I resisted the next shove. “Gee thanks, Sarah.” I mimicked her fake tone. “Please do that, Sarah! I’ll look forward to that. Shall I?”

  She pushed a little harder and shut the door behind me.

  ***

  I stared at the closed door for a full minute. But proving that I’m the official Miss Looney Tunes of Vermont, I gave up on going back inside to tear up all the paperwork and turned around to face Truman Tripp.

  Everyone but Deputy P.T. Dent and the child had left the scene.

  “Oh, no!” I jumped about ten feet and raced to my car.

  Not a scratch.

  Not a scratch?

  “I backed out for them,” P. T. called over from where he and Truman were—what?

  Playing, maybe? Playing tag, maybe?

  Whatever it was, P. T. was doing a great job. The little guy wasn’t exactly smiling, but at least he was looking ahead as he ran instead of at his feet.

  P.T. kept running after the kid but spoke to me. “I figured you had enough going on without needing car repairs.”

  I was thanking him for his thoughtfulness when I caught sight of the child safety seat in my car and jumped another ten feet.

  “That’s Truman’s,” P.T. called over. The game had switched, and Truman was now chasing him. “It was the only thing left after—” He stopped short, and the child ran up and slapped his butt.

  “You’re it!” he squealed, and P. T. took chase.

  I opened my back door and stared at the car seat. It did seem sturdy. And complicated. I’m sure it had more buckles and belts than the pilot’s seat in Chance Dooley’s spaceship.

  But first things first. First I had to nab the little boy.

  I looked up and smiled. “Time to go!” I hollered, and the kid made a run for it.

  P. T. motioned for me to stay put and chased him down, and Truman didn’t even protest when he scooped him up, threw him in the air, and caught him by the ankles. And that’s how P.T. carried him over—swinging by the ankles. I took a wild guess that Deputy Dent is a kid person.

  Once Truman got settled on his own feet, he took one look at me and went back to staring at his sneakers.

  P.T. knelt down. “Come on now,” he said gently. “Remember what we talked about. Your Auntie Cassie will take real good care of you. You’ll have loads of fun at her and Uncle Bobby’s house.”

  “Truman calls him Grandpa Bobby,” I said, and my head snapped.

  Did I just say that? Why did I just say that?

  Clearly the thought of explaining Truman Tripp to my father had sent me even further into Looney Tunes territory. And since I was already there—

  I picked up the kid, and put him in the seat.

  Make that, I aimed for the seat. Truman scowled—evidently five-year olds know how—and wiggled his bottom to adjust himself properly. Then he watched me fumble with the belts and buckles until he couldn’t stand it anymore. He held up his hand, I pulled back, and he buckled himself in.

  “You’re a pro, Truman! Just like Chance Dooley.”

  I thanked P.T., and taking the Looney Tunes thing to the criminal level, drove away.

  Chapter 3

  The drive home from Hilleville normally takes about ten minutes. But things were definitely not normal, and I definitely wasn’t ready to face my father. What was I going to say? “Hey, Dad, this here’s Truman! Sarah suggested I kidnap him. So I did!”

  I glanced in the rearview mirror, and my passenger dropped his gaze.

  “Let’s take a detour,” I said and turned off Route 19 onto Crumble Creek Road.

  Crumble Creek Park had a tree-lined walking path and lots of that crisp autumn air Ms. Mauve liked so much. And the views were spectacular—layer upon layer of the Green Mountains of Vermont, which at that moment were at their peak of fall color. No swing set, I remembered as I parked, but walking would be better for my purposes anyway.

  I grabbed my cell phone from my purse and asked the little guy if he’d like to take a walk. He didn’t answer, but he did unbuckle himself.

  We strolled down the deserted path for a few minutes, and I pulled my phone from the back pocket of my jeans. No, I wasn’t planning on making a call. Like much of Vermont, Crumble Creek Park has zero cell phone coverage. But maybe Truman would like to take some pictures?

  “Do you like gadgets?” I asked. I clicked on the camera button and tried to hand him the phone, but he refused to take it.

  Don’t all children like gadgets?

  Oh well. At least he let me take a few pictures of him. I pointed to the sugar maple he stood under. “No wonder people visit Vermont for leaf-peeping, huh, Truman?”

  No response.

  We walked on, and I pointed out the flock of wood thrushes in the pine trees ahead. “Those guys migrate from here all the way down to Panama every fall. That’s a long way.”

  No response, but he did look at the birds

  “Let’s check a map when we get home,” I said. “Would you like that?”

  No response, and I began wondering how five-year olds mourn. At least he wasn’t crying. That was good, right? But his mother had just died. Maybe crying would be good? Let’s face it, I had no idea. But when we reached a bench I suggested we have a talk, and we sat down.

  I started with my name. “Cassandra Baxter,” I said. “But my friends call me Cassie. You can call me Cassie, too.”

  He looked up and blinked two very large blue eyes.

  I continued, “Not Auntie Cassie, because you know I’m not your aunt, don’t you?”

  He was listening.

  “I’m a teacher,” I said. “We Baxters are all teachers. My father taught high school English, and my mother taught—”

  Perfect! Great job, Cassie. Just what the kid needed—a mention of mothers.

  I tried again. “I teach history at Crabtree College in Montpelier. Do you know where Montpelier is?”

  Response—zip.

  I explained that Montpelier is our state capital and promised we’d look at a map of Vermont when we got home also. “I’ll point out Lake Elizabeth, too,” I said. “That’s where I live. I’m hoping you’ll come stay with me for a while. Does that sound okay?”

  He started rapid-fire kicking his legs back and forth, but at least he didn’t say no.

  I reached over and tentatively took his hand. “You’ll be safe with me, Truman.”

  The legs stopped, and he stared at our hands for a very long time.

  “Promise?” he asked quietly.

  “Promise,” I said. “You’ll be safe with my father, too. I live with my father.”

  He looked up.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “You’re thinking I’m too old, but I moved in with Dad last spring. He came to Vermont after he retired and bought a place at Lake Elizabeth.” I shrugged. “He invited me to move in, and for some insane reason, I accepted.”

  The kid went back to kicking his feet, and I described the living arrangements. My father charges me zero rent, but in return I pay all the utilities and insurance. I do all the cleaning. Dad cooks.

  “We share the first floor,” I said. “The second floor is his, and the third floor and turret are supposedly my private space. But Bobby Baxter doesn’t understand the concept. He’s always upstairs driving me nuts.” I glanced down at the blond crew cut.

  Did Truman have a father? Why hadn’t I asked about that? Hello. Because I was supposed to be family. I was supposed to know about that.

  I took a deep breath. “How about pets?” I asked. “Do you have any pets?”

  He stopped kicking. “Nots!”

  Nots? So he didn’t like animals? Don’t all children like animals?

  We started walking again, and I mentioned Charlie. “He’s a black lab, so he’s kind of big,” I said. “But you’ll like Charlie. He’s like you—very quiet. He hardly ever bark—”

  The kid took off.

  ***

  “Truman, wait! What did I say?” I took off, too, and the word kidnap hit me once again as I chased him around a grove of white birch trees. Catching up would have been easy, but then what? Carry him, kicking and screaming, back to the car?

  Needless to say I was relieved when he suddenly stopped running and plopped down onto a pile of leaves. I plopped down with him.

  “Let’s look for the prettiest ones,” I suggested, and we started sorting through leaves.

  He held up a bright yellow specimen, I took a picture, and we kept looking while I tried to think of other topics of conversation.

  “Do you like astronauts?” I asked.

  “What are asternogs?”

  “Astronauts. They’re spacemen,” I said and told him about my father’s science fiction stories. “Chance Dooley is a spaceman. He runs Dooley’s Delivery Service: The Delivery Service that Delivers where no Delivery Service has ever Delivered Before.”

  Truman blinked.

  “Yeah, I know,” I said. “You’d think in the year 5035 things could be beamed up wherever they’re needed, but Dad insists this so-called beaming up business is for the birds.”

  The kid lay down in the leaves and looked skyward.

  “There’s a real need for Chance and his trusty Spaceship Destiny,” I continued as he started rolling around and kicking up leaves. “But unfortunately the Destiny isn’t all that trusty.”

  “Why not?”

  I brushed some maple leaves from my lap. “The thing breaks down at the drop of a hat,” I said. “For instance, right now the intergalactic tracker gasket’s gone completely kaput.”

  “What about Chance?”

  “No worries. Evadeen Deyo’s on the job. She’s the best mechanic in the Hollow Galaxy, and oh-so handy, she’s also Chance Dooley’s girlfriend.”

  He sat back up. “Do you have a boyfriend?”

  Now I ask you. Why did the kid have to bring that up when we were doing so well?

  “Joe Wylie,” I said and told him he’d like Joe. “At least I hope you do since he’s our next-door neighbor.”

  “Like Ryan?”

  On second thought, talking about my love life seemed infinitely better than talking about the teenager in a coma.

  “It’s pretty stupid to be dating my neighbor,” I said. “It’s bound to be awkward when we break up, and we’re bound to break—”

  I shook myself. “But then there’s the FN451z.”

  “What’s that?”

  A very good question.

  I told the kid only Joe understands the FN, but as we walked back to the car, I explained as best I could.

  “Joe works at home with his cockamamie invention, which he claims will help us Vermonters with Internet and cell phone connections someday.” I shrugged. “So far all the thing does is make noise. Now that it’s fall and we’re keeping the windows closed, you can’t hear it downstairs. But upstairs on the third floor, where my rooms are? The thing’s a menace.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “The FN? I don’t see why not. In fact, you can ask Joe himself. He’s coming over for dinner.”

  We turned onto the path leading back to the car, and I mentioned our other neighbor, Maxine Tibbitts.

  “The FN451z is our noisiest neighbor and Maxine is the nosiest,” I said. “She’s a reporter for the Hanahan Herald. You probably don’t read yet, but trust me, Maxine’s weekly column is a doozy. She calls it Lake Bess Lore. That’s everyone’s nickname for Lake Elizabeth—Lake Bess. And those of us who live there call ourselves Elizabethans.” I sighed. “Lucky me, Maxine thinks I’m the most fascinating Elizabethan of all because of my supposed celebrity status from the infamous dead redhead—”

  Perfect! Great job, Cassie. Mention death.

  I cleared my throat. “You might already know Maxine,” I said. “When she’s not busy spying on me, she’s the librarian in Hilleville. Do you ever go to the library?”

  He didn’t answer, and I realized I’d been talking pretty much incessantly.

  “You’re a good listener,” I said. “Is there anything you’d like to tell me?”

  “I have to go to the bathroom.”

  Chapter 4

  I assumed he was a native Vermonter, but the kid shook his head like I was Looney Tunes when I suggested he do number one—isn’t that the phrase?—in the great outdoors.

  So, after another attempt to get him buckled into his car seat on my part, and after he took care of that detail for himself, we drove home.

  I crossed my fingers he wouldn’t pee in my car before we got there. He didn’t. I crossed my fingers I’d figure out what to say to my father before we got there. I didn’t.

  Charlie certainly was happy to meet Truman. The dog greeted us at the door with tail wagging, and we were helping the little guy off with his jacket, when my father came down the stairs.

  “You’ve been gone a long time, girl. I was getting wor—” Dad stopped on the landing. “—ried.”

  Truman did a little jig, and I got the impression the number-one situation was urgent. I hustled him to the nearest bathroom.

  “Do you need any help?” I asked and was totally relieved when he told me he wasn’t a baby and shut the door.

  I turned around and bumped into my father.

  “Who?” He pointed to the bathroom. “What?”

  I grabbed his elbow, pulled him into the living room, and gave a really, really condensed version of events.

  Dad stared aghast. “You kidnapped him?”

  “Sarah said to.”

  “Girl! If Sarah Bliss told you to jump off a bridge would you do that, too?”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  “You’re nuts!”

  “Tell me something I don’t know,” I said and reminded him Sarah had saved my life the previous summer. “I owe her,” I said. “And right now it looks like Truman has no family, other than us.”

  “Us!” Dad yelped. “We don’t know this child from Adam!”

  “Well. Yeah.”

  The old man made a funny noise and glanced at the bathroom door. “Of all the people on Planet Earth, Sarah chose you?” He glanced back at me. “You?”

  I shrugged.

  “Sarah’s the one who’s nuts.”

  I smirked. “Very funny. But I’m sure Truman has some real family somewhere. They’ll step forward in the next day or two and poof, he’ll be gone. No worries.”

  “Yes, worries.”

  The toilet flushed.

  “Da-aad!” I flapped my arms. “He’s in shock, and he’s all alone, and he needed help. What would you have done?”

  About then, Truman emerged from the bathroom, and my father spun around and asked if he had eaten lunch.

  Let’s just say, the Looney Tunes gene runs rampant in the Baxter family.

  ***

  We suggested peanut butter and jelly, but Truman refused to eat anything, and Dad and I silently agreed not to push it.

  “Then how about a nap?” I said. “Five-year olds take naps, right?”

  Wrong.

  The little man shook his head vehemently, and the old man informed me I’d outgrown naps by age four and a half.

  “I’m five and a half!” Truman said.

  I looked over his head at my father. “What now?”

  Dad rolled his eyes. “I don’t suppose you have any toys?”

  I shrugged. “But Sarah promised she’d bring your toys tonight,” I told the kid. “You’ll have all your own things tomorrow. Things will be easier tomorrow.”

  Bobby scowled, Truman pouted, and even Charlie seemed skeptical.

  I checked the time. Three o’clock.

  What the heck was I going to do with a child all day? Somehow I doubted he’d be interested in sitting quietly and watching me grade midterm exams.

  But then I actually had an idea. “I have an idea!” I said.

  No one looked overly optimistic, but I ignored them, pulled our world atlas from the bookcase, and motioned everyone to the kitchen table.

  “A geography lesson.” I mentioned the birds we’d seen at the park, and my father the consummate teacher got with the program right away.

  “Bird migrations are very interesting,” he agreed and opened the book to the centerfold world map.

  Truman stood on his chair to get a closer look, and I pointed out Vermont and traced the route down to Panama. “That’s where they’re headed,” I said.

  “It’s a long way to fly without a spaceship,” Dad added. He asked Truman if he liked spaceships, picked up the pepper grinder from where I’d shoved it aside, and hovered it above us. I think we were supposed to pretend it was a spaceship.

  Truman picked up the salt shaker and imitated my father’s moves over Charlie, and we had salt all over the place.

  Once the salt shaker had been emptied onto the kitchen floor and the dog, Truman climbed back onto his chair, and I opened to the map of the United States. Dad pointed out Vermont again, and I pointed to New Jersey.

  “That’s where we’re from.” I traced my finger down the map. “And my Grammie Maloney lives in Delaware.” I glanced at the blond crew cut. “How about you, Truman? Do you have grandparents?”

  The crew cut didn’t answer.

  “Do you have any family?” Dad asked gently. “Maybe an aunt or an uncle? Anyone you and your mommy were close to?”

  Truman looked up. “Nots!” he said.

  I shrugged at my father, and we paged through the maps of the individual states to find Vermont.

  “There’s Montpelier.” I tapped the star. “That’s where I work.”

  Dad glanced up. “Have you given any thought to the fact that you have to work tomorrow?”

  “None whatsoever,” I mumbled and quickly moved on. “And here’s where we are right now.” I pointed out Lake Elizabeth, about twenty miles west of Montpelier.

  “Hard to believe Lake Bess makes it into the world atlas,” Dad said.

  Truman kept searching the map. “Where’s my house?” he asked. “I live on Maple Street.”

  “That’s in Hilleville.” I gave my father a meaningful look and pointed out Hilleville, about ten miles from Lake Bess, again going westward. “But let’s concentrate on Lake Bess,” I said and got up to find pen and paper.