The First Last Day (10 page)

Kevin fished out his video camera from his backpack. “Even if we're living in parallel universes, and my life is moving forward in the other one, I don't want to be stuck in time anywhere.”

“So . . . you'll help me?”

“Sure, but we can't be too obvious about filming everyone.” He hoisted his backpack onto one shoulder and swung it around to the front. Then he tucked
the camera inside, just enough so the lens peeked out. “That should do it.”

“Okay, then. Let's hurry. We've got to stay on schedule.”

Kevin stood and turned the backpack my way. “Lights, camera, action!”

W
hen we got back from Atlantic City, Kevin and I stayed out on the porch to examine what he'd filmed. The smell of ragout and rosemary sailed our way as Kevin dragged two rocking chairs together. “Let's rewind the day,” he said. “What happened before I met you at Annie's?” His voice sounded deep and official, like a TV detective. “Was anyone near you on the boardwalk?”

I shook my head as we sat. “No. And I had my backpack on my shoulder the whole time.”

“What about when you got to Annie's?”

“I kept my backpack right next to me on the seat. No one could have slipped anything inside without me seeing it. Right?”

“I don't know,” Kevin said. “What about when Joey dropped that pancake on the floor? Didn't we all turn to look? Could Annie have put the paints in your backpack on that first day, while no one was looking at her?”

“I think Annie was just as surprised as we were. Besides, that first day was the same as today. She was only holding a pencil and pad—and the pockets in her apron were way too small to hide anything.”

“Okay,” Kevin said. “Let's do this systematically. We need to cross things out one at a time.”

I gave him the list and my colored pencils. Kevin balanced the paper on his knee and drew a red line through Number One. He took out his camera. “What about Serena? Have you noticed anything unusual about her?”

“No way. Even though I put her on the list, I don't think it's her.”

“We can't rule out anybody—no matter how much you like them. Think about it. Serena's an artist. She must have lots of old paints lying around. And she knows you're
an artist too. Maybe they were hers when she was your age, and she wanted to pass them on.”

“But why wouldn't she tell me she was giving them to me?”

Kevin shrugged and pressed play. There was footage of the little girl squirming in the chair and Serena frowning under her huge hat. Kevin paused the tape. “Maybe she wanted to surprise you. C'mon. It makes perfect sense.”

“I don't know . . . maybe.” I tried to remember all those weeks ago when I first saw Serena painting the little girl with the polka-dot bow. Had I put my backpack down when I was admiring the sketches? I turned the camera to get a better view. “Does Serena seem suspicious to you?”

“She did tell us one of her ancestors was put to death after the Salem witch trials.”

“What's that got to do with anything?”

Kevin shrugged. “Maybe she inherited some magic powers.”

I shook my head. “I don't think so.”

“You have to admit, she is kind of eccentric with those weird hats. And look at the one she's wearing. It's
huge—she could have hidden anything under there.” He rested the camera on the porch floor. “Give me the green pencil. We'll color-code the list. Strong suspects get a green star.”

“Okay,” I said. But I didn't really think Serena was a strong suspect.

“On to Number Three,” Kevin said. “Mr. Sidhu's.”

“Did you see anyone get close enough to me at the store?”

“It was crowded in there, but wouldn't you have felt it if someone slipped a box that big inside your backpack?”

“It's been so long, I can't remember that first time.” Had there been anyone suspicious in the store? Or . . . what about Mr. Sidhu? “Show me the film.”

I watched myself leafing through the mystery novels. Someone bumped into me, and I fell back against the counter. “Look! That happens every day. Maybe on that first day, somebody gave me the paints while I was trying to catch my balance.”

Kevin rewound the tape. “I guess so. But Mr. Sidhu was the closest to your backpack. Why would he give them to you?”

“He could have seen me sketching on the boardwalk one morning when we first got to the shore and thought I would like them. Maybe he found the box mixed in with a bunch of used books and figured no one would want to buy used paints.”

“You think?”

“It's possible. He's a very nice man. Remember how he said he'd give you first dibs on those DVDs you like? You should give him a green star too.”

“Okay. Where was your backpack when we were on the boardwalk and the beach?”

“I had it when we got the Italian ices, but it was on my towel when we went for a swim. We asked that couple next to us to watch our stuff, and they didn't seem like people who would sneak paints into a kid's backpack. Did they?”

“I don't think so. But what kind of people
would
do that?”

“And why?” I added.

“That's a good question,” Kevin said. “And one we haven't explored yet. What's the motive?”

“Motive?”

“Yeah, you know, on all those TV cop shows, they
talk about whether the criminal had the opportunity to do the crime and what their reason, or motive, for doing it was.”

“You think a criminal gave me the paints?”

“Could be,” Kevin said. “It's a pretty weird thing to do. And look what happened after you used them. It's kind of scary.”

“I guess. But a criminal?” A chill ran through me, even though the thermometer on the porch read ninety degrees. “It's creepy thinking someone I may not even know went into my backpack.”

“Hang on,” Kevin said. “I didn't mean to scare you. Criminals don't
give
you things. They
steal
them, right?”

“That's it!” I jumped up from the chair.

“What?”

“Maybe someone stole the paints and then stashed them in my backpack when he—”

“Or she,” Kevin said. “We haven't ruled out Serena.”

“Okay. Or
she
was about to get caught.”

“Hmm,” Kevin said. “I suppose that's a possibility.” He picked up the box and examined it. “Why would anyone want to steal these? They look like they're fifty years old.”

“That's true.” I pointed to the list. “We're getting off track. Where were we?” I sat back down.

“Number Five—the beach and the couple that was supposed to be watching our stuff.”

“Let's look at the film you took of the stegosaurus. They might be in the background, and we can see if they look suspicious.”

Kevin played the tape. First there was a close-up of the sand, then the stegosaurus, then Mateo and me, running down the beach. “Wait,” Kevin said, rewinding a little. “There's the couple in the corner. Their eyes are totally shut. They weren't watching our stuff at all.”

“Could someone have hidden the paints in my bag while they weren't looking?”

“Could be,” Kevin said. “Or maybe someone at the beach got confused and thought your backpack was theirs.”

I pointed to the pink hearts and yellow flowers I'd painted all over my backpack. “I don't think anyone could mistake this for theirs.”

“You're right,” Kevin said. “But we still can't rule out someone on the beach.” He crossed out Number Four, since the bag never left my shoulder at the Italian
ice stand, but drew a green star next to Number Five. “Okay, let's see, Number Six. Did anything weird happen while I was getting the cow suit?”

I shook my head.

“I didn't see anyone touch your backpack while we were here making cannolis.” He drew red lines through Six and Seven. “Number Eight,” Kevin said, suddenly getting a strange look on his face. “Could your parents have put them in your backpack when you went home?”

“Why would they do that?”

“To surprise you?”

I shook my head. “No way. Especially with Mom's germ phobia. If she found a box this old, she would have thrown it away and washed her hands with alcohol ten times.”

“What about your dad?”

“Same thing.”

“You're sure? I mean, they haven't told you yet about the baby. They're keeping one secret. Maybe they have another one.”

“I get why they kept it a secret about Mom's pregnancy—she's been trying for years to have another baby. They probably didn't want me to get too excited
until they knew for sure everything was okay.”

“I'm sorry,” Kevin said. “I didn't mean they were hiding things from you on purpose. I just thought maybe they wanted to distract you with the paints . . . you know, until they thought it was the right time to tell you.”

“You could be right.”

“So what should we do? Cross out or green star?”

I took a deep breath and whispered, “Green star.”

“Okay. Moving on. We're up to Number Nine: Atlantic City. We can cross out
A
and
C
. There was no one near us when we were watching the gamblers or shopping for souvenirs.” Kevin's eyes grew wide. “But what about that sketchy guy sitting behind you at the Mexican restaurant?”

“I guess it could be him.”

“He was really strange,” Kevin said. “And he was wearing a suit. Who wears a suit on the shore in summer? But . . .”

“But what?”

He played back some film from the restaurant. “Look. Dracula never went near your backpack.”

“Wait a minute.” My heart raced. “Yes! Yes, he did!”

W
hat?” Kevin said. “Watch the film—he wasn't near your backpack at all.”

“Not today. But you don't remember that very first day when you blew the straw paper across the table. I missed, and it hit the man on the neck. After a while, he leaned down like he was looking for whatever hit him. He could have shoved the box in my backpack when he was bending over.”

“Hmm. Another strong suspect,” Kevin said. “What would his motive be?”

I thought for a minute. “If he's a writer, like we thought, he could have done it for a story.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe he didn't know the paints were magic, but he put them in my backpack to see what I'd do with them. Remember, we kept seeing him at the hotel. He could have been watching us to find out what we'd do when I found the paints.”

“Then what?”

“He'd have the beginning of a new novel—depending on what we did with them.”

“But you didn't find them till you got home. Wouldn't he have tried to get you to open your backpack before we left the hotel?”

“I guess.” My head was spinning with all these theories. “The paints are so old. He could have gotten a good deal on a bunch of them and put the boxes in a lot of kids' backpacks. Maybe some other kid found them first and the guy got his story idea without me.”

“That is one weird hypothesis,” Kevin said. “Maybe
you
should be a writer.”

“I'm an artist. Not a writer. But if my theory is true, I am a little sad I didn't get to be in his book. I feel kind
of sorry for him. He probably had no idea he was missing out on a story about magic.”

All of a sudden, Kevin jumped out of the rocking chair and yelled, “Magic! Why didn't I think of this sooner!”

“Think of what?”

“Marty the magician. He had his hands right near your backpack when he pulled that scarf out.”

“I thought you didn't believe in magic?”

“I don't. It had to be a trick. You know, sleight of hand.”

Kevin pressed play again. “Look. I got a shot of him covering one hand with the other when he pulled out the scarf. That's how he does it. He gets you looking at one hand while he does something else with the other one.”

“Why would Marty do a trick like that and not follow up on it? Wouldn't he have shown everyone how he put the box in there without anyone seeing it? It would be his moment of glory, right?”

Kevin paced across the porch. “I don't know. Maybe he got distracted by a customer—and we left the store.” Kevin drew two green stars next to Marty's name. “He
might be the most likely suspect so far. He had the opportunity to do it and he had a motive.”

“I guess so, but I'm still going with my writer theory. Draw two stars next to him.”

“All right. But we still need to finish with the list. What did we do next?”

“You went to tell your mom that we were going to play mini golf.”

“That's right. And when I came back, your backpack was unzipped. That
proves
it was Marty.”

“Are you sure? He's good with the cards and the scarves, but I can't believe he could hide a whole box of paints. And . . . wait a minute!” I narrowed my eyes at Kevin. “You came up from
behind
me and said my backpack was open.
You
could have put the paints in there!”

Kevin flinched as if I'd slapped him. “Why would I do that? And where would I have gotten the paints?”

“I don't know. Maybe your mom found them at home when she was cleaning out your stuff.”

“Why wouldn't I tell you that I was giving them to you?”

“To surprise me?”

“With a set of old, used paints?”

I rocked back and forth at rapid speed. “I guess not.”

“Besides,” Kevin said, “I already know what I'm getting you for Christmas, and it isn't used.”

Christmas? Had Kevin already been planning that far ahead? Why had I been so worried we wouldn't see each other after summer? It was like I'd been preparing for something before it even happened.