The Seal of Solomon (Alfred Kropp #2)(3)

Kenny was a mutterer. He made little noises under his breath and repeated the same words over and over. When I was around, the word was “Kropp,” and he muttered it as he followed me from room to room: “Kropp, Kropp, Kropp, Alfred Kropp, Kropp, Kropp, Kropp.”

It got worse at night. “Kropp, Kropp, Alfred Kropp, it’s dark, it’s very dark, oh, and I’m thirsty, I’m so thirsty, Kropp, Alfred Kropp, Kropp, Kropp, Kropp.” Most nights he was positive someone evil lurked right outside the window, and he badgered me until I got out of bed to check the latch.

But his jabbering never bothered me much. It was soft and steady, like raindrops against a windowpane, and sometimes it helped me go to sleep.

It bothered some of the other kids in the house, though, and they were pretty rough on Kenny until I took them aside and told them if they didn’t stop teasing him, I was going to chop off their heads and stuff their headless corpses into the crawlspace. I wasn’t exactly a knight, but I was descended from one, and defending the weak is pretty high on the list of knightly virtues.

I hesitated before going inside. I could hear the TV blaring at full volume through the thin walls, probably one of the soap operas Betty Tuttle was hooked on. Horace was usually sprawled in his La-Z-Boy, shouting over the TV at his wife, “Why do you waste your time with these silly soap operas! Bunch of kooks and nuts getting kidnapped or killed or falling in love with their own brother!” While he watched the whole episode, Betty scrambled around making after-school snacks and folding laundry and picking up toys.

But Horace wasn’t in the La-Z-Boy when I came in. He was prancing around the living room wearing an apron and wielding a feather duster, his round face shining with sweat, while Betty worked the corners with a broom. She saw me at the door, gave a little cry, and turned off the TV.

“Dear,” she whispered to Horace, who had stopped prancing and was standing very still, staring at me. “Alfred is home.”

“I know he’s home,” he hissed back. “These two things over my nose, they’re called ‘eyes,’ Betty.”

Then Horace Tuttle came toward me, his short arms flung wide, and I stood there in the entryway, stunned, as he threw those little arms around me. Dust flew from the feathers and I sneezed.

“How ya doin’, Al?” he said into my chest. “Good Lord of mercy, you’re getting bigger and stronger every day!”

He pulled back, grinning. The smile on his face would give new meaning to the word “creepy.”

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Oh, Alfred, the most extraordinary thing—” Betty began, but Horace cut her off.

“Nothing!” he shouted. He gave an embarrassed little laugh and clapped my shoulder hard. He lowered his voice.

“Just a little spring-cleaning, Ally my boy. Is it all right if I call you ‘Ally’?”

“No,” I said. “And this is October.”

“No time like the present!” Horace bellowed.

Just then Kenny walked into the room, muttering, “Oh, Al. Al Kropp. Alfred Kropp.”

Horace whirled on him and shouted, “Zip your pie-hole, you pea-brained little halfwit!” and Betty murmured, “Horace, you’ll give him a complex.” Horace yelled back, “Little late for that!”

“Lay off Kenny,” I said, and that shut Horace up.

“Dear,” Betty said to Horace. “Maybe we should tell Alfred.” She turned to me. “We’re having a visitor today.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

“No one you know,” Horace said. “Here, Al, let me take that backpack for you . . . Dear God, it’s heavy—you’re as strong as Paul Bunyan’s ox! How about that? You learn about Paul Bunyan in school? Kenny, put this away for Al.”

Horace slung the backpack in Kenny’s direction. It slammed into his stomach, and Kenny went down on his butt.

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll take it.”

I grabbed the backpack with one hand, Kenny’s arm with the other, and pulled him to his feet.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

The doorbell rang. All the color drained from Horace’s face and he whirled on Betty, one of his stubby fingers jabbing at her nose.

“Great, he’s here and I haven’t dusted the mantel yet!”

“Who’s here?” I asked.

“The visitor,” Horace said. He was struggling with the knot in the apron strings.

“What visitor?”

“Didn’t we cover this? Betty, go get me a pair of scissors so I can cut off this damn apron . . .”

“I told you to tie it in a bow.” She bit her lip and worked at the knot behind Horace’s back. The doorbell rang again. Nobody moved. Horace waved the feather duster around in a figure eight. He reminded me of a fat, round majorette, though you don’t see many majorettes with his body type. Little dust motes danced and darted in the air. Horace snapped at Betty to never mind and put the broom away. The doorbell rang a third time.

“You want me to get that?” I asked.

“No!” said Horace and Betty at the same time.

Then Horace said, “Al, you take the sofa, but don’t sit in the middle. Betty, put the coffee on and do something with your hair. You look like Ozzy Osbourne. Far end of the sofa, Al, you smell sweaty. Kenny, why are you standing there gasping like a guppy? Get outta here.”