That Old Moon

That exceptionally bright and beautiful moon we saw last night was the Beaver Moon. Native Americans called it this because beavers were particularly active at this time of year, building and shoring up their dams in preparation for winter. The fourth Ned McNeil book, as well as the three previous books, deals with meanness that went on during the time of a full moon. This is an excerpt from Murder By Moonlight:

An excerpt from Murder By Moonlight:

The nameplate on her desk informed me that she was Miss Simms, secretary of Ednalee high school. My family had moved to Atlanta before I reached high school age, but my guess was that Miss Simms may have been at this post for many years. Silver haired and thin as a rail, age seemed to be only a number for Miss Simms. Her lively eyes told me she had lost nothing in the mental department.

     I introduced myself and held out my hand. She half rose from her chair, wrinkles wreathing her smile as she said, “Are you little Nettie, Javin’s niece? Oh, my goodness! How the years have flown. I’m so glad to see you again, Nettie.”

     The cold day immediately felt warmer at this woman’s welcome. She evidently remembered Uncle Javin with fondness. I liked Miss Simms.

     In a voice that held not one iota of a quaver, she asked, “What brings you this way, Nettie, after all this time?”

     I cleared my throat. “Actually, I—um—I work for Daisy Stanton, taking pictures of houses for her listings and I’ve recently taken pictures of the Saunders house. Do you know of it?”

     As she gazed at me, I felt that Miss Simms could see through any pretense I might give her to justify my interest.

     “I most surely do,” she said.

     “Did you, by any chance, know Marvie Saunders? I understand she was a teacher here. Do you have any records on her that I could read?”

     She glanced around the office as if to make sure we were alone. In a hushed tone, she said, “It’s time for my tea break, Nettie. Let’s go into my inner sanctum.”

     She rose from her chair, all skinny five feet of her, surely she wasn’t taller than that, and led the way through a sliding door into what was, from the looks of it, a store room. Shelves of boxes, books, copy paper, a dictionary or two, and an old set of World Book lined the walls. On one table sat a copier and on another, an electric teakettle with a small basket of varied flavored tea bags. She poured two cups, plopped in a couple of bags of tea, and motioned for me to sit in one of the ancient folding chairs.

     Her eyes took on a far-away look. “I don’t want anyone to hear us because I really don’t believe in gossip and you know how walls have ears and people like to repeat things. Even though I was quite a few years younger than she, I was blessed to be one of Marvie’s friends. She taught here for a number of years. She was an excellent English teacher, loved poetry, especially Edgar Allan Poe. She even wrote some poetry herself and published a small volume.”