Death by Eggplant by Susan Heyboer O'Keefe Read Free Book Online Page B

Dekker, “You’ll have to sit in back with the baby, but I’m sure she won’t mind.”
    And then she winked.
    This meant big trouble. Grown-ups always winked before they made a joke. This was to alert you that a joke was coming, so you could be polite and laugh. And I was right. After Mom winked, she continued, “I even changed Cleo’s diaper right before driving over. We wouldn’t want to lose the air-conditioning by having to roll down all the windows, now would we?”
    While Dekker stood speechless, my mother said, “And speaking of air-conditioning, I already turned it on at home, Bertie, so when you try out your new recipe for Dolly Madison’s Lemon Lace Wedding Cake, you won’t heat up the whole house.”
    The stunned look on Dekker’s face melted into pure evil, and he smiled his snaky smile.
    â€œCake? Lemon Lace Wedding Cake? Mmm, sounds delicious. I guess I’ll see you and Cleo in school tomorrow, Bertha. Don’t forget to bring me a nice big piece of cake.” He snickered.
“Wuss.”
    Despite the heat, goose bumps ran up my arms and down my back. Now Dekker knew Cleo’s name. He knew about my mother. And he knew I liked to cook.

DAY SIX
    â€œMr. Hooks?”
    â€œPresent.”
    â€œAnd your baby?”
    â€œPresent.”
    So far
.
    The unspoken threat hung in the way Dekker’s back tightened when my name was called. It was a great way to start the week, knowing I probably wouldn’t live to see the end of it.
    Mrs. Menendez finished the homeroom roll and closed the book.
    â€œGentlemen, may I see your babies?”
    Dekker took his from his knapsack on the floor. Cleo was already out. I figured it was boring being inside a dark desk all the time, so I had set her on top and let her face front. This way it was Mrs. M. she was sticking out her tongue at, not me.
    Mrs. M. walked down the row and paused at Dekker’sflour sack. She nodded. Then she continued to the back of the room to my seat. She fingered a small tear at the corner of Cleo’s head. She probably hadn’t noticed it yesterday because it had been covered by the bonnet. The paper was doubled there, so no flour had spilled from it.
    Still . . .
    Mrs. Menendez made a “hmmmm” sound. I immediately wanted to defend myself. The tear had happened while I was trying to rescue Cleo from Biker Bob at the supermarket. If I hadn’t acted responsibly then, Cleo would have been history. Well, not history, but certainly dumplings.
    I couldn’t get the words out. What if Mrs. M. asked how Cleo had fallen into the guy’s evil clutches in the first place? I would have to confess that I had stuck Cleo on the baking shelf to temporarily get rid of her. It seemed so obvious now: I had hidden her, not behind the toilet bowl cleaner, but in the most vulnerable place in the entire store, with all the other sacks of flour for sale. Maybe subconsciously I
had
wanted someone to buy her. I shook my head in confusion. When was my next appointment with Dr. Zimmerman?
    â€œThis is a tear, Mr. Hooks,” Mrs. M. said.
    â€œYes, it is. But it’s very little. And all kids get bumps and scrapes, no? They try to walk and . . . and they fall down.”
    â€œThis is a baby, Mr. Hooks. Your baby. Not a kid.”
    â€œShould I put a Band-Aid on it? I’d already thought ofthat, but then my second thought was maybe it would heal faster if I let the air at it.”
    A snort came from Dekker’s direction. Mrs. M. didn’t turn. She stood looking down at me, hands folded behind her back.
    â€œBut if
you
think a Band-Aid is better,” I babbled, “I’ll bring Cleo down to the nurse during lunch and get one. Unless you think she needs stitches.”
    â€œAre you being sarcastic, Mr. Hooks?”
    â€œNo, Mrs. M.”
    â€œI was afraid of that,” she answered.
    â€œSo?” I asked. “Band-Aid?