Rosie suddenly perked up. Whenever Viola said something like this, they knew it was going to be good.
“I didn’t tell you guys, but after the incident with the black car in the garage across the street, my mom made me write a letter to Vincent Reynolds in New Hampshire to apologize for trespassing on his property. In my letter, I did mention I was sorry … but I also decided it would be the perfect opportunity to ask him some questions. He wrote back!
“He confirmed that he was the one who had been knocking around, explaining that he remembered his brother saying something about the house’s secret passage. Vincent keeps strange hours, he says, because he has a hard time sleeping. He didn’t realize that I could hear his nighttime explorations of the basement and the tunnel. And he thought the door at the other end had been sealed off a long time ago. But he kept coming back to it, wondering what was on the other side. I guess he had no idea that if only he’d pushed hard enough, he would have found out.
“His response got me thinking. What was the tunnel used for, anyway? The Realtor, Betsy Ulrich, told us that it dated back to the secret Underground Railroad, so the original owners must have helped smuggle runaway slaves into Canada.
“The wires and the light sockets that are in the tunnel now tell a different story, though. The tunnel must have been used by someone within the past century. For what? I thought about it for a long time and, as usual, I came up with a theory. After I wrote to Vincent one more time, he responded and told me that I was right.”
“What was your theory?” Rosie asked, clutching the handle of her rake so hard that her knuckles had turned pale.
“Our mystery has one final clue. And it’s right here in our yard.”
“Here?” said Sylvester, glancing around. “Where?”
Viola continued as if she had planned this speech and would not be interrupted, which was, in fact, what she’d done. “I believe it explains everything we need to know about the secret of the tunnel in my basement. Can you guys guess what it is?”
Sylvester, Woodrow, and Rosie looked at one another with confused determination. Since theend of the summer, they had solved a dog-napping and discovered a forged autograph. They had revealed a faked photograph and dispensed with a couple of phony psychics. They had learned the true nature of a couple of haunting experiences. They must figure out Viola’s latest clue — they were members of the Question Marks, after all.
“A clue to the mystery of the tunnel …,” Woodrow whispered, dragging his rake behind him as he began to wander around the yard.
“What could it be?” said Rosie, swiveling swiftly on her heels, turning toward each compass direction, trying to decide which way to walk.
Sylvester stood still and closed his eyes, as if what he saw in his mind was more powerful than what was all around him.
Viola simply crossed her arms and smiled. She knew they’d figure it out eventually.
Can you?
Rosie suddenly spun, facing the street beside Viola and Sylvester’s house, along the northwest quadrant of their yards. “You guys!” she called. Woodrow and Sylvester rushed over to her. She whispered in their ears, then they all whipped their heads toward the maple tree near the road—the one where they had come together for the very first time on the day Viola moved to Moon Hollow.
Slowly, the three of them walked to the tree. Viola followed not far behind, unable to make out what they were saying to one another. Finally, standing at the base of the maple, they all met again.
“So?” asked Viola. “What do you think?”
Rosie pointed up, at where someone had long ago carved initials into the bark.
N. R.
+
F. B.
“And?” said Viola, smiling.
“They’re Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Hauptmann!” said Sylvester.
“Actually,” Woodrow said, patting the tree trunk, “it would have been Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Branson, right,
“I didn’t tell you guys, but after the incident with the black car in the garage across the street, my mom made me write a letter to Vincent Reynolds in New Hampshire to apologize for trespassing on his property. In my letter, I did mention I was sorry … but I also decided it would be the perfect opportunity to ask him some questions. He wrote back!
“He confirmed that he was the one who had been knocking around, explaining that he remembered his brother saying something about the house’s secret passage. Vincent keeps strange hours, he says, because he has a hard time sleeping. He didn’t realize that I could hear his nighttime explorations of the basement and the tunnel. And he thought the door at the other end had been sealed off a long time ago. But he kept coming back to it, wondering what was on the other side. I guess he had no idea that if only he’d pushed hard enough, he would have found out.
“His response got me thinking. What was the tunnel used for, anyway? The Realtor, Betsy Ulrich, told us that it dated back to the secret Underground Railroad, so the original owners must have helped smuggle runaway slaves into Canada.
“The wires and the light sockets that are in the tunnel now tell a different story, though. The tunnel must have been used by someone within the past century. For what? I thought about it for a long time and, as usual, I came up with a theory. After I wrote to Vincent one more time, he responded and told me that I was right.”
“What was your theory?” Rosie asked, clutching the handle of her rake so hard that her knuckles had turned pale.
“Our mystery has one final clue. And it’s right here in our yard.”
“Here?” said Sylvester, glancing around. “Where?”
Viola continued as if she had planned this speech and would not be interrupted, which was, in fact, what she’d done. “I believe it explains everything we need to know about the secret of the tunnel in my basement. Can you guys guess what it is?”
Sylvester, Woodrow, and Rosie looked at one another with confused determination. Since theend of the summer, they had solved a dog-napping and discovered a forged autograph. They had revealed a faked photograph and dispensed with a couple of phony psychics. They had learned the true nature of a couple of haunting experiences. They must figure out Viola’s latest clue — they were members of the Question Marks, after all.
“A clue to the mystery of the tunnel …,” Woodrow whispered, dragging his rake behind him as he began to wander around the yard.
“What could it be?” said Rosie, swiveling swiftly on her heels, turning toward each compass direction, trying to decide which way to walk.
Sylvester stood still and closed his eyes, as if what he saw in his mind was more powerful than what was all around him.
Viola simply crossed her arms and smiled. She knew they’d figure it out eventually.
Can you?
Rosie suddenly spun, facing the street beside Viola and Sylvester’s house, along the northwest quadrant of their yards. “You guys!” she called. Woodrow and Sylvester rushed over to her. She whispered in their ears, then they all whipped their heads toward the maple tree near the road—the one where they had come together for the very first time on the day Viola moved to Moon Hollow.
Slowly, the three of them walked to the tree. Viola followed not far behind, unable to make out what they were saying to one another. Finally, standing at the base of the maple, they all met again.
“So?” asked Viola. “What do you think?”
Rosie pointed up, at where someone had long ago carved initials into the bark.
N. R.
+
F. B.
“And?” said Viola, smiling.
“They’re Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Hauptmann!” said Sylvester.
“Actually,” Woodrow said, patting the tree trunk, “it would have been Nelson Reynolds and Fiona Branson, right,
Similar Books
