Buttons and Bones by Monica Ferris Page B

security of their shells and refused to move. Others went in fits and starts. One or two wandered at random inside the larger perimeter. But occasionally, and inevitably, one would manage to cross the yellow line, to the cheers of its temporary owner—and sometimes the tears of a loser.
    Airey’s turtle was the vague sort—it set off with a will, but quickly lost its compass and began to draw a meandering line that never approached the finish.
    Emma Beth’s turtle set off in a determined straight path that should have made it the winner. But there was another turtle that apparently had grasped the rudiments of the competition and set off in a fast scramble for the border, crossed it, and nearly vanished into the crowd before its delighted owner could retrieve it. Emma Beth’s soul mate finished second.
    Jill made everyone who had handled the turtles wash their hands before taking them to the ice-cream shop for a consolation ice-cream cone.

Nine

    ICE-CREAM cones eaten, they all lingered to watch more races. The crowd cheered the turtles on, and a small group of rowdies got busy taking side bets.
    “Excuse me,” said a female voice, and Betsy looked around to see a slender woman about her own height, with hair dyed a chocolate brown with blond streaks in it. Her face was lined, but her broad smile revealed good teeth, and her blue eyes were shining. Jill took the childrens’ free hands, prepared to retreat if the woman proved to be a reporter.
    “I’m Johanna Albright. Are you the people who found that skeleton in your root cellar?”
    “Why do you ask?” said Jill, taking two steps back while looking around for a photographer.
    “Because if you are, then I imagine you are also looking for information about the German POW camps in this area, and I know almost everything about them.”
    Lars said, “Who told you we wanted to know about the German POW camps?”
    The woman waved her hands impatiently. “It’s all over town that the skeleton is probably that German prisoner who ran off from one of the camps back in 1944 and was never found.”
    “Where were the camps, do you know?” asked Betsy.
    “There was one right in the area. I’m from here; I actually remember seeing German soldiers working in Longville. They painted our city hall. They were very handsome, I remember my mother and older sisters talking about how good-looking they were. They weren’t treated badly, my mother said a neighbor used to bake treats for them, and they had soccer competitions and wood carving contests with other camps. I have a memory of them going by in the back of a great big truck one winter, going to the forest to cut down trees. They waved at us and we waved back. They were only here for about a year, two winters and a summer. Then the war was over and they were shipped back home. They were all afraid of the ruin their country was left in. Some of them got engaged to women here so they could stay in America.”
    Johanna was bubbling over with information, which she shared with smiling enthusiasm.
    “Here,” said Jill, noticing that people were beginning to eavesdrop, “let’s get out of this crowd. Is there a place we can sit down?”
    With the crowd thinning, there were two vacant tables outside in front of the ice-cream shop. Lars led the way to the farther one, taking two chairs from the nearer so everyone could sit. The table and chairs were metal, spray-painted aqua and cream. The chair legs squealed on the concrete patio as they were pulled out and everyone sat down.
    “It’s nice of you to volunteer to talk with us,” said Jill. “I’m Jill Larson, this is my husband Lars, this is our friend Betsy Devonshire, and these are our children Emma Beth and Erik.”
    “I’m so glad I found you!” gushed Johanna. “I was afraid you’d get away before I had a chance to talk to you. I’m the local expert on the camps. I’ve written articles about them and everything.”
    “How did you find out about the