So if Sam was able to leave his comfort zone and attempt to do something completely foreign to him, then maybe I should at least consider it. I had promised Mr. Miles that I would. And if I managed to build up the courage to actually audition for the play, then I would do so knowing that my literary hero had faced a similar dilemma and had conquered it with dignity and grace. If Sam could do it, so could I.
CHAPTER 3
The Hymn and Her Caper
The next day after school Henry and I decided to poke our heads into the auditorium just to see how many brave souls actually showed up to the open auditions for Mr. Miles’s play. We entered from the rear so that we could sneak out quickly if necessary. We crouched down behind the last row of seats. That would provide the perfect cover. When we peeked at the goings-on in the front, we noticed about a dozen kids standing around the stage. Most of them had their backs to us, so we couldn’t really tell who was who, and we weren’t able to hear their conversations, but it didn’t matter. We just wanted to get a sense of what was going on.
“You couldn’t pay me to audition for this play,” Henry said. “Why anyone would want to risk embarrassing themselves is beyond me. And in public, no less.”
“Then again, if you’ve got talent, you might want to flaunt it,” I said.
Henry wasn’t buying it. “How many sixth-graders in this school do you really think could pull that off? Gimme a break.”
“We won’t really know until we see them in action.”
Henry shrugged. “Whatever. At least I’m glad you came to your senses and decided not to try out.”
“Actually, I haven’t really made up my mind yet.”
“Oh, really?” he said. “If you’re still considering it, then why are you back here while everyone else is up there?”
I didn’t have an answer. “I haven’t ruled it out, but I’m leaning against doing it.”
Henry pointed to the kids standing near the stage. “Wait a minute. Somebody’s turning around. It’s . . . it’s . . . oh, brother . . . it’s the nodder.”
“Stephanie?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Hey, and who’s the kid standing off to the side all by himself? I can barely make out his profile.”
Henry chuckled. “Standing all by himself? Who do you think?”
It was Brian Hart, better known as the hisser. Brian was, for a lack of a better word, a germophobe. He had a mortal fear of coming into contact with other human beings for fear that he might pick up germs from them. If you ventured within six feet of him, he would begin to hiss at you. The closer you got, the louder the hissing. It was unnerving and it didn’t take long to get the message.
Henry elbowed me. “You’re not gonna believe it. Look.”
Making a rare appearance at school was Patrick Walsh, known affectionately as the slacker. This kid was the master of deception. He’d get a part for sure . . . but would he show up for rehearsals? That was the question. No one, and I mean no one, missed more school than Patrick. To the teachers, and even to his parents, he was frail and sickly. But we all knew better. His faked illnesses were legendary. There was no one better. He even knew exactly how many school days he could miss before he’d need to attend summer school or be held back a grade.
“How do you like that?” Henry said. “The nodder, the hisser, and the slacker. Pretty elite company. Now aren’t you glad you’re not up there? It’s a geeks’ convention.”
“Henry, take a look at some of the kids we hang around with. We aren’t too far removed from that bunch, you know.”
“Speak for yourself,” he said. “We’re a lot closer to the in crowd than the clod squad. I’m not her biggest fan, mind you, but the fact that Scarlett is a member of our agency says something about our ever-increasing popularity.”
I wasn’t so sure that we were any closer to the clique of popular kids because of the Scarlett connection, but I was okay with that. And that was another reason not to audition. Why waste away my afternoons here when I could be spending them with Scarlett at the agency? I’d hate to miss out on the chance of working on a real caper, with Scarlett by my side, because I had to attend play practice. There—that settled it.
And another thing—what if Gram was right? What if we did get involved in this Persian rug burglary? I wouldn’t want to miss an opportunity to get my teeth into that one. I couldn’t get it out of my head lately. If I were lucky enough to get the chance to assist the police on this caper, I knew the first thing I’d do. I’d find out why someone would want to steal rugs anyway. I mean—if you wanted them so badly, why not just steal some money and then go buy the rugs? It would certainly be a lot easier to jimmy open a cash register and slip a wad of cash into your pocket than trying to lug a bunch of rugs down the street. It just didn’t make any sense to me. This criminal must have really wanted them for some reason. I decided to wait a few days, and if the police still had nothing, I just might throw my hat into the ring.
Henry slid the backpack off his shoulder, plopped it on the floor, and sat on it. “Since it seems we’re going to be here for a while, are you ready for a challenge?”
That could only mean one of Henry’s illustrious brainteasers.
“Let ’er rip,” I said.
“Okay, now listen carefully. Which one is correct? The yolk of an egg is white, or the yolk of an egg are white?”
I repeated the question—the yolk of an egg is white, or the yolk of an egg are white? It didn’t take an expert in English grammar to know that yolk is singular and therefore would take the verb is. Not only that, the other way just sounded wrong. But because it was so obvious, I knew that there had to be a catch. This wasn’t a grammar question. It was a trick question. I repeated it in my head a couple more times. And then it hit me. How could I have been so dense?
“I’ll tell you the answer if you’re stuck,” he said.
“I hate to disappoint you, but I’m not stuck. The answer is . . . neither statement is correct. Because the yolk of an egg is yellow.”
Henry rolled his eyes. As was always the case, he had failed to trip up the master.
“You’re so smug sometimes,” he said. “I’m gonna get you one of these days, Collier. And you can take that to the bank.”
Before the war of words could escalate, our attention was drawn to the front of the auditorium. We noticed the kids beginning to quiet down. Something was happening. A moment later, Mr. Miles appeared onstage. He had a stack of scripts under his arm.
“Everyone, please take a seat,” he said. “I’m delighted with this turnout. Frankly, I wasn’t expecting to see so many of you . . . which is actually good and bad, I’m afraid. You see, we have a limited number of speaking parts. So I don’t want you to be disappointed if you aren’t cast in one of the lead roles. But we are going to need an understudy for each of the three main actors.”
I tapped Henry on the shoulder. “What’s an understudy?”
He shrugged. “You got me.”
“And then, of course,” Mr. Miles continued, “we’ll have plenty of opportunities for extras in many of the scenes. Suffice it to say that I’ll do my best to fit everyone in the show somehow.”
Henry squinted. “Can you see any more faces yet?”
I shook my head. We were dying to know who the others were. And it was at that very moment that I began to feel uncomfortable about spying on my classmates. Something about it just didn’t seem right. A private eye was certainly no stranger to undercover surveillance. Heck, a well-executed stakeout could bust a case wide open. But this seemed different. It seemed . . . nosy. Had I reached a new low? I wasn’t quite sure.
Then I thought of Sam Solomon. Would Sam have spied on his own classmates? And then I remembered something. Not only would he have done so, Sam once snooped in, get this, a church. In Episode #42, The Hymn and Her Caper, Sam had been hired by a local minister who
noticed that the collections at his church were decreasing dramatically each week. Sam was convinced that a member of the congregation was responsible for the theft, so he hid in a small compartment in the massive church organ and watched through a tiny vent as the collection basket made its way up and down each pew. It didn’t take him long to identify the culprit—a woman who had recently joined the congregation. She had apparently applied stickum to her hands, and instead of giving alms like all the others, she was actually making a withdrawal.
Spying on others was a nasty business, but at times it was absolutely necessary, and although we weren’t working on an actual case, I convinced myself that this little exercise would enable me to brush up on my surveillance skills.
Mr. Miles, meanwhile, was addressing the troops. “Okay, now, who among you is trying out for the role of the private eye?”
Two boys raised their hands.
“The police detective?”
A couple more hands went up.
“The bookie?”
The hisser waved his hand. “Mr. Miles, I’m interested in the role and all . . . but . . . what exactly is a bookie?”
What is a bookie? I couldn’t believe this kid didn’t know that. If he had read as many Sam Solomon novels as I had, he wouldn’t be embarrassing himself with such a dumb question.
“Bookie is short for bookmaker,” Mr. Miles said. “And a bookmaker is someone who takes bets and pays off winners for horse races, but he doesn’t actually work for the racetrack, making it illegal. It’s a dying art. Off-track betting parlors have pretty much put the bookies out of business. But our play is a period piece, so for our purposes, bookies are alive and well. Does that help?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay,” Mr. Miles said. “Who’s interested in the role of Rebecca, our heroine?”
Three girls raised their hands.
Mr. Miles spent the next minute reading off the names of all the characters in order to determine who was interested in what parts.
“Okay, everyone up onstage, please,” he said. “I have a script for each one of you.”
The dozen or so hopefuls paraded onto the stage and encircled Mr. Miles.
“What I’d like you to do is spread out across the front of the stage in groups,” he said. Mr. Miles pointed to his right. “Private eyes over here, police detectives here, those vying for the role of Rebecca right here,” and on and on until everyone was a member of a group.
Henry and I were now able to determine the identities of some of the other brave souls. Most were kids we knew casually—none that we really hung around with. Henry was right. Most were of the nodder/hisser/slacker variety. And then, all at once, he hit me on the shoulder, nearly knocking me over.
“Did you see who’s up there?” he said.
It was Scarlett.
“What does she think she’s doing?” he said. “If she thinks she has time to rehearse for a play and remain an active member of the agency, she’s in for a big surprise.” Henry was beside himself. “She’s got to make a choice. If she gets the role, then she’s out. Agreed?”
Henry was right about one thing. If Scarlett won the role of Rebecca, then she’d be spending the majority of her after-school hours right here. She’d never have time to help out at the agency. But who was I to deny her a chance at stardom? If this was something she really wanted to do, I wouldn’t stand in her way. This just might turn out to be her passion in life, and if that was the case, then she should do it. She shouldn’t have to choose. There had to be a better way to handle this.
“If she gets the part,” I said, “then she can just take a leave of absence from the agency. We can’t just kick her out.”
“There you go again, Charlie, thinking with your heart instead of your head.”
“Henry, you and Scarlett are never going to be best buds. We both know that. But let’s be gracious here. If she makes it, we should congratulate her and then welcome her back when the play’s over. Can you do that?”
Henry sighed. “It’s your name on the door, pal. Whatever you say.” He had surrendered, but he wasn’t happy about it.
We decided to stay a little while longer and listen to some of the kids read lines from the script. Most were pretty green. Mr. Miles asked each student to find a page where his or her character spoke and then to read some of the dialogue. It was clear after only a few minutes that none of the kids in the group were in need of a theatrical agent to manage their acting careers. Of course, I based that conclusion on having heard from everyone but Scarlett. She was the last to go.
“Let’s get out of here,” Henry said.
“No, I want to see how she does.”
“It’s a waste of time. She’s gonna be brutal like all the rest.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But let’s listen anyway. It’s not as if we have a pending case that needs our immediate attention. Let’s enjoy this little break between capers. Okay?”
With an expression that could only be described as a combination of disgust and disinterest, Henry leaned up against the seat and closed his eyes.
“Wake me when it’s over.”
I was unprepared for what came next. I listened as Scarlett read from a passage in the script’s third act. The look on Mr. Miles’s face said it all. Her delivery was so expressive, so passionate, so flawless that I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I glanced at Henry. His eyes were wide open. He was now staring at Scarlett, as were all of the others onstage. A star had been born before our very eyes. If Scarlett hadn’t found her calling in life before today, it was clear to everyone within earshot of her performance that this girl belonged on a stage, or on screen, or wherever else amazingly talented folks showcase themselves.
“Scarlett,” Mr. Miles said. “That was brilliant.” He looked to the others. “I think it’s safe to say that we’ve found our Rebecca.”
I nudged Henry. “Can you believe that?”
He was speechless—which was completely out of character for him. He had never had a hard time coming up with a dig for Scarlett in the past.
“Splendid, just splendid,” Mr. Miles said. “And now we need to find her co-star. The role of Nick Dakota, our private eye, is very important. He’s in nearly as many scenes as Rebecca.” The aging drama teacher glanced at the two sad sacks who were auditioning for the role. He frowned. Having heard their readings moments before, he knew he was in trouble.
I felt bad for him, especially since he went out of his way to personally invite me to audition for the role. Part of me wanted to jump up, run to the stage, and save the production. But to tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure if I was any better than the competition. Heck, I might even be worse. The one thing I had going for me, though, was insight—the knowledge that only a real private detective could possess. I knew how they thought . . . how they performed under stress . . . how they would deduce a solution to every problem. And if I hadn’t experienced that situation personally, then I certainly knew what was going on in the mind of Sam Solomon.
“Can we go now?” Henry said.
I didn’t want to leave, but I knew that I didn’t have the courage to audition for the part. I was only delaying the inevitable.
“I guess so,” I said.
From a crouched position, we began our escape. We didn’t want anyone to see us sneaking out. I glanced back at Mr. Miles, who seemed troubled.
“I was hoping to cast all of the parts today,” he said to the group. “But I’m just not sure. You see, the role of Nick Dakota is critical. He has to be shrewd and cunning and, at the same time, mindful and compassionate. And he must also be romantic.”
I grabbed the back of Henry’s shirt. “Wait a minute.”
“What?” Henry said.
I wanted to hear more about Nick Dakota.
“Nick is the only one who believes in Rebecca,” Mr. Miles said. “H
e’s the only one who can save her from life in prison. And as you might guess, the two eventually fall in love. And in the final scene, they embrace.”
Embrace? I had no idea. What was I doing running away? This was my big chance. If I couldn’t get Scarlett to like me in real life, then this was the next-best thing.
“Are we leaving or not?” Henry asked.
“You can, but I’m not.”
“What’s going on?”
“Didn’t you hear what he said? Rebecca falls in love with Nick Dakota. That could be Scarlett and me.”
Henry shook his head. “Big deal. It’s make-believe.”
“It’s good enough for me.” I took a deep breath and stood up. If Sam Solomon could learn to act, then so could I. “Excuse me, Mr. Miles,” I yelled out.
“Who is that? Where’s that voice coming from?” he said.
“It’s me, sir, Charlie Collier.”
He walked to the edge of the stage. “What are you doing back there?”
“I came to audition for the part of the private eye. I’m sorry I’m late.” I wasn’t sure how Mr. Miles would react. Then I saw a smile begin to form on his face.
“Well, get up here!” he said. “Let’s get to work.”
I ran up the aisle as fast as my stocky legs could carry me. I hopped up onto the stage. I couldn’t help but glance at Scarlett. I wondered what she was thinking right at the moment. I don’t suppose that I was the kind of leading man she had in mind. But that was okay. I’d just need to win her over.
“Here’s a script, Charlie,” Mr. Miles said. “Can you read the highlighted passage for me?” He paused, as if in thought. “Better yet, since this is a jail scene with Rebecca, perhaps Scarlett can read along with you.” He motioned her over.
The Copycat Caper Page 3
