Norah McClintock presents...

Robyn Hunter Mysteries

Shadow of Doubt

When Robyn’s teacher receives a threatening package, Robyn tries to find out who’s behind it. But is her teacher really being stalked, as she claims . . . or is she just making it up?

Scholastic Canada Ltd.
ISBN 978-0-545-99729-4 PBK
224 pages
Ages 12 to 14
5 x 7 ¾”

Excerpt

“What was that all about?” he said as I pushed open the auditorium doors.

“Ms Denholm and Ted haven’t seen each other in a long time,” I said.

“Oh.” He still looked puzzled, and for a moment I thought he was going to ask me all about it. But in the end, all he said was, “Well, she looked happy to see him, and that’s good. She seems sad, you know, Robyn?”

“Well, someone did trash her car.”

“I mean besides that. You heard what she said. Her mom died last year. Maybe it’ll make her feel better having Ted around.”

I peeked back in through the window in the auditorium door. Ted and Ms Denholm were still on the stage. They were still talking.

“I hope so,” I said. I knew Ted was hoping, too.

Billy handed me his backpack to hold while he put on his jacket and dug his cell phone out of his pocket. He made a quick call. When he finished, he said, “Morgan wants me to meet her at the paint store. Want to come?”

I shook my head. Morgan and Billy were my oldest and best friends, but since they’d be come romantically involved they were sometimes hard to be around. I still found it strange to see Morgan, who used to tease Billy all the time for being such a good-guy geek, turn to mush every time Billy beamed at her. And it was weird to see Billy, who up until recently had had more respect for wildlife than he did for people, smiling contentedly at Morgan, who thought animals were just fine so long as they were on places, on leashed or confined to a zoo.

“I’m going home,” I said. “I have a pile of homework to do.”

We parted company. Billy veered off toward the school parking lot, and I headed for the bus stop up the street.

The man whom Morgan had pointed out earlier was still standing in front of the school and still worrying an unlit cigarette between the leather-gloved thumb and forefinger of one hand. Tiny shreds of tobacco littered the snow at his feet. He didn’t turn when I walked past him, but continued to stare at the school, watching the door as if he were waiting for someone to walk through it. He had been there for at least twenty minutes now in the bitter January cold. I wondered who he was waiting for. He looked too young to be the father of a high-school student, but you never know.