Episode 1... In which our story begins...

"Extremely fun and heartfelt... we can't stop listening!"  The Kluxen brothers (ages 9 & 13) --Asbury Park, NJ. 

I found the handwritten pages of this true cozy-adventure-mystery story after it washed onto the shore of August Island, NJ. There is no author listed. Written for ages 9-135, I am hoping you can help me figure out who wrote it while solving the mystery along with the Young Detectives. 

SYNOPSIS: When twelve-year-old Lucy and her fellow Young Detectives are hired to find a kidnapped pet parrot of unknown origin and incredible linguistic ability, the pack of friends uncover ancient legends of August Island, and soon discover the mystery stretches far beyond a missing bird.

Episode 1... In which our story begins: Chapters 1-5.

My name is Oosh Sinclair, August Island resident and your narrator.  If you have any information about who wrote this book, please email me at whowroteaugustisland@gmail.com

"It quickly became my favorite bedtime story and mystery novel."  R. Brady (age 10)  -- City Island, NY

"This modern day mythic adventure captures the joy and wonder of our Island home beautifully and my kids adore it. It's like a modern fairytale. "  J. Lippart (age 43) -- August Island, NJ 

For more info, email james.oosh.caverly@gmail.com and visit jcaverly.com

For more info, email james.oosh.caverly@gmail.com and visit jcaverly.com

Transcript

The August Island

Society of Young Detectives

A middle-grade mystery novel.

So, it happened a few weeks ago. I was walking along the shoreline on the east beach of August Island.  I was near 3rd Avenue, a few blocks up from the pier. It was early in the morning, the off season, and the air coming off the Atlantic Ocean was bitingly cold, so I had the beach all to myself. 

As I strolled along, I came across a light brown canvas bag that had washed onto the shore. I pulled it out of the sand and gave it a look. It was heavy and dripping wet. I could feel that inside was a stack of paper about two inches thick. Written on the bag, underneath some seaweed and barnacles, were a few words printed in beautiful calligraphy. It read: GIVE ME A READ.

I untied its string and pulled out a manuscript that was a few hundred pages and somehow, totally dry. The cover page read: The August Island Society of Young Detectives. Book 1. There was no author listed. Curious, I turned around and headed home. 

As I began to read this manuscript, the story felt familiar, and I soon realized I was reading a novelization of a mystery that happened here on August Island about five years ago. I knew this tale… everyone on the Island knows it… it’s like local folklore.

The story is about a girl named Lucy, her best friend Seven, and two brothers who, together, become detectives because, as you’ll soon see, the Island needs them to. A local family is burglarized, a beloved parrot gets kidnapped, town leaders are afraid to talk, the adults are acting super weird, there’s some strange weather occurrences… but of course I’m not gonna give it all away now. 

Please understand, Lucy and her friends from this book are real people. Lucy lives here on August Island… a few blocks from my porch, where I’m sitting right now, recording this.  I bring her the book, she convincingly tells me she didn’t write it. She reads it, and she confirms some of the details to be true but tells me she shouldn’t be talking about the rest of it and that she couldn’t tell me why. I found that strange… at first. As you travel through this tale, you too will learn the reason. 

Of course, if the Young Detectives didn’t write the book, who did? How would someone who isn’t them know everything about the cases they solved? I had to find out more.

Since that day, I’ve been obsessively searching for the writer of this book or any information about it. So far, I have found no answers. I talked to the police, the staff at the library, folks at City Hall, and local business owners around town. I even hung-up flyers all over the Island with a photo of the manuscript, my phone number, and the question: “Did you write this book?”  I received zero phone calls… well I got a couple of prank calls, which were pretty funny, but other than that I got nothing… bubkis.

So here I am, talking to you from August Island, with the ocean breeze flying all around me and like always, seagulls chatting in the distance. Consider this my introduction to the reading of The August Island Society of Young Detectives: Book 1.

I’m offering this cozy adventure mystery novel to the universe because I have this powerfully nagging need to do so. It’s a feeling I don’t totally understand but can’t deny. And most importantly, I am broadcasting this mystery novel to anyone and everyone out there so I can ask you: “Did you write this book?”

                                                                        ----James Oosh Caverly; discoverer of the book. 

Part I
“Here we are, stranded on this Island Earth. Are we the marooned or the deserters?”

--Mike Sweet, August Island street poet. 

Chapter 1

Midnight Search or The Red Truck

At 12:42 am, twelve-year-old Lucy Barlow was awakened by the distant barking from her beloved dog Buddy. Buddy was an affectionate golden-brown mutt who was a friend to all and had been at Lucy’s side since the third grade. However, Buddy had not been seen in two weeks.

Lucy jumped out of bed. She squinted through the darkness, scanning her empty bedroom. Frantically, she threw herself from window to window, inspecting the empty streets below from her sixth-floor perch. Her neighborhood sat still and silent. The barking had stopped.

Lucy dropped back into bed, taking slow, deep breaths to ease her heavy, pounding heart as she realized the barking must have been another dream. It was the third consecutive night such a hallucination had occurred. At least this time she didn’t feel the rush of tears careening through her eyes. 

The idea of falling back asleep felt impossible as all the disturbing possibilities surrounding Buddy’s disappearance left her wide awake. So, as she had the previous nights, she threw on a sweatshirt and slipped on a pair of well-worn flip-flops. From her desk, which was covered in photos and drawings of Buddy, Lucy grabbed her staple gun, a roll of packing tape, one strawberry lollipop, and a thick stack of posters each with a photo of Buddy. They read: MISSING: Buddy. Gentle. Loves everyone. If seen, please call the Flying Cow Inn. Ask for Lucy. 

 Lucy tiptoed down to the fifth floor and past the room of her loudly snoring mother. She quietly scurried round and round four more flights of stairs, passing the many occupied guest rooms within the Flying Cow Inn, the small hotel where Lucy lived with her mother, who was the owner and operator.

Lucy scooted through the empty lobby, then quietly opened the thick mahogany front door, walked across the wraparound porch, and down the front steps to a silent street where she popped the strawberry lollipop in her mouth and walked towards the beautiful dark water of the Atlantic Ocean. 

The streets were wet from a light spring shower. A layer of smooth fog hovered above the ground. Porch lights guided her way. The salty air was cool, but coming off winter, it felt warm. A bright moon hung over the glassy sea. Its gleam provided a powerful glow to her town of August Island, a beautiful crumb of land three miles off the coast of New Jersey. 

Despite the two weeks Buddy had been lost and the many adults recently advising her not to get her hopes up, Lucy still searched for him as she walked, peering down the narrow alleyways between the colorful beach homes packed tightly along her street. But like the other three midnight searches, there was no sign of him.

Having lived on the Island her whole life, Lucy had always felt August Island to be a happy world of endless possibilities. But since Buddy’s mysterious disappearance, her Island did not feel as carefree as it used to. She had been thrown over a line in time when nothing after would be quite the same as it had been before.

Lucy stopped at a telephone pole at the corner of 2nd Avenue and Story Street to staple a fresh missing Buddy poster. This was the third time she had fastened one at this location. Someone had been taking her posters down. Frustrated, she pushed in the staples extra hard.

Slowly, the silence of her neighborhood was interrupted by the hum of a vehicle growing louder. It soon grew to a roar. Lucy turned around and looked up the block to witness a red pickup truck fly by at a ferocious speed, heading south on Academy Street. In an instant, the truck fell out of view, and the roar of its engine began to fade out. Where is that truck going in such a hurry? Lucy thought. It soon dropped out of her mind. Lucy walked on, attaching more flyers to telephone poles, streetlights, street signs, and the benches at August Island Trolley stops.

In addition to stapling a couple hundred missing posters over the last two weeks, Lucy had reported Buddy’s disappearance to the police, checked in with her neighbors every day after school, and waited for Buddy’s return while anxiously rocking back and forth in one of the many rocking chairs on the wrap-around porch of the Flying Cow Inn. 

Lucy saw Buddy in the corners of her eyes everywhere she went. She missed taking care of him every day. She longed for his tail-wagging-dance performed each time she got home from school. And she hated the now cold, empty spot at the foot of her bed where he used to sleep every night. 

Her lament for poor Buddy was heavy, but the warm spring air, the sound of gentle waves crashing in the distance, and her flip-flopping footsteps were signs that summer vacation was only a week away. The idea of never-ending school-free days slightly calmed Lucy’s heart and gave her mind a much-needed jolt of new energy.

Lucy reached the end of her street and walked up the ramp to the empty boardwalk that ran along the beach. Lucy placed her supplies on a bench, kicked off her flip-flops, and walked onto the cool, moist sand. She followed the path through the dunes leading to the flat white beach. She soon reached the water’s edge, where the fog retreated. The Atlantic Ocean was shockingly cold, but it felt good on her feet. She meandered her way up the shoreline. Wet sand squished between her toes, and the occasional crab crossed her path. She kept her eyes and ears open for any sign of Buddy, however unlikely. 

Lucy climbed up a lifeguard chair that sat empty in the middle of the sand. From its height, she felt the ocean stretching into oblivion. She turned around to view her beloved island home. To the northwest lay the Whisper Woods, a dense forest that covered much of August Island. Beyond the forest lay the August Island Lighthouse spinning its luminous signal to anyone who needed its guidance. To the south, she could see the First Avenue Pier and the East Harbor. 

The moon’s glow revealed countless rooftops under which all of August Island’s residents slept. Lucy felt like the only one awake. Perhaps she was. Perhaps she was on watch, offering protection to her neighbors, friends, and family. She crunched down on what was left of her lollipop. Sleepiness began to return.

On her walk home, Lucy’s mind was all over the place, drifting from homework to summer plans to Buddy. Where are you, Buddy? She asked herself, hoping an answer would be revealed. Are you still alive?  

Deep in thought, Lucy walked back up 2nd Ave, nearly home. Her eyes stared at the rhythm of her feet; left, right, left, right. The hood of her grey sweatshirt covered her ears and insulated her mind. Lucy did not notice the sound of a speeding vehicle flying towards her through the fog as she crossed Academy Street. Lucy continued to look down, even as the engine growled, getting louder and louder as it sped dangerously close. 

Finally, Lucy looked up. Blinded by the vehicle’s high beams, she dove forward just as the vehicle swerved sharply, missing her by mere inches. Lucy hit the ground, turning to witness the same red truck she’d seen about thirty minutes earlier blast over the curb and onto the sidewalk with a boom and a thunk. The truck did not stop, nor slow down.

In the chaos of the near-death experience, Lucy noticed the truck’s bed held a blue tarp covering a tall stack of something rectangular, which almost tumbled out as the truck collided with the sidewalk. And in this blip of time that moved in slow motion, she noticed the truck had a single white bumper sticker that read, I live for low tide.

The truck and its tall, boxy contents regained equilibrium and sped off, heading north at thunderous speed as if running away from something. As the truck’s burning engine faded into the darkness, Lucy tingled with the adrenaline from nearly getting squished. But she was quickly distracted by what looked like small rubber bouncy balls trickling from the truck's bed onto the road under the streetlight’s glow. Curious, she slowly climbed to her feet, brushing sand and pebbles off her bruised hands and knees.

            What could that truck be doing so late at night? She thought as she walked up the street to inspect the rubber balls. More questions bubble in her brain: What is that driver doing? Where was it coming from? Where is it headed? Why is it driving so fast? Why didn’t it stop to see if I was okay? Is it running from something? Running to something? The Island isn’t that big. Why is it filled with bouncy balls? Who needs that many bouncy balls?

Lucy found one of the rubber balls on the side of the road. She picked it up and examined it closely. It was shiny red and one inch in diameter. She blew away dirt and popped it in her mouth. She crunched down to the sweet taste of a cherry tomato. Specifically, it was an incredibly delicious Sweet Tea Cherry Tomato, a bright red product for which August Island is famous. Tourists travel far and wide to enjoy the petite delights, and the town’s Tomato Festival has been a crowded affair since its inception 99 years ago. 

I guess they’re late for a delivery, she considered, though she sensed something more nefarious. 

Lucy followed the trail, eating a cherry tomato every five or six feet. Their sweet flavor tingled her jawbone and eased her adrenaline. After eating nine of them, sleepiness began to hit hard. 

She had school the next day. 

She turned around and headed home.

 Chapter 2

Flying Cows Forever or Backwards Breakfast

            The next morning, Lucy’s alarm buzzed her awake. She slapped it off but remained still in her bed, staring through her east window to the open sea. 

Lucy’s bedroom was the only room on the sixth floor. Wrapped in windows, her tower offered an unobstructed view of August Island and the Atlantic Ocean in every direction. She could see the Island’s animated pattern of rooftops, porches, alleyways, yards, and downtown streets with all its people and sea birds coming and going. The salty breezes made her feel as if she were perched in the crow’s nest of a ship, on watch for pirates, sea monsters, or perhaps another nation’s navy looking to start trouble. 

As she stared at the horizon, her mind landed on Buddy. But as she felt a swollen scrape on her knee, she was quickly reminded of nearly getting crushed by the red truck. 

Questions began bubbling again: Where was the truck going with all those tomatoes? Which Sweet Tea Cherry Tomato farm was it driving from? It couldn’t be leaving the Island, the ferry stops running at 10pm and the truck was traveling in the opposite direction of the Harbor. Had it been going back and forth all night?

            Trying to come up with answers, Lucy slid out of bed, dressed for school, brushed her long red hair, and packed up her bookbag, including a stack of missing posters and a staple gun. She then headed down the many flights of stairs. There was no elevator.

The Flying Cow Inn was Lucy’s home, as well as a small hotel commonly termed a “bed & breakfast.” Below Lucy’s window-filled bedroom were twelve guest rooms occupied by all types of people throughout the year. 

Lucy’s mom, Hazel Barlow, owned and operated the inn. Hazel booked reservations, ran the kitchen, and managed a small support staff to offer guests various amenities, including onsite yoga, meditation, beach chair and umbrella rentals, and boisterous knitting circles. 

Lucy loved every aspect of living at the Inn. The century-old hotel allowed Lucy to meet and observe all types of people. Its old-fashioned craftsmanship and large size gave Lucy plenty of places to explore, making games of hide-and-seek epic afternoon events for Lucy and her neighborhood friends. 

Lucy usually ran down the stairs in a happy-go-lucky rhythm, skipping every other step with graceful efficiency. But today, Lucy walked down the six flights slowly, lost in thought over the red truck’s what, where, and why. She had no solid theories yet.

At the third floor, Lucy was stopped by Mr. Denefield, a long-time visitor to the Inn. Lucy had seen him every spring since she could remember.

            “Oh my, look who it is… hello Lucy,” Mr. Denefield said. “Wonderful to see you. What grade are you in now… fourth grade is it?”

“I’m about to finish sixth grade, Mr. Denefield,” she said politely.

“Oh, yes, of course. I always forget you’re much older than you appear. I apologize.”

“No need to apologize, sir,” Lucy replied, giving a subtle sigh, “I know how I look.”

 “And when is school ending?”

            “Got six more days.”

            “How exciting,” beamed a smiling Mr. Denefield. “Summer days as a kid were the happiest of my life.  Adulthood is filled with obligations and complic—”

            Mr. Denefield was interrupted by a tremendous scream from someone yelling, “Holy Sweet Mama Marmalade! I did it! I really did it!”

            Lucy and Mr. Denefield looked at each other wide-eyed. “Excuse me, Mr. Denefield,” said Lucy. “I probably have to be going.” 

Lucy darted down to the second floor. She hurried through the dining room, which held eight curious guests eating their breakfast, and into the Flying Cow Inn’s kitchen to find her mom at the counter jumping up and down with excitement, chewing whatever was on her plate.

            “Lucy!” her mom blurted, “You gotta try this… you gotta try this! I finally figured out how to make French toast with the egg inside the bread instead of on the outside!” She carefully cut a slice from a steaming loaf. She set it on a plate, added maple syrup, and slid it to Lucy. “Cut it open… take a look… take a bite.”

            Lucy cut a piece with her fork, found it some extra maple syrup, and popped it in her mouth. “It’s good, Mom,” she mumbled while chewing, “tastes like French toast, only backwards.”

             “This could really drive business this summer,” Hazel mused. “People may really start talking about it. They’ll say, ‘The Flying Cow Inn, that place that has the backward French Toast’… and wait ‘til the French hear about this!”

As Hazel romanced her invention, she put a mug in front of Lucy. “Coffee?” she asked. Lucy nodded. Hazel poured. 

            Along with being the head breakfast chef, Hazel maintained the Inn’s marketing efforts, which she mainly attempted through various inventions. She believed novel amenities enhanced the guest experience and grew public awareness of the business.  

One of Hazel’s popular creations, called Theme Song, was a sensor placed in each doorframe of the guest’s room, which played a catchy tune of the guest’s choosing every time they entered, offering in-room walk-on music. In the Flying Cow Inn’s brochure, Theme Song is listed next to other amenities such as walkable to sandy beaches, free coffee all day, complimentary beach cruisers, cookies at teatime, and historical neighborhood ghost tours every other Tuesday evening, given by Hazel of course. Hazel had once attempted to install a slide from each of the third-floor rooms down to the front lawn as a fun exit, but the town shut down construction.

            Lucy sipped her coffee and chewed on her backwards French toast.

            “So sweetie… another midnight walk to the beach last night?” Hazel asked her daughter with concern.

            “Yeah, sorry. I didn’t think I woke you.”

            “You didn’t, baby doll. I can see it in your eyes.” Hazel began cracking eggs with one hand onto a sizzling pan, using her other hand to hold her own coffee mug.

            “Third night in a row I got woken up by that dream of Buddy barking,” Lucy explained. “Man… it’s always so loud and feels so real.”

            “Oh honey. That’s tough.”

            Suddenly, Lucy remembered her near-death experience with the red truck but was interrupted before she could blurt it out.

            “Excuse me,” announced a guest entering the kitchen. “I asked for six pieces of bacon but only received two.”

            “Ms. Marple, my apologies,” Hazel replied pleasantly. “I’ve got a pile of bacon the size of the pig coming out in just a minute. Have a seat, and I’ll bring out the four missing slices plus extra for you and your husband. And more coffee, I assume?”

            “Yes, please,” said the smiling guest, who then walked back into the dining room.

            Hazel winked at Lucy. “That’s how you do it, Luce… politeness will get you everywhere. You know occasionally, like just now, I ever-so-slightly mess up their order on purpose, just so I can make it up to them beyond their wildest dreams. And then they go home and tell all their friends about how the folks at the Flying Cow Inn are so friendly and helpful and--”

            “Mom! Where are Buddy’s bowls?” Lucy interrupted sharply, eyes wide, pointing to the empty space between the end of the kitchen counter and the back door.

            Lucy’s mother sighed. “I put them away, Lucy… for now.”

            “Put them away?! Where are they?” Lucy scrambled to her feet in search of Buddy’s metal food and water bowls, desperately rummaging through the many cabinets of the Inn’s kitchen. 

            “I think I stuck them in—”

            “I can’t believe you did that,” Lucy yelled, frantically rifling through a shelf of metal serving dishes. 

            “I’m sorry, I’ll find them.” Hazel began searching.

            Lucy slammed a cabinet door and threw her body down to the counter. She pushed away her coffee mug and dropped her head into her hands. 

            “No mom, I’m sorry,” Lucy said, her forehead pressed against the cold granite countertop. “I just don’t know what else to do about Buddy.” 

Hazel put her arm around her daughter.

“You’ve done so much. You reported it to the police… you put up hundreds of missing posters. You asked all the neighbors to keep an eye out. Everyone in the Inn seems to know he’s missing.” Lucy had been calling for Buddy from the Inn’s porch for days.

“And none of that has done any good,” Lucy groaned. “I keep imagining someone walking up the front path with Buddy in their arms. I’ve been absolutely sure someone was going to find him. But there’s so much more that I could have done myself. What if it’s too late?”

“Some mysteries can’t be solved,” Hazel said.

Lucy hadn’t lost hope, but she could see others around her losing theirs. 

Hazel went back to her work in the kitchen. Lucy fell silent. 

“Don’t forget the town meeting tonight,” said Hazel, trying to get back to normalcy as she washed dishes in the sink. 

 “I don’t want to go, Mom. I’m not in the mood.” 

“Please Lucy, I need your support,” her mom pleaded. “I thought you loved going to the town meetings with me.” Hazel was looking to get a petition passed to host August Island’s first Sidewalk Chalk Convention.

During the last town meeting, Lucy had announced to everyone that Buddy had gone missing, requesting the community’s help. The crowd of hot-blooded August Island officials and opinionated business owners offered little assistance and made Lucy feel like she was wasting everyone’s time. Lucy heard one town official whisper smugly to another, “We should probably make these meetings adults only.” Prior to this experience, Lucy had always enjoyed the ruckus events that were town meetings.  

“Do you know what you’re going to say?” Lucy asked. 

“I think so,” her mother said, plating the bacon. “Please come. Not everyone in this town is nasty.”

“That’s true, but it feels like the nastiness has been increasing.”

“Yeah… I know what you mean.” Hazel filled up a carafe of coffee from the brewer. “But we can’t let ourselves become the next ones to turn sour and selfish. So, let’s both go tonight… let’s champion our fun and happy Sidewalk Chalk Convention idea. Please?... Please, Lucy?” Hazel nuzzled her nose next to Lucy’s cheek. “Pleeeeease… I’ll be your best friend. I’ll worship the ground you walk on… I’ll give you a treasure chest with a million dollars in it… pleeeeaaaaaase!” 

“Okay, okay…” Lucy relented as she got up to leave for school. “I’ll be there… but I’m only going for you.”

 “Thanks, baby.” Hazel held the largest plate of bacon you ever saw with one hand and a carafe of coffee with the other and headed towards the dining room.

The red truck landed back in the front of Lucy’s mind. “Oh Mom, listen to this; so last night—"

Another guest entered the kitchen and interrupted: “Excuse me, is there more bacon coming?” 

“Tell me after school, sweetie,” Hazel said quickly to Lucy. “I’m working ‘til six.” Hazel entered the dining room, held up the hefty plate bacon above her head like Simba and proclaimed “Sooooo, a little gull whispered in my ear that you guys wanted a bit more bacon!” Applause erupted. 

Too often, Lucy only got her mom’s attention for short bursts of time during the busy season. A time in which August Island had just entered. 

Lucy finished her coffee and brushed her teeth in the kitchen. Naturally, she owned top-and bottom-floor toothbrushes. She whipped her backpack onto one shoulder and ran down to the lobby.

Lucy flew out the main entrance, across the grand wraparound porch (another desirable amenity of The Flying Cow Inn), and out to the front lawn, where one of her mom’s long-time employees was leading three of the Inn’s guests in a yoga class. 

“Now bend down slowly into child’s pose,” the staffer instructed his class. “Hold it there. Feel the weight of your soul flow down your spine, through your legs, and out your little toes.” 

Without interrupting, Lucy entered the grassy yoga zone and gave the staffer a high-five goodbye, which he gave back to Lucy without losing his yoga position. 

“Now take a deep breath and say, ‘Have a good day at school Lucy,” he instructed.

“Have a good day at school, Lucy,” all the yoga students pleasantly moaned.  

Lucy got onto the sidewalk and waved hello to Cecilia, the friendly old Italian lady who lived alone in the beautiful hundred-something-year-old mansion across the street. As she often did, Cecilia was walking her pet Komodo dragon and parrot in her front rose garden. The Komodo dragon, named Elio, was sniffing a flower, and the parrot, named Mona, was perched proudly on Cecilia’s shoulder. Cecilia was Lucy’s favorite neighbor. Through her fence, she almost always had something to say that was friendly and interesting. It was well-known around town that she had not left her property in over fourteen years.

“Buongiorno, Lucia,” Cecilia called out in her Italian accent. She often used the Italian form of the name Lucy. 

“Good morning, Cecilia,” Lucy said with a wave. “And hello Elio… hello Mona!” 

“Enjoy your day at school… Make sure they tell you the truth!” she declared with passion. 

            “I always do,” Lucy called back. She had heard that one before. 

Chapter 3

More Missing Posters or Barely Makes Any Sense

Each morning, Lucy left for school twenty minutes early to pick up her best friend, Seven Simon, who lived six blocks away on Ocean Avenue, across the street from the beach.

Walking down her sidewalk towards the water, Lucy heard a dog bark nearby. Buddy? She thought. She turned around. Up the block she saw someone struggling with an awkwardly well-groomed poodle. She admitted the bark didn’t sound much like Buddy’s. She wondered how long it would be until her newly developed habit of reacting to every dog’s bark would go away. Maybe not until I find Buddy, she considered. 

As she got to the end of her street, with the morning sun shining bright over the water, Lucy turned left onto Ocean Avenue. Seven lived three blocks up in a purple Victorian-style beach home overlooking the sparkling sea. 

Seven is the seventh child of eleven children. Seven was given her name accidentally. A few hours after Seven was born, her mother’s exhausted brain was counting how many children she now had to look after. At the precise moment she landed on the number six, a nurse handed Seven’s mother a clipboard that held the form required to receive the birth certificate. Nearly falling asleep in a dizzying daze, Seven’s mother scribbled S-E-V-E-N on the line for First Name, handed the clipboard back to the nurse, and then fell into a deep, deep sleep. The nurse made no comment to the unusual name, and immediately took the form to processing.

Seven’s mom and dad didn’t discover the blunder until they were on their way home from the hospital. “Seven Simon!?” her dad blurted from the back of a taxi. To this day, Seven’s father lies to everyone who asks about the name, claiming it was to pay tribute to number 7, New York Yankee legend Mickey Mantle. Seven’s mom finds her error funny and is never shy about telling the true story of the name.

As Lucy walked along the white picket fence of Seven’s front yard, Lucy could hear the usual rumble of shouts and whines coming from inside. Most mornings Seven experienced some level of stress from helping her mother with the grueling tussle of getting eleven kids to school on time. 

Seven was an intelligent and capable kid. She could read her own bedtime stories by age four, analyze the back of a baseball card by age five, and load a dishwasher properly by age six. It was then that her mother saw an opportunity, and Seven has been filling up the family dishwasher, laundry baskets, and her sibling’s lunch boxes ever since. 

Lucy rang the doorbell and waited. She could hear muffled yelling and crying. Eventually the door opened and out popped Seven in mid-battle. “Mom, I have no idea where Leo’s backpack is, and I told you, the twins don’t want me feeding them anymore.” Her mom argued back, but Seven talked over her as an effective defense. “I’m heading to school now. I don’t want to be late! I’m leaving! Shutting the door now! Bye, Mom! Love you! Bye!” 

Seven closed the door. She gave a heavy sigh that was half relief to be out of the house and half distress to know her Great War of School Day Mornings wouldn’t end until she left for college in six years.

Seven had short black hair, dimples, and like every other day that wasn’t spent on the beach, she wore a white t-shirt, lightly colored blue jeans, and flip-flops. Seven was nearly a foot taller than Lucy. Her height gave others the impression she was a couple of years older than she was. 

“Hey Luce… Sorry about that.” Seven often apologized for the chaos of her family. 

“Do I have something to tell you!” Lucy was bursting to divulge the tale of her near-death experience with the cherry tomato delivery truck. Seven wasn’t quite ready to hear it.

“I don’t know why my mom thinks I can always control any of the little ones, or the older ones for that matter.” Seven often gave herself a short moment to vent. Lucy always listened. “When I grow up, I’m living alone.”

“Hey!” Lucy remarked playfully, “I thought we were gonna live together in the Lighthouse… just you and me.”

“Yes, Lucy… of course we are,” Seven said, smiling. “So, we got more missing posters to hang up? I brought my staple gun.”

“Yeah, yeah, but listen to this, last night….” Lucy told Seven the story of the raging red truck in all its detail as they walked along the boardwalk towards school passing joggers, walkers, and relaxers. 

“The whole thing was very surreal,” Lucy concluded.

“That’s bananas,” Seven exclaimed, processing all the facts. Her own curiosity began to rumble. 

“Wait… aren’t they a week early to be harvesting the Sweet Teas?” Seven remarked. A true August Islander would know. “And why was it in such a hurry?”

“I don’t know,” Lucy replied.

“And why didn’t it stop to make sure you were okay?” Seven added.

“I have no idea.”

“What was so important to the driver?”

“Such is the mystery,” Lucy responded.

“Extremely suspicious,” Seven commented, brow furrowed in thought.

“Yu think I should I go to the police?” Lucy asked.

Seven paused.  “Uuuh, what would you tell them? Speeding is against the law, but they gotta catch them in the act. Did you get the license plate number?”

“No,” Lucy said regrettably. “But it had one of those ‘I Live for Low Tide’ stickers on the bumper.”

“Okay… so the driver was a local… or a tourist who loves the Island. So that doesn’t narrow it down at all.”

Lucy and Seven walked along the boardwalk, trading unconvincing theories on the subject while periodically stopping to staple up a missing poster. 

“Maybe they were bringing them to the place where they make Sweet Tea Tomato Sauce, and the driver was really really really really really late,” Seven suggested, skeptical of her own theory. 

Lucy taped a flyer to a bench on the boardwalk. “Maybe, but what a strange time to be making tomato sauce.” Lucy thought for a moment and then declared: “I can’t think of a single good reason why that truck was doing what it was doing.”

Suddenly, an angry voice burst into their conversation.  “Excuse me! Excuse me, young ladies!” Lucy and Seven looked around until they locked eyes with a bearded man walking aggressively fast towards them from up the boardwalk. “You two… stop what you are doing right now.” As he got closer, Lucy and Seven recognized him from around town. He was a middle-aged man with a thick brown beard. He wore pleated dress pants, a brown tie, a short-sleeved yellow dress shirt, and Velcro sandals with socks.

“Stop what?” Seven questioned, confident they were doing nothing wrong. 

The man hurried up to them and ripped down the poster Lucy had just taped to the park bench. He added it to a stack of torn Missing Buddy posters in his hands. 

“Hey, what are you doing?” Seven yelled. Lucy went wide-eyed.  “And what are you doing with all—"

 “Stop putting up flyers all over town!” he demanded.

Seven tried to defend their actions: “We have every right to—" 

“It seems nearly every surface in town is covered by one of your missing doggy poster eye-sores,” the man interrupted. 

“Sir,” Lucy said politely. “I know I’ve put up a lot of posters, but it’s because my dog Buddy has gone missing.” Lucy felt a polite approach would allow him to see her good intentions and take her side. 

“I am aware of your situation tiny one. I’ve read the poster too many times! What… are you planning to put up posters for the next ten years? Buddy’s been missing for two weeks. Isn’t it time you gave up?”

Seven gasped. “You are a mean person, sir!” she shouted, walking up to him and pointing her finger at his chest.

“I am the zoning officer for August Island,” he stated. 

“No one even knows what a zoning officer is!” Seven jabbed matter-of-factly. 

“I am the man who tells you where and when to put stuff.” The town official’s voice grew louder with every sentence. 

“That barely makes any sense,” Seven retorted calmly, intensifying the bearded official’s anger. 

 “Sir, I’m sorry,” Lucy pleaded. “I hope you can understand how badly I want my dog back. I just need a little more time. Once I find him, I’ll take down all the posters, and I’ll bring you one of my mom’s Chocolate Espresso Pecan Pies, you know, one of those famous ones from the Flying Cow Inn."

“Are you attempting to bribe an officer of August Island?”

“Uuuh, no… I was just trying to… I’m sorry sir.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” Seven said. “What zoning law are we breaking?” Seven asked, lowering the volume of her voice slightly to passively antagonize the man.

“Installing temporary articles of communication in a public space without a Class D4 Permit,” explained the zoning officer.

“A permit?” Seven repeated, flabbergasted.

“I’d like to apply for that permit,” Lucy said. “How do I do that? I didn’t realize I needed one, for which I apologize.”

“You can come to my office on Thursday between one and three in the afternoon.”

“But it’s Friday morning,” Seven said. 

“I’m available to fill out the application right now, Mr. Zoning Officer Sir,” Lucy explained. “Can we go take care of it right now?”

“Sorry, you’ll have to wait the week,” the man insisted with a smirk on his face. “And I should tell you, currently there is an eleven- to twelve-week waiting period for all Class D4 permit applications.”

“Jeez Louise and puppy dog tails, are you kidding me?” Seven said, maintaining her cool like she often did. Lucy’s stomach began to hurt. “Lucy’s dog is missing now… time is slipping through her fingers… eleven to twelve weeks is unacceptable.”

The zoning officer ignored Seven and bent down to Lucy, putting his nose a few inches from her face. “Little lady… I’m going to need you to stop putting up flyers and take down the ones you’ve already posted." 

Lucy froze as the zoning officer stared intensely, waiting for some sort of reply. 

“We’re going to be late for school,” Seven stated, taking Lucy’s arm and guiding her away from the heartless man. 

“Don’t you walk away from me, young ladies. I’m Zoning Officer Sandy Duckworth. I’m a man of respect and—”

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Duckworth,” Seven said without looking back. The zoning officer did not follow.

“You better take all the posters down!” he yelled as they scurried away. “You hear me?”

Lucy was thinking of lots of rude things to say to this man, but she kept her mouth shut, with her mother’s voice ringing in her head: Politeness will get you everywhere.

“Sure thing, mister,” Seven called out calmly. “Not in a gazillion years,” she whispered to Lucy.    

They walked quickly up Sixth Avenue. 

“He’s wrong,” Seven said as if it were her duty to make Lucy feel better. “I guarantee there’s no law against putting up flyers… It’s the First Amendment, freedom of speech.” 

Lucy nodded, looking straight ahead.

“You want a lollipop?” Seven asked, digging into her backpack. “I think I have root beer in here.”

Lucy shook her head, eyes on the ground.

They took a left onto Main Street. Lucy remained quiet, only opening her mouth briefly to give all their daily “good mornings” to and from the many shop owners opening their businesses for the day.

“Oh!” cried Seven. “My brother told me that Stephanie Grove is moving to the mainland, Shark River Hills or something… you believe that? The Groves have lived on the Island for like five generations.”

A demoralized “Huh” was all Lucy could muster. She remained lost in thought with the growing notion that she may never see Buddy again. 

They made a left onto School House Road. 

“So… uh… what are you excited about for this summer?” Seven asked, trying again. 

Lucy just shrugged.

They continued to walk in silence.  

“I’m sorry about everything with Buddy,” Seven said sympathetically. “It’s been a while since… um... I’m trying to think of something to say that might make you feel better, but… it stinks… it just really, really stinks and I’m really, really sorry.”

“Thanks,” Lucy replied quietly. She continued to walk with her head down.

The cherry blossom trees were in full bloom, and yellow daffodils lined the side of the gravel road next to a farm with the ocean glistening in the distance. Spring was working to become summer, but not even the Island’s magical beauty nor the sixteen-week vacation that poked over the horizon could make Lucy feel any better at that moment.

Abruptly, Lucy stopped in the middle of the gravel road and looked up at Seven. “The driver must have been stealing the Sweet Tea tomatoes,” she said. 

Seven paused. “Sweet Teas are expensive stuff, but stolen? On this safe little island?” Seven rebutted. “I don’t know… where would they go? Where would they hide?”

The bell rang as they reached the entrance of the August Island Middle School. They walked in among the rest of the stragglers. 

“Yeah,” Lucy pondered as they entered the hallway. “Where could anything hide on this Island?”

Chapter 4

Town Chaos or Slamming Doors

            “Don’t let that miserable man discourage you… he suffers from a poverty of the spirit,” encouraged Hazel after Lucy told her about the run-in with nasty Zoning Officer Duckworth. “Don’t give up on Buddy, sweetheart. You might still find him.”

It was after dinner. Lucy and her mom were walking the six-block journey to Town Hall for the town meeting. Hazel held a folder of her notes for her Sidewalk Chalk Convention petition. Lucy had yet to tell her mom about her near-death experience with the red truck. Buddy and the zoning officer jerk were taking up too much space in her mind. 

Lucy and her mom arrived at the meeting five minutes late. Around seventy-five August Island residents were in attendance. They were already exchanging passionate opinions over the Island’s affairs. The mayor and his six city council members sat up on stage. As usual, Lucy was the only kid there.

            “The July 4th parade needs to turn onto Main Street from Summit Street,” resident Ms. Snodgrass boisterously argued. “That way it can go through Future Park, which is the traditional—"

Ms. Snodgrass was aggressively interrupted by a skinny 6’6” bald man with crooked brown teeth and a bulbous nose, with its protruding hairs sweeping the air as he argued: “It needs to turn on to Main from Elm Street, so the parade goes by my cheese shop… it’s good for business,” he contended, grooming his die burns as he talked. “It will also go by Stetson’s jewelry store and Marshal’s Yarn and Hoagie Emporium. Or are you suggesting we are not part of this community? Maybe we should start our own island a half mile closer to the mainland; how about that? Huh?! Huh?!”

            “Alright, alright, Mr. Clutterbuck, you made your point,” barked back Mayor Quackenbush, banging his gavel from the podium as he slumped in his chair. “Please, Ms. Snodgrass, continue.”

            Another man Lucy recognized from around town stood up to request moving the day of the parade to August 4th, because he was planning to be out of town on July 4. The suggestion was vehemently ignored. 

            To add to the bedlam, a middle-aged man with well-groomed black hair and a thin mustache and sporting a stylish form-fitting blue suit stood up without raising his hand and blurted out, “I’d like to make the motion to enforce anyone who gets caught lying about anything while on August Island to be arrested immediately.” His booming voice gave him all the attention in the auditorium. “My name is Mr. Stetson Albany, though I think most of you all know that. Are we in agreement, then?” The room remained clumsily silent.

            “Please everyone, let’s try and stay on topic,” Mayor Quakenbush pleaded with a sigh of agitation. 

But Mr. Albany didn’t let it go. “Well Mayor, I think my time up here should be considered valuable, and I feel we should explore this idea further.”

“Well, Mr. Albany—” the Mayor began.

 “I don’t think it’s unreasonable,” Mr. Albany interrupted, “to enter a period of discovery for this idea, which I know many of the thought leaders in town favor.” Mr. Albany prolonged a deep blink-less stare at the Mayor. Lucy could feel the vibrations of intensity bouncing around the auditorium. 

Mayor Quakenbush stammered, failing to grasp Mr. Albany’s agenda. The Mayor finally gave in: “Uh, uuh… how about you see me after tonight’s meeting, and I will give you the proper paperwork to initiate a town petition, okay?”

            Hazel leaned over to Lucy’s ear, “Is it me, or have these meetings gotten weirder and weirder recently?” 

Over the past few years, August Island’s town meetings had become chaotic battles over the minor details of the Island’s affairs. The typical town meeting protocol had been written out of law two years before, after city legislators felt the usual rules were “taking too dang long,” as the charter now officially states. 

Instead, each town petition was limited to a pitch followed by a five-minute discussion. Once a sacred timer rang, a vote had to occur, rendering useless anyone waiting for a turn to speak. And so, people screamed over each other with frenzied anxiety. Votes were then cast by the August Island residents in attendance by making as much noise as possible, which was measured by an official decibel level meter. The loudest vote won. Residents brought bull horns, trumpets, leaf blowers, and even fireworks to get decisions made. This process was quick, contentious, and made for abundant civic involvement. 

The sacred five-minute timer rang out.

“Let’s take the parade route to a vote!” the Mayor announced, slamming his gavel down. The voting began with screams, claps, novelty noise makers, and multiple radios set at full blast. 

Lucy threw her hands over her ears, smiling at her mom. She always enjoyed the show and was suddenly glad she came. Lucy noticed a few elderly residents in the front row whose ears were at the ready, filled with wads of tissue paper. 

After each side of the dispute received its noise making time, the Mayor banged his gavel, and silence commenced. He was handed the results of the noise meter by none other than Zoning Officer Duckworth… “What the… an exact tie,” Mayor Quakenbush announced. “We’ve never seen this before.”

“Let’s vote again!” someone screamed out.

“We can’t,” the Mayor stated. “The town charter clearly states we can only vote again at the next Town Meeting.”

“But that’s not until July 8th!” informed one of the council members.

“Well,” the Mayor said. “It looks like we can’t have the parade without a vote on this… this…” he looked at one of the council members. “What are we arguing about exactly?”

The meeting carried on. 

Hazel and Lucy waited their turn. 

Someone requested a vote on the petition to reopen the eighty-year-old carousel at the south end of the boardwalk. It had been shut down indefinitely the previous summer by Zoning Officer Duckworth because, as he claimed, it was too close to the sidewalk, despite it having been sitting in the same location for nearly seventy-five joyful years. 

“This is not an issue which we can vote on at this time,” the zoning officer stated. Boos from the crowed were extensive. The zoning officer smirked.

This then led to yelling about re-opening the August Island Lighthouse, which had been closed to the public after a young boy skinned his knee in the parking lot. Zoning Officer Duckworth felt the lighthouse was a threat to public safety. Its beacon of light remains functional, operating on an automatic timer, requiring no upkeep. No one had been allowed in the historic and beautiful lighthouse for nearly nine months. The topic of reopening the Lighthouse had been brought up at every meeting since its closure. 

“Mr. Mayor are you going to do anything about this?” someone yelled out.

“I’m sorry, but there is nothing I can do about it,” he said as he often did. 

Lucy noticed Mr. Stetson Albany and Zoning Officer Duckworth exchanging glances and mouthing words to one another off and on throughout the meeting, as if they were in cahoots to make August Island worse off than before, Lucy considered.

A bit later, Mr. Albany stood up without raising his hand again, awkwardly interrupting a boring announcement about the street sweeping schedule, to let everyone know he was collecting signatures for a petition to cut down a large chunk of the state-protected Whisper Woods to build a private golf club. 

“Mr. Albany!” cried the Mayor. “For the last time, sit down!” 

Lucy could see Mr. Albany was gravely insulted as he stared demonically at the mayor for the rest of the meeting. 

Finally, it was Hazel’s turn.

“Next, we have Hazel Barlow who is proposing a Sidewalk Chalk Convention be held on August 10th--- The floor is yours, Hazel. The timer will begin when you finish your proposal.”

Hazel stood up and presented her idea to invite local artists, kids, and everyone else to cover with chalk-art four blocks of street and sidewalk along Second Avenue in front of the Flying Cow Inn. She hoped her proposal would exclusively garner a positive response. However, earlier that week, a grumpy old lady named Mrs. Houston had barged into one of the Flying Cow Inn’s empty guest rooms while Hazel was cleaning it to inform her that she planned to fight against her joyful and creative idea.

Hazel finished her proposal. “The 5-minute timer will begin now,” Mayor Quakenbush announced. “Does anyone have anything to say before we put it to a vote?” 

Hazel nudged Lucy, pointing to the nasty old lady sitting about ten seats away in the front row. It was Mrs. Houston. She wore a tired-looking Sunday dress. Her lips were extremely tight, brow furrowed, and official looking papers in hand. She appeared ready to pounce. 

“I have something to say, Mayor,” Mrs. Houston announced. The tone of her voice was lazy, yet scolding. 

She stood up, but before she could get a word out, the two large double doors at the entrance of the auditorium slammed open with a boom of attention-grabbing authority.  All heads in the theater turned to a frantic looking man standing in the doorway. The sacred timer carried on.

“Ladies and gentlemen!” the voice of the man at the door boomed out. His desperate expression held everyone’s attention. “I apologize for the interruption. Many of you know me. I’m Kevin Fandango. My wife and I own the Island’s West Side Sweet Tea Cherry Tomato farm up on School House Road. We just got home after a few days on the mainland to find nearly all our tomato crop stolen!” 

The audience gasped with astonished disbelief.  

The red pickup truck! Lucy thought.

Chapter 5

Please Help or I Saw Something

All in the auditorium were concerned. 

Such a crime was a fundamental threat to not only Mr. and Mrs. Fandango, but to the entire Island. Sweet Tea Cherry Tomatoes were a major source of revenue for the local economy. They were famous, not only because they were mind-blowingly delicious, but because they only grew on August Island. No Sweet Tea Cherry Tomato had ever been successfully grown off the Island, despite many attempts. This was something no one could explain. Additionally, Sweet Tea Cherry Tomatoes ripened in May and June, rather than July and August like all other Jersey tomatoes. 

“Mrs. Fandango is currently giving the official report to Captain Tippytoe and Deputy Sullivan,” Mr. Fandango continued, “but I have come before you now to see if anyone knows anything about this.” 

Everyone looked around at each other, exchanging mutters, but no one had any information to give. 

“Did anyone see anything?” Mr. Fandango begged. “Hear anything? See any strangers lurking, loitering, wandering, spying, or prowling about?” 

Silence. The crowd had nothing to report.

But of course, Lucy had seen something. She had been nearly run over by a red truck in the middle of the night filled with the unmistakably delicious Sweet Tea Cherry Tomatoes. 

Lucy hesitated as the memory of the cruel looks of disapproval she received at the last town meeting after announcing Buddy’s disappearance replayed over in her mind. None of these people wants help from a kid, she rationalized.

“Please,” Mr. Fandango pleaded. “If anyone has any information, any clues, you must tell me. This is our entire year’s income gone. This affects all of us. Your restaurants and your shops will have less Sweet Teas to sell to tourists. Please, if you have any information…” 

The audience remained silent. 

“I’m very sorry to hear this, Kevin,” said the Mayor.

Lucy wanted to cry out, but her brain continued to stammer from the thought of speaking in front of all the adults who had made her feel so insignificant. 

“I’m sure the police will do everything they can to track down the perpetrator,” the Mayor consoled.  

All Lucy could think about was how so few of these people had cared about her missing dog. The police acted inconvenienced by her request for help, telling her Buddy was probably on vacation and would return soon. But of course he didn’t. The image of Zoning Officer Duckworth tearing down her missing posters would not leave her mind. However, the idea of someone keeping information from her about Buddy’s disappearance made her stomach hurt.

“Thank you for your time,” Mr. Fandango sighed, his bottom lip quivering with anger and frustration. “If you know of anything, please come talk to me or the police.”

Lucy threw her hand in the air and blurted out, “I saw something!”

All heads whipped to Lucy. Hundreds of eyes slapped her in the face, stunning her silent. She gave a heavy pause. And then kept pausing.            

“What did you see, Sweetheart?” her mom encouraged softly, buying her a few extra seconds. “Go ahead sweetie, we’re all listening.”

Finally, Lucy spoke: “Last night around midnight,” Lucy began.

“Speak up!” someone yelled from the back of the auditorium.

Lucy stood a touch taller and spoke a little louder: “Last night I found a cherry tomato… a few tomatoes actually… in the street… they came from a red…” 

The cantankerous Mrs. Houston stood up from the front row cutting her off and shooting her down: “Obviously you are lying… you were not out at 12 o’clock at night,” she barked at Lucy. “What are you like eight years old? Who let you into this meeting anyway?”  She turned to the Mayor.  “Mr. Mayor,” she implored with increasing nastiness, “with perhaps seconds left, we don’t have time for lies from children about playing with tomatoes in the middle of the street. I would like to contest Hazel’s low-brow sidewalk art exhibition that will only create traffic.”

“But Mrs. Houston, Mr. Fandango’s farm is in trouble, and we—” said the Mayor.

“The Sidewalk Chalk convention is against bi-law 0223 from the 1927 charter,” Mrs. Houston insisted, waving the papers above her head as her evidential proof.

The sacred timer rang out, echoing throughout the theater. 

“The timer speaks!” the Mayor declared. “We must vote. All in favor?”

Lucy and her mom, still stunned by Mr. Fandango’s terrible news and the verbal vomit from Mrs. Houston, felt at that moment there was nothing else to do but clap and scream to support their cause. A bunch of Hazel’s buddies in the back clanged bells and banged pots and pans. Many other Islanders clapped, hooted, and rang various holiday noise makers in support of the whimsical event. The decibel meter measured the volume. 

“All against?”

Mrs. Houston, frown piercing, clapped loudly, and let out a series of strange moans. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“The Sidewalk Chalk Festival is approved. Finally, some positive news around here!” announced the Mayor. He turned to Hazel, “Just fill out the proper forms with Betty in the Clerk’s office.”

Lucy and Hazel hugged with jubilation but ended their celebration quickly to look around for Mr. Fandango. But he was gone.

The meeting was scheduled to continue for another hour, but Hazel pulled Lucy out of their row and lead her to the exit. Hazel’s eyes swept the seats as they walked up the aisle and through the double doors. There was no sign of Mr. Fandango. 

 They exited the auditorium. He wasn’t in the quiet hallway either. After looking around the lobby, Hazel said, “Lucy, what happened last night?”

Lucy explained everything.

“…and it didn’t stop, the truck just sped off,” she concluded.

 “What could that truck have been doing with all those tomatoes?” Hazel asked.  “Strange things are afoot on August Island. Did you get the license place number?”

“No,” Lucy said reluctantly. “My eyes focused on that bumper sticker.”

 Hazel hugged her daughter tight. “If you’re gonna go on hikes in the middle of the night, do not keep your hood over your head like an idiot,” she said. “Always be aware of what’s around you.” She kissed her daughter all over until Lucy squirmed away.

Betty from the Clerk’s office walked by with a stack of papers up to her nose. Hazel stopped her politely.

“Betty, have you seen Mr. Fandango anywhere?” Hazel asked.

 “He took a quick phone call in my office, and then ran out of the building in a hurry,” Betty replied, continuing her balancing act. “It sounded like good news, though. Captain Tippytoe was just here as well, and he said they have it under control.”

“Thank you,” Hazel said. She looked at Lucy, “Well, it looks like the police solved it, as one would assume.”

“I guess so,” Lucy said unconvinced. “I doubt it,” she muttered to herself.

Hazel brought Lucy across the street to the police station. When they arrived, however, all the lights were off and the doors were locked. They knocked loudly, but the small-town police station was empty.  It was 9:10 pm. Some rain started to fall from the sky. 

“They all must be at the Fandango’s farm,” Hazel assessed. She bent down to Lucy’s eye level.  “It’s late, Sweetie. Tomorrow morning, first thing, go to the police, tell them what you saw. If they’ve solved it, well then fabulous. But if not, and that truck is still on the Island, they’ll need your information to find it.”

Though doubtful at first, Lucy was starting to believe someone in the station would listen to her. After all, her story involved the stolen property of adults, not kids. 

Maybe they’d ask her to get in the cop car to drive around until they identified the truck, she thought. Maybe they’d get into a high-speed car chase through town, lights flashing, sirens blasting, and all her friends seeing her in the front seat rocketing by.  “Was that Lucy?” someone would announce. “Yes, it was!” another would confirm. Maybe they’d get the truck cornered at the back of a fenced-in junkyard. They’d call on the bullhorn to “come out with your hands up.” Then after no response, they’d slowly get out of the police car and crouch down behind the doors ready for action. Then they’d hand Lucy a walkie-talkie to report all details back to headquarters.

Lucy’s imagination continued to churn as she called Seven. She told her everything and requested her presence at the station the next morning. 

 “I’ll pick you up at 6:30 am,” Seven said excitedly.

As Lucy brushed her teeth using her upstairs toothbrush, she imagined the happy look on the Fandango’s faces as their tomatoes were returned to them. 

As she put on her pajamas, she imagined her and Seven’s photo on the cover of the August Island Gazette with the headline: Local Kids Save Farm. 

As she set her alarm for 6:00 am, she imagined this summer’s August Island Tomato Festival running bigger and better than ever. 

As her head hit the pillow, she could almost feel the warmth of Buddy curling up against her at the foot of her bed.

In less than a minute, she was asleep.