I pointed at the stains on his shirt and giggled. Then I glanced down at my shirt. My brand-new pink T-shirt. Splotched with blueberry stains.
I glanced around the kitchen for something to use to clean my shirt. The room was a disaster.
Globs of pancake batter dripped from the stove. Batter covered the countertops and stuck to the floor.
Then I took a good look at Grandma. She was a disaster too.
Her face was striped—blue and white. Flour and blueberry stains filled the creases of her wrinkled cheeks. She had flour streaked across her nose and chin.
“Did you sleep well?” She smiled, and her blue eyes crinkled. With the back of her hand, she wiped a wisp of gray hair from her eyes. Now a glob of blueberry batter nested in the thin strands of her hair.
“I did,” Grandpa answered, as a loud shriek rang out from the swamp. “Always do. It’s so quiet and peaceful here.”
I had to smile. Maybe Grandpa is lucky that he’s hard of hearing, I thought.
Grandpa headed out the door, and Clark and I brushed ourselves off. Then we took our seats at the table.
In the middle of the table sat another plate of blueberry pancakes. This plate was even bigger than the one Grandma had been holding. And it was stacked high with blueberry pancakes.
“Grandma must think we eat like pigs,” Clark leaned over and whispered. “There’s enough here for fifty people.”
“I know,” I groaned. “And we’ll have to eat them all. Otherwise, she’ll be insulted.”
“We do?” Clark gulped.
That’s one of the things I really like about my stepbrother. He believes almost everything I tell him.
“Help yourself,” Grandma chirped, carrying two more plates of pancakes to the table. “Don’t be shy.”
Why did Grandma make all these pancakes? I wondered. There’s no way we could eat all of them. No way.
I placed a few pancakes on my plate. Grandma heaped about ten onto Clark’s plate. His face turned green.
Grandma sat down with us. But her plate remained empty. She didn’t take a single pancake.
All those pancakes and she didn’t even take one. I don’t get it, I thought. I just don’t get it.
“What’s that you’re reading, dear?” She pointed to Clark’s rolled-up comic, sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.
“Creatures from the Muck,” he answered between bites.
“Oh, how interesting,” Grandma replied. “I love to read. So does Grandpa Eddie. We read all the time. We love mysteries. ‘There’s nothing like a good mystery,’ Grandpa Eddie always says.”
I jumped up from the table. I just remembered—Grandma and Grandpa’s presents were still packed in my suitcase.
Books! Mysteries! Dad told us they loved them.
“Be right back!” I excused myself and dashed upstairs.
I started down the long, winding hall to my room. Then stopped when I heard footsteps.
Who could it be?
I gazed down the dark hall. I gasped when I spotted a shadow moving against the wall.
Someone else was up here.
Someone was creeping toward me.
I pressed my back against the wall. Held my breath and listened.
The shadow slid out of view.
The footsteps grew softer.
Still holding my breath, I inched down the dark twisting hallway. I peeked around a corner. And saw it.
The shadow. Nearly shapeless in the dim light.
It moved slowly along the dark green walls, growing smaller as the footsteps faded in the distance.
I crept swiftly but silently, chasing the shadow through the corridor.
Whose shadow is it? I wondered. Who else is up here?
I crept closer.
