Riley Mack Stirs Up More Trouble Page 7

  The two men walked out of view. Car doors opened and closed. An engine roared to life. Wheels rumbled down the dirt road.

  Riley, Mongo, and Jamal remained frozen until they heard the car accelerate onto the paved roadway a quarter mile away.

  “Can we breathe yet?” Mongo finally whispered.

  “Yeah,” said Riley. “They’re gone.”

  “Brown and Paxton?” said Jamal. “They’re both mixed up in this thing?”

  “So it seems,” said Riley, standing up and brushing dirt off his jeans.

  “Might I say, Riley Mack, that you were wise not to report this matter to the proper authorities because, if you ask me, the authorities around here aren’t all that proper.”

  Riley nodded. His mind was racing a mile a minute. What could Brown and Paxton be working on together? And who was this Kleinman guy they both seemed to be so worried about? Why did they need to bribe him into silence?

  “I need to be at the country club at four p.m. to check out this Kleinman character.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said Jamal. “Do they let black people into this country club?”

  Riley shook his head.

  “They don’t? What is this, 1952 or something?”

  “No, I mean I don’t want you coming along. You’re too young. This is too risky.”

  “Risky? Risky is my middle name.”

  “Really?” said Mongo. “Mine is Horatio.”

  “Hubert Horatio Montgomery?”

  Mongo nodded.

  “Man, what is wrong with your parents?”

  Before Mongo could answer, Riley interrupted. “I’ll go with Briana.”

  “What?” said Jamal.

  “We snuck into the wedding reception without a problem. She can wear the same disguise and we’ll sneak in again. Nobody ever bothers old people or asks them for ID. We can whip up a second costume for me.”

  Jamal looked skeptical. “You’re gonna be another old lady?”

  “No. I’ll still be her grandson.” Riley was smiling. He loved it when a plan started coming together in his head.

  “And what are you two going to do for wheels?” asked Jamal. “We can’t afford another taxi and you can’t make your granny ride her bike to the country club.”

  “Hey!” said Mongo. “My dad has a golf cart in the garage. Somebody traded it in when they bought a used car.”

  “Really?” said Jamal. “And your dad took it?”

  “Sure. He’ll take anything. Golf carts. Motor scooters. Chickens.”

  “Did it come with golf clubs?” asked Riley.

  “Yep.”

  “Okay. We’ll call Briana. Have her put on her granny outfit and whip me up a blond wig, polo shirt, and blue blazer; maybe give me a pair of horn-rimmed glasses. I want to look like I belong at Brookhaven.”

  “All right,” said Jamal, “it might work.”

  “Pop open that gate again, Jamal. Mongo and I need to head back to school.”

  “School,” said Mongo sorrowfully. “Some summer vacation this turned out to be!”

  17

  PRESCOTT PAXTON DID NOT LIKE working with Chief Brown.

  But he needed the idiotic buffoon’s assistance because this thing was much, much bigger than making sure the grand reopening of the Brookhaven golf course went off without a hitch.

  “So,” asked Chief Brown as Paxton piloted his Mercedes down shade-dappled Brookhaven Lane, “your daughter’s performing at the talent show this Saturday?”

  “Nyes,” said Paxton.

  “This general that’s going to be one of the judges,” said the chief, “is he the reason you’re doing the whole Greens for the Army Green theme?”

  “Of course not, John. The Brookhaven Country Club is an extremely patriotic institution. It’s why we also asked Mrs. Madiera Mack to help judge the talent competition.”

  “Bad idea, Prescott. Big mistake.”

  “How so? Her husband, Colonel Richard Mack, is a decorated war hero.”

  “I don’t care. Her son is a KTM—a known troublemaker.”

  “Really?”

  “Riley Mack is the one who framed my mother. Shut down her farm.”

  “Is that so?”

  “I can’t prove it. Not yet. But I will. You’ll see.”

  They passed through the imposing gates of the country club. As they cruised up the driveway, Paxton admired the emerald-green grass of the golf course’s rolling fairways.

  “What kind of fertilizer you guys use?” asked Chief Brown. “Miracle-Gro?”

  “I’m not certain. You’ll have to ask our head groundskeeper, Stuart Sowicky. He has been coordinating the lawn-grooming efforts with the landscaping company.”

  “Yeah, right,” said Chief Brown sarcastically. “I’ll be sure to do that.”

  Paxton pulled the Mercedes to a stop under the club’s canopied entryway. Two college-age parking attendants in scarlet vests dashed over to open the doors.

  “Good morning, Mr. Paxton!”

  “Welcome back, Mr. Paxton!”

  “Boys.” Paxton handed over his key fob.

  “Where’s my car?” asked the chief, hiking up his pants.

  “We’ll bring it right up, Chief Brown.”

  “You do that, son. And don’t you even think about hitting the siren.”

  “No, sir. I mean, yes, sir.”

  Paxton said his good-byes and headed off toward the east wing of the country club. As club president, he had a small but tastefully furnished room with a desk and a telephone to use for official club business.

  Walking up the impressive, hardwood-paneled hallways, Paxton passed a photo exhibit titled Brookhaven: A New Golf Course for the New Millennium.

  The pictures showed the progression of work on the massive landscaping project: President Paxton in a hard hat plunging a golden shovel into the dirt to break ground; backhoes digging trenches in the earth at night under the hazy glare of spotlights; bulldozers, flecked with snow, smoothing out rich, black soil; landscapers laying down sod in the early spring; a dump truck emptying sand into liver-shaped pits; pipe valves being opened to fill a water hazard.

  In one photo, Stuart Sowicky, the head groundskeeper, could be seen consulting with a landscaping architect over an unrolled set of landscaping plans. The two of them were pointing at something remarkable on the horizon, as if they were both Balboa, discovering the Pacific Ocean.

  “I dig that picture, too.”

  Paxton turned around. It was Sowicky himself, his mustache droopy, his chin and cheeks unshaven for days. Sowicky kept his long silver hair tied back into a ponytail. Paxton sniffed the air and smelled an odor very similar to dog poop. He also noticed that Sowicky’s green jumpsuit was muddy at the knees; his tan work boots were caked with what could have been clay (or something worse).

  “Stuart,” Paxton said smugly.

  “Dude,” said Sowicky, who called everyone dude. “So—you have a chance to check out those other pictures? The ones I gave you?”

  “No. As you might imagine, I’ve been rather busy.”

  “Sure. I can dig it. But . . .”

  Paxton held up his hand. “I will look at your photographs as soon as we’re through with the grand reopening. I promise.”

  “Okay. That’s cool.”

  “Nyes. Nice bumping into you, Stuart.”

  “Likewise. Later, dude.” Sowicky loped up the hall toward an exit.

  Paxton realized: he lived his life surrounded by idiots.

  Which, in a way, was a good thing.

  It made it much, much easier for him to be a diabolical genius.

  18

  AT ELEVEN A.M., RIGHT ON schedule, Riley and Mongo met Ms. Kaminski in the parking lot of Fairview Middle School.

  She had two bumper stickers plastered on her tiny car: CSI: CAN’T STAND IDIOTS and SUPPORT YOUR LOCAL POLICE—LEAVE FINGERPRINTS.

  “Looks like we’re the only ones here,” said Ms. Kaminski. “Even the janitor has started his summer v
acation.”

  “How can you tell?” asked Riley.

  “By reading the evidence.”

  “You mean like footprints and junk?” said Mongo.

  “No. His parking space. It’s empty. Come on. Let’s head inside to the science lab.”

  They entered the school.

  “We really appreciate you helping us out like this,” said Riley as Ms. Kaminski flipped on the lights to the lab.

  “Hey, you guys could be goofing off at the pool. Instead, you’re here doing science. I’m impressed!”

  “Okay,” said Riley, showing Ms. Kaminski the screen to his smartphone. “These are the fish we found dead in Mongo’s mom’s pond.”

  “Interesting,” said Ms. Kaminski, studying the first picture. “Rainbow trout.”

  Riley thumbed a button on his phone. “Here’s a bluegill, a bass, a perch, a . . .”

  “Mr. Montgomery—just how big is your parents’ pond?”

  “It’s, you know, a regulation-size pond,” said Riley, since it had been his idea to place the pond in Mongo’s backyard this time instead of Briana’s because Mongo’s house was closer to where they had found the dead fish.

  “Well, it certainly is well stocked.”

  “Here’s the water sample,” said Riley, pulling the sport bottle out of his backpack.

  “My boyfriend, Ron, has agreed to check it for toxins,” Ms. Kaminksi said. “He works at a lab that does all sorts of bacteriological and chemical testing for people using private well water. Things are slow this week, so he’ll do it for free.”

  “Awesome,” said Riley.

  “Easy for you to say. I owe him dinner and movie.”

  “We can help with that.”

  “Riley gets free passes to everything,” added Mongo.

  “Really?” Ms. Kaminski was impressed.

  Riley shrugged. “What can I say? I have many friends in many places.”

  “I’ll tell Ron to look for fertilizers, pesticides, herbicides, household chemicals—stuff like laundry detergent and cleaners.”

  “What about gasoline and oil?” suggested Riley.

  “Sure. Is the pond downhill from your garage?”

  “Um, I think so,” said Mongo.

  “Then gas, oil, and antifreeze definitely go on the list. See, we need to figure out the watershed’s possible pollution sources.”

  “Watershed?” said Mongo.

  “The area of land that drains to a creek, lake, aquifer, or, in this case, backyard fishpond. Do you have a topographical map of the area around your house, Mongo?”

  “We can get one,” said Riley.

  “Do. Because water flows . . .”

  Mongo jumped in: “Downhill!”

  “That’s right.”

  “So,” said Riley, “while your friend figures out what’s in the water, we’ll figure out what’s uphill from the pond and try to ID all the possible sources of contamination.”

  “Exactly!”

  Riley and Mongo met the other guys downstairs at Jake’s house.

  “How’s Briana doing on the costumes for this afternoon?” Riley asked.

  “She biked over to the thrift shop to pick out the rest of your preppy wardrobe,” said Jake. “Khaki shorts, argyle socks, polo shirt, ascot.”

  “Ascot?”

  “A silk scarf you wear around your neck, like Richie Rich in the comic books,” said Jamal. “You’re gonna look sharp, Riley Mack. Sharp!”

  “Cool.”

  “Not completely,” said Jake.

  “What do you mean?”

  “While Briana was biking over to the store, Sara Paxton zoomed by in somebody’s convertible and started screaming junk at her.”

  Riley sighed. “Such as?”

  “Loser, cheater, ugmo.”

  “To state the obvious,” said Jamal, “that blond balloon-head is furious Briana made it into the talent show finals.”

  Mongo gasped. “Sara may try to hurt Briana!”

  “Don’t worry,” said Riley, even though he, himself, was worried about the same thing. “We won’t let her.”

  “Okay,” said Mongo. “Good.”

  “Did you guys find a topographical map?”

  “Over here,” said Jake. “Computer three.”

  Riley checked out the screen. It was filled with swirling brown lines, splotches of green, and blue squiggles.

  “These contour lines represent changes in elevation. I’ve zoomed in on Schuyler’s Pond. The closer the contour lines, the steeper the incline. The green, of course, represents forest. The blue lines are creeks and streams.”

  “And the brown,” said Jamal, “is dirt. Because dirt is, you know, brown.”

  Riley tapped a blue line. “This is where I found the fish. What’s uphill from that spot?”

  “Follow me to computer two.”

  Jake rolled his desk chair sideways to a different monitor.

  “We synched up Google Earth with the topo map. This is satellite imagery of the same area.”

  “Hey!” said Mongo. “There’s my house. I recognize our swing set.”

  “As you recall,” said Jake, “when we hiked into the woods, we had to go up a hill to get to the dirt road.”

  “So,” said Riley, “the pollution, whatever it is, isn’t coming from any of these downhill houses.”

  “Exactly,” said Jake. “Our contaminant has to come from the north.”

  “What’s up that way?” asked Riley. “A farm? Some kind of factory?”

  Jake tapped the zoom toggle to widen out the image.

  Riley saw trees bordering several oddly shaped areas of green that were occasionally interrupted by small pools of water or kidney-shaped sand pits.

  “The golf course?”

  “Exactly,” said Jake.

  “So that explains the new fence, the No Trespassing signs, and why Mr. Paxton was tromping around in the woods with Chief Brown. He’s president of the country club.”

  “Dag,” said Jamal, “these Paxton people are vile, despicable, and atrocious. While Sara’s trying to steal Briana’s scholarship, her daddy’s busy bumping off fish!”

  19

  “REMEMBER,” SAID RILEY, TWISTING THE steering wheel on the battery-powered golf cart, “our primary objective is to find out who this Kleinman guy is.”

  “I know why we’re going to the country club, you young whippersnapper,” cackled Briana, totally into character as a wrinkled old grandmother. She was wearing a purple tracksuit, like retired people do (the better to stuff her butt and legs with foam padding). A golf visor circled her bubble of blueish-white hair and shadowed the jeweled cat’s-eye glasses perched on her bumpy nose.

  The electric vehicle whirred and clicked as it scooted up the cart path toward the main entrance to the club.

  Riley was in costume, too, including a “preppy boy” blond wig that hid his most distinguishing physical trait: his fiery red hair.

  “Do I look like I belong?” he asked Briana.

  “Totally,” she said, dropping her crotchety voice. “So, how do we find this Kleinman guy?”

  “We look for Mr. Paxton. He’ll probably be coming out front to meet Kleinman at four.”

  “What time is it now?”

  Riley glanced at his watch. “Three fifty-eight.”

  “Step on it, Sonny!” said Briana.

  Riley jammed down the accelerator and zipped up the curvy asphalt strip.

  The fact that Mongo’s house was just on the other side of the ridge from the golf course meant that it took Riley and Briana only about fifteen minutes to drive the four miles in their quiet little cart.

  “There’re a bunch of carts lined up over there,” said Briana.

  Riley piloted the vehicle under the veranda, passing two valet-parking attendants.

  “Welcome back, Mrs. Smith!” one of the college-age guys called to Briana as they zipped past.

  Briana gave him a Queen of England window-washer wave. “Hel-lo-o-o-o, dear!”

/>   “That’s the guy who helped you out of the cab Saturday,” whispered Riley.

  “Check,” Briana whispered back.

  Riley slid their cart in between two others.

  “Need a hand with your clubs, Mrs. Smith?”

  Great. The car jockey wanted to help them unload their cart.

  “That’s okay,” said Briana. “My grandson Richie is here to help me today.”

  Riley gave the guy a jolly finger wave.

  “You storing those in the clubhouse?” the guy pulled a pad and pencil out of his back pocket. “I’m like you, Mrs. Smith. Can’t wait for the course to reopen on Saturday.”

  “You bet your sweet bippy,” chirped Briana. “I’m eager to hit the links and shoot a birdie!”

  The guy tore the top sheet off his pad and strode closer to the cart. “Let me grab those bags for ya, Richie.”

  “Richie?” Briana tweedled to Riley. “Where are my teeth, dear? I was soaking my dentures in your soda-pop cup. The scrubby bubbles clean ’em up good. . . .”

  Riley walked over and took the slip of paper from the grossed-out parking attendant. “Don’t worry. I help her with her chompers . . . and the clubs.”

  The guy gave Riley a grateful thumbs-up and hustled back to his post.

  Riley walked back to the cart. “Well played, Briana.”

  “Thanks. This makeup works best at a distance. So what do we do till Paxton shows up? I can’t just stand here gumming my lips.”

  “We could mess with the golf clubs, I guess.”

  “Yes! Props!”

  Riley and Briana slipped around to the rear of the cart and started futzing with the knitted club-head covers.

  “Richie, you put the P on the nine!” Briana knuckle-punched Riley in the arm.

  “Sorry, Grandma.”

  They fiddled with the heads of all the clubs, switching the covers back and forth, then forth and back.

  “Here he comes,” said Riley.

  Mr. Paxton marched out through the front doors of the country club.

  “Can we get you your car, Mr. Paxton?” asked one of the valet-parking guys.

  “No, thank you. I’m meeting someone.”

  “Where’s Kleinman?” muttered Briana, who had started reorganizing the golf balls stuffed into the zippered pouch on the side of the bag.