by Amanda Hosch
“What are you talking about?” I said. “They’re always saying how wonderful and precious you are.”
“Because of you, or the principal, or your parents, or Aunt Gertie,” Victoria said. “They try to act like a happy family when other people are around.”
“So when no one else is around?”
“They ignore me. They’re too busy with their own plans,” she said. “Once I went three days without either of them saying a thing to me. Not even ‘pass the ketchup’ or ‘close the refrigerator door.’”
While my parents didn’t talk to me each day, it was because they couldn’t as a matter of national security. And even then, they always — until this current mission — sent messages with Roy so that I never felt forgotten. When they were home, Mom and Dad always included me in discussions.
“Were your parents mad at you?” I asked, feeling sorry for my cousin.
“No, just busy.” Victoria shook her hair — somehow still impossibly straight and smooth.
“I’m sorry. That sucks,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter. I have work to do now.” She turned away from me.
I yawned as I watched Victoria watch the different videos. I didn’t have the heart to kick her off my bed, so I just grabbed a pillow and curled up, pulling the cover over me.
25
Enjoy the small victories. They may be all you ever get.
— Rule Number 26 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
Victoria woke up extra cheerful Wednesday morning. For someone who was up most of the night before, she was way too upbeat. I felt like malicious fairies had glued sand in my eyes. Watching and re-watching the various videos of Victoria’s adventure until three in the morning wasn’t the brightest thing I’d ever done — along with breaking into the museum.
The weird thing was that I wasn’t sorry. It was fun, but more than that, Victoria was sort of amazing — both at acting and at editing her video. She had talent. However, there was still a possibility she was a double agent, so I wasn’t planning on spilling my secrets to her anytime soon.
Victoria bounded down the stairway and I followed. Frankenstella sat at the kitchen table in complete silence. The curtains were wide open, giving a clear view of the museum. There was the smell of burned coffee, like it had been brewed hours before.
Stella clutched my mom’s favorite big blue mug, looking as if she might rip it in two. “Mabel, the key or the code, now.”
It was just one more day until their mystery visitor was supposed to come, and I could tell they were getting stressed. “I can’t give you what I don’t have,” I replied curtly.
Victoria casually draped her arm around my shoulder. “She’s right, Mom.”
“There has to be a way in there.” Stella’s nostrils flared as she inhaled. She glared at her husband before turning her hard stare at me. “Do you know if all the windows are wired to the alarm?”
“Nope,” I lied. A thought hit me. “Why don’t you try opening one and see what happens?” I have to admit, I was curious to see if PNW Security would show up.
“No, we can’t.” Frank shook his head. “Does anyone else have keys?”
“No,” I said, but a nagging doubt wiggled into my mind. I assumed no one else had keys or knew the security code, but I’d also assumed my parents hadn’t found the red suitcase, and turns out, it had been sitting in our basement all this time. I guess I should’ve paid more attention to Rule Number 29: Anticipate surprises. No one — not even a supergenius — knows all the facts.
“Mabel, do you remember anything about the company that installed the security system?” Frank asked.
“Nope.”
“Did PNW Security come from Silverton? Bluewater? Seattle?”
“I don’t know.” And I didn’t know if PNW Security was my friend or foe. Right now, they were Frankenstella’s foe, so that gave them points in my friendship book. Yet, it wasn’t like I could trust PNW. I assumed they were a Cleaners’ shell company, doing good work, but there was no way to know for sure. Roy had said that no agents were assigned to Silverton, but he could’ve been wrong.
“Is there anyone else your mom would have trusted?” Frank asked. “Like a neighbor or a friend?”
“Aunt Gertie,” I said. “Why don’t you ask her?”
Frank and Stella just looked at each other, their faces tense with worry.
“What’s so important in there, anyway?” I asked. I enjoyed poking them, knowing they were going to lie to me.
“Yeah, Mom. It’s just a bunch of old spoons.” Victoria squeezed my shoulder. “What’s so important in there?”
“Never mind,” Uncle Frank said, shoving granola bars into our hands and ushering us toward the front door. “Isn’t it time for the bus?”
26
If you panic, stop whatever you’re doing. Breathe. Ask “Huh?” Or eat something as a diversion.
— Rule Number 24 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
My whole world was in disarray, but Bluewater-Silverton Unified Elementary School was the same as always. In first period, we had a reading quiz, which I’d forgotten about in yesterday’s excitement. There was also a five-page math packet due in second period, which I had frantically completed on the bus. That meant that I wasn’t able to talk to Stanley, even though his eyebrows had been wiggling up a storm as Victoria had dragged me to the back of the bus. I had to find out what he had learned about the unmarked topographic map, but not around Victoria.
If that wasn’t enough, Grace K. managed to call me Moppet during the class meeting without Ms. Drysdale noticing. Stanley stared at me so hard that Victoria noticed and smirked at me. Fourth period was our PE fitness exams, so I ran a mile on an almost empty stomach and with little sleep. Apparently, sneaking into my aunt’s house, setting off a fire alarm, and breaking into a museum weren’t going to be the worst parts of my week.
By lunch, I was tired, sweaty, and really hungry. The smell of pizza and Emma G.’s funny story about her teeth being played like a harp by the orthodontist distracted me so much that I didn’t hear the loudspeaker announcement.
Victoria did. She slapped me on my arm and repeated the message for me to go to the principal’s office right away. I handed my untouched slice of pizza to Emma G. and shrugged apologetically.
Sheriff Baker sat in front of her husband’s desk. Principal Baker also had a slice of untouched pizza on a tray. My mouth watered.
“Mabel, have a seat,” Principal Baker said as he gazed at his Wall of Art. Because of Rule Number 19 — when leaving an operation, never look back — I knew better than to look at my sunflower picture, which now hung a little differently than before, and sat in the empty chair.
“I’ve got bad news for you, Mabel,” the sheriff said.
My heart started racing. I wasn’t hungry anymore. I wasn’t anything anymore. I’m not even sure how I managed to keep breathing.
“Mabel, look at me.” Sheriff Baker waved her hand in front of my face. “It’s not that bad.”
I hate surprises — always have. “Just tell me.”
“I can’t find a trace of Gertrude in the system.”
“You lost my aunt?” I looked at Mr. and Mrs. Baker, and suddenly I realized they weren’t any cleverer than me — just older. I didn’t feel bad at all about not trusting them. “Isn’t she supposed to be in the state jail in Yakima?”
“There was no record of her being transferred there,” Sheriff Baker said as she glanced down at her small notebook. She looked up and continued, “Or of the judge’s order to move her from Silverton.”
“But you said you’d talked to a judge,” I said, failing to control the shrillness in my voice.
“Yes,” the sheriff said, maintaining eye contact with me. “At least I spoke with whom I thought was the judge.
I called his office today, and he had no memory of speaking to me last Friday. The phone number I thought was his is now out of operation.”
“Do you believe me now that Inspector Montgomery isn’t a good guy?”
“I’m sure this is just a big miscommunication,” Principal Baker said. “There’s no reason to panic.”
I could think of many reasons to panic. “What are you going to do?”
“I know this is upsetting news, but Ted is right. We have to remain calm,” Sheriff Baker said. “I have reached out to my contacts in the state trooper headquarters. Let the professionals do their jobs.”
By now, I really hated the word ‘professional.’ “Sure. Because they’ve been doing an A-plus job so far.” Did all adults really think a few meaningless phrases would comfort kids when it was obvious things weren’t going well? How about less talk, more action, I thought. Like breaking into the Spoon and hiding silverware from Frankenstella, which was just following Rule Number 15: Be in control. Act. Be the one who chooses the time and place for action.
“Well, Mabel, you can help us with another matter.” Sheriff Baker took out a small notebook, just like the inspector’s. “Let me ask you again. Where are your parents?”
To keep from blurting out “Paraguay,” I rolled my eyes and looked to the principal for assistance as I said, “I’m hungry.” He handed over his pizza slice without a word.
After the first bite, my hunger took over and I gobbled my food.
Principal Baker wordlessly handed me a paper napkin.
“You didn’t answer my question.” Sheriff Baker’s tone wasn’t mad. It was sort of sad, actually.
I really wanted to tell them everything, but I couldn’t. It would be against the rules. In fact, I couldn’t even tell them it was against the rules, because that would be against the rules. And, of all the people on Earth, a principal and a sheriff should understand following the rules. So all I could do was stare back at them until Principal Baker finally let me go for the last few minutes of lunch recess.
I needed to wash my hands, so I stopped in the restroom. Three HEGs (both Hannahs and Grace K.) cornered me not even a minute later, and the Queen Bee asked, “Mabel, how are you?”
In truth, I felt terrible about my parents and Gertie. But hiding the New Orleans spoon collection had at least made me feel like I had some type of control over the crazy situation. That was too long and complicated an answer, so I just said, “OK.”
“No. Really? How are you really?” Grace K. asked. “You have purple under your eyes and they’re puffy, like you’ve been crying. Have you been crying?”
“No,” I said, aware that those questions were the most Grace K. had said to me in ages. “I just didn’t sleep a lot last night.”
“You’re worried about your aunt Gertie in jail,” Princess Bee Hannah said, a kind smile on her face. “That must be tough. My mother said she’d be so scared if she ever went to jail, even if she was innocent.”
“Aunt Gertie is innocent,” I said.
“Of course she is,” Princess Bee Hannah said. “Have they found your parents yet?”
Why are they asking about my parents? I wondered. Do they suspect something? Are the HEGs double agents? Oh, snap out of it, Sunflower! They were just being their normal nosy selves.
“When will the Star’s Tale reopen?” Grace K. asked.
“Soon, I hope,” I said.
“I miss the Star’s cinnamon buns,” Grace K. said. “And the Spoon — can you open the museum for my uncle?”
“Grace K.!” Princess Bee Hannah’s disapproval echoed through the restroom. “Mabel’s family is going through a lot right now. This is not the time to ask favors.”
“It’s not like I’m asking her to let us in for free,” Grace K. said. “We’d pay.”
“Admission is a dollar,” I said.
“Great,” Grace K. said. “So today?”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“Tomorrow?” Grace K. asked, ignoring the searing look from the Hannahs.
What is up with Grace K.’s uncle? I thought. Her questions left an uneasy feeling in my gut.
“When is Victoria’s birthday?” Princess Bee interrupted before I could speak. “I want to mark it down. And what is her favorite color? For Halloween’s hair ribbons.”
“I don’t know,” I said, realizing how little I actually knew about my only cousin.
“The most important question is,” Queen Bee Hannah said, “what do you want to eat for your birthday dinner?”
“Pizza?” I said, but it came out like a question.
The door swung open, and Victoria rushed in. “There you are, Mabel.”
“I was just asking about visiting the museum,” Grace K. said as she was cut off by the bell ringing. Recess was over.
“We’ll let you know when it’s convenient,” Victoria said as she placed her hand on my right arm, not too rough for once, and dragged me out of the bathroom.
27
Trust your instincts. Your gut wants you to stay alive. Listen to it.
— Rule Number 3 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
The day had come — Thursday, October thirtieth, the date Frankenstella had slated to sell the New Orleans Silver Spoon Historic Collection for a very hefty profit of $14,500. Of course, any amount would be a profit since it wasn’t their property.
Victoria had been glued to my side ever since our museum break-in on Tuesday night. She insisted that I watch every version of her video. Depending on how she ordered the recordings, sometimes she seemed afraid the whole time. Others were funny. The best one was a mix of funny and scared. I had no idea where she got the groaning and creaking sound effects from, but they made it totally spook-tacular.
I finally managed to break away at seven p.m. last night, taking An Abridged History of the United States and its hidden phone with me into the bathroom. I ran the water to cover up my conversation with Roy, but it turned out that he had no news to report. “Hang in there, Sunflower,” he said before hurrying off the phone. When I came out of the bathroom, Victoria was waiting in the hallway, so I decided to give up spying for the night. I didn’t go into the museum to try the little key from the basement. I figured the spoons were as safe as they could be in their plain brown box. I never had a chance to study the liberated pages hidden in The Definitive Northern Italian Cookbook. And I never had the chance to talk to Stanley, who I knew had been hanging out in my backyard because I found three pinecones on my windowsill when I woke up in the morning.
At breakfast, Stella wasted no time with pleasantries. “Moppet, we are running out of time.”
“Stella.” Frank stood next to the stove, scrambling a large pan of eggs. “Remember our plan this morning?”
As I grabbed some flatware to set the table, I whispered in Victoria’s ear. “Did you finish editing the video?”
“Not yet. I’ll do it today, and then upload it at school.”
“Mop — I mean Mabel.” Uncle Frank plopped the pan of eggs onto the table. It was a slimy, unappetizing mess, but I dug in anyway. “I heard from my sister early this morning.”
The food stuck in my throat. “Aunt Gertie or my mom?”
“Jane. She wants me to hire an attorney for Gertrude.”
“Oh?” I didn’t believe him for a second. Roy would have told me if the Agency had been in contact with my parents.
“We have to raise funds,” Frank said. “Understand?”
Here it comes, I thought. Why make it easy for him? I wasn’t going to be outright rude. I did know Rule Number 10, after all: Try to be pleasant to the enemy. I was trying.
“My sisters need money,” Frank went on. “Stella and I would be happy to pay for it ourselves, but unfortunately, all our cash is tied up in Alaska.”
I glanced at Stella, who di
dn’t look pleased at all. No one said a word and I knew to follow Rule Number 22: He who talks first loses.
After a minute of meaningful glances between Stella and Frank, he said, “Your mother sent a fax, authorizing us to sell some spoons in order to pay a lawyer to help get Gertrude out of jail.”
Wow. The audacity of Frank’s lie was so huge, I could barely conceal my amazement. “Can I see the fax?”
“Of course, Mabel.” He handed me two pages. On the top of each, there was the receiver fax number of Gloria’s Mini-Mart, but the sender’s number was conveniently smudged.
I skimmed the handwritten paragraph on the first page:
I, Jane Baies Pear, do hereby authorize Frank E. Baies to sell up to one hundred spoons at his discretion in order to pay attorney’s fees for our sister, Gertrude Baies.
Underneath was Mom’s signature and yesterday’s date, October twenty-ninth. The second page read:
Mabel,
Please assist your uncle Frank and aunt Stella. They will need to sell the New Orleans spoon collection to help your aunt Gertrude. We will return home from our trip as soon as we can arrange a flight. Be a good girl and listen to your uncle and aunt. Secondly, please help Inspector Montgomery search the Spoon for the red suitcase. I’ll explain later.
Love,
Mom and Dad
I examined the pages. These were excellent forgeries. Whoever wrote them had mimicked my mother’s handwriting down to her crooked Ts. The problems the forger made were in the language, grammar, and content.
Mom was one of the few people who called me Moppet — and I didn’t mind… much. She always capitalized titles like “Uncle” and “Aunt.” She’s never told me to be a good girl. One of her favorite sayings is “Well-behaved women seldom make history.” She calls her sister Gert or Gertie — never Gertrude. If Mom had wanted Montgomery to have the red suitcase, she would have just said, “It’s in the basement in the Valentine’s box wrapped up in a blue blanket.” She would never have used the term “secondly” where it was used in that letter, since it was the third instruction. And finally, Mom hated the nickname “the Spoon.” She always, always referred to the museum by its full name or Le Petit Musée at the very least.
