Read Online Spy in the Alley by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online

lately, and you haven’t been around either time to nab him. Some stalker you are.”
    Our alley seemed to attract ineptitude, I reflected, running the rake beneath the Dubuques’ porch steps. Take the Rinaldis’ burglars. How hopeless the first one had been, to make off with some photos of tomatoes. “I mean, I ask you, tomatoes ,” I mused to the tabby. Then, the next burglar had picked off an ancient laptop when all that silver was lying around. And, he’d knocked juice all over the place. Tom Cruise would never recruit these guys for his Mission Impossible team.
    At least the burglar last night had got a drink for his trouble. Life was so unfair: here I was, by contrast, an honest, upright citizen, and parched with thirst.
    Soon after that, Mrs. Dubuque came out to give me a glass of pink lemonade and a brownie, so my martyr complex lost some of its strength.
    I realized it wasn’t me she was mad at, so much as the wisteria. She fumed, “Wisteria climbs, it gropes, it clutches, it strangles!”
    My eyes widened appreciatively. “Wisteria’s done this to you?”
    â€œWhat?” The wild look left Mrs. Dubuque’s eyes and she regarded me in puzzlement. “Me? No, dear, I’m referring to the drainpipes.”
    â€œOh,” I nodded, disappointed. For a while she’d really had me interested. “Well, thanks for the treat,” I said politely. I placed the glass on her patio table. “I have to get back to Deathstalkers at Hangman’s Hideaway now. I’m on level twelve, and about to be shot down in flames.”
    â€œOh no, you’re not,” said Mother, from behind the offending wisteria. Her face appeared above it; she was on our deck. Jack and Pantelli were beside her.
    â€œJack has been kind enough to wait for you,” Mother said. “He’s taking both you and Pantelli to his anti-smoking, folk-song rally at the park. I think you’ve spent too much time indoors, hunched over these gruesome computer games. You’ve lost your perspective, honey. You’re hearing spies when it’s just leaves rustling. Villains, where there are only shadows. Suspecting crime when it’s just —”
    â€œWe’ll go, we’ll go,” I interrupted hastily, thinking, Man! What ever happened to curt orders?
    Jack teased, “I can promise you guys bracing fresh air … healthy sunshine … ”
    Pantelli and I traded unhappy glances. “Talk about gruesome ,” Pantelli said.
    Pantelli and I had brought along our Game Boys, so we did not immediately notice where Jack was driving us.
    â€œHey, I thought we were going to the park ,” I objected, as Jack bounced his rattling, paint-peeling red jeep past the Japanese grocery store where Mother always bought sushi. “Like, the park down the street .”
    â€œStanley Park,” corrected Jack, as the jeep bounced into a pothole and the tops of our heads hit the partly rolled-back canvas roof.
    Apologetically, Jack had told us that the top was too rickety to be pushed back any farther than above the driver’s seat — otherwise it would fall right off. Furthermore, the roof was patched in many places with duct tape; given our approaching rainy season, not a good sign for a car.
    â€œNobody calls Stanley Park ‘the park,’ ” I said disapprovingly. “People will spot you from a mile off as a tourist if you talk like that.”
    With loud creaks, the jeep veered up the Georgia Street viaduct. Jack allowed himself an admiring glance at our cityscape, with its glimpses of sparkling blue ocean between tall buildings shimmering in the sun.
    He asked, “You mean, everybody has to say the whole name, Stanley Park, all the time? You can’t occasionally just say, like, ‘Catch ya later. I’m off to see Stanley?’”
    We giggled. “‘Stanley’ on its own is the name of a theater,”