Mabel Opal Pear and the Rules for Spying

by Amanda Hosch

  Stanley could spot a bird that weighed less than half an ounce hiding in some tree branches twenty feet away, but he couldn’t notice the man dressed like an outdoors store mannequin smirking at me. But that was exactly what made my friendship with Stanley easy. He never asked questions about my life’s oddities, like not seeing my parents for ten days, even though my mother worked next door to my house.

  During our hike, I learned all about Townsend’s warblers. Apparently, while they liked to munch on spiders and leaf-hoppers, their absolute favorite meal was stink bugs, which I’d smelled a lot of back in the summertime.

  Once we reached our favorite tree grove (now with no stink bugs — thank you, warblers!), Stanley took out his tripod and lens case. Each month Stanley documented the grove, from snow-covered to spring buds, from summer’s wild glory to fall’s amazing colors.

  Each time, he’d re-measure the exact distance from the trees and the camera’s angle. Fortunately, we had a lot of notes, a sketch of where the camera should go, and a photograph taped inside his notebook. That had been a two-camera day so Stanley could photograph where his camera was located while he was taking photos of the trees and wildlife.

  After Stanley was sure he had replicated the setup perfectly and started taking photos, I wandered away. Just ten feet off the paved path, voices carried through the trees and undergrowth, offering odd bits of other hikers’ conversations as they passed.

  Up ahead, a black-tailed deer munched on grass. I stood absolutely still for a while, fascinated. After several minutes, I felt the oddest sensation on the back of my neck — prickly and warm — like I was being watched. I breathed in, trying to ignore it, but the feeling wouldn’t go away. Mount Rainier had its fair share of predators: black bears, mountain lions, coyotes, foxes, and even mountain goats (mean, smelly, and known to head-butt hikers). Slowly, I turned my head to my right. A twig snapped on my left. I whipped my head around. Through the evergreens, a flash of blue and green plaid caught my eye. It appeared that the person was quickly retreating.

  The plaid kept up a steady pace and I followed. After a few minutes, the evergreens became too thick and I lost track of the blue-green flashes. I kept going for another minute, then looked up to see where the forest canopy cleared. I darted through the trees, keeping the clearing in sight, and found my way to the paved path within minutes. A group of hikers was drinking water and snapping photos of the foliage. “Did you see a man in a blue and green plaid shirt?” I asked.

  “Are you lost, sweetie?” one of the women asked.

  “No,” I said, aware that valuable time was ticking away. “Did you see him?” I looked up and down the path, but there was no sign of Mr. Odd Sock.

  “A shirt like mine?” one of the men asked. The blue and green checks on his shirt were too small. “I’ve seen a couple.”

  “Where are your parents?” the woman asked, looking concerned.

  I pointed in the direction of Stanley. He was practically family, after all. “Bye,” I said as I beat a hasty retreat toward our tree grove.

  “Ready, Mabel?” Stanley asked as he looked up from putting his camera, lenses, and tripod away. “Where were you?”

  “I was just watching a deer,” I said. Get a grip, Sunflower, I told myself. Somehow using my code name helped calm my nerves. Maybe it had been someone else in blue and green looking at wildlife.

  Stanley nodded in understanding. “You should ask your parents for a camera.”

  On the hike home, Stanley talked about the things he’d observed in the tree grove: a red fox out for a stroll, a golden-mantle ground squirrel, which looks like a chipmunk but doesn’t have facial stripes, and a new collection of bat houses posted on trees.

  We arrived in Silverton with seven minutes to spare. As per the Pear family protocol, it was time for me to hang out at the Spoon (Saturday hours were noon to four p.m.). Stanley walked me to the museum, then continued home to upload his newest photo collection. He contributed to a Mount Rainier nature blog. His posts got a few hundred visitors each month and I was usually the first to comment on them.

  I heard a soft humming as I entered the museum. I bit my lip to keep from calling out. The sound came from the corner, next to the filing cabinet. I couldn’t see over the display cases chock-full of silver spoons. I fought the urge to hum along to the familiar melody. Instead, using my best quiet feet, I inched closer until someone burst out in song.

  “You are my sunshine, my only sunshine…”

  “Mom!” I dashed around the display case. “You’re home. How was —”

  Before I could say Nauru (a tiny island country in Micronesia), she hugged me so tightly my face squished against her shoulder. I didn’t mind one bit.

  “While the Nebraska Silverware Association was disorganized,” she said once she had let me go, “I persuaded the top Nebraskan to let me assist in locating the missing documents.” She bent down to kiss my forehead. “Your father helped with their communication issues. Old wiring needs repairing, even in Nebraska.”

  No matter how many times Mom said Nebraska, I was sure she and Dad had been in Nauru. Even though they would never directly tell me where they were going, I had my ways of figuring it out.

  “So, Moppet, anything exciting to report?”

  “Nothing ever happens in Silverton.” How could it when there are only 267 people in the entire town? We’re smack in the middle of the Cascade Mountain Range, right next to Mount Rainier. Don’t get me wrong — it’s not like we’re cut off from normal life or anything. We have satellite TV. Seattle is only two hours away by car. Plus, Silverton has its own airstrip, which makes it very convenient for my parents to fly in and out.

  “That’s not true. Things change every day,” Mom said, pulling open the window blinds. “The leaves turned while we were gone.”

  “OK, the leaves changed color, we had two pop quizzes in math, it rained yesterday, I turned in my history paper, read Fulton Sisters’ Adventures Numbers Eighty-Five and Eighty-Six, started Eighty-Seven, and Stanley and I hiked this morning. Where’s Dad?”

  “He’s refueling the plane and filing our reports,” Mom said. “Any progress on the Great Reverse Heist?”

  “Oh yes. I figured out which ones are the stolen items.” I bounded out of the museum, back into my house, and up the stairs to my room. While Stanley busied himself by photographing wildlife, I spent my free time hot on the heels of some very cold theft cases.

  Months ago, my mom and dad let me in on one of our family secrets. I didn’t think anything could’ve topped the whole my-parents-are-super-secret-spies thing, but I was wrong. Apparently, my mom’s parents, Carl and Mabel (my namesake) Baies, hadn’t been the most law-abiding citizens. In fact, it could be said (and was said, repeatedly, by the police, the FBI, and the Agency) that they were criminals.

  My grandparents had used Le Petit Musée of Antique Silver Spoons as a front for selling stolen goods in the 1960s. They were a minor part of a minor criminal gang, operating in small pockets of the United States. Mom said her parents died before they were ever convicted, so that’s why she and Gertie didn’t know anything about it. It was only when Mom started working for the Agency that she found out because of background checks.

  Get this — the stolen stuff wasn’t anything really amazing like money or famous art or diamonds. Nope, it was all old American history type stuff from university collections and living museums — those places you have to go for field trips, where the poor museum guide is dressed up in old-fashioned clothing, using words like “thee” and “thou.” These kinds of places were not known for their security, especially way back then. So my grandparents didn’t have anything super valuable at the Spoon — just dusty old things like maps, letters, and diaries.

  Mom never told her sister because she didn’t want to taint Aunt Gertie’s memories of their parents. So I’d been under strict orders to keep that secret
from my aunt while my parents had been quietly undoing the damage my grandparents had done. The Great Reverse Heist meant that whenever they found some of the historical American memorabilia, they would extract it (extract means to remove — maybe not totally legally — in spy terms) and return the item to its rightful owner.

  One of the best ways of recovering stolen property was going to auctions, which was why I’d spent the last ten days going through the Auction-Goer’s Complete Guide, November Edition. Before they left, my parents told me that two of the items listed were stolen property. They were testing my abilities. So, besides school, eating, and sleeping, I’d been studying picture after picture of Colonial American memorabilia, using clues provided by my parents to figure out what my grandparents had stolen.

  In my room, I knelt next to the head of my bed and reached under it to extract the auctioning guide. Strange. I felt nothing. I peered underneath and spotted it by the foot of my bed, about five feet away from where I had placed it before going to sleep the previous night.

  An odd, prickly feeling swept up my neck. That catalog couldn’t have moved itself.

  I sat back on my heels and peered around my bedroom, and right away, other things caught my attention. My blue sweater was hanging on the back of my chair, instead of on the floor where it had landed earlier. One pile of my books had been straightened. Two of my history books were in my astronomy book pile. My desk drawers were all pushed in. The origami solar system model hung crooked over my dresser. And my trash bucket, which had been full the day before, was empty. I checked the window — locked. I never locked my window. There was no need to in Silverton… or so I thought.

  Someone had been in my room.

  3

  Coincidences do happen, just not that often. When in doubt, check it out.

  — Rule Number 36 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  I raced into the museum, calling as I went, “Mom, did you try cleaning my room? We had an agreement. Remember?” I stopped short. A visitor — an actual visitor — leaned over the display case, pointing and asking questions.

  “They don’t make bulldozers agile enough for that job,” Mom said to me as she very discreetly put one finger up, meaning I should button my lips.

  Right away, this seemed odd. Visitors in late October were not impossible, but in Silverton, tourists usually came during the summer. They’d take pictures in front of the spoon museum, buy postcards, and go hiking for a few days on Mount Rainier.

  The man moved, and I got a better look at him. That blue and green plaid shirt, those new pants — creases still visible — those boots with no scuff marks and just a bit of mud. I should have known bad things come in threes. Our museum visitor was the odd sock.

  Unsure what to do, but needing to do something, I walked behind a case. Going over to a tray of spoons, I put the catalog down, slipped on gloves, picked up the polishing rag, and got to work. Today’s collection to be cleaned was Pennsylvania Dutch Country. On each spoon, different styles of horse and buggy were designed to fit where the handle usually goes. And if anyone happens to wonder how much tarnish gets into the lines of those horses and buggies, it’s lots, let me tell you.

  “Where is your jewelry display?” Mr. Odd Sock asked Mom as he tapped the glass case.

  “We only have spoons here,” she said, pointing to the new sign Dad had recently made of old stainless steel spoons spelling out the museum’s name. Usually tourists chuckled over it. Mr. Odd Sock was unmoved by my father’s handiwork.

  “I’d like to buy my niece something. Maybe a spoon with her name on it,” he said. “Where is your gift shop?”

  “I’m terribly sorry. We don’t sell spoons,” Mom said. “We do have postcards. A dollar each or six for five dollars.”

  Mr. Odd Sock shook his head and walked away from my mother. As I rubbed off the tarnish, I thought it had to be more than a coincidence that the man was in the museum. First he’d spent the morning at my aunt’s café, then he’d (maybe) hiked on a path parallel to Stanley and me, and now this.

  Then again, the Star was one of two places to eat in Silverton. The path we’d used was the easiest, flattest, and best-marked route to view the mountains. Except for the glory of Mount Rainier behind us, Le Petit Musée was it for fun activities — or any activity with a roof — for fifteen miles in any direction. Coincidences do happen. Sometimes.

  The front door opened, letting in the sound of giggles. “Mabel, are you here?”

  “Mabel?” Another high-pitched voice called.

  More giggles. “Are you here, Mabel?”

  Emma G., Emma H., Grace K., and Grace L. swept into the museum, each cradling a baby pumpkin. As four-ninths of the HEGs (the two Hannahs, three Emmas, and four Graces in my class), they’d made it their mission to be super sweet to me and include me in all that they do since I had the “odd name.” But I liked being the only Mabel in class. No one ever picked up my lunch box by mistake.

  The Emmas and Graces were all wearing orange hairbands with orange bows. They talked over one another as they showed off their decorated baby pumpkins. They were sweet, but like candy corn, too much of them made my stomach ache.

  “We knew you had to help your mom, but we didn’t want you to miss the fun, so I made you one,” Emma G. said as she plunked down a miniature pumpkin with a tiny green witch’s hat, googly eyes, black bat wings, and brown spider legs. It was also bathed in glitter. Then Emma G. held out a couple of ghost-shaped cookies wrapped in plastic. “I saved you some of these from last night.”

  “The cookies look boooo-ti-ful. Thank you,” I said. The pumpkin left a trail of shiny glitter on the display case. Someone was going to have to clean that up, and that someone’s initials were MOP.

  “Do you like it?” Emma G. asked. “I couldn’t remember your favorite color.”

  “I said red,” Grace L. interrupted.

  “Blue, right?” Emma H. said.

  Grace K. said nothing.

  “Right now, orange is my favorite,” I said to Emma G. “It’s perfect.”

  “Yay!” Emma G. actually squealed. I’d have to remember to thank her more often. “Bring it to school on Friday, OK?” Emma G. said. “For the Halloween party.”

  “I will,” I said, glancing quickly at Mr. Odd Sock, who was now wandering around the museum and looking at spoons, like visitors were supposed to do. Grace K.’s eyes flickered to him, which I found suspicious, so I asked the girls, “Can I see your pumpkins?” to keep them talking — and to give me more time to investigate whatever was going on.

  Emma G. held up her baby pumpkin. It had the same green witch’s hat and googly eyes, but also had silver cat whiskers, black yarn hair, and purple monster hands. Somehow it appeared to have even more glitter coating it. Emma H., Grace K., and Grace L. had similarly over-decorated pumpkins.

  “Pretty,” I said. Normally I liked to carve my Halloween pumpkins into spooky faces, but the HEGs were sweet — shiny, glittery sweet — to think of me. The glue was starting to pool off of my pumpkin and I wondered if it would be rude of me to start wiping down the display case in front of them.

  “You wanna go to Mai’s?” Emma G. asked. “They have baby pumpkin pies.”

  “You know, the little ones,” Emma H. interrupted, using her hands to show how small. “Each one is just enough for one person.”

  Grace L. stepped in front. “And we can get caramel apple cider. With whipped cream and caramel sauce on top.”

  Grace K. stared at her nails.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I’ve got to polish this tray of spoons today.” Not only that, but my parents had just come in from not-Nebraska and I wanted to hear about it. But I couldn’t say that to the girls. Living a double life was hard.

  “We’ll help you, Mabel,” said Emma G.

  “We’ll help Moppet?” asked Grace K., finally saying someth
ing.

  “We will help Mabel,” said Emma G. in such a kind way I wanted to reach across the display case to hug her. Grace K. just rolled her eyes in reply.

  Mr. Odd Sock drifted our way. Grace K. glanced at him again, yet he didn’t seem to notice.

  Emma G. reached over to pick up a polishing rag, leaving a smear of glitter and glue on the glass case top.

  “Oh no,” I said. “You’re too sweet to offer.”

  “Mabel, you can just —” Mom started to say.

  I cut her off with a shake of my head, and raised one finger. I knew she probably felt bad about leaving me for so long, but I really couldn’t take an afternoon of oohing and aahing over mini art projects. OK, the oohing didn’t bother me all that much. But having to avoid innocent questions, like, “What did you do last night?” was the problem. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t say, “While you HEGs were baking ghost cookies, I was cracking open a criminal case.”

  Besides not wanting to answer their questions, I wanted to stay home so I could show my parents my work. It had taken days to go through the auction catalog to identify the stolen silver-handled mirror and the stolen mother-of-pearl brush.

  “I’m sorry, Mabel,” Mom said, watching my face to make sure she was getting it right. “You really need to stay here and do the work by yourself.”

  “Oh, all right, Mom.” I dropped my shoulders and acted upset. “Sorry,” I said to the HEGs.

  “Next time?” Emma G. asked, all eager and hopeful.

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Promise?”

  Half expecting Emma G. to raise her little finger for a pinkie promise like we did when we were little, I said, “Yes. Promise.”

  “Great, we’ll do Halloween together. Trick-or-treating in Bluewater, for sure,” Emma G. said in triumph. “Maybe even a sleepover with a cake and eleven candles.”

  “Sleepover?” Mom said. A smile spread across her face. “What fun! Mabel, you girls haven’t had one in ages.”