“Nice story,” Dad said as he picked up the smallest doll. “I thought they were called that because their arms and legs don’t move.”
Turning to us, he said, “Have you young detectives discovered anything else?”
“There’s a family graveyard in the woods,” Maisie told him. “It’s almost hidden under vines and briars and weeds.”
“Can you tell your workmen to clean it up?” I asked.
“It’s definitely of historic value,” Maisie said.
“Oh, will you show it to me?” Mom asked. “I love old burial grounds.”
“I’d like to see it too,” Maisie’s mother said.
“Let’s take a look after lunch,” Dad suggested. “I’m sure the graveyard will be included in the restoration plans.”
I had to ask one more thing, even though I was scared to hear the answer. “Was there anything in the room besides Henry Bennett’s paintings?”
“His easel, some odds and ends of furniture, a big wardrobe.”
“Did you look inside the wardrobe?” I glanced at Maisie and saw her eyes widen. She knew why I was asking.
“We pulled everything out in case he’d stashed more paintings inside, but all we found were rags—women’s dresses mostly. They probably belonged to his wife.”
Maisie and I sighed so loudly that Dad laughed. “What were you expecting? Skeletons in the closet?”
I forced myself to laugh, and Maisie joined in. “No, of course not,” I said. “Books maybe, more paintings. I don’t know. Just curious.”
Maisie’s mother stood up. “Now, if you girls will excuse us,” she said, “we have some important matters to discuss.”
For the first time, I noticed plans and official forms laid out on the kitchen counter.
“What’s going on?” I asked Dad. “Are you already planning our next move?”
“I hope not,” Mrs. Sullivan said. “My husband and I are on the town council. We’ve gotten funding for a project to restore the old buildings on Main Street. We’re hoping to hire your father to take charge of the renovation work.”
“You mean we’ll stay here in Hillsborough?” I stared at him, not daring to believe what I was hearing.
“That would be the plan, yes,” Dad told me. “Of course, if you’d rather move across the country, I’ll tell the Sullivans I can’t do it.”
I ran around the table to hug him. “Say yes, Dad, say yes!”
Maisie chimed in. “Please, Mr. Aldridge, say yes!”
“Well, now, maybe your mother—”
“Don’t be an idiot, Ron. Of course I want to stay in Hillsborough.”
Dad spread his arms in a gesture of defeat. “It looks like my roaming days are over—at least for now.”
I was too excited to sit still. Grabbing Maisie’s hand, I ran outside and began turning cartwheels in the grass. For once, I didn’t care what I looked like doing them.
Maisie followed me and collapsed when I did. “Your cartwheels are even worse than mine,” she said.
We lay on our backs and laughed. Nothing was funny. Everything was funny.
* * *
That evening, while Mom and Dad washed the dinner dishes, I sat on the deck and watched the stars come out. Just the evening star at first, then a few more, and then too many to count. A sliver of moon swung into sight over the mountains.
My thoughts strayed to Lily. I wished I could see her once more. Just once. I needed to know that Maisie’s and my plan had worked, and she was safe.
I stared at the field where I’d first seen her with her parents. Would it be possible to see her there again? I concentrated all my mental energy on Lily, willing her to appear. “Only for a moment,” I breathed, “that’s all.”
No luck this time. In the kitchen, Mom laughed at something Dad said. Out of sight, traffic rumbled like waves pounding the shore. The cicadas made their usual racket in the woods.
The past had closed in on itself. Lily was safe in her world, and I was safe in mine. Most important now, Maisie and I had become friends. We’d be together all summer, and when school started, I wouldn’t be alone.
Visit www.hmhco.com to find more books by Mary Downing Hahn.
About the Author
MARY DOWNING HAHN has written thirty-six novels, including the best-selling ghost stories Wait Till Helen Comes, Took, and most recently One for Sorrow. Her wildly popular books have received more than fifty child-voted state awards as well as an Edgar Award from the Mystery Writers of America. Mary travels widely and is a dedicated photographer. She lives in Columbia, Maryland.
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Mary Downing Hahn, The Girl in the Locked Room: A Ghost Story
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