The Mutual Admiration Society(40)
And then we got the people like Mr. McGinty. The ones who play bagpipes at funerals, eat something called haggis, which they tell everybody is a “delicacy” on potluck night up at the church, so the Scots must also be known for being born without taste buds besides being famous for holding their purse strings very tight. Louise could probably overlook the awful music and their horrible taste in food—takes one to know one—but she could never ever put up with a skinflint. Getting a pile of money is #1 on our mother’s TO-DO list.
FACT: The relief that flooded through me when I first saw our Scottish friend come out of Phantom Woods instead of an unknown raving murderer has suddenly dwindled to a dribble.
PROOF: This is a very terrible thought that I feel very terrible about having, but I’m 95% positive that the medal Birdie found in the leaf pile belongs to Mr. McGinty, which means he was at the scene of the crime and could be the guilty murderer.
And when he wildly waves his glinting-in-the-sun sharp gardening shears and shouts at us, “Where ya been, girls? I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” my tummy must be thinking the same thing because it goes as hard as an arithmetic problem that doesn’t add up.
It’s awfully far-fetched to think he could be a killer, but . . . what if he is, and he’s rushing toward the Finley sisters not to shoot the breeze with us, but for some other very scary reason?
Q. Was he really surprised when he came out of the woods and spotted Birdie and me behind the mausoleum? Or was he just pretending to be surprised? Did he figure we’d show up here this morning because he saw me watching him at 12:07 a.m. out our bedroom window lugging around a victim that he was “emotionally involved” with, the nun who gifted him the expensive gold St. Christopher medal? And isn’t it mighty strange that during the millions of talks we’ve had over the years that he never said one word about how him and the principal of St. Kate’s were so palsy-walsy, especially since I complained about her so much?
A. Ask again later.
As far back as I can remember, Mr. McGinty has never been nothin’ but nice and thoughtful to Birdie and me, but in my experience, people and things can change for the worst, mostly when you least expect it. So, it’s always better to be waiting for the other shoe to drop than to get caught off balance, because take it from me, something like that can just about kill you.
My boxing daddy also taught me, “Stay on your toes. You don’t want to get sucker punched.” And those words of wisdom are echoed in the pages of Modern Detection, too. Mr. Lynwood “My friends call me Woody and my enemies call me their worst nightmare” Bellflower says, “Anyone is capable of murder, given the right circumstances. Stay on your toes at all times.”
Are these the right circumstances?
Gosh, I sure hope not.
REASONS WHY I DON’T WANT MR. MCGINTY TO BE THE GUILTY PARTY
I’d like my sister’s and my head to stay where they are and not snipped off with his sharp gardening shears.
We can kiss good-bye to the reward bucks I thought we’d be making by solving the murder, because if he doesn’t decapitate us with his TOOLS OF THE TRADE in the next few minutes, I could never blackmail Mr. McGinty, even I got my limits. And I don’t want the reward I’d get for turning him in to the cops, either. That’d be blood money.
If he gets sent to the Big House, I’d miss watching our red bobbers in the cemetery pond during our late-night fishing trips. When he first invited me to join him, I told him no, because that’s what Daddy and me were doing the day he died and I was scared I wouldn’t be able to stand remembering how I let him down and the horrible missing sadness would come over me and make me feel like I was going under for the third time. But Mr. McGinty finally convinced me that fishing again could be another way to honor Daddy, like me singing for him at the Miss America contest the “Favorite Things” song, and that it might actually help me feel a little better, and he was right. I like watching the fireflies switching off and on under the reflection of the moon that disappears in ripples when frogs chase a fly, but mostly I enjoy the talks Mr. McGinty and me have about everything under the sun after we throw in our lines because sometimes I pretend that it’s Daddy at my side instead of his old friend.
Birdie wouldn’t miss reeling in a bluegill or those pond talks under the stars with our godfather if he gets electrocuted for murder because I make sure she’s deep asleep when I crawl out our bedroom window and meet up with him. My little animal lover has always hated fishing, which is why she wasn’t out on the boat with Daddy and me that afternoon. What would bother my sister is that we wouldn’t be able to visit with Mr. McGinty anymore in his cozy shack that’s another home away from home for us. She just can’t seem to get enough of beating him at gin rummy, and, of course, being the excellent caretaker that he is, he always has windmill cookies and cold Graf’s root beer at the ready when the Finley sisters drop by.
We wouldn’t be the only ones who would join the Lonely Hearts Club if Mr. McGinty got sent up the river. Charlie will be so sad to wave good-bye to our friend who taught him about birds and whittling, and believe me, my fiancé doesn’t need another person he cares about leaving him in their dust-to-dust.
And what will become of our tan and black Siamese that Mr. McGinty dove in to save after that maniac kid, Butch Seeback, threw her in the cemetery pond? Unlike tail-wagging Birdie, I haven’t fallen hook, line, and sinker for Pyewacket, but she loves running her little hand down the cat’s back and purring along with her, and . . .