Casey Templeton Mysteries 2-Book Bundle. Gwen Molnar
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to sit up, felt dizzy, and collapsed against the pillows. “The fire went out and I wasn’t sure any of my messages got through, so I thought I’d better get to town for help before Mr. D. froze to death.”
Casey’s father had been listening in silence. Now he spoke. “That doesn’t explain what you were doing out there, Casey. No question you saved Mr. Deverell’s life, but going out there alone at night wasn’t smart. Feel up to explaining it?”
“May I have a glass of water?” Casey croaked.
His mother poured ice water from a fat green plastic jug on the bedside table into a squat glass with a straw, gently lifted Casey’s head, and put another pillow under it, then handed him the glass.
“How’s Mr. D.?” Casey asked after he took a long swig.
“Not good,” his dad said. “Still unconscious, poor soul. Casey, we’re waiting for an explanation.”
“Okay, Dad, here it comes.” He handed the glass back to his mother. “But don’t expect it in point form.”
Chief Superintendent Templeton was a stickler for having all reports made to him as: point one, such and such, point two, such and such else, et cetera. Casey just wasn’t up to thinking like that. His father nodded, and he began.
“It all started yesterday after gym when I heard Kevin Schreiver and Terry Bracco say they were heading out to the Old Willson Place right after school to —”
“Smoke,” interrupted his father.
Casey nodded. He caught a fleeting smile around his dad’s eyes. Did his father know that because he had done the same thing once upon a time? “I decided to get there before them and …”
“And …?” his mother prompted.
“And be there smoking a pipe when they got there.”
“This pipe?” Casey’s father took the antique pipe from his pocket, his face now unsmiling.
Casey nodded. “I figured they’d think that was a pretty cool thing to do. And they did. I hardly smoked. The tobacco I got out of Hank’s cigarettes tasted awful, but I did get the pipe lit. Anyway, the pipe wasn’t in my pocket when I went to put it back in its case at home, so I figured I must have lost it at the Willson Place. That’s why I went back — to find it.”
“Two Mounties from Fraserville are out in the hall,” his father said. “You can tell the rest of your story to all of us together. Hank, will you get Staff Sergeant Deblo and Constable Hexall?”
Casey asked for the glass and took another long sip of water, thinking he would try to give his report to the Mounties in point form. Maybe that would put his dad in a better mood.
“Point one,” Casey began, glancing at his dad. “As I looked over at the Old Willson Place when I was crossing the field, I saw a light for a few seconds in the front window. It moved, went out, and didn’t come on again.”
“Deverell?” Staff Sergeant Deblo questioned.
“I don’t think so, sir,” Casey said. “I found him about twenty minutes later. Can’t see how he could’ve been that stiff and cold and snow-covered in such a short time. And I didn’t see any light nearby when I found him.”
Deblo frowned. “And our searchers didn’t find a light near the gate. But Deverell would have needed a light, so where did it go? And how did he get to the Willson Place? Surely, he drove the back road we took and wouldn’t have walked across the field the way you did, Casey. We’ve checked. His car was in his garage, but it had been driven sometime after the snow started. There were still wet areas under the tires.”
“I didn’t see a car or any tire tracks out there,” Casey said.” “But it was snowing pretty hard by the time I found him. The tracks would have been covered up.”
The police had Casey tell how he had moved Mr. Deverell into the house. When he was finished, his dad said, “Casey, I’m very proud of your problem-solving ability.”
Compliments from his father were few and far between, and this was one Casey knew he would treasure forever.
When Casey got to point eleven — his discovery of the “hate” headquarters — and explained about sending the emails, it was Staff Sergeant Deblo’s turn to praise him. “You should consider the Mounties as a career, Casey. Your kind of thinking would be a real asset to the force.”
After the Mounties finished questioning Casey, they politely said no to his suggestion that he help in the investigation. The focus of their inquiries, they told him, would, of course, be: Who was responsible for the violence against Mr. Deverell, the Finegoods, and the Olbergs? Who had set up the Hate Cell? And who owned the computer equipment?
Casey had those questions and so many other things to ponder that he told himself he didn’t really mind all the snow-shovelling he would have to do as punishment for his reckless behaviour. Maybe the Mounties could get along without him, but he bet there was still something he knew that they didn’t.
When he did return from the hospital, Casey not only had to shovel his own driveway and long sidewalk but the sidewalk of the Masons’ house next door and the Olbergs’ place next to it. That meant he was shovelling a whole city block every time it snowed, and it did so every day during his first week home. Worse, he was going to have to shovel like that all winter — and for no pay. Chief Superintendent Templeton believed in meting out punishment that “made the perpetrator think a lot about what he had done and kept him fit, as well.”
Now, in the midst of his latest shovelling chore, the two little McKay kids came out with an invitation from Mrs. Olberg to join them for a cup of hot cocoa when he finished. Laszlo and Anna went back to tell their aunt that Casey would love some cocoa, and Laszlo returned with a shovel to help Casey so he could finish sooner.
Mrs. Olberg — Daisy — was an old friend of Casey’s parents. It was she the Templetons had asked to search for a house for them when they knew they would soon be moving back to Richford. That it was almost next door to her was a plus for everybody.
Casey took off his shovelling clothes in the Olbergs’ back hall and came up the few steps into the kitchen.
“Boy, your dad’s a tough customer, Casey,” Mrs. Olberg said, pouring Casey a big mug of hot cocoa and putting two homemade doughnuts on a plate in front of him. “I hear you’re elected to shovel our whole block all this winter. Pretty nice for the rest of us, but poor you. Laszlo wants to help, so let him.”
“I will,” Casey said. “But, Mrs. O., we’re getting so much snow so darn early this year. Shovelling’s all I seem to do. I hardly have time for anything else.”
Casey heard someone walking down the stairs. When he looked up, he saw Laszlo’s mother enter the kitchen. He had met her before, of course, but was just as impressed each time. Maria McKay was very beautiful, with flashing black eyes and long black hair done in a thick braid that hung over her right shoulder. She wore a silver-blue tailored blouse and an ankle-length skirt of flowing cornflower-blue silk. Her neck was encased in a wide brace, and she limped a little.
Casey stood. “Good afternoon, Mrs. McKay.”
“Hello, Casey,” she said. “Sit down for goodness’ sake.” Her English was very good. Just the odd word sounded foreign.
“Would you like some cocoa, Maria?” Mrs. Olberg asked. “Or tea? I can make some in a minute and I’d like a cup, too.”
“Tea would be good. Thank you, Daisy.” Laszlo’s mother turned to Casey. “Tell me what’s happening with the investigation of the idiots who nearly killed me. Is it known yet who’s responsible?”
Casey took a gulp of cocoa. “Well, I’m not officially in on the investigation, of course, but I can tell you the team has some promising leads.”
“What you’re really saying is nobody knows much.”
“Maybe