by Angie Kelly
"Les hommes chauves! Les hommes chauves!" the priest kept saying.
"What's he saying?" asked Alex.
"He keeps saying the bald men, the bald men," I said. He kept trying to sit up but we couldn't tell how hurt he was and kept pushing him back down.
I asked him if these men had hurt him.
"Oui," he replied. "Voleurs dans les archives!"
"Thieves in the archives!" I said, and suddenly Alex was on his feet and headed up the steps.
"You lot stay here. Call the cops and see what else you can get out of him before they get here."
"Be careful," Lily called out after him then pulled out her cell phone.
"Can you hear me, Father?" I asked the priest in French. His eyes focused on my face but he didn't speak. I tried again. "What's your name?"
"Pere…Pere Alain Crozier," he replied.
"Father Crozier, my name is Tomi. Do you know what the men were looking for?"
"Voleurs!" he said, getting all riled up again.
"Were they looking for information about Father Billon?" I asked on a whim. I figured since he was a priest, too, he might have heard of him. The name seemed to get his attention. His eyes got big. I got the feeling he knew exactly what I was talking about.
"Do you know anything about Renee LaFaussi or Marie Antoinette's necklace?"
He didn't answer and turned his head away. So, he did know what I was talking about.
"I swear we don't want it for ourselves, Father," I assured him. "We work for a society searching for lost artifacts and historical stuff for museums." I said. But he just blinked.
I started to ask him another question when Lily started yelling into the phone in broken French even I could barely understand. I started to grab the phone out of her hand when the priest grabbed my arm. From inside the pocket of his long black robe, he pulled out a card and pressed it into my hand. Then he grabbed the front of my shirt and pulled me roughly towards him.
"Recherchez le chat noir," he whispered and then passed out.
Look for the black cat? I was confused. Did this guy just asked me to find his cat?
We were long gone before the police got there. I flagged down a passerby to sit with Father Crozier before we took off. Alex had searched the church and found no men but discovered the priest's office had also been ransacked. Someone was looking for something, and we knew whoever had broken into the church and attacked the priest was looking for the exact same thing we were.
"How would anyone else even know about Marie Antoinette's necklace?" asked Lily. “The Price Institute said they just found out about it and we were the first people they called.”
"What I wanna know is how they knew to come here? They must have all the same info we do," said Alex, looking like he was ready to punch someone.
"Do you think they hacked into our computer?" I asked.
"The firewall security at the estate is top of the line," said Alex, his forehead was wrinkled in concentration.
"Yeah," added Lilly. "Devon's been trying to hack it since it was installed, and if she can't get past it, no one can."
Alex and Lily were still talking and we were waiting for the traffic light to change to cross the street, when I noticed a black SUV with tinted windows. It was parked at the curb about half a block behind us. We crossed the street and something told me to look back. The SUV was now following us. We walked another half a block with the SUV still trailing us when I finally nudged Alex and whispered for him to look back.
"Looks like we've got company, ladies."
No sooner had Alex spoken than the SUV parked at the curb. The passenger side door opened and out stepped a woman with short white hair wearing a pink suit and a straw hat with flowers and a pink ribbon on the brim like she was on her way to a garden party. We recognized her immediately. Suddenly it was all crystal clear.
"Good day, Mr. Duncan, girls. Please excuse me if I don't recall your names, but I do believe you have something of mine," said Dr. Regina McFarland.
A long time ago, Dr. McFarland used to be an archeologist, and a colleague of Mrs. T.'s husband Dr. Tarpley, until she got caught selling antiquities on the black market. Now she was nothing more than a treasure hunter who sold art and antiquities to the highest bidder and didn't care how they'd been acquired or where they'd come from. Mrs. T. called her a vulture. To anybody else she was probably just some old lady. But if you got closer you saw where her right hand should have been was a metal hook. She also had a deep scar running from the corner of her left eye through her cheek and down to her chin. A black pipe hung out of her mouth. She could have been Captain Hook's mother. Not nice, I know, but it's still the truth. I didn't even want to think about how bad her karma must be.
"What are you on about?" asked Alex, stepping in front of us and towards McFarland. Alex hadn't got within a few feet of the old woman when two bald guys as big as linebackers jumped out of the backseat. Guess now we knew who'd beaten up the priest and trashed the church archives.
"There's a journal in your possession belonging to me," McFarland said, taking the pipe out of her mouth.
I couldn't believe it. How did she know about Father Billon's Journal? The Journal was in my backpack. I tried hard to keep my expression neutral so she wouldn't know I had it.
"Journal? What journal?" asked Alex.
"The Journal the Price Institute gave you, of course," she rolled her eyes in exasperation. "I gave it to them to authenticate for me. They had no right to give it to you. And I want it back."
"Don't be daft. We don't know anything about any journal. Me and the girls are here on holiday, right girls?" Lily and I just nodded. McFarland sighed impatiently.
"I don't have time for this nonsense. Roy, Max search their bags," she commanded, motioning to her goons.
The big bald guy closest to me reached out and grabbed my backpack. But I grabbed one of the straps and pulled back with all my might. He jerked the backpack so hard a couple of my fingernails broke when he ripped it out of my hands. Then he shoved me and I went flying backwards and landed on the sidewalk hard on my butt.
"Ow! Dude! I weigh ninety pounds!" Bald Guy actually laughed and I thought Lily was going to burst a blood vessel.
"Hey, Cue Ball!" shouted Lily. She lifted her right knee almost to her chin. Her arms were up and tucked close to her upper torso. Her hands were fisted. She pointed her toe, leaned back, pivoted on her left foot, turned out her hip, and landed a perfect roundhouse kick in Bald Guy's face. Her leg snapped out and back so fast it was a blur.
He instantly dropped my backpack and clutched his nose. Blood streamed from between his fingers. He flew at Lily in a rage. But before he could get his hands around her neck, I jumped up and kicked him hard in his left kneecap I leaned back and put all my weight, and some serious anger, into it, just like Lily once taught me. I know I said I wasn't a fan of senseless violence. But, kicking this guy made a whole lot of sense to me.
Bald Guy had only winced when Lily kicked him in the face. But he screamed and grabbed his knee when I kicked him. Lily tried to deliver a swift karate chop to the back of his thick neck but her hand kept bouncing off. Bald Guy kept grabbing for Lily with one hand, while protecting his good knee with his other. Finally — in a very un-karate like move — she clasped her hands together in one big fist and swung out like she was swinging a tennis racket, connecting with Bald Guy's jaw, and knocking him out cold. Note to self: Never tick off Lily.
Alex was holding his own against the other guy who was wearing a gold tracksuit, which matched my high-tops perfectly. When tracksuit guy punched Alex in the stomach, Lily and I started to run over to help him. But Alex, who was now pinned against the side of SUV, shook his head at us.
"Scat!" he yelled. We knew what he meant, and as much as we hated to leave him behind, I grabbed my backpack and Lily and I took off running in opposite directions.
Chapter Seven
You're probably thinking Lily and I are cold for leaving Alex with those
goons. But rule number three is: Alex is in charge. Do what he says. When he says scat, which by the way doesn't mean he was treating us like pesky felines, we do. Scat is short for scatter. Meaning we stop what we're doing and run in opposite directions, forcing whoever is chasing us to decide who they'll follow. The momentary pause by our pursuers gives us the best chance for getting away. It seemed like I ran forever and finally ended up hiding in an alley behind a dumpster for half an hour before I got the courage to check to see if anyone was following me. No one was.
I didn't want to take a chance on running into Dr. McFarland and her thugs, and I had just the thing for situations just like this. It was plain brown tweed cap from the 1800's and it belonged to Sherlock Holmes. I know what you're thinking. Sherlock Holmes is a fictional character. Not. I'm going to let you in on a little secret. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle was not Sherlock Holmes's creator. He was his biographer. The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes was a memoir. Sherlock was a real detective.
And if you've read about Sherlock's adventures then you already know he was a master of disguise. Sherlock's cap had the ability to completely transform whoever wears it. All you have to do is put a picture or drawing of what you wanted to look like inside the pocket in the cap's lining before putting it on and — voilà — you've got a new face. As you can imagine, the cap's power would be pretty dangerous in the wrong hands, which is why the cap stays locked up in the vault back home. Mrs. T. would kill me if she knew I had it. But it was no biggie. All I had to do was put it back when I got…yikes! My backpack was a wet sticky mess inside. When the bald goon and I had gotten into a tug of war, it must have punctured my carton of chocolate smoothie. Sherlock's cap was now dripping in chocolate goo! I quickly rummaged through my picture collection until I found one of my favorites, Shirley Temple. Don't laugh. The picture wasn't too wet. I wrung out the cap, put the picture inside, and put it on. Nothing happened. No blonde curls. No cute frilly dress. No tap shoes. This was not happening!
I took a deep cleansing breath because panicking is so bad for my disposition. I'd just have to wing it and hope Sherlock's cap would be back to normal once it dried out. In the meantime, I still needed a disguise. There was nothing I could do about my sparkly tennis shoes. But two minutes later, my short red-streaked hair was tucked under the soggy tweed cap. I searched for a better place to hide, hoping Alex and Lily were okay. I could call them but the rules of scatter dictated I wait at least an hour.
I found a tiny café away from the center of town. I settled at one of the tables in back with a hot chocolate so I could think. I took a sip and sighed in contentment. It was perfect. Not too sweet or bitter and with the right amount of milk. But, I digress. I didn't believe for a second Father Billon's journal belonged to Dr. McFarland. What I couldn't figure out was how she knew we had it. Alex and Mrs. T. always carefully screen any new clients the society takes on. The Price Institute was no different. Unless the Price Institute was in on whatever crap McFarland was trying to pull. And if so, one well-placed phone call from Everett Tarpley's widow would ensure they never got another dime in funding. The Price Institute would be toast. Speaking of Mrs. T., I knew she was going to flip out when she woke up and found Mia gone. So I texted her a brief message letting her know she was with us and leaving out the fact McFarland was here until I could reconnect with Alex and Lily.
I shoved my cell phone in my pocket and my fingers brushed against the card Father Crozier had given me. I'd forgotten all about it. Since, he'd wanted me to look for his cat, I figured the card might have his address on it or something. But it was a just a white business card with two things on it: a picture of a black cat, with its tail curled into a question mark and a phone number. No name or address. Weird. Why did he give this card to me? He'd been hit on the head pretty hard and probably had some of his marbles knocked loose. I started to pitch the card in a nearby trashcan when I remembered the priest's reaction when I asked him about Father Billon. I called the number on the card but only got a recording in French and English asking me to leave a name and number. I couldn't figure out what to do and must have been staring off into space because I didn't even notice Bald Guy walk up on me until he ripped the cap right off my head and tossed it over his shoulder. He towered over me.
"Hello, Sunshine. Miss me?" A bloody tissue had been shoved up one of his nostrils. Blood stained the front of his shirt. He had two black eyes and a big bruise on his jaw from where Lily had socked him. I was paralyzed with fear until I saw gold lame sequins from my tennis shoe on the left knee of his pants. The sequins formed a smiley face. I burst out laughing. Bad idea.
"Think I'm funny, eh? Let's see how funny you think this is." He took his meaty fist and slammed it down on the small round table I was sitting at, smashing my cell phone to pieces and spilling hot chocolate all over me. Not cool. So not cool.
I jumped up from the table poised to run but he was blocking the entrance. The café was tiny with only a few tables, and he took up most of what was left of the space. He swung at me and I ducked, dropped to the floor, and scooted backwards like a crab. He started knocking over tables and flinging chairs trying to get to me. He had me backed against the wall with nowhere to go until someone started yelling.
"Arret! Arret!" It was the café owner, waving his arms and running from behind the counter.
But Bald Guy just turned and shoved him hard, the same way he'd done me, only instead of landing on the floor he went flying right through the café's big picture window. A crowd quickly gathered around the café owner, who lay groaning on the pavement. Bald Guy glanced over his shoulder to check out his handy work and I jumped up and kicked him in his other knee. This time I added the anger over my smashed cell phone and the waste of a perfectly heavenly cup of hot chocolate into it. Bald Guy shrieked — some people never learn — and I scooped up Sherlock's cap from the floor and ran out the door just as the scrappy café owner ran back in to confront Bald Guy. Before I rounded the corner, the café owner went sailing back through the window. Poor dude.
****
I was trying to be philosophical about the fact I was running, again, for the third time in less than two hours. I still couldn't believe Bald Guy had found me, and I needed to make sure it didn't happen again. I still had my backpack but no phone, which meant I had no way to contact Alex and Lily, and they had no way to contact me. It was still twenty minutes before we could touch base. I wondered where they were and if they were safe. But first, I had to make sure I was safe. I don't know how far I ran. I didn't feel safe standing still. Bald Guy had caught up with me in the first place, because I dropped my guard and wasn't paying attention. Rule number four was always be aware of your surroundings. And I had failed miserably.
Since it was Sunday, many of the shops and restaurants were closed. And even if I could find another café to hide out in, I was too afraid of being cornered again. I finally had to stop running because my side hurt and I was out of breath. If I were Devon, Lily or Alex, I could run for miles. But I couldn't and there was no use dwelling on my lack of athletic ability because it wouldn't help me stay out of Bald Guy's clutches. Plus, obsessing over perceived shortcomings was so bad for your self-confidence. Boy, did I need some chocolate.
I found an open patisserie down a deserted side street and after looking up and down the street to check for any big bald men, I went in and bought two chocolate hazelnut tarts. The French know their chocolate. I was shoving one of them into my mouth as I left the shop, and trying not to swoon over how incredibly delicious it was, when I saw something and stopped dead in my tracks. Directly across the street was a sign mounted over a black door. The sign had no words, just the picture of a black cat with its tail curled into a question mark. I pulled the card Father Crozier gave me out of my pocket and compared the two images. They were the same black cat.
Not even bothering to see who might be watching, I ran across the street and tugged on the doorknob of the black door. It opened and I ducked inside. I was in a dark foyer
with a flight of stairs in front of me. I ate the other tart for strength and climbed the stairs. At the top was another door with a window in it and another image of the black cat painted on it. This time there were words underneath the cat. They read: Le Chat Noir Recherchez. Black Cat Research. It was some kind of business. I went inside expecting to find an office; instead, I found myself in a small room with three rows of chairs facing a podium.
There was an enormous fat man sitting in the front row with his large backside draped over two chairs. He was asleep with his mouth hanging open and the red suspenders of his pants trailing the floor. He was snoring loudly, and I was hypnotized by how his enormous belly shook each time he breathed in and out. Crumbs decorated the front of his blue shirt.
"Bonjour!" A woman wearing a green, striped dress, who had frizzy black hair and glasses with lenses so thick they made her eyes look enormous, came out of a back room, she was carrying a tray of luscious-looking fruit, cheese and bread. "You can hang your backpack on the hook over there; we'll be starting the meeting in ten minutes." She spoke to me in English.
"You're American?" I said, in surprise.
"As are you," she replied in amusement.
"How could you tell?"
"Those are," she pointed at me feet, "decidedly American shoes."
My gold high-tops, which had been so shiny and new just two hours ago, were now ruined. There were dirt and smudges all over them and the right one was bald in places where the sequins had come off when I kicked Bald Guy. But it had been so worth it.
"Oh," I said, backing out of her way as she set the tray of food on a table behind me. "Well, I'm Tomiko Sato and—"
Before I could finish what I was saying, the fat man suddenly blurted in heavily accented English, "Took to aims!"
"Um… I was sent here by—" I tried again, ignoring him.
"Moats I took," he interrupted again. As far as I could tell was still asleep. "Father—"
