“I checked the web,” said Frederik. “It says the mayor is looking for a new festival caterer, following certain setbacks.”
“No mention of all those unconscious people?” Pernille asked.
“No. They must have woken up, I suppose.”
“And if they did, they’d never incriminate us. Why would they? Only Miss Grondal went anywhere near them. It all falls on her.”
“Exactly. And she definitely lost the contract. How could she not?”
“So we’re in the clear,” Pernille said. “Wouldn’t you think? The mayor’s attention is absolutely fixed on keeping Miss Grondal’s mishap out of the news. All thanks to your brilliant scheme.”
“Thanks to your papa too,” he said. “He saved our skin when the detective came.”
“He really did.”
They dragged their feet through the long lawns, enjoying the sunshine, making for the canal that wove eccentrically through the park.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Anything, muffin.”
“It’s delicate.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’m made of tough stuff. Papa always says so.”
“Why,” he asked, “when your papa is such a kind man, are you so anxious to find your birth parents?”
She didn’t reply for a while. Frederik worried he’d overstepped a line. She walked a little ahead of him, to the edge of the water. “It’s hard to explain,” she said in the end. “But it’s a very powerful urge. To know who I am. Who I really am. And what I missed.”
“You might have missed something much worse.”
“I know. And I’m terribly torn. I worry I’ll hurt Papa. He has been such a rock for me all my life. Never let me down. But still, in the dark of night, I find myself thinking about her. Always her. My real mama. Who is she? Where is she?” She chuckled. “Of course, for a very long time, I thought she must be the mayor.”
“What made you think that?”
“I was little,” she said. “And very naive. But it was logical, kind of. I asked Papa how he came to adopt me. Papa said he answered an ad. It was placed by a little-known department of the borough, he told me. The Department of Unwanted Offspring. Hidden away somewhere in Municipal Hall. So I put two and two together, and came up with rather more than four. It must be the mayor, I thought. She seemed so glamorous and powerful. And her hair was just like mine. Who else could it be? But of course, I was wrong. We know that now. Horribly wrong. I feel ashamed to have spent all that time dreaming of her when Papa was right here and doing so much to care for me.”
“I’m sure he understands,” Frederik said.
Pernille watched the sunlight glinting on the water, the motion of fish below the surface. Then she turned to look at him. “I still believe my real mama will come for me someday,” she admitted. “I hold on to that.”
Frederik nodded. Didn’t know how to reply. Yes seemed too optimistic. No seemed too cruel.
“Come on.” She headed over a humpback bridge and along the winding path, through trees heavy with lime-green leaves and the din of birds and the voices of children playing.
“Wait. Not that way,” he said, as she veered toward the heron tree and the door in the floor and the gate to the street outside Municipal Hall.
She laughed and tossed her hair. “No need to worry about Municipal Hall anymore. We can come and go, to and fro, and wherever else we please. We’re free. We’re anonymous. We’re off the wanted list.”
“I hope so.”
“We are! Of course we are.”
“All right.”
They wandered out by the duck pond where anyone might see them, in full view of one hundred borough offices, the lighthouse soaring skyward over their heads. And of course, she was right. No one turned a head toward them. No one called their names. No detectives came running, no alarms sounded, nothing. They were just a couple of kids out for a stroll in early summer. It felt wonderful.
“Thirsty?” Pernille asked.
“A little.”
“Let’s go to the workshop. See Papa. Get some lemonade.”
Past the blue house and the yellow. Frederik’s Antiques, Frederik’s Fruit and Veg. The sun flashed and sparkled off the vast plate glass of the upholsterer’s shop.
“You.”
They both stopped dead. Hadn’t seen her at all. Blinded by the sun in their eyes. Gretchen Grondal, blocking their way, arms folded tight.
Bicyclists bowled by, whistling, chatting on cell phones. A bus chugged in the opposite direction.
Miss Grondal stared at them, a fierce frown. “You two.”
“Good afternoon,” Frederik said to be polite, and he tried to pass her on her left.
She stepped quickly into his path. “You ring a bell.”
“I assure you we don’t,” Pernille said.
“Oh yes, you do. Both of you. Especially together. You remind me of something.” She gave the most awful grimace, eyes slipping upward under their lids, mouth contorted. “Why can’t I remember?”
“It’s nothing,” Pernille said. “It’s all in your mind. You must have dreamed the whole thing.”
Miss Grondal’s eyes popped wide open. Rolled a little. Settled back on Pernille like a laser. “Dreamed?”
“No,” said Frederik.
“Let us by,” said Pernille, becoming irritated now.
“That’s it,” she said.
“No, it isn’t.”
Miss Grondal’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I thought it was a dream. I thought I had a dream. That’s it. And you were in my dream. You and that boy.” She went quiet, bony hands to the side of her bony face. “And Her Ladyship the Mayor. At the zoo!”
“Nonsense,” said Pernille.
“I thought it was a dream.” Miss Grondal stared at Pernille. Then at Frederik. Very intently. “It wasn’t a dream!” she shrieked.
“You’re deluded,” Pernille told her.
“Deluded? I was the mayor’s personally selected caterer, I’ll have you know. Caterer to Her Majesty Queen Margaret!”
“Not anymore,” Pernille purred. “You got what you deserve.”
Miss Grondal raised a wavering finger, pointing first at Frederik and then at Pernille. “The two of you were at the zoo. And I fell unconscious for two days.”
“Not at all,” said Frederik, trying ever harder to get by and still failing.
“And you were at my café. And then all my customers fell unconscious. All of them. Except for you!”
“No.”
“It was you!”
“Yes, it was us!” Pernille shouted from rather close. “Consider it revenge!”
Frederik choked, spluttered. “No! No, no, no!” He grabbed his head in his hands as Pernille marched away. “Why did you say that?” he hissed. He hurried after her, buzzed by high-speed cyclists. “What have you done?” he wailed as he caught up to her.
“She’s a horrible hag. She needed to hear it.”
“No! No! She didn’t need to hear it. She needed not to hear it.”
“Hag,” she announced, reaching the door of the upholsterer’s workshop.
Frederik glanced back. Gretchen Grondal was standing, staring after them. Her little notebook and pen were out of her pocket.
“She’ll tell the mayor!”
“She has no sway with the mayor anymore. We made sure of that.”
“But you just undid everything we achieved! Are you out of your mind?”
Pernille turned on him, angry. “I’m disappointed in you,” she said. “I make a stand and you refuse to back me?”
“It’s not like that.”
“Some friend you are.”
She slid a key into the lock.
“I am your friend,” he said.
She tugged the door open, stepp
ed inside. Frederik made to follow.
“No,” she said.
“What?”
She pushed the door so he couldn’t get through, stared coldly at him through the glass.
“Pernille!”
“Leave me alone.”
“Let me in!”
“Alone, Frederik.” She closed the door, leaving him on the sidewalk. She clicked the lock, gave him a last, long, offended look, and turned away into the shadows.
She had called him Frederik. She never called him Frederik. He found it terribly unsettling.
As afternoon turned to evening, he sat on his bed, head in his hands. Why, oh why, had she confronted Gretchen Grondal? All she had to do was keep it zipped. Walk away. He picked at dinner, answered none of Mother’s questions. He went to bed with the sun still high, almost midsummer. Stared at the ceiling. Couldn’t sleep. Should have kept one of those sugar cubes. That would have knocked him out.
Drifted.
Lost track.
Wasn’t sure what woke him. There were voices in the street. Perhaps that was it. The slam of a car door.
Darkness had fallen. He swung from the duvet to check the time by the clock tower like he always did. The clock tower was like a flare in the night. A secret lighthouse. A beam of light swept from side to side like a searchlight. He completely forgot to check the time. Who was up there? Who were they looking for? Him? Pernille?
No. That was ridiculous. He cleared his head with a vigorous shake.
Pernille’s sat-upon house was in darkness. No sign of light or life. But across the street, there was a little of both. One window of Café Grondal was still lit, hours after closing time. There was a car in the street, headlights on. Three people stood by the car, deep in debate in the middle of the road. Two tall figures in dark clothing, and a third silhouette, a woman, thin and spiky: Gretchen Grondal.
Misgivings rolled in his gut. Could it just be someone who’d parked where they weren’t supposed to? Miss Grondal was tyrannical about that. She pointed across the road, as if to say park over there.
Or as if pointing at the upholsterer’s workshop.
“Oh no,” he whispered.
He rushed to his drawer, scrabbled around under books and socks. Found his flashlight. Back to the window. He held it high and tried flashing, sending a signal. Watched Pernille’s window. Nothing. Nothing at all. Tried it again. More nothing.
And then the silhouettes in the street turned his way. He closed the blind with a snap, didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t sleep for what seemed like the rest of the night.
He didn’t dare knock on her door next morning. Too exposed. Walked right past. Looked for her at the station. Couldn’t find her. Worried all day. After school, he hurried to their meeting places, one after another—the playground, the mall, the bicycle rack by the post office. She wasn’t there. Where was she? He needed to find her.
He watched Pernille’s window from his own, watching for lights to come on, golden rays slanting over the rooftops. He tried the flashlight signal again. Tried repeatedly. Nothing. Her window stayed dark.
Wednesday was the same. If only he had a cell phone. He could text her. Call her. Warn her. Apologize. Even if he didn’t think he was in the wrong. But he didn’t have one, and she kept hers in a tin in her closet and he’d never asked her number.
On Thursday, he went to her school. Hung around outside the gates. Asked some kids. “The weird girl?” They laughed. “We don’t mix with her.”
Over dinner, Father received a text. “Listen!” he said. “All staff alert. Suspected conspiracy to derail Midsummer Festival.”
Frederik somehow managed to swallow his mouthful.
Father’s phone pinged again. “One culprit apprehended, coconspirator sought,” he read aloud.
“Mortimer,” Mother grumbled. “No texting at the table.”
Frederik placed his silverware by his plate. “Walk,” he said. “Going for a walk.”
“Frederik? Are you all right?”
“Fine. Fresh air. Need fresh air. Feeling queasy.”
He sprinted to the upholsterer’s window and peered inside. Nobody there. No one working. Closed for the day. Across the street, the café was open for the first time in days. No one seemed to be watching him. Yet. He knocked at the workshop door. No reply. He’d been too timid. He rapped on the glass. A light went on.
“Pernille?” he called. “Is that you?”
But it was Pernille’s papa who appeared at the foot of the stairs and made his way between the jumble of benches. He threw the locks and bolts and peered down at Frederik from his great height.
“Is she here?” Frederik asked.
“No, she’s not.”
“She’s not?”
“Not in.”
“Is she out?”
“Gone. She is gone.”
“I see.” But he didn’t. “When will she be back?”
The upholsterer’s face twisted as if in enormous pain. “She won’t be back.” He was like a different man with a different voice, somewhere far away.
“What do you mean?”
“They came for her.”
“Who came for her?”
“The Department of Unwanted Offspring.”
Chapter 13
Calamity
Pernille’s papa retreated into the workshop, and Frederik followed. He seemed a shadow of himself. All his unruly energy was gone.
“Where did they take her?” Frederik asked.
“Back,” said her papa. “They took her back. To Municipal Hall.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither do I.”
Overwhelming misgivings churned in Frederik’s stomach. This had something to do with Gretchen Grondal in the night. Those two tall silhouettes she directed toward Pernille’s house. It had something to do with the mayor too.
“They said,” Pernille’s papa struggled on, “that I am not a fit father for Pernille. They said my adoption will be canceled.”
“They can’t do that.”
“They can do whatever they choose.”
The two of them stood in silence. An awful, cold silence among the untended chairs and sofas, the idle workbenches.
Something on the floor caught Frederik’s eye. Underneath a workbench, among scraps of cloth. It was Pernille’s pocket penlight. Abandoned. Lost. He picked it up. She took it everywhere in case of emergency. But now there was a colossal emergency, and she had dropped it. How would she signal to him?
He went back to the door and stepped onto the street. Municipal Hall and its lighthouse were just a few blocks away. Pernille was in there somewhere.
There was a sudden commotion across the way. Gretchen Grondal, emerging from her café. Two tall figures behind her. In suits. Miss Grondal was pointing. The two men stepped into the sunshine. Mortensen and Martensen. They followed Miss Grondal’s outstretched finger. Stared directly at Frederik.
He bolted back inside the upholsterer’s and slammed the door behind him. The whole window rattled. He ducked low and scurried into the chaos of the workshop.
“Where are you going?” asked Pernille’s papa.
“I need…” He needed to get away from the window. He needed to get out of there. “I need to run. I’m sorry.” And he veered through an archway and ran. Between chairs and rolls of cloth, along a tight hallway to the back door. Locked. Where was the key? There, on a window ledge. Noises behind him. Voices. Stern questions. Pernille’s papa, denying knowledge. Quick, quick. Click.
He dashed outside. A narrow alley along the back, open at the end. He ran. He ran like he had never run before. He ran past his own house, couldn’t go there. Too vulnerable. Along the backstreet, past the business school, down the edge of the one-time porcelain factory. He raced through the iron gates and into the Gar
den Park. Feet slipping on the cinder pathway, leaping over goose poop, circumnavigating pigeons. He cut behind bushes, curving away from home and the upholstery shop and the detectives, through the trees, along the mazy canal, weaving through woods and sweeping lawns.
He took every turn he came to, putting as many trees and bushes as possible between himself and his pursuers. He didn’t once look back, didn’t so much as glance over his shoulder. He simply sprinted. He overtook three baby carriages, two joggers, and a dog. He didn’t slow till he came around a corner and realized he was heading directly toward a crowd of kids. Familiar kids. Kids he didn’t want to run into: Frederik Dahl Dalby, Erica Engel, Calamity Claus. They looked up, surprised. One of them shouted something. Frederik simply ignored them. He barreled by, cut to the left, around a bush, and there, right ahead, was Municipal Hall and its lighthouse, reaching above the trees.
He couldn’t go that way. He stopped dead. Looked around. Out of options. Out of breath. Forward led to Municipal Hall and certain capture. Left led out to the pond and the street, within sight of Café Grondal. To his right was the murky canal. Too wide to cross. And somewhere behind him, the detectives. He was trapped. No escape.
Unless…
Flat on the ground, by the canal, was the door in the floor.
It was an everyday kind of a door, nothing unusual about it, apart from the fact that it lay completely flat in a public pathway and led directly underground. He had been down there once. Only a truly desperate person would ever go down there.
It looked like it was locked, latched to an iron ring in the ground. A duck was standing on it, looking at him.
There was a moment of nothing. Wind in the trees. Water slapping softly against the bank. A heron howled at him from the nesting tree.
And then he was on his knees, and the duck was flapping and squawking away to the water, and Pernille’s pocket penlight was in his hand. He dug it deep between door and cinder path. He levered; he strained. He felt it give. He looked up and saw no one, but there were voices, not far away beyond the trees. He put all his strength into one almighty heave, and the padlock ripped away. The wood split. The door in the floor was no longer locked.
He got to his feet and straightened his back. He hauled the heavy door out of the dirt and flipped it over. A hole yawned beneath, completely dark. He dangled his feet over the edge, found the ladder. Climbed down into the black. A shout behind the nearest trees, a man’s voice, deep, angry. Footsteps thumping on the cinder. He hauled the door over his head and down and shut and was lost in absolute darkness, damp and airless, under the ground, under the door in the floor.
Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles Page 9
