by Amanda Hosch
I knew that calling out Frankenstella as liars and forgers wouldn’t get me very far. Fishing for information, I asked, “Who are you going to sell them to?”
“That’s not your business,” Stella said in a very unpleasant tone.
Frank patted her arm. “What your aunt means is that you shouldn’t concern yourself with adult troubles.” He cleared his throat, folded his hands in front of him, and looked me straight in the eye. “I know these last few days must have been very unsettling for you, Mabel. We all have said things that could have been misconstrued. Let’s put that behind us now and work together for Gertrude’s sake.”
Is this Frank’s idea of an apology? I wondered. Someone needed to go back to kindergarten to learn the simple formula of: “I hurt you. I’m sorry.”
“If you care about your aunt Gertrude, you’ll help us get into the Spoon,” Stella said. “Remember, your aunt is counting on you.”
I couldn’t believe they were playing on my feelings. So I asked, “Why don’t you fax Mom back and ask her for that information?”
“Moppet, that’s a great idea,” Victoria said as she put on her coat and gathered her school books. “Let’s go to school now.”
“Vicky-girl, I heard you tossing and turning last night,” Stella said. “Why don’t you stay home today and rest?”
“Maybe because I want to go to school and see my friends.” Victoria stamped her right foot, like a toddler about to have a fit. “Maybe I like living here now and don’t want to leave. Maybe I am looking forward to the sleepover on Friday night. And trick-or-treating with my friends.” She gripped my arm in her iron fist. “Come on, Mabel.”
Victoria likes Silverton? I thought. That’s new. I wasn’t sure how I felt about her change of heart.
Frank looked at his wife and daughter, who were locked in a silent battle of the wills. “Just be ready to leave school early,” he said.
“Are you going someplace, Uncle Frank?” I asked.
“We, um, may go visit Gertrude.”
“Should I be ready to leave school early too?” I asked.
“No.” Stella broke off her eye contact with Victoria. “There won’t be room in the car if we’re able to bring Gertrude home.”
Another lie. Mom’s car seats five easily.
“Fine. Later.” Victoria stomped out of the house, dragging me across the lawn to the school bus stop.
Not even a minute later, Frankenstella slammed the front door shut and drove off in Mom’s car.
At that moment, I knew I had to act. I had to find out what was in the red suitcase that was making these adults act so irrational. “I’m not going to school today,” I told Victoria.
“Look, Mabel,” Victoria said, her voice soft and kind. “My parents have been waiting too long in this wet, dreary state to let you stop them now.”
“You’ve been here four days,” I said.
“I wish,” Victoria said.
So I had been right! “You weren’t living in Alaska, were you? You’ve been hiding out near here.” The mountains nearby were full of abandoned cabins.
“Give Moppet a gold star.” She smiled. “Be careful. I’ll tell the teacher you’re out sick today.”
Victoria’s warning wasn’t in vain. As I walked through the front entryway and into the kitchen, I heard a voice — a terrible, familiar voice drifting from the back of Le Petit Musée. I opened the back door a crack.
“Listen to this, Madison,” Montgomery said into a cell phone. “Helena gave me an ultimatum today. Right? Who does she think she’s dealing with?” He laughed in that fake, forced way adults do when something isn’t funny. “Trenton’s greedy and getting impatient.”
I knew I should hide, but I wanted to eavesdrop. Maybe if I brought more information to Sheriff Baker, she’d be able to do something. I opened the door wider and stood in the doorway. I chanced peeking out and caught a glimpse of the inspector. His mouth was downturned and he was shaking his head.
“If they go in with the wrong code, the alarm will sound, bringing everyone in this town running. I can’t risk that until everything else is in place.” Montgomery paused to listen, then continued. “We are too close to Jefferson City to misstep now.”
Man, was Montgomery wrong. Jefferson County was far away — on the other side of Seattle and the Puget Sound, in the Olympic Mountains. There’s no Jefferson City in Washington State. It’s the capital of Missouri. Any fifth grader knew that.
“Get Cheyenne ready. She has to verify the signature’s authenticity before we sell.” He paused again for a moment. “We’re not changing the game plan now. We will —”
Cheyenne? I thought. As in the capital of Wyoming? From my spy work, I knew that there were no such things as coincidences. Carson, Raleigh, Jefferson City, Madison, Montgomery, Jackson, Helena, Trenton — they were all state capitals. I gasped. The inspector was a phony, and Montgomery was his code name. I’d known it from the beginning. He was an odd sock. Why hadn’t I insisted that my spy sense was right?
“I’ll be there in ten,” Montgomery said. He looked like he’d eaten a pile of lemons for breakfast, the way his mouth scrunched up in disgust. Ranting something about “incompetent” and “greedy,” he got into his blue Ford and peeled out of the driveway.
28
Assume every agent is a double agent.
— Rule Number 21 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
I figured I had at least thirty minutes, probably a bit more, if only because Silverton was fifteen minutes away from anything. Fortunately, I had the Rules as a guide. In this case, Rule Number 16: Always have a Plan B. And a Plan C. A Plan D would be good too.
Today I had a long list of plans. One: Open the red suitcase. Two: Open the Spoon’s humming file cabinet. Three: Contact the Agency to tell them to get here now. Four: Decode the topological map and the blueprint. Five: Share all intel with Sheriff Baker to see if she’d listen to me again.
First things first — the red suitcase. I made sure the basement door was firmly shut behind me. As I peered around, I had the same uncomfortable feeling I was being watched. Keep calm, Sunflower. Inspector Montgomery knew about my parents’ weird travels, but he couldn’t possibly know they were Cleaners, could he? The only thing I knew for certain was that Montgomery wanted the red suitcase.
A floorboard creaked from above. Startled, I froze. I waited for a minute, but no other sound came. It’s just an old house, Sunflower. Wooden floors make sounds.
I moved the pile of giant plastic containers until I got to my parents’ hidden stash. With the lantern turned on, I examined the combination lock. Even though I was no expert, I could clearly see that the lock looked modern and the suitcase was old. Really old. Antique, my parents would say. The leather handle flaked a little when I touched it.
My parents must have installed the new lock. They never used the same numbers, such as birthdays, that could be easily guessed. Instead, their system for making up codes was to use the telephone touch pad, but base it on the object in question. Since this was the red suitcase and a six-digit lock, I used the first three letters of each word to make the six-digit code. Red suitcase = red sui = 733784.
I rotated the digits on the lock and tried that combination. Nothing.
I remembered Dad had mentioned he’d also flip the numbers once in a while, so I tried them in reverse: 487337. Click. The lock opened, and I exhaled in relief.
It wasn’t a suitcase after all. It was a silverware case from Monticello, Virginia, according to the stamp on the red velvet lining. On one side were sixteen soup spoons. Nothing fancy, except that the handles were gold. I picked one up. It felt pretty heavy, which meant that they might be real gold, not just plated. The initials TJ were inscribed on the back.
These were the gold-handled spoons Montgomery had questioned me about.
The spoons and the red suitcase were connected the whole time! I sat back on my heels as I tried to recall everything I’d heard about them. If Frank knew about the red suitcase from when he was young, that would mean his parents (my grandparents) did too. Montgomery had also tied the gold-handled TJ spoons to the suitcase. How did he know about it? I wondered. And how much did my parents know?
On the other side of the silverware case were several ancient letters. The paper was yellow and brittle. Barely breathing, I opened the top letter and could hardly read the fancy script. I made out a few words and phrases: “Martha is well,” “my opinion,” “our government must,” and “I am concerned with Britain’s navy.”
Monticello? TJ? Martha? Concerns about Britain’s navy?
Oh! I swallowed my victory yell. I had been right. So very, very right.
These spoons must have belonged to Thomas Jefferson, the third president of the United States and the guy who actually wrote the Declaration of Independence. This was serious history we had hidden in our basement, next to inflatable reindeer and beach buckets.
At first I couldn’t believe my parents hadn’t told me about this, but then doubt crept in. What if it wasn’t my parents who had hidden this suitcase here? What if it had been Aunt Gertie? She was in and out of our house all the time. The Spoon was a perfect transfer place for stolen goods, especially when my parents were out on a mission and I was in school.
Aunt Gertie had a motive too. Frank had stolen her money and left her alone to raise their baby sister. Had she been picking up spy tips from Mom and Dad? What if Aunt Gertie was a criminal like her parents had been? What if the inspector was who he said he was? The unpleasant realization that Montgomery could be telling the truth hit me with great force.
Get it together, Sunflower! It was possible, but not probable. I shook my head. Aunt Gertie was neither a thief nor a smuggler. There had to be a reasonable explanation for why we had valuable American antiques hidden in our basement.
The spoons were no doubt very valuable. I wasn’t sure about the letters, but I guessed they had historical value, if nothing else.
I carefully put Thomas Jefferson’s gold-handled spoons and letters back where I found them, making sure to spin the digits on the lock.
Questions about my parents, Aunt Gertie, and the red suitcase swirled in my head, but I’d never find out the answers by just sitting around. As I restacked the containers, a creak sounded. Then another. Footsteps.
Friend or foe?
Tiptoeing up the stairs, I pressed my ear to the basement door. The footsteps were coming from the kitchen.
“Mabel,” said a very familiar voice. “Are you here?”
I pushed the basement door open. Stanley jumped and let out a sharp, “Oh!”
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Trying to help you.”
“How did you get here?”
“When you didn’t get on the bus this morning, I called my mom and told her I wasn’t feeling well. She let the bus driver drop me off back at home.”
He took out the topographic map with no markings and then the same one with markings. “I found the spot, not even five miles from here. It’s almost all dense forest, except for this.” He pointed to a landmark. “Tim Chamberlain’s old warehouse.”
“That’s where Aunt Gertie thought we were going when Montgomery was eavesdropping on Saturday,” I said. “What could be there?”
“It’s supposed to be empty,” Stanley said.
Tim Chamberlain, who had died just two years before, was famous in Silverton as a wilderness guide. He used to lead hikes on the mountains, and he flew helicopters, which he kept in the huge old warehouse. In his will, he stipulated that the land and the warehouse be sold for one dollar to the National Forest Service.
“We’ll go there later today,” I said. “Do you have your camera?”
“Always. I stopped at home to get everything we might need.” Stanley patted his backpack. “But you should look at these again.” He pulled photos out of his bag and spread them on the kitchen table. They were from our monthly hikes.
I glanced over the sets — trees with snow, trees with green leaves, evergreen trees surrounded by trees with autumn leaves. “Wait,” I said. Something besides the seasonal changes was different in them. “The bat houses move around every month.”
“I know. That can’t be authorized,” he said. “Bats need to hibernate, and it would throw off their senses to move them this late in the year. We have to tell the park rangers.”
“Stanley, I don’t think those black boxes are bat houses.”
“Why not?”
“Bat houses don’t need antennas, do they?” I said, pointing to the tall rod sticking out of the top of each one.
“No,” Stanley said.
“Could they be some kind of signaling device? Maybe that’s how Montgomery managed to walk off the path without getting lost.” I turned to Stanley. “I need to see one of those black boxes up close.”
“Let’s go now,” he said.
“Hang on, I need to get something from my room first, and then we’ll stop at the Spoon for a minute,” I said. If my gut was right, the small key I had found in the basement would open the Spoon’s humming file cabinet.
My dash upstairs took fourteen seconds. It was another four seconds as I sped past my parents’ bedroom and the bathroom. But I stopped short in the hallway. My door was closed and I knew that I’d left it open when Victoria and I had gone downstairs that morning.
That tingly feeling of unease set in as I twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The room was dark. I clicked on the overhead light. The curtains had been drawn shut. As I walked over to my desk to retrieve the key, that strange feeling of being watched crept up my back. I turned.
Inspector Montgomery stood in the corner, wearing the oddest-looking green goggles and holding a wall-penetrating radar gun just like my mother’s. “Well, isn’t this uncomfortable?” he said.
29
Recite Murphy’s Law at least once a day: Anything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Be prepared.
— Rule Number 17 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
Wearing his green goggles, Inspector Montgomery looked like he was ready for Halloween.
“What are you doing in my room?” I asked.
“Searching.” Montgomery pulled a piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. “Don’t worry, I have a federally authorized warrant.”
I was sure he did. I was also sure it was a fake.
Montgomery clicked on his headlamp, which glowed a familiar shade of blue — ultraviolet light. Beams of red also appeared. He closed the bedroom door and turned off the overhead light, making it pitch black. Then he pointed the radar gun at the wall.
“What are you searching for?” I clicked on the overhead lights again. I wasn’t sure if that would make his ultraviolet light totally ineffective, but it was worth a shot.
“Hidden spaces. I’ve found three so far, two with boxes inside.”
Whoa. My house has secrets! The blueprint of our house was a map — a real treasure map. Now I understood why Aunt Gertie had hidden it — and why Stella wanted it.
I glanced at the sunflower cipher, which had been moved. “Did you touch my flowers?” I asked.
He tapped the light yellow flower. “Didn’t these used to be in your parents’ room?” he asked as he snapped the lights off.
“How did you —” I stopped myself. Of course, he had done recon (spy word for examining a place really carefully for clues) of my house.
“Shouldn’t you be at school, Mabel?” Montgomery tilted his head down, the UV beam catching the globs of ink I’d spilled on the floor when I wrote the Rules. He glanced around the room, and the beam hit the Rules, which glowed. “What’s this — Rules for a Successful Life as an Unde
rcover Secret Agent?”
Before he could get there, I jumped onto my bed and yanked the Rules off of the wall.
“Give me that,” Montgomery said. “Right now.”
“No.” I tilted the frame so that I could unhook its backing.
Montgomery grabbed the metal framing, almost pulling me off my bed, but I leaned back to counterbalance him. Holding firmly to the frame, I managed to take off the backing. Then I lifted up the piece of paper with the sunflower where I had written the Rules. Montgomery twisted the metal frame and the glass fell to the floor, shattering into hundreds of tiny, sharp shards.
“Give me that paper now!” he thundered.
“Never.” I tore my precious work into shreds — the only way to save the Rules from falling into enemy hands.
Just then, Stanley opened the door. “What’s going on in here?”
“Run!” I screamed. “Get help! Get Sheriff Baker!” I jumped off the bed, slamming the door closed to protect Stanley. Montgomery tried to open it, but I stood in front, blocking it. Within a few seconds, the front door slammed, meaning Stanley had gotten away.
“He’ll make it to the sheriff’s office in three minutes,” I said. “And then she’ll arrest you.”
“No, she will not.” Montgomery removed his high-tech goggles. “You are the most meddlesome child I have ever met.”
“You should meet the HEGs,” I said as I flipped the lights on.
“No, thank you.”
“How do you —” I started to ask when another odd sock moment fell into place. “You’re Grace K.’s uncle, aren’t you? That’s why she’s been bugging me to let her uncle into the museum this week.”
“Honorary uncle. Her father and I go way back. Grace likes to talk.”
“That’s how you knew my nickname was Moppet in the café on Saturday.”
“You have very finely tuned instincts, child.” He nodded in approval. “Hone them, and you will go far in life.”
