Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson Page B

large pail.
    â€œWhat you need is a break from your painting,” I said. “Why don’t we go to Rock Cordes’s office — Rock Cordes Senior, I mean — and grill him about his son?”
    Madge dried the brushes. She shook her head at me. “Why don’t you stop pestering Itchy? The guy crashed into the Urstads’ pool and is embarrassed about it. When he sees you, he runs away. So he’s too much of a geek to apologize. So what? The hang glider’s been removed and the incident is closed.”
    â€œIt’s open,” I contradicted her. “Wide, wide open. Question marks are bobbing around like the bumblebees in your mural. Your ex-mural,” I corrected myself. “Why did Itchy, who’s supposed to be a good navigator, crash into the Urstads’ pool? Why did he steal my inflatable turtle? Why’d he dump kitties on Rowena’s doorstep? Why does he keep saying it’s not his fault? What is ‘it,’ anyhow?”
    I adjusted my glasses. “I’ll tell you one thing. This ‘it’ is bigger than we think.”
    Madge stood up. She gave the dining room wall a despairing glance and patted me on the head. “There is no ‘it,’ ” she said, not unkindly. “Itchy’s dad is a big wheel in North Vancouver. Kids of big wheels have an extra responsibility to stay out of trouble. When they don’t, headlines erupt. Bad publicity for them — and for their famous dad or mom. That’s why Itchy gets scared when he sees you, Dinah. You remind him of the trouble he got into.”
    â€œYou mean the pool he got into,” I corrected. “That all makes sense, Madge— except for one thing. My turtle. Why would he steal a wrecked inflatable turtle?”
    Madge shrugged. “Maybe he’s a kleptomaniac.”
    â€œHuh?”
    â€œCan’t help stealing things.” Madge was gazing dreamily at the newly white wall; she had lost interest in mysteries and was picturing a fresh mural. “As for the kitties, well, maybe he was honestly trying to find a home for them.”
    I knew that what she was saying made sense. Grown-up, logical sense.
    I also knew in my bones that she was wrong.
    Madge’s gaze shifted from the blank wall to the mirror on the opposite wall. At the sight of her reflection, my sister’s dreamy look faded and was replaced by a satisfied smile. She patted her hair.
    â€œTell you what,” she said. “I think you and I, after our hard work, deserve a swim. Why don’t you empty the soapy pail out in the laundry room? By the time you get out to the pool, I’ll have a cheese and fruit plate for us to snack off between dives. Or, in your case, between belly flops.”
    I was too busy thinking about Itchy to be insulted by Madge’s belly-flop comment. There was something else strange about him, I mused, absentmindedly stirring the soapy water.
    I went over the times I’d seen Itchy. In the Urstads’ backyard, in Rowena’s front yard, atop Grouse Moun-tain — in each place, Itchy had fled from me. In fact, his fleeing seemed to be the basis of our relationship. He hadn’t even stuck around to check that the cats he’d left were safely taken care of.
    I sighed. Maybe Madge was right. Maybe Itchy was just plain nervous about bad publicity. After all, Sylvester Sloan from the Bugle had appeared after Itchy deposited the cats.
    Soon after. Too soon.
    Whoa. That was the other strange thing about Itchy. Sylvester had shown up knowing about the cats Itchy had deposited. I clapped a soapy hand over my mouth. Had someone tipped off the Bugle that Itchy was going to leave cats on Rowena’s doorstep?
    Was Itchy linked to the people trying to drive Rowena out of the neighborhood?
    But that didn’t make sense. Itchy had crashed the hang glider into the Urstads’ property, not Rowena’s.
    â€œThe more I try to put the pieces of all this