Abby and the Notorious Neighbor by Ann M. Martin

Author:Ann M. Martin
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Scholastic Inc.
Published: 2015-12-15T05:00:00+00:00

Kristy’s entry in the mystery notebook wasn’t exactly supportive, but seeing it made me happy anyway. She’d brought the notebook to my house to prove that she was ready to play along with my “fantasies” about Mr. Finch.

What’s the mystery notebook? Well, it’s another of Kristy’s great ideas. See, the BSC members have been involved in solving quite a few mysteries. And when you’re collecting clues and speculating about suspects, you need a place in which to keep notes. I guess the club members used to write stuff down just about anywhere — on the backs of their hands or on napkins from a pizza place — but sometime before I joined the club Kristy came up with the idea for the mystery notebook. Ever since then our investigations have been a lot more organized.

Kristy’s entry went on to tell about some sleuthing she did that same day, under pressure from me.

“Come on, Kristy, please?” I begged. We were sitting in my room, on the window seat.

“Don’t you know it’s a federal crime to tamper with somebody’s mail?” she asked, folding her arms across her chest. “I could end up in prison. Is that what you want?”

I shook my head. “Of course not,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be tampering. You’d just be peeking. For one second. What’s the harm?”

Kristy frowned. “He might come home,” she said.

“I really don’t think he will. I’m starting to know his schedule. He hardly ever goes out, but when he does, he always stays away for a couple of hours.”

I picked up the binoculars and went to the other window. “And I can tell that the mail is there,” I said. “Kristy, please? This is our big chance.”

“Our big chance to find ourselves in big trouble. And all for what? To find out your neighbor’s name? There must be an easier way.”

There wasn’t. Not that I could think of. I’d tried the phone book, but that hadn’t worked. All I was asking Kristy to do was to ride her bike around to the front of Mr. Finch’s house and crack open his mailbox, which stood at the end of his driveway. I could see it from my window. Earlier, the little red flag on it had been up, which was a signal to the letter carrier that there was mail inside waiting to be picked up. Now the flag was down, which meant that the letter carrier had stopped by. Mr. Finch had gone out about fifteen minutes earlier, and I hadn’t seen him check the mail as he drove away. That meant that this was our golden opportunity. If we (“we” meaning Kristy, since going outside would be sure to activate my allergies and keep me sneezing for hours) could just take one quick look at Mr. Finch’s mail, we could find out what that “O” stood for. And knowing the alias he was using would be an excellent next step. I had already told Kristy about my phone call with Amy Shapiro.

“Okay, if you don’t want to do it, I can’t make you,” I said in a depressed tone.

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