The Piglys and the Hundred-Year Mystery

The Piglys

and the Hundred-Year

Mystery

Mary Coons

Copyright © 2013 Mary Coons.

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ISBN: 978-1-4808-0139-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0141-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4808-0140-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013912693

Archway Publishing rev. date: 07/22/13

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Prologue

image3adjusted.jpg n 1873, Persistence P. Pigly built the big brick house on the top of Pigville Hill. If you could go there and unlock the mansion’s massive front door, tear the sheets off the ancient furniture, turn on the lights, blow the dust off the piano and play a long-gone song from music in the bench, you might begin to feel old Mr. Pigly’s sentiment for his home.

You see, he built it with hope. Hope for parties and weddings and piglets, and young pigs sliding down the polished cherry banisters. He built it as one big surprise package, to be opened over years and years by his children, grandchildren, great-grandchildren, great-great…well, you get the idea. He built it so there were surprises at every turn, gadgets in every cupboard. He built window seats wherever he could fit them in, with special cupboards underneath each one—the perfect size for hide-and-seek. He put in beautiful windows with pink leaded glass at the turn in every stairway (and there were lots of stairways), and a laundry chute that could be used as a slide by piglets on a rainy day. A special push-button elevator opened off the foyer for visitors, and a tiny pulley-operated dumbwaiter was tucked into the pantry for sending late-night treats upstairs. There were beautiful woods, lovely tiles, luscious satin drapes and curtains, and lots and lots of light streaming in through many windows.

For a while, Mr. Pigly’s dreams came true. Pigville’s most beautiful pigs were married under the portico, beside the honeysuckle. Famous pigs signed the Pigville Charter in the dining room, on the mahogany table, under the crystal chandelier. Many piggy hearts beat faster, over a century ago, when Dame Daria Dalrymple sang her Swine Song in the music room, where real gold leaf embellished the wallpaper. Then came the Flood, and disaster upon disaster followed after that.

The music room fell silent, the gold leaf grew dull and chipped on the fading paper. The hallways were empty. In most of the big rooms, massive oak furniture was shrouded with white muslin and left to rot. And from a portrait in a gilded frame, Persistence Pigly looked down on the dusty remains of his dreams.

Even the rumors about him died. Pigs in Pigville used to speculate that the Pigly Pearls must be hidden somewhere in the mansion. After all, it was the only building untouched by the great flood of 1890. Where else would such spectacular treasure be safe, they once asked. But time passed, and now no one remembers the glory days of the lovely house. Least of all the portly pig who keeps his office there in the old dining room, two months out of every year.

His name is Egbert Viceroy Igglesworth Lyon III, and he is seldom in town. The last remaining lawyer in the powerful firm of Lyon, Cheatham and Steele, he likes sleek cars, fancy foods, and big stone statues of lions. Local pigs say the only reason he keeps the house is that the front looks like a roaring lion. Just a pun, done in brick, they say. But it seems odd to them, too, that such a cold pig would have a warm place in his heart for a relic. And certainly no one gets around to the back of the house, where a thoughtful observer might see that the House on the Hill resembles, not a lion, but a resting pig.

Chapter One

Normally, the party would have been at Annabelle’s. And Annabelle herself would have baked a shortbread cake, and piled it high with fresh whipped cream and really fat strawberries. After all, it was Parker’s favorite, and it was Parker’s birthday.

But it’s hard to have a party in a house that’s about to be torn down. In just a month, the little bungalow Annabelle’s grandmother had given her would be a parking lot. Annabelle and her brother Parker were too sad to celebrate there, and although Annabelle Pigly baked daily, her oven was broken today. So she asked their cousin, Elsa Pigly, to buy a cake at the grocer’s and meet them at the park for the party.

Normally, Elsa would have remembered to get the cake. She was an energetic pig, a busy pig, a pig who enjoyed doing things and being helpful. She would have gotten Breadbaker’s Birthday Special: a chocolate cake with their famous Especially Fudgy Icing. Annabelle, who cooked for a living, would have given her cake pans for the recipe.

But Elsa came to the park a little late, empty-handed, and without the usual bounce in her step. She slumped down at the picnic table where Annabelle waited, and a big tear plopped into her lap.

They made me leave school. Her voice was a whisper.

Early? asked Annabelle.

"Forever, said Elsa, crying openly now. The Pigville School of Journalism says…says…says…" Elsa broke into sobs.

Annabelle put her arm across Elsa’s shoulders.

Dearest Elsa, what happened? she asked gently.

"They say I cheated! On a paper! That I didn’t write it myself! They showed me a big book, written by some pig I never heard of, and there was an article in it exactly like my last term paper! Oh, Annie, Annie, it’s not true; I didn’t cheat, but what could I say? Miss Wooster’s eyes were like icicles when she told me to leave! And then she said, ‘But what did I expect…from a Pigly?’ Oh, whatever will I do?" And Elsa sobbed even harder.

Don’t do anything hastily, said Annabelle. Have a good cry. There, there, dear—here’s my hankie, and a cup of Parker’s punch. You know, there must be an explanation for this. You’re a born reporter, Elsa—you’ll dig it out.

Elsa gave her cousin a startled glance over the soggy hankie.

Annabelle continued. "Please help me with the catering business, dear. I’m busy, and that way you’ll have some Bucketts.¹ I know you hate cooking, but there’s all kinds of work to do. Come along, then, cry as much as you need to, and then let’s have Parker’s party as best we can. Things will work out, somehow."

Normally, Parker would not have looked back. He loved his sister’s parties, especially when they were for him. She would have balloons, and that lovely lime punch with soft blobs of ice cream floating in it, and some sort of cake, (he hoped it would be strawberry) and party favors. Normally, Parker would have hopped on his bike and ridden across Pigville to Annabelle’s house without a backward glance.

But the park was only a block away from his bicycle shop, so he walked. Slowly. A letter had come in the mail, and he dreaded telling Annabelle and Elsa about it. Typed on firm paper the color of steel, it read:

Mr. Pigly:

Your presence is required Monday morning at 11 o’clock in the law offices of Lyon, Cheatham & Steele in the House on the Hill. We will also need your sister, Annabelle Rose Pigly, and your cousin, Elsa Paige Pigly, to appear. A legal transaction will take place. Mr. Egbert Lyon instructs me to tell you that we do not expect you to understand big words or complicated ideas, but we do expect you to be on time. Please be prompt.

Sincerely,

Epsom T. Salter

acting for the City of Pigville

And probably in cahoots with Egbert Lyon, thought Parker, gloomily. He didn’t know what to make of that letter, but he knew he didn’t like it. Fancy lawyers and trouble, that’s what he saw. Then he noticed that he didn’t have it with him, and that was when Parker headed back to his shop.

He turned slowly, his footfall heavy. But he broke into a run when he heard a loud crash! and saw the side of his precious bicycle repair shop gaping open, the wall collapsed, and a large bulldozer about to make a second attack on his home and office.

Waving his trotters, yelling his loudest, Parker ran to the scene. The bulldozer stopped, then turned toward him. He could see the mask over the driver’s face and hear the shift of the gears as it prepared for another run.

Parker stood between his shop and the attacker. My family doesn’t have much we can call our own, he thought, but I’ll fight for what we’ve got. He stood firm in the middle of Gersprocket Street.

And the bulldozer spun around and drove away, belching bunches of rude black smoke. Parker took a deep breath, and turned to what remained of his establishment. He walked around the whole building, and saw that all four walls were still standing. Cinderblock buildings, he thought, are cheap but sturdy. What had been demolished was the staircase that led to his living quarters over the shop. Tacked on to an outside wall, and framed in wood, the stairs were smashed beyond recognition or repair. For the time being, Parker fetched a ladder from his shop, leaned it under his bedroom window, and climbed up to his apartment to call the police and get the letter he had forgotten in the first place.

So Parker Pigly never got to his own birthday party. Annabelle gave the punch away to the policemen and some neighborhood piglets who had followed the sirens. Then she and Elsa went to the bicycle shop and helped Parker clean up. As she piled up debris, Annabelle tried hard not to think about The Curse of the Piglys.

Chapter Two

The Curse of the Piglys

Some pigs called it The Curse of the Piglys, some just called it plain old-fashioned bad luck. Whatever it was, it had plagued the family for the last century. Parker’s father had explained it to him while packing his bags.

Son, I love Pigville, but the Pigly family has never prospered here. My grandfather told my father, my father told me, and I’m telling you: Piglys pine away in Pigville. It’s a proverb, proven true over years and generations. It goes back…well, let’s just say it goes way back. I thought I’d be the one to prove it wrong, son, but it hasn’t worked out that way. We lost everything in the fire at the café. Now your mother and I are leaving town, and you and your sister can make up your own minds about what you want to do. We’d love to have you come with us, if you’d want to, and of course Elsa could come along, too.

But Parker and Annabelle Pigly, and their cousin Elsa Pigly, had decided to stay in Pigville. They weren’t superstitious, and this generation of hardy Piglys had stubbornness in their snouts. Elsa wanted to go to the Pigville School of Journalism; Annabelle wanted to expand her Granny’s baking business, and Parker bought old Elmo Gersprockett’s bicycle repair shop. The three Piglys had banded together then.

Parker warned them. "Listen to me, Elsa, Annie: we WILL NOT give in to The Curse of the Piglys! We will not talk about it, we will not joke about it. We will not blame it when we skin our knee or burn our toast. We will stare it down, and we will overcome this stupid stupersition. Soupid soupersission. Stippled sippercism, You know what I mean. We give the thing life when we believe in it—well, I don’t believe in it, so there!" And Parker banged his fist on the table, spilling his coffee.

I don’t, either, said Elsa.

Nor do I, said Annabelle, mopping up.

Annabelle thought about that year-old conversation the following Monday morning as she turned the key in the ignition of a huge, white, Finley 500 that was easily older than she was. The day of the Piglys’ appointment at the House on the Hill had dawned clear and bright. Annabelle breathed, Please, start.

The Finley coughed, then stuttered, then started. The three Piglys, well-scrubbed and well-dressed, were quiet as they drove to the House on the Hill, through the gates with the growling stone lions, and around the sweeping driveway. They drank in the sight of the yellow brick walls, big windows, stained glass, fancy carvings, massive pillars. The whole house looked like a big, roaring lion made out of brick.

I can’t even count all the chimneys, whispered Annabelle.

Or the windows, murmured Elsa.

That’s funny, said Annabelle, frowning. It doesn’t look like this from my kitchen window. From my house, you see the back of the mansion, which is really lovely, and the brick on that side is rose-colored. You wouldn’t know this was the same house. I like the back much better.

I’d just like to see the front door, Parker grumbled. Where do we go in?

They discovered a shady portico off the left side of the house, and under the portico, a wooden door with a curved top. Was it Annabelle’s imagination, or did she seem to hear a sigh from the old stones as she walked over them? Was it being fanciful, wondered Elsa, to think that this portico opened its stone arms to welcome them? Even