Sammy Keyes and the Cold Hard Cash Read Online Free

nobody had called, Mrs. Wedgewood was tucked safely in bed, and there were no more mouse sightings. Everything seemed to be settling down, but there was no way I could sleep.
    Not with three big bundles of cash in the bushes!
    At least I hoped they were still in the bushes.
    What if one of the paramedics found them?
    What if the police did?
    What if some homeless guy camping out in the bushes did?
    Now, I’m not going to lie and say I’d be happy for some homeless guy if he found the money.
I
wanted it! I hadn’t
meant
to scare the guy to death, but really, what could I do about it?
    Nothing.
    What I
could
do something about was the money.
    I could go get it before someone else did!
    So when enough time had passed, I tiptoed up to Grams’ bedroom door and listened.
    And there it was—the lovely sound of Grams sawing logs.
    I tiptoed away from her door and into the kitchen.
    I got the flashlight from the tool drawer.
    I put on my sweatshirt and ball cap.
    Then I eased out of the apartment and hurried down the hall.

                  
    FOUR
    I tried not to think about Mr. Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, as I went past the fourth-floor landing. I tried not to picture him clutching his heart or hear his voice gasping, “Throw it! Get rid of it!” I kept my eyes peeled for cops cruising Broadway. I kept my eyes on the late-night bums who sometimes hang out in front of Maynard’s Market or the Heavenly Hotel. I tried to concentrate on what was happening, rather than on what had happened.
    It was dark out. And very quiet. There were hardly any cars going along Broadway or Main. Even the pink Heavenly Hotel sign buzzing through the misty air seemed muted.
    All I could really hear was my heart, pounding like mad in my chest.
    I didn’t really know what I was going to do with the money if it was still there. I mean, if Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, had robbed someone, I’d turn it over to the police. But this didn’t feel like a stolen money situation. It felt like…I don’t know what it felt like! But Buck Ritter from Omaha, Nebraska, did not seem like a stick-’em-up kind of guy.
    I mean, had Grams or I found a gun on him?
    No!
    A knife?
    No!
    A
water
pistol?
    No!
    All he’d had on him were bundles of cold hard cash.
    I hurried over to the bushes where I’d chucked the money, and believe me, my eyes were checking around to make sure no one was watching.
    The bushes were a lot bigger than they looked from the fourth-floor landing. There were also a
lot
of them.
    I turned on the flashlight and started scouring the area, and almost right away I found one of the bundles just lying there on the ground.
    Talk about hitting pay dirt!
    The bundle was still rubber-banded together nice and snug, and when I fanned through it, the bills snapped against each other, crisp and clean.
    I felt like I was in a dream—like this couldn’t actually be happening.
    But it was!
    I started scouting around for the other bundles. I checked around the bushes and between the bushes, and when I finally spotted another bundle, half buried under dead leaves, I picked it up and giggled, “I’m rich!”
    Ten minutes later I still hadn’t found the last bundle of cash. And I suppose I could have just forgotten about it and gone home, but I knew it had to be somewhere! So I searched high and low and finally spotted it wedged inside a shrub.
    “Money doesn’t grow on trees,” I laughed. “It grows in bushes!”
    Then, with a quick check to make sure no one else was around, I hurried up the fire escape and slipped back into the building.
    Dorito seemed very curious about the money as I counted it on the couch by flashlight. “No!” I kept telling him as he pawed across it.
    “Mrowwww,” he said back, rubbing up against me, padding back across the bills.
    I tossed him off but he jumped right back, so I lost track, but it didn’t really matter. The bills were all twenties, and there were about a hundred and fifty of