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had gone on again and again, but Mother and Madge had been scared of. A passerby had snapped us.
    And inside the money pocket—an unsealed stamped envelope.
    Was this the envelope Ardle had meant? It had nothing inside. There wasn’t even an address, though Dad had scrawled our return one on the back flap.
    I held up the envelope.
    â€œHey, cool stamp!” Pantelli marched in with his mag–nifying glass. One day Talbot and I were going to have to unweld it from his hand.
    Pantelli pored over the envelope, admiring the stamp—a huge gold-bordered one, featuring an elk in a meadow and the words Celebrating Canada’s wildlife in gold lettering below. “And not franked, either. Betcha this is worth something.”
    â€œEighty thousand dollars?” I said doubtfully. “It’s only seven years old.”
    Mrs. Chewbley ambled in, vainly trying to push all her loose strands of hair into place. So much for my idea of some quality time alone.
    â€œAn eighty-thousand-dollar stamp?” She peered through the magnifying glass and laughed. “It’s a nice one, but I doubt you’d get even eighty cents for it at a philatelist’s. A stamp collector’s,” she clarified, in response to Pantelli’s and my vocabulary-challenged expressions. “As you say, Dinah, it’s too recent.”
    Mrs. Chewbley noticed my crestfallen expression. She smiled kindly. “You could ask about it, though. After all, what do I know? I’m just a dithery old piano teacher.”
    The kettle gave a shrill whistle. I set four mugs out beside the wallet, envelope and keys. Then I rummaged for Mother’s loose-leaf Darjeeling tea. I couldn’t see the tea strainer anywhere, so I grabbed the colander and began dumping spoonfuls of tea leaves into it. Pouring boiling water over them, I passed the colander back and forth over mugs. Lots of water splashed on the counter, but hey. We creative types are into improvising.
    I was glad Mother and Madge weren’t there. They always acted so…uneasy when I did things in the kitchen.
    Oh, I know, I know. Technically the colander should have been washed. I’d plucked it from the sink, where bits of cooked pasta were clinging to it. Still, I didn’t think Mrs. Chewbley had to look so dismayed. She had to be used to me and my little ways by now.
    â€œIt’s reasonably clean,” I defended myself.
    The piano teacher let out a piercing scream.
    â€œLook, Mrs. Chewbley, I think one can carry this hygiene thing a bit—”
    Pantelli elbowed me. I turned.
    Bowl Cut loomed grimly through the open window. He stretched over the counter, reaching for the envelope…
    Pantelli and I each grabbed a side of the window and shoved down hard.
    Bowl Cut withdrew his hand, but not fast enough. The window landed on his thumb. “YEOWWW!”
    â€œI know that man,” Mrs. Chewbley exclaimed. She was so excited that her hair was popping out of its pins again. “I’ve seen him skulking behind bushes and trees, up and down Wisteria Drive. A prowler! We must call the police immediately.” She grabbed the nearest phone, which happened to be Madge’s neon red and yellow cell—my sister was more into the fashion of communications than the actual function—and began jabbing at buttons. “Oh dear, I never could get the hang of these newfangled contraptions…”
    I grabbed the phone from her. There was no time to waste, because Bowl Cut was slowly wrenching his thumb back out from under the window.
    Then Talbot appeared outside.
    â€œEEEE-YAWWW!” He hurled himself shoulder-first into Bowl Cut. Both Talbot and Pantelli were huge Jackie Chan fans.
    Lurching, Bowl Cut smashed against the side of our house. His trapped thumb was yanked free from between the window and sill, rattling the pane so hard it cracked.
    Cradling his bloodied thumb, Bowl Cut staggered away.

Chapter Six
    Laughs, Coughs