Minerva Clark Gives Up the Ghost by Karen Karbo Page A

steps of a narrow wooden staircase. The steps were painted red. It didn’t look as if the fire had reached them. Before I could give it a thought, I marched over and took them two at a time, to the second floor.
    The door at the top of the stairs had been burned off its hinges. The fire had done more damage up here than downstairs in the grocery. Everything was black or ashy gray—walls, floor, piles of what must have been furniture and books. Holes in the walls, the floor. A huge hole in the ceiling, through which I could see the white afternoon sky. The only snap of color was a red metal ladder standing in the corner. Balanced upon the ladder was a person who was neither Angus nor Deputy Chief Huntington, but a guy poking around what looked to be an attic space. A guy in his twenties, cussing to himself, mad as spit.

7
    â€œHello? Hi there, I—”
    The guy’s head snapped around. Like that girl in your class who’s created a whole personality around being scared of spiders and bugs, he shrieked, high and loud. He wore work boots, jean cutoffs, and an old red-and-brown flannel work shirt with the sleeves hacked off. Threads dangled beneath his armpits. He had huge muttonchop sideburns that stuck out from the sides of his face and thick aviator glasses. His face was red and sweaty. “Who are you? What do you want?”
    â€œI’m a friend of Angus’s. I was supposed to meet him—”
    â€œHe’s not here! Does he look like he’s here? That little twerp. You just about gave me a heart attack. And after all that’s gone down around here lately, that’s the lastthing I need, believe you me.” He poked his head into the attic space and thrust his arms up there, too. He grunted with the effort of reaching, then pulled down a green metal file box. He set the box on the top step of the ladder before climbing down.
    â€œI’m Minerva Clark.” I stepped forward and offered my hand. It was a trick I’d learned—if you want someone to tell you their name, give them yours first.
    â€œWade. Wade Leeds,” he said, without shaking my hand. He was too busy moving the file box from the ladder to the floor. So this was Wade, the grandson of the lady Angus called Grams, the poor lady who had died up here. I tried not to think about it. I watched Wade kneel beside the box. He struggled to open its tiny latch. The lid creaked open. I peeked over his shoulder. It looked as if it were full of school papers, cards made out of construction paper and glitter. Suddenly, he bent his head and started sobbing.
    Can I just say … awkward!
    Had I ever seen a grown man cry? I tried to remember whether there was something special you were supposed to do, like CPR, only for a man crying jag.
    â€œI’m sorry about your grandma,” I said to Wade Leeds. I took a step toward him.
    Just as abruptly as he’d started weeping, he stopped. He snuffled loudly, blew his nose into his fingers, wiped them on his shirt, and stood up.
    â€œWho you talking about?”
    â€œUh, your Grams?” I said.
Please
, I prayed,
do NOT make me say, “You know, who burned to death in the fire
.”
    â€œYou mean my
ma
? Who was a good woman who never hurt a soul in her entire life? It’s that Angus, he and his snot-nosed friends called her Grams, but she was hardly old. She was forty-seven. Her hair …,” his voice wobbled, “… her hair was prematurely white. That’s all. She was a beautiful woman, a beautiful soul. I bet that twerp didn’t tell you she cooked for the homeless, did he? Every Wednesday night for seventeen years. She painted, too. Watercolors.”
    â€œI’m really sorry,” I said.
    â€œThis is all that’s left,” he said, shutting the file box. “This is it. Finito.”
    â€œBut maybe … well … isn’t there always a will or something?”
    He picked up the box by its skinny wire