Mabel Opal Pear and the Rules for Spying

by Amanda Hosch

  “Thanks, I think.” I looked at him. “Wait a second. Grace K. has been spying on me?”

  He smirked. “Maybe.” He shut off the lights and resumed scanning the room with the radar gun. There was nothing left to hide, so I didn’t bother to turn them on again. Plus, if Montgomery was busy here, that gave Stanley more time.

  The memory of Montgomery talking about Sheriff Baker popped into my head. “You said that Silverton was the same as it was thirty years ago.”

  “True. Same four blocks of Main Street.”

  A good thing about living in a small town was that everyone knows everyone else. But Montgomery was a stranger. “Then why don’t I know you?”

  “I left and didn’t come back for thirty years,” he said as he swept the radar gun up and down the wall like a paintbrush.

  A tingly feeling crept up my arm, so I blurted out my question: “Did you know my grandparents, Carl and Mabel Baies?”

  “You are quite perceptive,” Montgomery said, impressed.

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light. “Does Frank know you were in the same criminal gang as my grandparents?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “That’s why you’re looking for the red suitcase,” I said. He didn’t deny it, so I continued with my hypothesis. “Do you have a buyer for it?”

  He looked like he was going to say something, but didn’t.

  “Why was Grace K. asking if you could visit the museum?” I went on. “You’ve already been there.”

  “I like looking at spoons, but I’d prefer to not set off an alarm while doing so.”

  I knew he wasn’t telling the truth, but I didn’t bother telling him that whatever he was looking for was long gone. Let him waste his time searching the wrong places, I thought.

  “Miss Pear,” he said, “your questions are much too good for my comfort. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that curiosity killed the cat?”

  Working hard to keep my voice steady, I said, “If you’re a criminal, you’re not a real government agent.”

  “Oh, I am.” He moved over about two feet and started examining a new section of the wall. “You know the game.”

  “What game?”

  “Your parents, Fred and Jane Pear. I have been tracking their travels for the past year — Turkmenistan, Estonia, Nepal, and Laos, to name a few.”

  “Where?” I asked, trying to sound naive. I don’t think I fooled him.

  “And of course, all of their domestic travel — usually Virginia or Massachusetts, but also Louisiana a few times. Considering the official limitations of their job mission, those domestic destinations are rather odd, don’t you agree?”

  I didn’t know what to think. Montgomery had just named many of the places my parents had been, either for official Cleaners missions or the Great Reverse Heist. How did he know? I wanted to ask, but knew better than to say anything that might betray them.

  “I don’t know what racket your parents are running here, but they’re pros, working both sides of the law.” Montgomery said. “Maybe I’ll team up with them someday, if it’s mutually beneficial.”

  “They’re not crooks.” How dare he accuse my parents of being criminals, I thought, anger bubbling up inside my stomach. Then again, it was better than him figuring out the truth.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me, Miss Pear.” Montgomery’s voice was kind. “I know what’s going on. They’re off on another dangerous mission, this time in Paraguay.”

  How does he know about those places? I wondered. But it didn’t matter. I had to keep him talking. Surely Stanley had gotten to Sheriff Baker by now and they would be back soon.

  “How thrilling for them — adventures in foreign lands. And how lonely for you, especially with your eleventh birthday coming up tomorrow. Frank and Stella would be so jealous if they only knew how exciting your parents’ lives actually are.”

  “What do they know?” I asked.

  “They still believe your parents’ silly cover stories.” His laugh was sharp. “Idiots.”

  Where is the sheriff? I wondered. “What’s your real name?” I asked, stalling.

  “You don’t think Montgomery is my real name?”

  “I had to memorize the list of state capitals for history class,” I said.

  “It’s best if you continue to call me Inspector Montgomery.”

  “Who do you work for?”

  “Me,” Montgomery said. “And the Agency.”

  “What agency?” I asked, failing to keep my voice calm.

  “The Agency. The one that sent your parents to Paraguay.”

  He knew it all! I thought. Montgomery knew where my parents were and what they did. Deny! Deny! Deny! rang in my head so loudly, I was sure he could hear it too. “What are you talking about?” I asked.

  “On Saturday afternoon, your parents closed the Spoon early and the three of you came into this house,” Montgomery said, this time aiming the radar at the ceiling. “Then, about an hour later, they received a phone call. Correct?”

  The only way for Montgomery to know that was if he had been spying on us. I didn’t want to confirm or deny, so I said nothing.

  “Their orders sent them to Paraguay,” he continued. “They obeyed, since everything was legitimate. All correct Agency codes and clearance intel checked out.”

  “You said my parents were in Vietnam when we were in the principal’s office.”

  “I lied, Mabel,” Montgomery said. “Your parents are on an actual Cleaners job.”

  My curiosity was killing me, but all I said was, “Actual?”

  “In fact, the orders they received have since been erased, so it appears your parents have gone off on their own, without Agency authorization.” He paused. “And the call they received will be traced back to your aunt Gertrude’s home phone, which won’t raise suspicion since your mother and her sister call each other several times a day. The fact that their only communication came from Gertrude’s phone does, however, cast grave doubt on their story of receiving new orders to go to Paraguay.”

  “What? Why?” I blurted out.

  “Time. I’m buying time for myself. The Agency does not like it when their Agents go off on their own. Therefore, your parents will be arrested, held in a secret location, and investigated.” His tone turned malicious. “By the time the higher-ups in the Agency figure out that your parents weren’t going rogue, I’ll be gone, like a ghost.”

  “You set them up,” I said. “You’re a total fraud.”

  Montgomery clapped in slow motion. “Bravo, Miss Pear. Bravo. It is an actual pleasure to work against you.” Tapping his nose with his index finger, he furrowed his brow as if deep in thought. “Now what shall we do with someone as curious, brave, and clever as you?”

  “Let me go,” I said, wondering where Sheriff Baker was.

  “We both know that’s not possible.” Montgomery walked toward my open closet door. “What’s this?” The radar gun had found something under the floorboard.

  My heart sank.

  He had to put the radar gun down on the ground to move my shoes out of the closet. He started pressing down on one of the floorboards. It squeaked.

  “What’s in there, Moppet?” he asked as he kept pushing on the floorboard.

  “Nothing.” Nothing that I knew about, anyway. Since he was occupied with pressing the floorboard, I opened the curtains, yanked the window up, grabbed the wall-penetrating radar gun, and dropped it out the window.

  “Hey,” Montgomery said. “That radar gun is expensive.”

  A pinecone sat on the sill. When had Stanley tossed that up here? I wondered. I threw the pinecone at Montgomery’s head, but it bounced off harmlessly. Next, I grabbed the sunflowers out of their vase and tossed them at him flower by flower to distract him.

  “Stop it. That’s annoying,” Mont
gomery said as he batted them away. “You are feisty, I’ll give you that.” He picked up one of the scraps of the Rules from the floor, flashing the ultraviolent beam in it. “What’s this? Everyone overlooks the qu—” He looked up at me with a vengeful gleam in his eyes. “What are you up to, Mabel Opal Pear?”

  I pulled An Abridged History of the United States off my shelf, removed the secret spy phone, and chucked the book at him. It hit Montgomery in the stomach, but it didn’t slow him down.

  “What’s in your hand?” he asked.

  I shoved the phone into my pocket. To distract him — and to escape — I looked around for something heavier than the pinecone, flowers, and book. The glittering baby pumpkin was my only option, so I threw it at him as hard as possible.

  Montgomery ducked out of the way, and the pumpkin exploded when it hit the wall behind him, showering him with stringy orange pumpkin guts.

  “Yuck!” Montgomery exclaimed, wiping off his arms.

  While he was distracted, I put a foot on the windowsill, leaned out, grabbed a branch on the apple tree, and swung toward the trunk.

  “I don’t have time for your antics,” Montgomery said. “Come back here right now.”

  “Over here, Sheriff Baker!” I yelled as I shimmied down the tree. “He’s upstairs.” From inside I could hear Montgomery rushing out of my room and thudding down the stairs. Within thirty-eight seconds, a car engine roared to life and tires squealed as it sped away.

  I exhaled and hugged the tree trunk. What Montgomery didn’t know was that I wasn’t actually calling to the sheriff. Besides some crows flying overhead, there wasn’t anyone there to hear me.

  30

  Use technology, but don’t count on it. Batteries die. Signals fade. Web pages can be faked. Email can be hacked.

  — Rule Number 13 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent

  I didn’t know why Stanley hadn’t returned, but whatever the reason, I was sure it couldn’t be good. Celebrating my small victory of faking out Montgomery would have to wait.

  Keeping off the main highway, I jogged the three blocks to the sheriff’s office. The sheriff’s cruiser was parked outside. As soon as I opened the door, I heard voices coming from the office. As I went through the second set of double doors, I saw why the sheriff and Stanley hadn’t come to my rescue.

  He was talking to her, pointing to his nature photos, which he had spread out across her desk. The sheriff, however, was on the phone, looking none too pleased.

  “Stanley, why didn’t you come back?” I asked.

  “I’ve been trying to convince Sheriff Baker there’s something terribly wrong. She still doesn’t get it,” he said.

  “Mabel’s here,” Sheriff Baker said into the phone as she shot an icy glare at me. Then she hung up.

  “He escaped,” I said. “Montgomery got away, and you didn’t help me.”

  “Mabel, tell me what is going on.” Sheriff Baker held up a hand to Stanley. “Do not mention bat houses or mammal hibernation to me again.”

  I took a deep breath and tried to figure out what I could tell the sheriff. My parents are Cleaners and they’ve been sent on a mission by Agent Montgomery? No, that wouldn’t work. I have Thomas Jefferson’s gold spoons in my basement? True, but that would lead to a whole lot of questions, which we didn’t have time for. Frankenstella are up to something devious? Also true, but I didn’t have enough compelling details to convince her of it. Instead, I thought of something she could take care of. “Stanley and I figured out where Aunt Gertie is.”

  “Tell me,” Sheriff Baker said.

  “Tim Chamberlain’s warehouse,” I said. “The road is closed for the winter, so no one is supposed to be there, but since there hasn’t been any permanent snowfall yet, it is probably drivable. And the line of black —”

  “That’s enough, Mabel,” Sheriff Baker said. “No talking about bat houses.”

  “You’ll check it out?” I asked, relieved she was listening to me again.

  “I don’t have jurisdiction, but I will get the park rangers to go over there.” True to her word, the sheriff called, putting in a distress code with a warning so the park rangers would know to be careful as they approached the warehouse. “It might take a while.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Both the White River Wilderness Information Center and the Sunrise Visitor Center are closed for the off-season, so there aren’t any rangers stationed nearby. In the meantime, I want you kids to stay here,” she said.

  “Where are you going?” I asked.

  “I’m going to pay a visit to Inspector Montgomery’s hotel room,” she said as she put on her hat. “Do not leave this office.”

  “You know where he’s staying?” I asked.

  “At the Inn-Between,” she said. The Inn-Between was a couple of guest cabins located in between Silverton and Bluewater.

  “But he’s probably at the warehouse now,” I said.

  “I can’t legally search there, but I can search in Silverton,” the sheriff said. “Don’t step one foot out of this building until I come back.”

  The doors squeaked as she walked outside, leaving Stanley and me alone. “What do you want to do?” he asked as he gathered all his photos, taking care to put them in the right monthly order.

  “Find my aunt,” I said. “She can’t wait hours.”

  “Let’s go.” He smiled and placed the photos in his backpack. “And we can examine those bat houses on our way.”

  We walked out of the sheriff’s office and up the road we’d hiked just a few days ago. I felt confident that Sheriff Baker would know exactly where to search for us whenever she returned. I tried calling the Agency a few times on each phone as we walked, but no one answered. Stupid spy agency.

  Neither of us talked much as we hiked at a very brisk pace. When we had been walking for about thirty-eight minutes, we reached Stanley’s favorite tree grove, seven minutes faster than usual. He took out a photo for guidance. “Look,” he said, pointing to a Douglas fir about twenty feet away. Sure enough, there was a black box with a large antenna.

  We walked through the underbrush until we got to the tree. There were no branches to climb. “How can we reach it?” I asked.

  “The same way your dad climbs telephone poles,” Stanley said as he took out a set of climbing spikes. Stanley strapped them onto his heels so the two-inch spurs were aimed inward. He placed his arm through a coil of rope and pushed it up on his shoulder, then took out a long, thick belt. He wrapped it around the tree trunk, placed his right foot at about six inches off the ground, and tapped the spur into the tree. He leaned back, just like I’d seen my dad do, using the belt for balance. Then, like Stanley was walking on air, he lifted his left foot, tapped that heel against the tree, and started climbing up. Right, left, right, left. He was at the black box in no time.

  He pulled the black box off a hook, tied it around himself with the rope, and descended the trunk.

  “When did you learn to climb trees?” I asked, impressed.

  “I get bored,” he said, handing the box to me. Whatever it was, it wasn’t a bat house. There was no entrance hole. The antenna was about four feet long and an inch in diameter. The box was made of metal, heavy for its size, and emitted an electronic hum, like the noise in the file cabinet.

  Is this connected to my parents’ job as Cleaners? I wondered. “Put it back,” I said.

  “OK.” Like always, Stanley didn’t waste time with questions.

  When we resumed walking, he offered me water and a granola bar from his backpack. I didn’t feel hungry, but my legs were starting to ache. I knew I’d be no help to anyone if I didn’t have energy, so I ate. While the route from Silverton to Stanley’s favorite tree grove had a very slight incline, from the tree grove onward, it became much steeper until it was obvious we were heading up the mountain.
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  We soon reached the end of the paved path and the gate, which had a sign saying:

  ROAD CLOSED FOR WINTER

  KEEP OUT

  NO TRESPASSING

  After about ten minutes, the dirt path met an old gravel logging road. Stanley pointed to black boxes in trees every five minutes or so, taking pictures as we went. I was nervous about what we might find at the warehouse, and more nervous that we would find nothing.

  The gravel road narrowed as we walked. Freshly crushed grass on the sides of the road indicated that a car had been there recently. The trees became denser and the undergrowth thicker. We followed a turn in the road, and Tim Chamberlain’s warehouse — as large as my house and the museum together, metal, and dirt brown — appeared. Montgomery’s car was parked at the end of the road. Stanley had read the topological map correctly.

  The huge sliding doors were partially opened, letting out the sound of clanking and an undercurrent of voices. I couldn’t understand the exact words, but they sounded rushed. I turned to Stanley with a finger on my lips, and was surprised to see that he was making the hush sign at me too. He motioned for us to go through the undergrowth and around to the back of the warehouse. I nodded, following him through the trees until we reached the back.

  In just a few years of disuse, weeds had popped through cracks in the cement of the helicopter landing pad. But they hadn’t prevented a Robinson R22 Beta II from landing here. The blue helicopter was small yet agile, with room for a pilot and one passenger. Dad loved flying them, which was why I recognized it on sight. Mom could pilot one too. All Agents could; it was standard training. My heart sunk. Was it possible Montgomery really was an Agent? Doesn’t matter, Sunflower. Focus on the mission: Find and rescue Aunt Gertie.

  I continued my recon. Vines crept up the back of the warehouse’s corrugated metal siding until they reached the large windows, which were propped open. Stanley touched me on the shoulder, then pointed to a nearby tree — another black box. We were hot on the trail of… something.