Who Stole Halloween? by Martha Freeman Page A

said,
“please.”
    â€œGive it over, and I’ll read it myself,” I said.
    â€œIt’s only a piece of a longer letter,” Professor Popp said. “I looked for more, but this is all that’s here.”
    Frowning, Yasmeen handed me the sheet of stationery. It was so old it crinkled like it might shatter into confetti. I don’t know how, exactly,but I could see right away that the writing was feminine. The letters were large and round, much different from Mr. Harvey’s spidery black scrawl.
    This must have been a middle page because it started midsentence:
    . . . 
be with you always, dearest Floyd, but you know our circumstances make it impossible. We are star-crossed like the tragic lovers of yore. If only I had I met you sooner, if only my parents had been less bent on marrying off their old-maid daughter to a wealthy man, if only I had been a woman of some means of my own—were any of these “if onlys” satisfied, then I might have been your own Marianne. Alas, this will never
 . . .
    I looked up at Yasmeen. She still had the dreamy expression. “Listen, Yasmeen, this is really important, right? It confirms part of the story.”
    Yasmeen nodded. “It’s from Marianne Harvey to stouthearted Floyd. It must be.”
    â€œWho?” Professor Popp said. “What?”
    We explained that Mrs. Harvey was beautiful, that people said she had a sweetheart, and the sweetheart was the same guy who found her body, Floyd. Professor Popp nodded. “This would seem to confirm that there was a romance, and further, it would seem that she was calling an end to it. But I believe there may also be something more.”
    â€œWhat?” Yasmeen said.
    â€œConsider
where
I found the letter,” said Professor Popp. “It was tucked in the pages of Gilmore Harvey’s ledger book. I haven’t had a chance to look closely, but as far as I can tell, his is the only writing in the book. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
    I nodded. “Gilmore Harvey was never supposed to see this letter—but he did, and that means he knew his wife had a sweetheart. And if he knew—well, then I guess it’s the way the rumors said. That could be a reason to kill her.”
    â€œBut now I’m not so sure he
did
kill her,” Yasmeen said. “I mean—if Dad’s right that ghostscome back seeking justice, what justice is his ghost seeking now?”
    â€œThen there’s the cat,” I said. “Marianne’s smart black cat, who supposedly killed Gilmore Harvey.”
    â€œIt was a
cat
that killed Mr. Harvey?” Mr. Popp said.
    â€œThat’s how the story goes,” Yasmeen said. “Killed him in revenge after Mr. Harvey killed Marianne. And after that the cat was killed, too—drowned in the Harveys’ well.”
    Mr. Popp shook his head. “Quite a gothic tale,” he said. “But whatever the truth may be, you’re not going to learn it on a school night.”
    I picked up the book and the newspapers. “Thanks for dinner,” I said, “and for helping us.”
    On the short walk back home, my head was spinning. I was thinking about the receipt. I was thinking about the ledger book. But most of all I was thinking about that love letter.
    Of course, knowing what happened to her, I felt totally terrible for beautiful Marianne Harvey. I mean, there she was, stuck with an old,ugly, mean husband and in love with a young guy who worked for him. I guess she must have been really unhappy. At the same time, though, hadn’t she been unfair to her husband? I mean, once you get married, you aren’t supposed to have sweethearts anymore.
    But from the letter, it sounded like she was calling off the romance. So maybe she was trying to be good after all.
    Luau met me at the front door and side-rubbed my leg, which meant,
Greetings, Alex. Believe it or not, my food bowl is empty!
I