Andi Unexpected Page 5

  I shot him an annoyed look. Even though Mr. Finnigan’s stories were interesting, my focus was Andora.

  “Great, follow me.” Mr. Finnigan’s black mustache turned up at the corners in a smile.

  We backtracked down the hall and returned to the main lobby, where Mr. Finnigan turned in the opposite direction from his desk. “This is the old factory floor.” He pointed up toward a rickety set of metal stairs with a DO NOT ENTER sign hanging between the handrails. The last step at the top led into a small room. “That’s where the foreman or another boss would sit while the men were working on the floor. That spot allowed one man to supervise the entire floor at one time.”

  Above where the old foreman used to sit, I spotted a large embossed brass circle with a bird in the middle and PIKE GINGER ALE etched along the sides. The bird stood in stoic profile and reminded me of the seagulls that flew over Lake Erie. “What’s that?” I asked.

  “That, my dear, is the great seal of Pike Ginger Ale. The bird in the middle is a killdeer, the symbol of Pike Ginger Ale chosen in honor of the town. Killdeers are very special birds.”

  Colin nodded. “Killdeers live in fields and protect their young at all costs. Their nests are in the high grasses. To keep predators away from their eggs or chicks, they will pretend to have a broken wing to make the predator chase them instead.”

  I blinked at Colin. He was like a walking Wiki site.

  Mr. Finnigan pointed to the assembly line below the killdeer plaque. It was as long as a football field and spread across the factory floor. He explained how the plant workers used to stand in their assigned stations along the line and perform repetitive tasks. Mr. Finnigan walked to each of the workmen’s spots and explained their jobs, “The man standing here would measure the ingredients and add them to the vat … this man would monitor the temperature … this man would monitor the bottle washing and remove any bottles that weren’t clean enough.” Mr. Finnigan walked further down the line. “And finally, this man would put the cap on each bottle, and then the machine would close it with an airtight seal.”

  I visualized the line of men as if they stood right in front of me, watching the gauges and putting cap after cap on the ginger ale bottles. I wondered which station my great-grandfather had worked. Had he been an ingredients guy, a bottle washer, or a foreman? I made a mental note to ask Amelie if she knew.

  I grew anxious to search the archives for any trace of Andora, and I felt sure that if I asked Mr. Finnigan about my great-grandfather, we’d be here all day.

  Colin peered inside a box full of old factory tools: screwdrivers, pieces of pipe, and monkey wrenches.

  “I’m planning on making a display using those tools. Fascinating, aren’t they?” Mr. Finnigan said.

  Colin nodded, picking up a hefty-looking monkey wrench.

  “You never told us why the company shut down,” Colin said. “I mean, if it made it through the Stock Market Crash of 1929, what happened after that?”

  To my relief, Mr. Finnigan turned away from the factory floor. “Let’s head back to the archives, and I’ll tell you on the way.” As we made our way, Mr. Finnigan began explaining things to us again.

  “The twenties were a time of excess. Michael Pike III enjoyed the profits he received from the family business, which he inherited in full after his father died in ‘27. But he wanted more. In those days, ‘spend now and save later’ was the mantra. And Number Three strictly adhered to it.”

  “Number Three?” I interrupted.

  “Michael Pike III. ‘Number Three’ was a town nickname for him. I’m sure he hated it. He wasn’t the kind of man who’d appreciate cutesy names. Anyway, Number Three took out numerous loans to try to expand the business into the root beer and even cola markets, hiring dozens of new employees in a manner of weeks. He threw lavish parties and made dozens of donations to Michael Pike University, which his father started twenty years before in honor of the original Michael Pike. He might have made it, too, but then the Crash happened. Like so many entrepreneurial businessmen, he was too dependent on the soaring price of his stock and the loans from his banks.”

  Mr. Finnigan shook his head. “They did everything they could think of to save the business. They downsized and produced only ginger ale again, they laid off seventy employees, and they closed the ranks. But the writing remained on the wall. The business probably could have held it together if the public had stayed loyal and continued to drink ginger ale. Unfortunately, people didn’t spend money on ginger ale back then because they didn’t even have enough money to buy milk for their children. Sometimes they had to send away their children to live with another family or even strangers because they couldn’t support them anymore.”

  “Sounds like you know a lot about this,” I said as we re-entered the hallway and walked past the three portraits of the hook-nosed Michael Pikes.

  “I grew up in Killdeer, and the bottling company’s history is a piece of town lore.” He shrugged. “And since we moved the historical society archives in here and opened the museum last year, I’ve recently completed quite a lot of research on the family. The Pikes were fascinating people.”

  He stopped in front of another large portrait, this one of a woman in her thirties. “This is Margaret Pike, but everyone called her Peggy. I know her personally. She lives somewhere north of here now, and she’s married with kids and grandkids, too.”

  Colin wandered back to the carbonating machine and started poking at the engine as I stared at the woman’s portrait. She had pale skin and red hair that was parted in the middle. Her top matched her cheerful green eyes. As I glanced between her and the three Michael Pikes, I wondered what her mother had looked like.

  Colin rejoined us. “So where are those archives?”

  CASE FILE NO. 8

  We walked down an adjoining hallway lined with checkerboard tiles and dark wood walls. “We put the archives in Number Three’s old office. When we started renovating the plant, we found his office to be in remarkable condition. The renovations will continue for quite a while—most of the plant is closed off for the moment, even to me. There are a lot of places that are too dangerous to set foot in.” He pulled a key ring from his pocket. The door opened into a room that looked like it once belonged to Number Three’s secretary. A photograph of the secretary talking into a black rotary telephone hung on the wall. She wore a crisp suit with a rolled collar and dark movie star lipstick. Her dark hair was arranged in fluffy curls around her small face.

  The room was ringed by glass cases filled with artifacts of Killdeer history, from pre-Christopher Columbus arrowheads to Mike Pike T-shirts from the 1990s. I wanted to spend some time mulling over those cases, but the search for Andora came first.

  “The newspaper archives are in here,” Mr. Finnigan said, as he unlocked a second room that was twice the size of the secretary’s office. We entered the room, and Mr. Finnigan flipped the light switch. I gaped.

  The archive housed row after row of filing cabinets, which seemed out of place among the faded but still lush Oriental rug and cherry wood paneled walls.

  “This is only temporary until we can move the archives into our temperature-controlled room in another part of the factory,” Mr. Finnigan explained. “Eventually, we want to restore the office to the way it looked when Number Three ran the plant. The historical society intends to host guided tours of the entire plant after the renovation.”

  Three alien-looking machines sat in one corner of the room.

  “Have you ever used microfilm?” he asked.

  Colin and I just stared at him. “Micro what?” I asked.

  The curator laughed. “Before digital storage, newspapers and other periodicals were copied onto film reels to store and preserve them. You need special machines to read them, and they’re called microfilm readers. Those three machines you’re staring at are microfilm readers.” He sat Colin and me down at two different microfilm readers, and he shuffled over to one of the filing cabinets. “One day we hope to conv
ert the newspapers to computer files. But a huge project like that takes money and a lot more staff than my one-man show.”

  He opened a long narrow desk drawer, removed four small cardboard boxes, and set them on the table. From the first box, he pulled out a spool of film similar to the kind I’d seen in old movies but much smaller. He held the film carefully and showed us how to wind it through the machine.

  “Let’s start with 1925 and work our way forward. If you find anything of interest, just hit this button to print it. I wish I could stay and help, but I need to watch the reception desk. Come and find me if you need anything. And I’ll come back in a little while to see how you’re doing.”

  More than an hour later, I was still sitting at the microfilm machine, whirling the years back and forth in front my eyes. At first, looking at all of the old newspapers entertained me. I especially liked the ads for Pepsin chewing gum that promised to cure insomnia caused by indigestion. The man in the ad slept soundly under a blanket with an old-fashioned nightcap on his head. No stomachache for him. The Lux laundry soap ad promised to be the perfect soft detergent for washing your most delicate clothing, from sweaters to silk gloves.

  After an hour I found my eyes skipping over the advertisements for better dish soap, fresh eggs, and the local grocer’s. There was even an ad for Pike Ginger Ale with the proud Killdeer engraved in the middle of the bottle label. It was the same engraving we’d seen on the seal hanging above the factory floor. Every few minutes, Colin called out something about an article he’d found.

  Another half hour passed, and Colin was silent. I pivoted in my seat toward him. His eyes were half-closed. “Find anything?” I asked.

  He jumped. Then, between yawns, he said, “Not yet.”

  I glanced at the clock. Eleven thirty. “Let’s give it another half hour.”

  “Sure,” he replied, eyelids drooping.

  I blinked and leaned closer to the foggy screen, turning the knob to the right to move an advertisement down and out of sight. The Special Reports page drifted into focus. Obituaries, wedding declarations, engagements, and baby announcements covered the page. My tired eyes scanned the words without much thought. Then, something grabbed my attention.

  I reread the short article again, moving even closer to the machine so my nose almost touched the screen. My eyes fell on the tiny picture. “Yes!” I hit the Print button.

  Colin started at my cry. He had fallen asleep. “What?” His glasses sat crookedly on his nose.

  The machine spit out the page on glossy paper. I blew on it, impatient for the ink to dry.

  “Listen to this: December 16, 1929. Mr. and Mrs. Patterson Boggs are pleased to announce the birth of a healthy baby girl, Andora Felicity Boggs, early yesterday morning. Andora was born at five a.m. weighing eight pounds, and she was sixteen inches long, possessing all ten fingers and toes. Mother and child now rest comfortably at Carroll Parish Hospital. Andora is the Boggs’ first child.”

  “Wow. She’s real.” Colin was up out of his seat, reading over my shoulder.

  “I know.”

  “And she’s your relative.”

  “I know.”

  Colin asked the question that was already plaguing my mind, “What happened to her?”

  I squinted at the article, hoping it would reveal Andora’s secrets. “I don’t know.”

  We rushed back to the museum entrance to show our find to the curator. I skidded to a stop on the tiles, and Colin ran straight into my back. His poor nose.

  Mr. Finnigan wasn’t alone. Another man stood over his desk. The second man appeared younger than the curator but older than Amelie by at least a decade. He looked over-tanned and his poofy black hair gave him a couple extra inches of height. I couldn’t see the color of his eyes because he wore dark sunglasses even though he was inside.

  Mr. Finnigan nodded at the man, agreeing with whatever he’d just said. Then he saw Colin and me approaching. “Did you find something?”

  “Yeah,” Colin said, waving the paper.

  Poofy-Haired Man peered down at us with a slight scowl. He removed his sunglasses, revealing narrowed brown eyes. “Who are you? What are you doing in this place? Why aren’t you outside tipping cows, or starting fires, or something equally destructive?” He shuddered.

  Was he kidding? I wondered. No.

  He was a kid hater. Great.

  Colin rolled his eyes at me as if to say, Can you believe this guy?

  I wanted to shoot back, Who are you? Are you a middle school teacher or something? Shouldn’t you go give someone a detention? But I didn’t say anything. I just gave him my best Bethany scowl.

  Mr. Finnigan catapulted out of his desk chair and stumbled around the desk. “Dr. Anthony Girard, I’d like you to meet Colin and Andi. They’re doing research in the archives.” He laughed nervously.

  “Really?” Dr. Girard demanded, his tone skeptical.

  Mr. Finnigan blundered on as if the speed of his speech would make up for the other man’s rudeness. “Dr. Girard is a history professor at Mike Pike. I’m sure he knows your aunt, Andi.”

  Dr. Girard’s voice was sour. “And who might that be?”

  “Dr. Amelie Boggs,” I answered. I emphasized the “Dr.”

  “Ah,” he said, as if that explained everything. “You’re one of the orphans.”

  Mr. Finnigan shifted uncomfortably. “Dr. Girard, really. I don’t …”

  Dr. Girard held up a hand, cutting off Mr. Finnigan mid-sentence. “I’m pleased to meet you both.” He didn’t sound at all pleased. After he straightened, his eyes took on an unpleasant, hard glint. “So what’s your wonderful find?”

  Like I would tell you now, I thought.

  Colin opened his mouth. I elbowed him in the ribs, hard. Too bad I couldn’t do the same to Mr. Finnigan.

  “They’re researching their family histories. Andi discovered that she knows very little about a relative in her genealogy.”

  Dr. Girard raised an eyebrow. “Really? That’s fascinating.”

  “Dr. Girard has a special interest in local history,” Mr. Finnigan explained. “He’s written several books on the subject and is one of the best patrons of the archives. The book he’s working on right now is about the history of this factory. Maybe he can help you with your own research, Andi.”

  I squinted at Dr. Girard and said, “No thanks.” Then I told Mr. Finnigan that we had to go home.

  Colin and I mounted our bikes and pedaled for home. The whole way I thought about Andora and tried to shake off the weird vibe I’d picked up from Dr. Girard.

  CASE FILE NO. 9

  Andora really existed. I couldn’t get that thought out of my mind. But what happened to her? Why doesn’t anyone know about her?

  When Colin and I arrived back at my house, I told Amelie the good news. Accepting an Oreo she offered me, I asked, “Who is Dr. Girard? Colin and I just met him at the Killdeer Historical Society and Bottling Museum.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Dr. Girard is one of the most pompous men I’ve ever met. Unfortunately, the university loves him because he’s published several books.”

  Bethany walked into the living room carrying the box of silk flowers I’d dusted off in the attic.

  My mouth fell open. “What are you doing?”

  Amelie smiled. “While you and Colin were at the Bottling Museum, Bethany has been working in the attic.”

  Bethany flushed. “I’m just moving the stuff that you marked for the sale into the garage.”

  “I pulled my Jeep out of the garage,” Amelie said, “so you kids will have more space for storing the sale items in there. I don’t mind leaving it in the driveway until after the garage sale.”

  “Oh,” I said. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I never expected Bethany to help me with this project. “Thank you.” I felt Colin watching me.

  “Bethany,” Amelie said, “why don’t you show Andi and Colin what you’ve been doing while I try to figure out what to make for dinner.” She la
ughed. “I think we’re all a little tired of macaroni and cheese from a box.”

  I followed my sister into the attic. Like she said, Bethany had removed the dozen or so boxes of sale items that we’d stack by the hatch. Even though there was much more to go through and all of the furniture was still there, the attic space already looked larger.

  “Right now I’m just stacking the boxes in the garage, but there is plenty of room in there to price stuff and organize it too. I left that blue trunk up here even though I’m assuming you want to sell it.”

  “I don’t,” I said quickly. “It belonged to our great aunt. Her name was Andora Felicity Boggs. Colin and I found her birth announcement in the town archives today.”

  Interest flickered across my sister’s face, but when Colin’s head popped up through the opening, her interest quickly disappeared.

  “Wow!” Colin said in a wheezy breath. “This place is huge! Andi, you’re going to have a great room when it’s finished.”

  I had to agree. I slid my eyes to my sister who was now smiling at Colin’s praise. “Thanks again for helping.”

  Her smile disappeared. “Yeah, well, I only did it to get my unlimited texting plan back. And the sooner you move up here, the sooner I get my own room.”

  I knew that was probably her motivation. But it was a start—a start I was happy to take.

  I woke up early again the next morning. All night long, pieces of dreams had disturbed me, leaving a strange prickly feeling—the kind you get when a movie soundtrack turns creepy. I dressed quickly, grabbed a banana and a juice box from the kitchen, and climbed the ladder into the attic. It was six thirty, and Amelie and Bethany wouldn’t wake for hours.

  The early morning light was fighting its way through the north-facing window. To me, the light of a summer morning always seemed like the best kind of sunray. Its yellow-white glistening nearly blinded me as it lit up the attic. But I liked how friendly and playful that light felt across my arms and face.

  Late yesterday afternoon, Colin, Bethany, and I had cleared out the entire northwest corner of the attic—the same corner where I’d uncovered my father’s old bed. Mr. Rochester was snoozing on it now. I sat next to him, and the box spring creaked in protest. The cat opened one eye and glared.