, it's crowded up here!" she exclaimed.

Then Stacey showed her the trunk. "It is pretty," she said to her mother, mostly, I think, so as not to insult Claud and me, "but it's taking up way too much space. And it's locked, so we can't even see what's in it."

"It is taking up an awful lot of space," Mrs. McGill agreed. "We should probably just throw it away. We'll put it out for the garbage collector."

"No!" cried Claudia and I at the same time.

"Nancy Drew and Miss Marple want to see what's in the trunk/' Stacey informed her mother.

"Well, you're welcome to have it/' said Mrs. McGill.

Claud and I looked at each other. How would we decide who got the trunk?

Claud solved the problem. "You take it, Mal," she said. "My room's a crowded mess already. Besides, it'll be easier to get the trunk to your house. You live much closer by."

So I called the triplets and they agreed to lug the trunk out of the attic, down the stairs, through the yards to our house, and up to the room I share with Vanessa.

I had to pay them a dollar each, but it was worth it.

When the trunk had been unloaded in my bedroom, Vanessa just stared at it. "Where did that come from?" she asked.

I told her the story.

"And where are we going to put it?" she wanted to know.

"At the foot of my bed." I managed to shove it over.

Vanessa grinned. "Okay. Now let's open it."

"Can't," I told her. "It's locked." "Locked!" Vanessa sounded angry, but then this poetic look came over her face. "I think," she said dramatically, "that I shall write about a mystery trunk." Vanessa grabbed for pencil and paper, a poem already forming in her mind.

But all I could do was stare at the beautiful trunk. I was sure it held secrets.

Chapter 3.

The next day, Monday, I ran straight home after school, eager to look at my trunk.

It was still unopened.

The evening before, the triplets had begged me to break the locks so we could get inside it, but I wouldn't let them. I wanted the trunk opened, too, but I didn't want to ruin it.

"Try bobby pins," suggested Adam. "They always work in the movies." So we did, but nothing happened.

"Try a credit card," suggested Byron. "That works, too."

His brothers gave him withering looks. "It doesn't work on trunks/' they informed him. "It works on doors to people's houses."

"How about a coat hanger!" cried Vanessa.

That drew more withering looks.

"Coat hangers," said Jordan, "are for get-

ting into your car when you've locked yourself out."

"Isn't there a key somewhere?" asked Nicky, joining us in the bedroom.

I shook my head. "Nope. Stacey and I searched the attic."

"Maybe it's taped to the bottom of the trunk or something," said Vanessa.

The six of us searched every inch of the trunk.

No key.

"Well," I said. "That's that. At least for now. I'll think more about this tomorrow."

Monday afternoon arrived and I didn't have any new ideas. I could tell that the locked trunk was driving Vanessa crazy. She was writing poems like a demon, and casting long, soulful glances at both the trunk and me.

Finally she said, "I bet you could smash those locks with a hammer."

"No way," I replied. "That would ruin the trunk."

I was glad when it was time to leave for a BSC meeting. I wouldn't have to watch the tortured poet anymore.

Our club meetings are held from five-thirty until six every Monday, Wednesday, and Fri-

day afternoon. I like to get to club headquarters (Claudia's bedroom) a little before five-thirty. If you are even a speck late, Kristy starts the meeting without you.