The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline by Lois Lowry Read Free Book Online Page A

exploded. Then she read, silently, for a minute. "Who wrote this? How did they find all this stuff out? That's not fair! For a
month
I've been up to my elbows in that guy's trash—I mean cigarette butts and old carbon paper, Caroline. I've been doing the nitty-gritty work of investigation! And then some pipsqueak reporter comes along and steals my story! What ever happened to journalistic ethics? Who
wrote
this? There's not even a name on it!"
    She flipped angrily through the pages, and then back to 68. Caroline leaned over her shoulder and
read the headline again, PULITZER WINNER TAKES ANOTHER PRIZE . In smaller print, underneath, it said, "Acclaimed Author Harrison Ledyard Claims Hometown Sweetheart As Bride." Photographs showed the chubby, balding man grinning as he and his wife vacuumed their apartment together and washed the dishes, wearing matching aprons.
    "Come on," said Stacy furiously. She stood up and began walking out of the park. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this."
    "Bottom of what?" asked Caroline, running to catch up. "He got married, that's all. And his wife threw away an old bra. Bottom of
what?
"
    Stacy slapped the magazine back and forth between her hands as she walked. "I'm going to find out how
People
magazine scooped me on a blockbusting story I've been investigating for weeks!"
    "What are you going to do?"
    Stacy sighed. "I
could
hang around the Time-Life Building, I suppose, and search their trash for clues. But that might take weeks. Anyway, they probably shred their evidence. I think this particular problem calls for a direct, aggressive approach." She groaned. "I
hate
the direct, aggressive approach. You don't get to wear a disguise or anything. But at least I can use one of my fake voices."
    "How?" They were approaching Stacy's apartment building. "How are you going to use a fake voice?"
Caroline asked, hurrying to catch up with Stacy at the front door.
    "Good afternoon, Mr. Santos," said Stacy, tossing her hair back and speaking in a cool, poised voice to the doorman. "Isn't this spring weather lovely?"
    In the elevator, she turned to Caroline and asked, "What did you think of my voice to Mr. Santos?"
    Caroline shrugged. "It was okay, I guess. But you sounded about forty years old."
    "Right. Good. That's the effect I want. I'm going to use that voice when I call
People
magazine and inquire about their investigative methods."

    Caroline sprawled on one of the beds in Stacy's room and looked around. Sometimes she really wished her family were rich. Stacy had her own TV. She had her own typewriter, which sat on a polished desk with a matching chair. Everything in the room matched. The wallpaper, pale yellow with pink and green flowers, matched the dust ruffles on the two beds, which matched the draperies and even the lampshades. The only jarring notes were Stacy's backpack, which she had dropped on the floor in the middle of the green carpeting, and her sweater, which she had draped over a lamp.
    Even her telephone, on the table between the two beds, was pale yellow. Stacy was sitting cross-legged
on her own bed, writing down the number she had found in the telephone directory. Finally she looked up, took a few deep breaths, and dialed.
    "Good afternoon," she said in her fake mature voice. "This is Ms. Baurichter. I'm with Bentley, Baurichter, and Bernstein, Attorneys? I would like to inquire as to whom—ah, what I mean is, I want to know who wrote the article about Harrison Ledyard in this week's issue."
    She pressed her hand over the receiver and whispered to Caroline, "They're checking."
    "Thank you so much," she said, returning to the telephone. "Is he in, by any chance?"
    "They're transferring my call," she whispered. "Michael Small. That's his name. What an
ordinary
name. Boy, when
I'm
doing investigative reporting for a national magazine, I'm going to change my—Hello? Mr. Small?
    "Mr. Small, I'm calling you to inquire about your methods for obtaining the material for an