The Dead Man in Indian Creek by Mary Downing Hahn Read Free Book Online Page A

slowly past, its headlights sweeping bushes and trees, a few crickets chirped. Everything seemed so normal and safe and calm. Yet Parker and I were talking about murder and drugs and stuff. It seemed so unreal I wanted to laugh.
    "Every day after school, we'll hide in the woods behind the shop and watch," Parker said. He wasn't joking. He meant it. "I don't want anything to happen to my mother."
    ***
    So, for a week, Parker, Otis, and I spent our afternoons in the woods behind the Olde Mill. Both Otis and I would have preferred going to the quarry. Even digging heffalump traps was more fun than watching little old ladies coming and going with antiques. But we couldn't drag Parker away from the shop.
    One afternoon, a woman got out of a Mercedes with Pennsylvania tags and went inside the shop. We heard the little bell over the door tinkle, and I imagined Evans stepping out of the back room, grinning his big grin, welcoming another blue-haired lady.
    While I was dozing off waiting for her to come out, Otis growled, and Parker grabbed his collar. Our enemy had just stepped outside. We watched him carry an oak washstand to the Mercedes and lash it securely on the roof. When he was finished, the woman thanked him and drove away. Evans waved and went back inside.
    "That furniture," Parker mused. "It could be packed with drugs. You know that?"
    "No way," I said. "That lady is probably somebody's dear old granny."
    Parker sighed and leaned back against a tree as if he were planning to fall asleep like Rip Van Winkle and wake up a hundred years from now. My stomach growled so loudly Otis cocked his ears and peered around, thinking, I guess, that some varmint was creeping up on him.
    "It's almost five," I told Parker. "Do you want to have dinner at my house?"
    "I'm always eating at your place," he said. "Are you sure your folks don't mind?"
    I stood up and brushed leaves and dirt off my jeans. Actually my father had complained when I first started bringing Parker home at dinnertime, but he was used to it now. And Mom usually went ahead and set an extra place without my even asking her to.
    "They enjoy your company," I told him. "Otis, too."
    We walked slowly through the woods, taking the shortcut behind the houses on Blake Street. Lights were on in the windows, and we could see families getting ready for dinner. In one brightly lit kitchen, I saw Jennifer Irwin helping her mother with something on the stove.
    Parker saw her too, and he watched her till she moved out of sight. "Jennifer's the prettiest girl in school," he said.
    "Do you like her?" I asked as we started walking again, scuffing the leaves up in yellow clouds.
    Parker shrugged. "If I ever have a girlfriend, it'll be Jennifer."
    Then he started running through the woods, yelling like an Indian, and I chased after him. Behind us, we could hear Jennifer's dog barking, but I wouldn't have cared if he'd bitten me in half. I'd never have a chance with Jennifer if Parker liked her, that was for sure.

    "Not you again," Charity said when Parker sat down next to her. "Don't you ever eat dinner at your own house?"
    Mom frowned at Charity. "We don't speak like that to guests," she said sternly.
    Charity turned her attention to the meatloaf on her plate. "Not
this
again," she said loudly and glanced at Parker out of the corner of her eye to see if he was impressed. "I
hate
meat loaf."
    I nudged her side. "Quit showing off," I said.
    "Don't shove me." Charity pointed her knife at me like a sword. "Or I'll slice you up in pieces."
    "Stop right there," Dad said. "Either eat your dinner or go to your room."
    He made this threat every night, but it always solved the problem, at least temporarily. Charity bent her head over her plate and poked at her food, complaining loudly about everything from the onion in the meat loaf to the presence of peas on her plate.
    "You know I hate peas and onions," she whined to Mom, but everyone ignored her. Her complaints were as much a part of meals at our