Cops and Robbers

by Susan Matthewson

“I swan,” my Texas grandmother drawled. “I swan” is Southern for “I swear,” but since Southern ladies don’t swear, they can only swan. Grandma was swanning because our sedate little neighborhood had just been visited by the police for the second time in a week.

The first visit started Monday morning with two patrol cars in front of the Robinette’s house and a phone call from Mrs. Nordgren to report that 3-year-old Andy Robinette was missing. I called Meg immediately and told her we had an opportunity to use the detective skills we’d learned by reading Nancy Drew books. “Get to my house quick and we’ll find Andy before the police,” I said. We snuck into the Robinette’s back yard and were peeking in a window when one of the policemen yelled, “He’s here. I’ve found him.”

“Dang,” I moaned. “They already got him.”

Turns out Andy had been asleep beneath the covers and a bunch of stuffed animals tumbled at the end of the bed. Andy’s mom saw the empty bed, couldn’t find him anywhere, decided he’d been kidnapped, and called the police. It took a trained policeman to know to look under the pile of covers.

I guess Meg and I should have been happy Andy was safe, but our hopes for a mayoral commendation, the newspaper front page, and free movie tickets vanished before we ever got started.

Two days later, Wednesday night, I saw a police car’s flashing red lights race down the alley. I was supposed to be in bed, but I snuck down the back stairs to the kitchen door and slipped out the alley gate.

Two police cars were parked in the alley behind the Samarzia’s house. A crowd of neighbors had gathered and Mrs. Duckworth, who lived across the alley from the Samarzias, was clutching a bag of golf clubs and sobbing into a wad of kleenex. Dr. Samarzia was attempting to remove the golf clubs from Mrs. D. and Mrs. Samarzia was saying, “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Duckworth. I thought you were a prowler or a burglar.”

Through her sobs, Mrs. D. clutched even tighter to the clubs, wailing, “I am not a thief. These clubs were in the trash. I was salvaging them for the church thrift shop.”

“But Mrs. Duckworth,” said Dr. Samarzia, “I play with these clubs.”

“Then what are they doing in the trash?” she asked.

Dr. Samarzia paused, then turned to Mrs. Samarzia, “Well, Rosie, what are my golf clubs doing in the trash?”

But Rosie was gone. Mrs. S. had eased through the alley gate and was slinking through the back door. “Good night, all,” she called with a jaunty wave. “Everyone go to bed. Come on, Sam. So sorry!  Just a mistake.”

There wasn’t much to do but leave.

The next morning mom, dad, and grandma were annoyed that I’d sneaked out but so curious about the excitement that they got over their mad.

  “So why were the golf clubs in the trash?” my dad asked.

“Mrs. S. never explained that,” I said. “She just went back into the house, closed the door. Not even the police know what happened.”

“Well, I swan,” said grandma.

But, you know, I have a sneaky feeling Dr. S. is not swanning; I bet he’s swearing because I don’t think those golf clubs got in the trash by mistake. And I’m going to find out. I swan by Nancy Drew.