Vanishing Acts
Phillip M. Margolin
Ami Margolin Rome
Dedication
This book is dedicated to Doreen Stamm Margolin,
a fantastic wife and fabulous mother. We miss her.
Prologue
Madison Kincaid could smell victory—she could taste it, she could even see it on the scoreboard where Lewis and Clark Elementary School, the Multnomah County champion, was beating its archrival, Prescott-Mather Prep, Washington County’s best.
In less than two minutes, Lewis and Clark would be state champs for the third year in a row, thanks to Madison and her best friend, Ann Beck, the terrors of the elementary school soccer field since first grade.
There were two minutes left in this game, and the Prescott-Mather players were racing toward the Lewis and Clark goal to make a last-ditch effort to tie the score. Only that was not going to happen. Lewis and Clark had a top goalie in the net and Madison Kincaid in front of it. Best of all, Prescott-Mather had given the ball to Betsy Flint. Madison had played against Betsy many times, and Betsy knew that she was no match for Madison. Reading the uncertainty on Betsy’s face, Madison foresaw exactly what was going to happen. Betsy would panic when the two girls closed and she’d take a desperation shot on goal. Madison would step in front of the shot, control it, then boom a kick to the other side of the field. And that would be that.
The play went almost exactly the way Madison thought it would. Betsy’s eyes began shifting from side to side as Madison closed on her. Then Betsy hesitated. Betsy looked to pass, but all of her teammates were covered. She stared at the right side of the goal and kicked the ball exactly where Madison had predicted.
Madison had foreseen everything except the wet spot.
It had rained all morning, but the field had dried out by game time . . . except for one patch that was in shadow. One second Madison was racing toward the ball, and the next her feet shot out from under her and she was flying through space, her arms and legs shooting in all directions. Worst of all, the toe of Madison’s right shoe connected with the soccer ball with such force that it sped like a bullet train into the left side of the Lewis and Clark goal.
Hitting the ground with a thud, Madison felt the air rush out of her. Her eyes squeezed shut. She couldn’t breathe and she couldn’t see. But she could definitely hear the screams and shrieks of the Prescott-Mather team, which was now playing in a tie game, thanks to Madison Kincaid. Her heart sank.
“Great goal!”
Madison’s eyes opened. Staring down at her was Ann Beck’s smiling face, rimmed by her unruly mop of frizzy blond hair. Ann always found something to smile about in the worst of circumstances. She held out her hand and pulled Madison to her feet.
“After the game, I’ll explain why you’re supposed to kick the ball into the other guy’s goal, not your own,” Ann said as they trotted up the field to taunts of “Wrong Way Kincaid.”
“That’s sort of catchy,” Ann added.
Madison groaned. “We were so close to victory. I can’t believe I did something so stupid.” She felt embarrassed from the tips of her toes to her beet-red face.
“You just slipped. It could have happened to anyone.”
“I let everyone down.”
“Stop feeling sorry for yourself,” Ann said. She gave her best friend a muddy hug. “We’re still going to win.”
As soon as the Lewis and Clark players were together, Ann called them into a huddle.
“These preppies think they’ve got us on the run, but they don’t know who they’re dealing with. We beat Prescott-Mather last year and we’re going to do it again. We have a little over one minute to win the state championship, and ‘Wrong Way Kincaid’ is going to show Prescott-Mather the right way to do it.”
Madison’s teammates pumped their fists and shouted “Wrong Way, Wrong Way,” to the great surprise of Prescott-Mather. Then the clock was ticking and Madison suddenly found herself with the ball, headed toward the Prescott-Mather goal.
The goalie focused on Madison, certain that she would keep the ball for a final shot so she could redeem herself. Three Prescott-Mather players formed up in front of Madison to stop her attack. The clock continued to tick.
Madison hid her hand by her side and gave Ann a thumbs-up. Anyone on Prescott-Mather who saw the sign would think Madison was signaling that she felt okay to take the shot, but this signal had been developed by Ann and Madison when they were in third grade.
Out of the corner of her eye, Madison saw Ann drift to the other side of the goal. When Ann was in position, Madison set herself to score. The Prescott-Mather players charged. At the last moment, Madison swiveled and kicked the ball toward Ann’s head. Ann snapped her head forward, powering the ball into the net just as time ran out.
Screaming with joy, Madison raced over to Ann. They hugged and jumped in place as their teammates mobbed them.
“I can’t wait for seventh grade!” Madison shrieked.
“We are going to rule Pettygrove Junior High!” Ann shouted back.
At that moment, Madison felt invincible.
Chapter 1
“I Want to Report a Murder!”
“I want to report a murder!” Thelma Bauer told the two policemen as soon as she opened the door.
Officer Jerry Kwong unsnapped his holster so he could get to his gun quickly. He looked like he expected a machete-wielding maniac to leap out at him. Officer Barry Jensen sighed. He’d forgotten to warn his rookie colleague about Thelma. Normally an order to investigate a murder had the effect of a double shot of espresso, but when Thelma Bauer was the complaining witness he reacted as if he was responding to a report about a missing cat.
Thelma Bauer was a sixty-nine-year-old retired bookkeeper who watched too many crime shows on TV. Unfortunately, they gave her a view of the world in which everyone was a suspect, and she was constantly reporting suspicious behavior. Over the years, Thelma had reported several “criminals” who turned out to be gardeners, salesmen, and delivery boys.
“Tell us what you saw, ma’am,” Kwong said.
After calling 911, Thelma had combed her short gray hair, applied makeup, and put on her nicest dress. She always made it a point to dress up when she phoned 911 in case television reporters followed the police. Thelma smiled at the handsome young policeman. Then she remembered why he was there and cast a nervous look at the house next door.
“We’d better go inside, in case he comes back,” she said.
“In case who comes back?” Kwong asked as he followed Thelma’s gaze.
“Mark Shelby, the killer,” Thelma whispered.
Kwong and Thelma went inside. Officer Jensen hitched up his gun belt and pulled pants fabric out of his butt before following them.
The drapes were closed, but an old-fashioned floor lamp illuminated a floral couch covered in plastic; shelves full of snow globes, ceramic cats, and other knickknacks; and a forty-six-inch plasma TV that looked out of place among the dowdy furnishings.