The Mystery of the Flaming Footprints - M. V. Carey [6]
Jupe was prodding at the lock when he heard more footsteps on the porch outside.
He froze.
“Grandfather!” shouted someone.
The doorbell rasped rustily in the kitchen.
“Grandfather! It’s us!”
Someone knocked on the door.
Jupiter abandoned his efforts with the lock and went to the window. He unlocked it, threw it open, and leaned out. A fair-haired boy stood on the porch, eagerly hammering at the door. Behind him was a youngish woman, her short blonde hair looking untidy and windblown. She held sunglasses in one hand and had an over-stuffed brown leather bag slung over her arm.
“Good morning!” said Jupiter Jones.
The woman and the boy stared at him and did not answer.
Jupiter, who had not planned to climb out of the window, now very sensibly did just that. He had nothing to lose.
“I was locked in,” he explained shortly. He went back into the house through the front door, turned the key in the office door, and threw the door open.
After a slight hesitation, the woman and the boy trailed into the house after Jupiter.
“Someone was searching the office, and I was locked in,” he said.
Jupiter surveyed the boy. He was just about Jupe’s age. “You must be The Potter’s guests,” Jupiter announced.
“I am … uh … but, who are you, anyway?” demanded the boy. “And where’s my grandfather?”
“Grandfather?” echoed Jupiter. He looked around for a chair. There was none, so he sat on the stairs.
“Mr. Alexander Potter!” snapped the boy. “This is his house, isn’t it? I asked at the filling station in Rocky Beach, and they said …”
Jupe put his elbows on his knees and rested his chin in his hands. His head hurt.
“Grandfather?” he said again. “You mean, The Potter has a grandson?”
Jupiter couldn’t have been more surprised if someone had told him that The Potter kept a trained dinosaur in his basement.
The woman put on her sunglasses, decided that it was too dark in the hall, and took the glasses off again. She had a nice face, Jupiter decided. “I don’t know where The Potter is,” Jupe confessed. “I saw him this morning, but he isn’t here now.”
“Is that why you were climbing through the window?” demanded the woman.
“Tom,” she said to the boy, “call the police!”
The boy named Tom looked around, bewildered.
“There’s a public telephone on the highway,” said Jupiter politely, “just outside the garden.”
“You mean my father doesn’t have a phone?” demanded the woman.
“If your father is The Potter,” said Jupe, “he does not have a telephone.”
“Tom!” The woman fumbled in her purse.
“You go and call, Mum,” said Tom. “I’ll stay here and watch this fellow!”
“I have no intention of leaving,” Jupiter assured them.
The woman went, slowly at first, then running down the path towards the highway.
“So The Potter is your grandfather!” said Jupe.
The boy named Tom glared at him. “What’s so weird about it?” he demanded.
“Everybody’s got a grandfather.”
“True,” admitted Jupiter. “However, everyone does not have a grandson, and The Potter is … well, he’s an unusual person.”
“I know. He’s an artist.” Tom stared around at the shelves of ceramics. “He sends us stuff all the time,” he told Jupiter.
Jupiter digested this in silence. How long, he wondered, had The Potter been in Rocky Beach? Twenty years, at least, according to Aunt Mathilda. Certainly he had been well established long before Aunt Mathilda and Uncle Titus had opened The Jones Salvage Yard. The distracted young woman could be his daughter. But, in that case, where had she been all this time? And why had The Potter never spoken of her?
The young woman returned, stuffing a purse back into her handbag. “There’ll be a police car right here,” she announced.
“Good,” said Jupiter Jones.
“And you’ll have some explaining to do!” she told Jupiter.
“I’ll be glad to explain, Mrs … Mrs …”
“Dobson,” said the woman.
Jupiter got to his feet.