Read Online Summer of the Spotted Owl by Melanie Jackson - Free Book Online

together, the more jumbled they get,” I sighed. Without thinking, I stood up and banged my foot against the pail. Suds sloshed all over the floor.
    â€œDinah, let’s go out to the pool,” called Madge from the kitchen.
    â€œBe right there,” I called back. Grabbing a spare towel, I swiped at the spilled suds.
    I peeked round the corner. Madge was carrying a platter of gleaming fruit and creamy cheese wedges out to the deck.
    Some chores were made to be shortened. There was no need to lug this pail downstairs to the Urstads’ laundry room when I could just as easily chuck the soapsuds out the front door. Heck, the porch and stairs could use a good wash.
    With Talbot’s electric-guitar version of “Sweet Sue” in my head, I sang, “Without you, dear, I don’t know what I’d do!”
    Who said household chores had to be dull? Just whistle while you work. Or, in my case, belt out while you work.
    My head tipped back, and singing at the top of my lungs, I pulled open the front door. With a vigorous heave, I tossed out the pail’s contents.
    â€œAAAGGGHHH!”
    I left “Sweet Sue” dangling somewhere in the high notes. Before me, Sylvester Sloan was sopping like a pile of seaweed.
    â€œWas this really necessary?” Sylvester asked sadly. His long, thin hands flipped back the top of his steno pad, then twisted and wrung out the sodden pages.
    â€œEr — sorry.”
    â€œThat’s quite a singing voice you have,” Sylvester informed me through dripping strands of hair. “What did you say your name was?”
    I told him, but rubbed my hand over my upper lip so that the syllables came out garbled. My agent, Mr. Wellman, was always warning me to avoid bad publicity. I had a feeling he wouldn’t appreciate headlines about me nearly drowning reporters.
    â€œAt least you won’t have to shower for a while,” I joked lamely. “What brings you here, anyhow, Sylvester?”
    The Bugle reporter squelched past me and into the Urstads’ marble foyer. “Got a tip about another sign being posted on Rowena’s lawn,” he said. Now he was craning round to examine the dining room. “Huh! Been painting, I see.”
    â€œMy sister’s creating a mural,” I said, wishing Sylvester would leave.
    Instead he took his time scanning the now totally white wall. “Oh, yeah? What’s she gonna call it— ‘Polar bears in a snowstorm’?” Beneath his Bugle — your darn-tootin’ neigh borhood newspaper T-shirt, Sylvester’s bony shoulders shook with laughter.
    And I’d thought my joke was lame. “Sylvester, this time you’re two days late on your tip about Rowena. What gives? Another visit to your mom?”
    â€œA cold,” Sylvester sighed. He took a wet Kleenex from a drenched shorts pocket, blew his nose into it and stuffed it back again. “I was off, so didn’t get the voice-mail message till today. But, yeah, he or she —the voice is so high-pitched I can’t tell — left the message all right. Say, do you have a towel I could borrow?”
    I barely heard him. Rowena’s anonymous caller had a high-pitched voice too. I bet the caller and the tipster were one and the same.
    â€œThe strategy could be, dump cats on her doorstep, leave eyesores on her lawn and generally make her appear to be a neighborhood nuisance,” I murmured. “Not to mention tipping off the Bugle each time one of these things happens. It’s all a campaign to embarrass Rowena into leaving the neighborhood, but why?”
    â€œOh, you’re one of those bright children,” Sylvester groaned, rolling his eyes. “Just my luck. I ask for a towel and I get theories.” He sneezed. “I’ll tell you what I really need, though.”
    â€œA dry Kleenex?”
    â€œA crooked politician.” Tucking his steno pad under an arm, Sylvester wrung out his