Jeremy Pye, Private Eye

by Marie Helen Turner

“Jeremy?” For a moment, the Flower Lady’s voice seemed to be part of my daydream. I blinked and looked at the garden hose in my hands.

“I’m over here, Mrs. Forrester,” I called, stepping out from behind the rhododendrons. “There was a kink in the hose. I’m sorry I took so long.”

“That’s all right, dear.” She hurried toward me along the flagstone path, the baseball cap over her gray hair askew. We’d moved to a little house around the corner last fall—Mom and Mama and my little sister, Molly, and I—and I’d just started helping Mrs. Forrester on Saturday afternoons.

Well, I was supposed to be helping. Not imagining I was a private investigator, climbing a drainpipe, hot on the trail of a cat burglar.

Behind Mrs. Forrester’s smudged glasses, her blue eyes looked worried. “Did you see anyone stop by the flower stall in the last twenty minutes or so?” she asked.

“No.” I glanced over at the roadside stall, a card table shaded by a green patio umbrella. The tulips and irises looked fine to me. “Why?” I asked. “Did someone not pay for their flowers?”

She shook her head. “I’d noticed a few bills in the basket earlier, and now they’re gone.”

I stared at her. “Someone robbed you? And I was right here?” Guilt flooded through me. If I hadn’t been daydreaming, I might’ve glanced through the bushes and seen the thief. I could have yelled and stopped him, or followed him, or got his license number if he was driving.

Mrs. Forrester shrugged. “These things happen. The honor system has worked for twelve years, every flower paid for and certainly no money taken, but there are so many more strangers passing by now.” She straightened her shoulders. “Well, I’ll be in the rose garden if you need me.” She set off back along the path, and I returned to setting out the soaker hose.

Who’d steal from the Flower Lady? All the kids I knew liked her. Mom and Ma said she was a neighborhood institution.

On my way home a couple of hours later, I checked for clues. All I found was a grubby dollar bill, lying under the kitchen chair by the stall. I replaced the money, imagining the thief grabbing the cash from the open basket, dropping the bill as he rushed away. A box with a slit in the top would be safer. Tomorrow I’d make one for Mrs. Forrester.

A few houses down, my sister’s two-year-old friend ran out her front door, wearing a lady’s hat and a floaty scarf. She spotted me and headed toward the fence, holding up a shiny pink purse. A high-school-aged girl followed her—a new baby sitter, I guessed.

“Hi, Lucy,” I called. “I see you got a purse like Molly’s.” Grandma had given my sister one last week, a present for her third birthday. I turned to the sitter and added, “I’m Jeremy. I live next door.”

“Hi,” she said. “I’m Angeline.” She picked Lucy up, told her to wave bye-bye, and then carried her indoors.

I hurried on to my own house. The kitchen smelled of spaghetti sauce. Ma was grating Parmesan cheese. Before I could tell her about the robbery, she popped a chunk in my mouth. “Mom’s on her way home from work,” she said. “Dinner won’t be long.”

“Jeremy!” Molly called from across the room. “Will you fix my cash register?”

It was jammed with the dollars I’d helped her make from construction paper. “Did you know Lucy has a purse now?” I asked, easing them out.

Molly nodded. “She showed it to me through the fence. It’s pink, and mine’s yellow, and she has dollars too, but they’re not pretty colors like mine, and there’s no stickers on them.”

“I have dollars,” I said, pulling them out of my pocket. “I got paid today.”

Molly studied them. “Same as Lucy’s,” she said.

I picked up one of her green ones. “You mean like this, but without any stickers?”

Molly shook her head. “Like yours.”

Lucy’s were like real dollars?

Maybe her parents had given her real-looking play money or some old Monopoly money. But private investigators are always suspicious of coincidences, and Mrs. Forrester’s money had disappeared. Lucy could have slipped out and wandered up the road, hoping to see the Flower Lady. If she had, and her parents found real money in the purse, Angeline would be in trouble.

“I’ll be back in a minute!” I told Ma as I raced out.

My face and neck burned as I waited for Angeline to answer my knock. If it was just play money, she’d think I was stupid.

“Who is it?” she called through the door.

“Jeremy,” I said. “I—I just wanted to ask something . . .” Angeline opened the door, a blue-and-white dishtowel in her hand. Lucy peeked out from behind her legs.

“My sister said the dollars in Lucy’s purse look like real ones,” I said. “I thought I’d better check because if they are, I think I know where she found them.”

Angeline looked puzzled, but she said, “What’s in your purse, Lucy?”

Smiling proudly, Lucy pulled out a bunch of plastic keys, a crumpled leaf, and several bills.

Angeline took a deep breath. “So where did she get real money?”

I explained about the Flower Lady’s missing cash. “Did you go to Mrs. Forrester’s, Lucy?” I asked. “All by yourself?”

Lucy nodded. “Mizfosser not there,” she said.

Angeline twisted the dishtowel. She looked as if she were trying not to cry. “She kept bugging me to go outside,” she said, “but I was doing homework, and I told her, ‘Later.’ Then I was cleaning up some juice she spilled, and when I looked round, she was gone. I saw the door open, and I panicked—the gate was open too, and I ran out, and there she was, coming home with a big smile on her face.

“We’d better take the money back,” she added. “Which is Mrs. Forrester’s house? I don’t even know her.”

“I’ll show you,” I said.

Mrs. Forrester didn’t look too surprised. “My younger daughter used to slip out like that, but it wasn’t so dangerous in those days,” she said. “Better tell Lucy’s parents she opened the door and wandered out, no need to say how far. Ask them to fix the gate and put a bolt on the front door where little hands can’t reach it.”

Lucy handed over the money after I promised to make her some dollars like Molly’s. As we left, Angeline said, “Thanks, Jeremy. And thank your sister too. I’m so glad you figured out what happened!”

Me and my sister? Well, Molly was pretty smart. Maybe in a few years she could be my assistant.