Mabel Opal Pear and the Rules for Spying

by Amanda Hosch

  16

  Don’t stand out. Follow the crowd. Never call attention to yourself. Shop, eat, and act like the locals.

  — Rule Number 6 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  Mom’s favorite blueberry and walnut coffee cake sat on the super fancy cake plate we used only at holiday time. It overshadowed a platter of scrambled eggs and bacon. Stella must have found the deep freezer.

  The table was set with more of the best holiday china, crystal glasses, and fancy silverware. I grabbed a healthy serving of food and started to eat. I didn’t know when Frankenstella were going to start something with me, and I needed nourishment.

  “Mabel,” Frank said through a bite of eggs. “Where’s the museum key?”

  Oh no! With all the craziness yesterday evening, searching for the spare key had slipped my mind again. I chewed the bite of egg until there was nothing left in my mouth. I couldn’t think of anything to say but the truth. “I don’t know.”

  Frank peered at me. As he crunched a piece of bacon between his teeth, he shared a meaningful glance with his wife. “How many keys are there?”

  I squinted as if I was thinking hard about the question. “One.” My face didn’t flush at all. I was getting much better at lying. “And it should be there.” I pointed to the empty hooks next to the one with Mom’s car key. Frank didn’t need to know that Aunt Gertie had a key too, probably somewhere inside the Star, or that there was a section of loose floorboards I could squeeze under to get inside. “Why?”

  “The museum is a business.” Frank pointed his fork at me. “It has to be open so that customers can come in.”

  His buyer must be coming soon, I thought. “Don’t you mean visitors, Uncle Frank?”

  “Of course he does.” Stella shot a loaded glance at her husband. Blue oval-cut sapphires sparkled on her earlobes. Mom had a pair just like those.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “This late in the season, we almost never get visitors.”

  “Business concerns are for us adults to worry about,” Stella said.

  Like they would have a clue about anything in the museum if an actual visitor came. Right now, we were using real silverware to eat eggs. The sulfur dioxide in the yolk oxidizes the silver, making silver sulfide, otherwise known as tarnish. My fork was already discoloring to an ugly gray. I foresaw hours of polishing in my not-too-distant future.

  “In the off-season, viewing hours are by appointment only,” I quoted the sign from the museum’s front door.

  “Your mother said someone important was coming this week,” Stella said. “She stressed that when she called to ask us for help.”

  Yeah, right. I shoveled more eggs into my mouth, trying to keep the look of disbelief off my face. While it was true that sometimes Le Petit Musée of Antique Silver Spoons got visits from real-life experts, those meetings were planned months in advance and were clearly marked on the calendar. Today, Tuesday, October twenty-eighth, was as blank as the rest of the week.

  Oh! Suddenly, while looking at the calendar, it was like a light bulb switched on. The number “10130” written on the liberated printouts wasn’t a secret code. It was a date: 10/30. Frankenstella were planning to sell the New Orleans collection on Thursday, October thirtieth.

  To cover my shock, I asked, “Who’s coming?”

  “I don’t remember offhand,” Stella said. “Is there any other place the key could be, Mabel dear?”

  I nearly choked when I heard “Mabel dear.” Swigging a drink of water to hide my reaction, I shook my head. “It’s always there or with Mom.” I stabbed a chunk of coffee cake.

  “By any chance, do you know the code or password?” Stella asked.

  The coffee cake in my mouth turned into dry sponge. I coughed it up, spraying both Victoria’s plate and my own with crumbs.

  Victoria thudded me on my back. “Something go down the wrong way, Mabel dear?”

  I could feel a bruise starting to form on my mid-back. “Yeah, a walnut must have gotten stuck in my throat.”

  “Your aunt asked you a question,” Frank said. “About the code and password.”

  Had they found my secret phone in the old history textbook? How could I get out of this? Aunt Gertie’s phone was still burning a hole in my front pocket, next to my pocketknife. If I told them my password and they used the phone, the operation would be in trouble. Worse yet, what if Frankenstella found out about the Agency, or about my parents’ jobs?

  Rule Number 24 stated: If you panic, stop whatever you’re doing. Breathe. Ask “Huh?” Or eat something as a diversion. Eating hadn’t worked well for me at all.

  Stella put another piece of the coffee cake on my plate and poured more water into my glass. “Do you know the security code for the museum’s alarm system?”

  “The Spoon doesn’t have an alarm system.”

  “What, then, is the flashing panel with a keypad, next to the back door?” Frank asked.

  “I don’t know.” That sounded unconvincing, even to me. But I was relieved they were asking stupid questions about the museum, not the Agency.

  Frank grunted. “It has red and green lights and says PNW Security.”

  “It’s only on the back door?” I asked, trying to stall.

  “Alarms are connected to all points of entry.” Stella tried to smile at me. The effect reminded me of a computer-generated dog grinning. All wrong. “I was under the impression that you helped your mother in the museum quite a lot.”

  I nodded.

  “That’s a big responsibility.”

  “It’s my weekend job.”

  “Doesn’t your mother trust you?” Stella asked.

  “Of course she does.”

  “Do you know either the security code to turn off the alarm or the password if it accidentally gets set off?”

  I shook my head no. Something was terribly wrong. The museum key was missing. I couldn’t remember the last time I saw it hanging on the hook. And someone had put a security alarm on the museum between Sunday night and this morning without me noticing? Who could do that?

  There was only one group I could think of that specialized in covert ops and was connected to Le Petit Musée — the Agency! It would be a piece of cake for highly trained Cleaners to roll into Silverton, wire the Spoon up, and depart, all without leaving a trace.

  Relief flooded through me. The Agency had taken action when I called yesterday. The only question was why. The museum was a cover story for my parents, sure. But the Agency had no reason to care about some old spoon museum. Unless there was something else in there…

  17

  Change up your routine so that the enemy has a harder time tracking you. They will follow you, but make them work for it. Don’t ever rush. Unless you have a bus to catch. Then run.

  — Rule Number 8 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  The honking of the school bus saved me from answering any more of Frankenstella’s nerve-wracking questions. Victoria’s iron grasp threatened to cut off blood flow in my right arm. If this kept up, I’d be totally black and blue by Halloween. Add some green skin paint and there’s a costume: zombie.

  “Come on, Mabel. We don’t want to be late,” Victoria said as she pulled me out of the front door and across the lawn to the waiting bus. Victoria didn’t release me as she hopped on board, so I was forced to climb up the bus stairs with my face pressed against her backpack.

  The Emmas sat in their usual seat with the Graces across from them. Their four faces were scrunched in puzzlement as we got onto the bus. There was nothing I could say to explain the situation, so I just said, “Hi,” as I walked by all causal, like I was used to being dragged around by my cousin.

  Stanley sat in the third-to-last seat of the bus. His brown wavy hair touched the tops of his ears. He scooted over toward the window as
we approached. “Hi, Mabel.” He held a book in his lap.

  “Hey.” I glanced at his book, ignoring the fact that Victoria’s fingers were still clamped around my arm. Sketches of manga superheroes filled the pages. “Did you draw those?”

  “Yeah, last night.” He held it up to show me.

  I sat down next to him, aware that Victoria was breathing fire on my head. “They’re really good.” I wanted to ask if Sheriff Baker had said anything when she drove him home. Instead, I traced one with my fingertip. “I like the way her cape is flowing in the wind.”

  “I brought some more photos from the tree grove,” Stanley said. “You should take a look at them.”

  Victoria snorted. “We don’t have time for this today.” She yanked me up and pulled me into the last seat in the aisle opposite Stanley.

  “Victoria,” I whispered. “I was talking with Stanley about his art.” And I was getting ready to pump him for intel, but I didn’t tell her that.

  “You can’t talk to him today.”

  “Why not?” I tried standing up. Victoria yanked me down. Hard. Well, I thought, if she pulls my arm out, that will make my zombie costume extra realistic.

  Victoria took out her purple smartphone, pointed it at my chin, and clicked a picture. “You have a zit.”

  “What?” I touched my face. There was a tiny bump about half an inch below my mouth. I hadn’t even noticed it this morning.

  Victoria zoomed in on the little red bump on my chin so that it took up half of her phone screen. “It will fill up with pus and look like a hot-air balloon, then pop off your face and zoom around making farting noises until it deflates and dies.”

  Stanley wouldn’t care about that. We were best friends. For goodness’ sake, I thought. The boy still burps the alphabet for fun.

  “You totally freaked out there,” she said.

  “How did I freak out?” I asked, confused.

  “At breakfast, just a few minutes ago. It’s like you’d never heard of a security alarm before.”

  “I’ve heard of them.” I knew the Agency wanted my parents to have one, but they’d refused. An alarm system would have drawn too much attention in a town like Silverton. Plus, who would service it? Silverton’s too small to even have its own fire department.

  Why hadn’t the Cleaners contacted me before installing it? Still, it was a relief to know they were around. I was anxious to tell Aunt Gertie the good news. With the Agency in town, she’d be freed in no time. Part of me imagined the undercover agents had wired the museum, then marched straight down the street to the sheriff’s office. In fact, Aunt Gertie was probably getting out of jail right this minute.

  There was no way I could sit through a day of school, waiting to find out what fake excuse the Agency had used to free my aunt. The bus pulled up to its last stop in Silverton. An escape plan presented itself.

  Victoria started to remove yet another horrific fluffy sweater she was wearing. While her arms and head were entwined in the bright yellow monstrosity, I dashed down the aisle, flashing an apologetic smile at Stanley and the Emmas. I pushed aside the younger kids who were scrambling to get seats, and I hopped off the bus. Before Bus Driver Mark could say a thing, I’d sprinted across the street and down the road.

  I don’t think I breathed until I reached the sheriff’s office. The squeaky door was a welcome sound to my pounding heart. I burst through the second set of doors. “Aunt Gertie?”

  “We’re back here,” Sheriff Baker answered.

  I raced into the jail section. The two of them were drinking coffee and playing cards at the sheriff’s desk. Discarded food containers from Mai’s Diner were in the trash. Aunt Gertie’s cell door was open. Had the Cleaners already asked for her release?

  “Have you talked with them?” I asked Aunt Gertie.

  “Your parents?” Sheriff Baker asked before my aunt could speak.

  “No, not them. I mean the people who…” — I tried to think of a different word, but failed miserably — “clean the museum. They came yesterday.” I couldn’t talk too freely in front of the sheriff. “They did a nice job. Of cleaning. Don’t you think, Aunt Gertie?”

  “Mabel, I was here all night long.” Aunt Gertie got up to hug me. “What are you talking about?”

  Did she want a neon sign with fireworks going off around it? “Didn’t the cleaning crew contact you?” I tried again, emphasizing the word “clean.”

  Aunt Gertie’s bewildered face told me that she knew even less than I did.

  “Jane has maid service for the Spoon?” Sheriff Baker asked.

  “Yes. Yes, she does.” I tried to think of a way to get my message across without blowing my parents’ cover.

  “That’s new,” the sheriff said as she reached for a pencil. “Gert, that’s exactly the type of thing you should have told me about when I asked you if there was anything different going on with the Spoon. What is the name of this cleaning company, Mabel?”

  “I don’t remember. They only come randomly, and you wouldn’t have heard of them, anyway. They’re from out of town.” Stop babbling, Sunflower, I thought. “But that’s not important. This morning there’s a security alarm on the museum,” I blurted out.

  Aunt Gertie had a shocked look on her face for a moment, but she recovered quickly. “Did you have pasta last night?” She paused, allowing me to make the connection. Bow Tie.

  Sheriff Baker rolled her eyes. Maybe I should fake a carbohydrate deficiency, I thought.

  “The water wouldn’t boil,” I said. “The museum key that normally hangs on the hook by our back door has been missing for a few days. You sent the cleaning crew to get it. Right?”

  “No.” Aunt Gertie turned to Sheriff Baker. “Prue, have you been able to reach Fred or Jane?”

  The sheriff shook her head. “Neither of them has returned my phone calls.”

  “You called my mom and dad?”

  Sheriff Baker nodded. “Ted gave me the numbers from the school’s emergency contact list. Both went straight to voicemail.”

  “Oh, Mabel,” Aunt Gertie said. “Have you talked with Principal Baker lately?”

  What a weird question, I thought. “Yesterday,” I answered.

  “Isn’t Ted’s office so nice and sunny? Lots of flowers.”

  “Umm… sure.”

  “It’s nicely decorated, too.” Aunt Gertie winked at me when Sheriff Baker wasn’t looking. “I noticed lots of good, helpful art on the walls when I visited in July.”

  Had jail cracked my aunt’s mind? For one thing, the school had been closed in July. Second, one of Principal Baker’s office walls was covered in student artwork. In fact, one of my drawings from first grade, a sunflower — Oh! I thought. She must have hidden something there. I nodded. Message received.

  “When exactly were you arrested?” I asked.

  “Inspector Montgomery returned to the Star’s Tale on Sunday afternoon,” Aunt Gertie said. “He and two state troopers questioned me for hours, then he formally arrested me.”

  “When the inspector showed up here with your aunt at six,” Sheriff Baker said, “I thought it was some type of joke. It took him a while to convince me. Finally I called the state judge who’d signed the warrant. He wasn’t pleased with being questioned by a small-town sheriff.”

  “Sunday was a regular day,” I said, not mentioning that I’d sat in the Spoon for four hours by myself with no visitors. Then I’d walked the twenty steps or so to my house, ate leftovers by myself, and fell asleep reading, waiting for Aunt Gertie to arrive.

  “Jane and Fred might not even know Gert is in the pokey.” Sheriff Baker continued to fiddle with the playing cards.

  “I wonder how Frankenstella arranged it all.” I twisted a curl.

  “I still don’t see why Frank would or could orchestrate Gertie’s arrest,” Sheriff Baker said.

 
How can adults be so naive? I wondered. “Frank swore revenge in front of the whole town,” I said. “Remember?”

  “A grown man having a hissy fit, throwing plastic spoons everywhere in the mini-mart, is a sight no one in Silverton will soon forget,” Sheriff Baker said. “Even so, I don’t see how Frank could manipulate the state troopers into arresting your aunt and indicting your parents as the ringleaders of an international smuggling operation.”

  “Because Frankenstella are in cahoots —”

  “Mabel.” Aunt Gertie cut me off and gently tugged on one of my curls. “Don’t interrupt the sheriff.”

  “This situation makes no sense.” Sheriff Baker gathered the playing cards, tapped them lightly on the table, and put the deck in her desk drawer. She took out a notepad and pencil. “Mabel, have a seat, catch your breath, and think. Have you seen the alarm yourself?”

  I shook my head.

  “Well, that will be the second item on my agenda for today.”

  “What’s number one?” came a deep voice. Montgomery stood in the doorway. I hadn’t heard the front door squeak. Two state troopers stood behind him, blocking us all in.

  “Good morning, Inspector.” Sheriff Baker rose to greet him and shake his hand. Then she turned to the state troopers. “Trooper Raleigh,” she said as she shook one trooper’s hand, then turned to the other one. “Trooper Carson. To what do we owe the pleasure of your company on this lovely autumn day?”

  How funny that both their last names are also state capitals, I thought. But with the surname Pear, who was I to mock their forefathers?

  Wait a minute… I thought. Montgomery is the state capital of Alabama. Stella had called the inspector Al. Al… Alabama? There were no coincidences, only hard-to-trace links. That’s what Mom always said.

  “It’s a good thing I’m here,” Montgomery said. He pointed to Aunt Gertie. “Criminals should be behind bars.”

  “Accused,” Sheriff Baker corrected him. “Gertie is innocent until proven otherwise.”

  Montgomery handed Sheriff Baker a folded piece of paper.

  She opened it up, and her lips grew tight as she read. “This is ridiculous. Gertrude Baies is the exact opposite of a flight risk,” the sheriff said. “We all know she didn’t steal that jewelry. She was too young when the original crime was reported.”