Mystery on Magnolia Circle Read online

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  For Roger Kaza,

  who helped me turn it around

  ONE

  I Hate Stairs

  On the last day of school, I fell down the front steps of my house and broke my leg. After the surgery, my doctor said I’d have to wear a cast on my leg for most of the summer.

  “You might think your world will get smaller,” Dr. Ames said. “But depending on how you spend this time, your world could actually get bigger.”

  I rolled my eyes, but stopped when I heard Mom fake-clearing her throat.

  “We appreciate your good care,” Mom said to Dr. Ames. “Don’t we, Ivy?”

  We certainly did not. We did not appreciate anything or anyone because we knew what this meant. Spending the summer with my leg in a cast meant no bike riding around Forest Park. No swimming. No watersliding. No scootering. No practicing gymnastics in my backyard.

  And I was expected to feel appreciative? No, thank you.

  “I’m sending you home in a wheelchair,” Dr. Ames said. “But I’d like you to start using crutches as soon as possible.”

  “Where do we get the crutches?” Mom asked.

  “Third floor,” Dr. Ames said. “Physical therapy. They’ll fit Ivy for crutches and teach her how to use them.”

  He paused to make a sad-clown face. Then he pointed at my cast. It covered my entire left leg, from my foot to my upper thigh.

  “I’m sure this isn’t what you had in mind for summer, Ivy. But I know you’ll make the most of it.”

  “Of course she will,” said Mom.

  “If I were you,” Dr. Ames continued, “I’d spend this time learning something new. Not just how to walk with crutches, but something fun. A new skill, a language, coding. I hear coding’s a terrific thing for kids to learn. You could take an online masterclass.”

  I started to roll my eyes again, but Mom gave me her aggressively fake smile.

  “Now there’s an idea,” she said in a singsongy voice. “What do you think about taking an online masterclass, Ivy?”

  What did I think? It was summer. That’s what I thought.

  I’d worked hard all year. I’d won the fourth-grade spelling bee and the fourth-grade multiplication bowl. I’d earned a perfect score on my Trojan War project, which was pretty impressive considering it was supposed to be a group project and my so-called partner, Melvin Moss, disappeared the day after we got the assignment.

  More to the point: I didn’t want to take an online masterclass. I’d spent most of third grade online. Besides, I already knew how to code.

  “Whatever you do,” Dr. Ames said, “think of this experience as an adventure. You’re probably the only ten-year-old girl in your zip code with a minimally displaced fracture of the tibia and fibula just above the ankle. Write down what you learn on this journey. Capture the wisdom with paper and pen. I think you’ll find it a valuable exercise.”

  Mom was now looking at me with bugged-out eyes as if to say, Please, Ivy. Just be polite. We’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.

  So I said the only thing I could think of that wouldn’t be rude to the doctor but would also convey how miserable I was and would be all summer long.

  “What I have learned so far on this journey,” I said slowly, with bitter tears burning in my eyes, “is that I hate stairs.”

  * * *

  My street is shaped like a lollipop. Most of Magnolia Circle is straight, but there’s a loop at the end where cars can turn around. Some people call my street a cul-de-sac, which Dad told me is French for “bottom (cul) of (de) a sack (sac).” It’s a fancy way of saying dead end.

  My family—it’s just Mom, Dad, and me—uses the term cul-de-sac to mean any situation that leads nowhere.

  The idea of spending the summer with a cast on my leg seemed like a cul-de-sac if ever there was one. My best friend agreed. Teddy Samuelson lives across the street in a four-story apartment building called Magnolia Manor.

  The day after my surgery, Teddy came over with his dog, Lotty. It’s short for Lottery. Teddy was so happy the day he got an Irish setter, he felt like he’d won the lottery. So he named the dog Lottery, which was quickly shortened to Lotty.

  Lotty is best friends with my dog, Winthrop. He’s a rescue sheepdog who looks like a distinguished professor in serious need of a haircut.

  “Should I sign it?” Teddy asked, gesturing with his head at my bright green fiberglass cast.

  I was sitting in the wheelchair feeling sorry for myself. My bad leg was propped up with pillows on a chair.

  “I don’t care,” I said.

  “I could write my name on it,” Teddy said. “And Lotty’s name, too, if you want.”

  “I don’t care,” I repeated.

  “Or I could draw something,” Teddy offered. “You always say I’m the best artist in fourth grade.”

  “Going on fifth grade,” I said.

  “I could draw Lotty and Winthrop,” Teddy said. “I’d need to practice first, but I bet I could do it.”

  “Whatever.”

  I don’t know why I was acting so crabby toward Teddy. He was only trying to be nice. It wasn’t his fault I was stuck inside my house for the summer.

  “It’s terrible about your leg,” Teddy said, “but I have even worse news.”

  “Nothing’s worse than this,” I mumbled, crossing my arms and staring out the window.

  “Mm-hmm,” Teddy replied. He suddenly sounded like he might cry. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Something’s wrong with Lotty.”

  I turned to look at Teddy’s dog. “What’s wrong with her?”

  “She won’t eat. She won’t play. All she wants to do is sleep.”

  “Did you take her to Dr. Juniper?” I asked.

  I knew Lotty’s doctor because my family and Teddy’s family used the same veterinarian, Dr. Juniper. She’s the vet my mom took her pets to when she was a kid.

  “We went yesterday,” Teddy said. “Dr. Juniper said she doesn’t know what’s wrong with Lotty. We have to go back on Monday. She wants to do tests. She’ll probably have to draw more blood.”

  “Maybe it’s the flu,” I said. “Do dogs get the flu?”

  Tears welled in Teddy’s eyes. “I don’t know. I just want her to be back to normal.”

  I knew the feeling.

  “She can’t even walk around the park,” Teddy said, sniffling.

  “I can’t, either,” I reminded him.

  A few moments of silence passed as Teddy stroked Lotty and I scratched Winthrop’s ears.

  “Want to play gin rummy?” I finally said.

  “Sure. I know where the cards are. Kitchen junk drawer, right?”

  I didn’t have time to say right. Teddy was back, shuffling the cards in a matter of seconds.

  What I learned from that:

  Best friends know exactly where you keep your cards.

  TWO

  Dogs and Dead Ends


  Our neighborhood was never especially interesting. I always thought it was because we didn’t have a lot of kids on our street. It’s mostly older people who liked the combination of big trees, medium-size houses, and small, shady yards.

  But news that we were getting a street sign created instant drama. In early June, someone at St. Louis City Hall decided we needed a sign that said dead end at the entrance to Magnolia Circle.

  Teddy was my source of all news on the subject.

  “So,” he said, on day five of our gin-rummy battle, “everyone on Magnolia Circle received a notice in the mail that said a dead-end sign would be installed on September first, ‘barring significant opposition to the plan.’”

  I pushed my wheelchair back a few inches from the table so I could evaluate my cards. “Does that mean we’re getting the sign?” I asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Teddy said, looking at his cards. “My mom says the older people on our street like the idea of a dead-end sign because they think it will cut down on ‘turnarounders.’”

  Turnarounders is what we called people who turned down Magnolia Circle by mistake. When they realized the street was a dead end, they’d speed up, zip around the circle, and zoom away, as if there were something contagious about our quiet tree-lined street.

  “And, of course,” said Teddy, “everyone who lives in my building likes the idea of the sign because they say it’ll mean more street parking for us. Our doorman, Joel, really wants the sign because he’s really tired of people asking him to save parking spaces for them.”

  “Makes sense,” I said.

  Joel was the maintenance man in Teddy’s apartment building, but he preferred to be called a doorman. I always loved the idea of a doorman. I wished we had someone at our house who said hello and goodbye to everyone as they were coming and going.

  I bet my parents would also like a dead-end sign. We had a driveway next to our house, but my mom didn’t like when her already stressed-out patients couldn’t find a parking place on the street.

  My mom’s a psychiatrist with a small office in the back of our house where she sees patients. My dad’s a cardiologist at the local veterans’ hospital. Mom and Dad met and fell in love in medical school. They were partners in a class where they learned how to give medicine intravenously, or through a vein, more commonly known as IV therapy. That’s why they named me, their only child, Ivy.

  “So is anybody against a dead-end sign?” I asked.

  “Oh yeah,” said Teddy. “Some people are dead set against it. Mr. Hobart says it’ll bring down property values.”

  “Why?”

  “He thinks the words dead end are depressing. Nobody wants to buy a house on a dead end.”

  “It means the same exact thing as a cul-de-sac,” I said. “Except more people might actually know what dead end means.” I snapped down three jacks. “Gin.”

  “Jeez,” Teddy groaned. “That’s the fourth game in a row you’ve won.”

  “You’re not paying attention,” I said. “Didn’t you see I was collecting jacks?”

  “My mind is mush today.”

  “You’re worried about Lotty.”

  “Yeah.”

  Dr. Juniper had insisted Lotty spend another night at her clinic. The poor dog had already endured two full days of tests.

  “Still no word on what’s wrong with her?” I asked.

  “Dr. Juniper doesn’t know what it is,” Teddy said. “I just hope it’s not…”

  “What?” I said, shuffling the cards for another game of rummy.

  “You know,” Teddy said quietly. “A dead end.”

  I put the cards down on the table and looked at Teddy. “Lotty is the luckiest dog alive. And she’s only three years old. She’s not going to die.”

  “I know,” Teddy said. “Because if Lotty died, I don’t know what I would do.”

  As if that were his cue, my dog, Winthrop, woke up from a nap and sauntered over to Teddy’s side.

  “See?” I said. “Even Winthrop knows Lotty’s going to be okay. That’s what he’s trying to tell you.”

  Teddy massaged Winthrop’s neck. “Such a sweet, chubby dog.”

  “Winthrop’s not chubby!” I said.

  “He will be if we don’t start walking him again,” Teddy said.

  He was right. We used to take Winthrop and Lotty for a long walk around Forest Park every day after school.

  “How am I supposed to walk with this stupid cast on my leg?” I said.

  Teddy pointed at the crutches leaning against the wall. “What do you think those are for?”

  “It’s not as easy as you think,” I grumped. “They hurt my arms. I can’t do it.”

  “Have you tried?”

  “Of course I tried! I mean, I kinda tried. Once. With the physical therapist at the hospital.”

  Teddy was already across the room. He was using my crutches to hop around.

  “This is hard? Really? This? This is too hard for Miss Straight-A’s Ivy?”

  “Try doing it with a hundred-pound cast on your leg,” I said.

  “Your cast doesn’t weigh a hundred pounds,” Teddy said.

  Before I knew it, he was pulling me out of the wheelchair and wedging the crutches under my armpits. “Come on. You can do this.”

  An hour later, we were outside with Winthrop.

  The hardest part was getting down the front steps of my house. I hopped down each step on my good leg, with one arm on the iron handrail and the other arm wrapped around Teddy’s neck.

  “Am I strangling you?” I asked.

  “Yes. But what’re friends for?”

  He made me laugh.

  “You have no idea how hard this is,” I said, panting and laughing at the same time. We were almost to the bottom.

  “Just remember,” Teddy said, grimacing, “you’re doing this for Winthrop. He needs a good walk.”

  “Right,” I said. “We’ll do anything for our dogs.”

  I thought about saying something nice to reassure Teddy about Lotty, but I decided against it.

  What I learned from that:

  Sometimes it’s better not to talk about things with friends, especially if you know you’re both worrying about the same thing.

  THREE

  The Worst Possible News

  Teddy called the next morning. His voice was trembling. “We have a family meeting today at Dr. Juniper’s office.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Dr. Juniper wants to talk about Lotty. It can’t be good.”

  In my mind, I agreed. It sounded like the worst possible news, but I couldn’t say that to Teddy.

  “Daphne says Lotty’s days are numbered,” Teddy said.

  Daphne would say that. She was Teddy’s eighteen-year-old sister and was spending the summer reading tragic novels about teenagers with deadly diseases.

  “Try not to catastrophize,” I said, borrowing a word I’d heard my mom use. “That means try not to assume the worst-case scenario.”

  But the worst case was correct.

  * * *

  The family meeting with Dr. Juniper was scheduled for ten thirty. Just before noon, Teddy called me. He could barely talk.

  “I … can’t … even…”

  “Tell me everything,” I said.

  Now he was crying hard. “I … I…”

  “Do you want to come over?”

  “No,” he said. “I wouldn’t be … very good company.”

  “You think I care?”

  “I can’t believe it,” he said in a whisper. “Dr. Juniper did blood work. The test results came back positive.” His voice dropped. “Leukemia.”

  “Dogs can get leukemia?”

  “Yeah,” Teddy replied. “Canine leukemia.” He took a deep breath. “Dr. Juniper said Lotty’s a strong dog, but the leukemia is stronger.”

  “Unbelievable,” I said. “It’s just unbelievable.”

  “I know,” Teddy said. “She said there are treatments, but they�
��re crazy expensive and they don’t always work.”

  “We have to try,” I said. “We can earn the money—you and me, this summer. We can walk dogs. Er, you can walk dogs. I’ll tutor little kids. I can help them with reading or multiplication tables or…”

  Teddy started to cry again. “The treatment costs, like, ten thousand dollars. Mom and Dad are already worried about how they’re going to pay for Daphne’s college. She starts in August.”

  “I know, but we can—”

  “No, we can’t,” Teddy said. He paused to blow his nose. “Dad’s been trying to pick up more shifts at the factory, but it’s not happening. Mom says her salon has lost twenty percent of their clients to those new hair-coloring-at-home products because they advertise twenty-four seven on the most popular podcasts.”

  “We can help your mom launch a marketing campaign for the salon. We’ll think up some fun and cheap ways to—”

  “You’re not hearing me, Ivy. It’s too late!”

  There was nothing more to say. We stayed on the phone for a full minute, maybe two minutes, without speaking. “I can’t believe it,” I finally whispered. “Lotty.”

  “Lotty,” Teddy repeated.

  “So what does this mean?” I asked softly. “What did you do?”

  “We all took turns saying goodbye,” Teddy said. “I held her paw and told her what a good dog she’d been and how she’d always be part of our family. And then we left her with Dr. Juniper. She said we didn’t have to stay till the bitter end.”

  “I … I can’t even wrap my head around this.”

  “Me, neither,” said Teddy. “But I know one thing for sure.”

  “What?”

  “From now on, I want you to call me Ted.”

  “What? Where is this coming from?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel like a Teddy anymore. I feel more grown-up, like a Ted. That’s what death does to you.”

  “Okay,” I said solemnly.

  “If you forget and call me Teddy once in a while, it’s all right,” he said.