“Buster—run—don’t trot!” Mindy begged.
Too late.
We heard a loud slam.
Moose’s front door flew open.
And Mr. McCall stepped out.
4
“Joe! Come over here. Now!” Moose’s dad barked at me.
He lumbered toward his garden, his big belly bouncing in front of him under his blue T-shirt. “Get over here, boy—on the double!”
Mr. McCall is retired from the army. He’s used to barking out orders. And having them obeyed.
I obeyed. Buster trotted by my side.
“Was that dog in my garden again?” Mr. McCall demanded, eyeing me coldly. His cold stare could make your blood freeze.
“No, s-sir!” I stammered. Buster settled down beside me with a loud yawn.
I usually don’t tell lies. Except to Mindy. But Buster’s life was on the line. I had to save Buster. Didn’t I?
Mr. McCall bounced up to his vegetable patch. He circled his tomatoes, his corn, his zucchini, his casaba melons. He examined each stalk and leaf carefully.
Oh, wow, I thought. We’re in major trouble now.
Finally, he gazed up at us. His eyes narrowed. “If that mutt wasn’t in here, why is the dirt all pawed up?”
“Maybe it was the wind?” I replied softly. It was worth a try. Maybe he’d believe it.
Moose stood silently next to me. The only time he’s quiet is when his dad is around.
“Um, Mr. McCall,” Mindy began. “We’ll make sure Buster stays out of your yard. We promise!” Then she smiled her sweetest smile.
Mr. McCall scowled. “All right. But if I catch him even sniffing at my melons, I’m calling the police and having that dog hauled off to the pound. And I mean it.”
I gulped. I knew he meant it. Mr. McCall doesn’t kid around.
“Moose!” Mr. McCall snapped. “Bring the hose out here and water these casabas! I told you they need to be watered at least five times a day.”
“See you later,” Moose muttered. He ducked his head and ran toward the back of his house for the hose.
Mr. McCall shot one more dark glance at us. Then he lumbered up his front steps and slammed the door.
“Maybe it was the wind?” Mindy rolled her eyes again. “Wow, that was fast thinking, Joe!” She laughed.
“Oh, yeah? Well, at least I had an answer,” I replied. “And remember, it was my whistle that saved Buster. All you did was smile that phony smile.”
Mindy and I headed toward our house, arguing all the way. But we stopped when we heard a low moan. A frightening sound. Buster cocked his ears.
“Who’s that?” I whispered.
A second later, we found out. Dad lurched around the side of the house, carrying a big watering can.
He was wearing his favorite gardening outfit—sneakers with holes in both toes, baggy plaid shorts, and a red T-shirt that said “I’m All Thumbs in the Garden.”
And he was moaning and groaning. Which was really weird. Because Dad is always in an excellent mood when he’s gardening. Whistling. Smiling. Cracking lame jokes.
But not today.
Today something was wrong. Really wrong.
“Kids… kids,” he moaned, staggering toward us. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Dad—what is it? What’s wrong?” Mindy demanded.
Dad clutched his head and swayed from side to side. He took a deep breath. “I-I have something terrible to tell you.”
5
“What, Dad?” I cried. “Tell us.”
Dad spoke in a hoarse whisper. “I found a… a fruit fly on our tomatoes! On our biggest tomato. The Red Queen!”
He wiped his sweaty forehead. “How could this happen? I misted. I sprayed. I pruned. Twice this week alone.”
Dad shook his head in sorrow. “My poor tomatoes. If that fruit fly ruins my Red Queen, I-I’ll have to pull out of the garden show!”
Mindy and I glanced at each other. I knew we were thinking the same thing. The adults around here were getting a little weird.
“Dad, it’s only one fruit fly,” I pointed out.
“It only takes one, Joe. Just one fruit fly. And our chances for a blue ribbon—destroyed. We have to do something. Right away.”
“What about that new bug spray?” I reminded him. “The stuff that came last week from the Green Thumb catalog.”
Dad’s eyes lit up. He ran a hand through his flat, rumpled hair. “The Bug Be Gone!” he exclaimed.
He jogged up the driveway to the garage. “Come on, kids!” he sang out. “Let’s give it a try!” Dad was cheering up.
Mindy and I raced after him.
Dad pulled out three spray cans from a carton in the back of the garage. The words “Wave Bye-Bye to Bugs with Bug Be Gone!” were printed on the labels. A drawing showed a tearful bug carrying a suitcase. Waving bye-bye.
Dad handed one can to Mindy and one to me. “Let’s get that fruit fly!” he cried, as we headed back to our garden.
We ripped the caps off the cans of Bug Be Gone. “One, two, three… spray!” Dad commanded.
Dad and I showered the two dozen tomato plants tied to wooden stakes in the middle of the garden.
Mindy hadn’t started yet. She was probably reading the ingredients on the can.
“What’s all the fuss about?” my mother called, stepping out the back door.
Mom was wearing one of her around-the-house outfits. A pair of Dad’s old baggy plaid shorts. And an old blue T-shirt he gave her when he came back from a business trip a few years ago. The T-shirt said “I Mist You!” One of Dad’s lame garden jokes.
“Hi, honey,” Dad called. “We’re about to destroy a fruit fly. Want to watch?”
Mom laughed, crinkling up the corners of her green eyes. “Pretty tempting. But I have to finish a greeting card design.”
Mom is a graphic artist. She has an office on the second floor of our house. She can draw the most incredible pictures on her computer. Amazing sunsets, mountains, and flowers.
“Dinner at seven-thirty, everybody. Okay?”
“Sounds good,” Dad called as Mom disappeared into the house. “Okay, kids. Let’s finish spraying!”
Dad and I showered the tomato plants one more time. We even sprayed the yellow squash plants nearby. Mindy squinted. Aimed the nozzle of her can directly at the Red Queen. And let out a single neat drizzle.
One tiny fruit fly flapped its wings weakly and fell to the ground. Mindy smiled in satisfaction.
“Good work!” Dad exclaimed.
He clapped us both on the back. “I think this calls for a celebration!” he declared. “I have the perfect idea! A quick visit to Lawn Lovely!”
“Oh, nooooo,” Mindy and I groaned together.
Lawn Lovely is a store two blocks from our house. It’s the place where Dad buys his lawn ornaments. A lot of lawn ornaments.
Dad is as nuts about lawn ornaments as he is about gardening. We have so many lawn ornaments in our front yard, it’s impossible to mow the lawn!
What a crowd scene! We have two pink plastic flamingos. A cement angel with huge white wings. A chrome ball on a silver platform. A whole family of plaster skunks. A fountain with two kissing swans. A seal that balances a beach ball on its nose. And a chipped plaster deer.
Weird, huh?
But Dad really loves them. He thinks they’re art or something.
And do you know what he does? He dresses them up on holidays. Pilgrim hats for the skunks on Thanksgiving. Pirate costumes for the flamingos on Halloween. Stove-pipe hats and little black beards for the swans on Lincoln’s birthday.
Of course, neat and tidy Mindy can’t stand the lawn ornaments. Neither can Mom. Every time Dad brings a new one home, Mom threatens to toss it into the garbage.
“Dad, these lawn ornaments are totally embarrassing!” Mindy complained. “People gawk from their cars and take pictures of our front yard. We’re a tourist attraction!”
“Oh, please,” Dad groaned. “One pe
rson took a picture.”
That was last Christmas. When Dad dressed all the ornaments as Santa’s helpers.
“Yeah. And that picture ended up in the newspaper!” Mindy moaned. “It was soooo embarrassing.”
“Well, I think the ornaments are cool,” I replied. Someone had to defend poor Dad.
Mindy just wrinkled her nose in disgust.
I know what really bugs Mindy about the ornaments. It’s the way Dad sticks them in the yard. Without any order. If Mindy had her way, they would be lined up like her shoes. In nice neat rows.
“Come on, guys,” Dad urged, starting down the driveway. “Let’s go see if a new shipment of ornaments has come in.”
We had no choice.
Mindy and I trudged down the sidewalk after Dad. As we followed him, we thought—no big deal. It’s almost dinnertime. We’ll just glance over the ornaments at the store. Then we’ll go home.
We had no idea we were about to start the most horrifying adventure of our lives.
6
“Can’t we drive, Dad?” Mindy complained as the three of us hiked up the steep Summit Avenue hill toward Lawn Lovely. “It’s too hot to walk.”
“Oh, come on, Mindy. It’s only a couple of blocks. And it’s good exercise,” Dad replied, taking long, brisk strides.
“But it’s sooooo hot,” Mindy whined. She brushed her bangs away from her face and blotted her forehead with her hand.
Mindy was right. It was hot. But get serious. It was only a two-block walk.
“I’m hotter than you are,” I teased. Then I leaned into Mindy and shook my sweaty head at her. “See?”
A few small beads of sweat flew onto Mindy’s T-shirt.
“You are so gross!” she shrieked, drawing back. “Dad! Tell him to stop being so disgusting.”
“We’re almost there,” Dad replied. His voice sounded as if he were a million miles away. He was probably dreaming about buying his next lawn ornament.
Just up the block, I spotted the tall, pointy roof of Lawn Lovely. It jutted into the sky, towering over all the houses around it.
What a weird place, I thought. Lawn Lovely is in an old, raggedy three-story house, set back from the street. The whole building is painted pink. Bright pink. The windows are covered with brightly colored shutters. But none of the colors match.
I think that’s another reason why Mindy hates this place.
The old house is not in good shape. The wooden floorboards on the front porch are all sagging. And there is a hole in the porch where Mr. McCall fell through last summer.
As we marched past the flagpole in the front yard, I spotted Mrs. Anderson in the driveway. She owns Lawn Lovely. She lives there, too. On the second and third floors.
Mrs. Anderson kneeled over a flock of pink plastic flamingos. She was ripping off their plastic wrap and setting them in crooked rows on her lawn.
Mrs. Anderson reminds me of a flamingo. She’s real skinny and wears pink all the time. Even her hair is sort of pink. Like cotton candy.
Lawn ornaments are the only things Mrs. Anderson sells. Plaster squirrels. Kissing angels. Pink rabbits with wire whiskers. Long green worms wearing little black hats. A whole flock of white geese. She has hundreds of ornaments. Scattered all over her yard. Up the front steps to the porch. And right through the door into the entire first floor of the house.
Mrs. Anderson carefully unwrapped another flamingo and set it down next to a deer. She studied this arrangement, then moved the deer about an inch to the left.
“Hello, Lilah!” my dad called out.
Mrs. Anderson didn’t answer. She’s a little hard of hearing.
“Hello, Lilah!” Dad repeated, cupping his hands around his mouth like a megaphone.
Mrs. Anderson raised her head from the flamingos. And beamed at my dad. “Jeffrey!” she cried. “How nice to see you.”
Mrs. Anderson is always friendly to Dad. Mom says he’s her best customer.
Maybe her only customer!
“It’s nice to see you, too,” Dad replied. He rubbed his hands together eagerly and gazed around the lawn.
Mrs. Anderson stuck one last flamingo into the ground. She made her way over to us, wiping her hands on her pink T-shirt.
“Do you have something special in mind today?” she asked my father.
“Our deer is a little lonesome,” he explained, shouting so that she could hear him. “I think it needs company.”
“Really, Dad. We don’t need any more lawn ornaments,” Mindy begged. “Mom will be furious.”
Mrs. Anderson smiled. “Oh, a Lawn Lovely lawn always has room for one more! Right, Jeffrey?”
“Right!” Dad declared.
Mindy pressed her lips together tightly. She rolled her eyes for the hundredth time that day.
Dad hurried over to a herd of wide-eyed plaster deer, standing in the corner of the yard. We followed him.
The deer stood about four feet tall. White spots dotted their reddish-brown bodies.
Very lifelike. Very boring.
He studied the deer for a few seconds. Then something caught his eye.
Two squat gnomes standing in the middle of the lawn.
“Well, well, what have we here?” Dad murmured, smiling. I could see his eyes light up. He bent down to examine the gnomes.
Mrs. Anderson clapped her hands together. “Jeffrey, you have a wonderful eye for lawn ornaments!” she exclaimed. “I knew you’d appreciate the gnomes! They were carved in Europe. Very fine work.”
I stared at the gnomes. They looked like little old men. They were about three feet tall and very chubby. With piercing red eyes and large pointy ears.
Their mouths curved up in wide, silly grins. And coarse brown hair sprouted from their heads.
Each gnome wore a bright green short-sleeved shirt, brown leggings, and a tall, pointy orange hat. Both wore black belts tied tightly around their chubby waists.
“They’re terrific!” Dad gushed. “Oh, kids. Aren’t they wonderful?”
“They’re okay, Dad,” I said.
“Okay?” Mindy shouted. “They’re horrible! They’re so gross! They look so… so evil. I hate them!”
“Hey, you’re right, Mindy,” I said. “They are pretty gross. They look just like you!”
“Joe, you are the biggest—” Mindy started. But Dad interrupted her.
“We’ll take them!” he cried.
“Dad—no!” Mindy howled. “They’re hideous! Buy a deer. Buy another flamingo. But not these ugly old gnomes. Look at the awful colors. Look at those evil grins. They’re too creepy!”
“Oh, Mindy. Don’t be silly. They’re perfect!” Dad exclaimed. “We’ll have so much fun with them. We’ll dress them as ghosts for Halloween. In Santa suits at Christmas. They look just like Santa’s elves.”
Dad pulled out his credit card. He and Mrs. Anderson started toward the pink house to complete the sale. “I’ll be back in a minute,” he called.
“These are the ugliest yet,” Mindy groaned, turning to me. “They’re completely embarrassing. I’ll never be able to bring any of my friends over again.”
Then she stomped off toward the sidewalk.
I couldn’t take my eyes away from the gnomes. They were kind of ugly. And even though they were smiling, there was something unfriendly about their smiles. Something cold about their glassy red eyes.
“Whoa! Mindy! Look!” I cried. “One of the gnomes just moved!”
Mindy slowly turned to face me.
My wrist was held tightly in the chubby hand. I twisted and squirmed. Tried to tug free.
“Let go!” I squealed. “Let go of me! Mindy—hurry!”
“I—I’m coming!” she cried.
7
Mindy came racing across the yard.
She leaped over the flamingos and sprinted around the deer.
“Hurry!” I moaned, stretching my left arm out toward her. “He’s hurting me!”
But as my sister came near, her face twisted in fright,
I couldn’t keep a straight face any longer. I burst out laughing.
“Gotcha! Gotcha!” I shrieked. I danced away from the plaster gnome.
Mindy swung around to slug me. Swung and missed.
“Did you really believe that gnome grabbed me?” I cried. “Are you totally losing it?”
She didn’t have time to reply. Dad came jogging down the pink porch steps. “Time to bring our little guys home,” he announced, grinning.
He stopped and stared down happily at the ugly gnomes. “But let’s name them first.” Dad names all of our lawn ornaments.
Mindy let out a loud groan. Dad ignored her.
He patted one of the gnomes on the head. “Let’s call this one Hap. Because he looks so happy! I’ll carry Hap. You kids take…”
He stopped and squinted at the other gnome. There was a small chip on the gnome’s front tooth. “Chip. Yep, we’ll call this one Chip.”
Dad hoisted Hap into his arms. “Whoaaa. He’s an armful!” He made his way toward the driveway, staggering under the gnome’s weight.
Mindy studied Chip. “You take the feet. I’ll grab the top,” she ordered. “Come on. One, two, three… lift!”
I stooped down and grabbed the gnome by its legs. Its heavy red boot scraped my arm. I let out a cry.
“Quit complaining,” Mindy ordered. “At least you don’t have this stupid pointy hat sticking in your face.”
We struggled down the hill, following Dad.
Mindy and I inched forward, struggling side by side. “Everyone in the neighborhood is gawking at us,” Mindy moaned.
They were. Two girls from Mindy’s school, wheeling their bikes up the hill, stopped and stared. Then they burst out laughing.
Mindy’s pale face grew as red as one of Dad’s tomatoes. “I’ll never live this down,” she grumbled. “Come on, Joe. Walk faster.”
I jiggled Chip’s legs to make Mindy lose her grip. But the only thing she lost was her temper. “Quit it, Joe,” she snapped. “And hold your end up higher.”
As we neared our house, Mr. McCall spotted us trudging up the block. He stopped pruning his shrubs to admire our little parade.