Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson Page B

the photo.
    By now tears were flowing down my face and onto the turtle. I did the only thing I could do when I felt miserable. Tumbling off the turtle, I swam over to pool’s edge, climbed out and sang.
    Without you, dear,
I don’t know what I’d do-hoo-hooooo …
    That song was in my head a lot these days. Not only because Talbot was adapting it to electric guitar. I kept remembering how Dad sang it to his Sweet Sue, Mother.
    The hedge rustled. Too big a rustle to belong to a cat. I switched to humming. I tiptoed over to the jittery leaves. Stopped humming and listened.
    â€œIsn’t it fantastic?” A young man’s voice, whispering. “No way I’m gonna give up now. We’ll have her outta here in no time!”
    I wrenched leaves and branches apart. Just as I thought: Bald Guy! I’d caught him scheming into his cell phone about the pranks against Rowena. He was set on driving the poor woman from her house. Dang, and we’d thought the pranks were over.
    Seeing me, he paused in mid-gloat. “Er … I’ll get back to you,” he mumbled into the cell and shut the power off.
    â€œUh, look, Dinah —”
    â€œDon’t Dinah me, you wiener,” I fumed. Make that mega -wiener. He must’ve been eavesdropping like crazy to know my name. I pointed a well-hedge-scratched finger at his cell phone. “I bet the person you were talking to was Itchy, right?”
    Bald Guy regarded me oddly. “It’s hard to tell over the phone.”
    â€œNot ‘itchy.’ Itchy ,” I explained. “Rock!”
    â€œRock? Naw, I don’t want to talk about Rock to you. What I’d like to know is —”
    I let go of the leaves. They closed over his face. “Prankster!” I yelled through them. “Trespasser!”
    Pantelli strolled round the side of the house. “Hey, cool! I talk to plants too, Di. According to Junior Botanist magazine, chatting with plants encourages ’em to grow. I don’t know about insulting ’em, though,” he finished doubtfully.
    â€œOne of Rowena’s pranksters is behind the hedge,” I said loudly, so Bald Guy would hear.
    â€œGee, I dunno, Di. Maybe instead of hollering you should be phoning the police.”
    From the other side of the fence, crackle ! crunch ! Bald Guy was fleeing.
    We ran round to the front. There was always a chance we’d glimpse Bald Guy climbing into a car and be able to memorize his license plate.
    Some chance. In true Bald Guy fashion, he’d vanished into thin air.
    Rowena, however, was bicycling toward us, her long gray hair flying out from under her helmet. The bike’s wicker basket was loaded with bags from the market. She sure grocery-shopped a lot, I thought. Holy Toledo, the woman must eat almost as much as I do.
    Brrring !-ing her bell, Rowena waved to us. The next moment, braking by the curb, she tossed us each a Granny Smith apple.
    Her cheeriness faded when I told her about Bald Guy.
    â€œI hope you didn’t try to follow him, Dinah,” she said worriedly.
    â€œBald Guy’s too wily to be followed,” Pantelli replied. “He’s slick as maple syrup. Speaking of maples, Rowena, I notice that one of yours is developing a case of —”
    â€œI’ll tend to it,” Rowena interrupted. “At least, someone will. And soon.”
    â€œAre you converting to the neighborhood’s tidy-garden routine?” I asked. “What about the virtues of being starkly different?”
    I’d meant this as a joke, but Rowena didn’t laugh. Instead, at a fast clip, she bundled her bags up the porch steps and into her house.
    Pantelli and I checked Rowena’s front and back yard for crudely lettered signs, which seemed to be Bald Guy’s calling card. Nothing today.
    â€œGuess we scared him off,” I told Pantelli.

Chapter Eleven

You Mean Trespassing Is Illegal?
    O kay, so Madge had forbidden