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

dripping bangs. Luckily Madge had covered the Urstads’ gleaming pinewood floor with plastic. “Where are the crooked politicians when you need them? How long do I keep getting assigned stories about pranksters? Where’s my big break in journalism?”
    â€œTry searching for it outside,” said Madge acidly. She’d entered the dining room quietly to find out, I guess, what was taking me so long. When there was food available, I didn’t normally keep her waiting.
    â€œWe don’t approve of intruders,” Madge informed Sylvester, her blue eyes narrowed and dangerous. She held up one of the Urstads’ portable phones. “Get out, or I’m dialing 911.”
    â€œMadge, meet Sylvester Sloan,” I said hastily. “Sylvester shows up when anything disastrous happens.”
    Madge’s brow cleared. “Oh, a reporter . Well, we have no disasters happening here, unless you count my failed attempt at a mural, so if you wouldn’t mind —”
    â€œI’d never mind,” Sylvester breathed. Gaping at my sister, he whispered, “Aphrodite, rising from the foam,” and gave a heavy lovesick sigh.
    Huh? Foam? Madge had been in the pool, that was all. She had a thick white towel wrapped round her bathing suit, and her burnished red hair was tied up in a wet ponytail. Comparing Madge to a goddess was a bit of a stretch.
    I waved a hand in front of Sylvester’s goggling face. “Do you read me … Repeat, do you read me…”
    Startled, Sylvester stepped sideways — and into the puddle he’d created by wringing out his bangs. He slipped, and— splat ! Sylvester hit the wall’s wet paint. Now he had a fat white stripe down one side.
    â€œSylvester, you look like a confused skunk,” Madge observed, and she and I burst into unkind laughter.
    Bored by yet another gawky admirer, Madge returned to the pool. However, I felt a bit sorry for Sylvester, so I walked him out to the Bugle car. It was the least I could do.
    Some kids playing hockey on the street jeered at him; a couple of cars slowed so their drivers could stare and snicker.
    â€œMaybe Mom was right: Journalism isn’t the career for me,” mourned Sylvester, tossing his steno pad on the driver’s seat. It landed with a squelch ! “I toldja how she always thought I should go into insurance. Y’know, selling door-to-door.” He slid into the car, transferring a good portion of his white streak onto the driver’s seat.
    â€œBut then you’d have to wear a business suit and look smooth and efficient,” I pointed out. “Somehow I can’t picture you being smooth and efficient.
    â€œAnyhow,” I continued, leaning on the open driver’s window, “you do have a talent for showing up after disasters.” I surveyed his drenched hair and smothered a laugh. “When not actually participating in them.”
    â€œThat’s true.” Sylvester cheered up a bit. “Every time something happens at Rowena’s, I’m on it like an ant on picnic food.”
    A slow ant sometimes, I thought, but didn’t say this aloud. Instead I remarked, “You also showed up the time something happened at the Urstads’. ” I could tell Sylvester yearned to leave. He was fidgeting with the car keys, and his Adam’s apple bobbed agitatedly. But I didn’t want him to go, not yet.
    â€œThe hang-glider crash, for example,” I elaborated. “ That happened at the Urstads’. ”
    â€œHuh? So there was a hang glider. Well, it was supposed to happen at Rowena’s,” Sylvester said crossly. He shoved in the ignition key.
    â€œâ€˜Supposed to’?” I reached over and pulled the key out. I’m one of those behaviorally challenged kids. “What do you mean?”
    â€œI mean the high-pitched tipster,” Sylvester said crossly. He grabbed the key ring and we had a mini-tug-of-war.