No one answered.
Rex said, “I’ll be right back,” and headed for the back of the apartment.
Since the door was open, I stepped inside. Then I heard mumbling from another room.
“But I don’t want to,” Clementine said.
“Come on, Clem. It’s nice that someone came to see you,” her dad replied.
“Why are you making me seem like a loser with no friends?” she asked.
“I’m not. I’m just saying, ever since Mom’s been away you’ve hardly been out of your room, and now you have the chance to talk to—”
“Oh my gosh. My own father thinks I’m a loser with no friends. I am fine without Mom. She can move to London for all I care!”
“She’s only working there for a few more weeks. I know it’s been hard, but—”
“I told you, I’m fine!”
From these snippets of conversation, it seemed pretty obvious that Clementine had no interest in talking to me. I wondered if her mom had been with her at the opening. The older woman in the picture, the one she was leaning into, certainly looked like her. I’d have to ask, once they finished fighting.
A minute later Clementine came marching toward the front door, with her father right behind her. He wasn’t exactly pushing her, but he may as well have been, from the sour-lemon look on Clementine’s face.
“Who are you?” she asked.
I smiled brightly. “I’m Maggie Brooklyn. Remember? We met the other day, with your dad. I walk the dog upstairs. And I take care of Beckett sometimes. And you’re just the person I wanted to see.”
“I know all about Beckett,” Clementine grumbled. “His room is right above mine, and he dropped a bag of marbles on his floor at six o’clock this morning.”
“Yeah, that sounds about right.” I laughed, but Clementine didn’t.
“Let’s not complain about Beckett,” said Rex, putting his arm around Clementine. “You were three once, too. Remember?”
“Not really,” Clementine grumbled.
Rex winked at me, as if we were all in on some hilarious joke.
“I need to head to the bodega and pick up some groceries for dinner. Okay if I leave you two here?” Rex asked, grabbing his coat off the rack by the door and slipping into it.
“It’s fine with me,” I said.
“Me, too,” said Clementine.
“Great. See you in ten.” Rex kissed his daughter on her forehead and waved good-bye to me.
As nice as it was to have someone cheerful in the apartment, I was glad Rex had gone. I wanted to speak with Clementine alone, because we had a lot of ground to cover.
“Mind if I ask you a few questions?” I asked.
Clementine shrugged noncommittally.
“Great,” I said. “I’m kind of in the middle of a couple of things, and I could really use your help.”
“With what?” Clementine asked suspiciously.
I could see her getting defensive, so I decided not to bring up Sonya’s Sweets right away. Instead I asked her about the ghost of Margaret. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but have you ever heard the rumors that your house is haunted?”
Clementine rolled her eyes and let out a heavy sigh. “Of course I know about the haunted house. I’ve lived here, like, forever.”
I’d felt silly before, but Clementine’s reaction made me feel absolutely ridiculous. “So what do you think?” I asked. “Is there any truth to the rumors?”
“Of course not,” said Clementine.
“So you haven’t seen any ghosts?” I asked.
“Are you serious?”
“I only ask because I’m worried about Beckett,” I said, bluffing only slightly. “He thinks this ghost—Margaret—comes to visit him at night. And since his room is directly above yours, well … I was just wondering whether you’ve seen anything.”
“Nope,” said Clementine.
“Mind if I take a look out your window?” I asked. “Just so I can reassure Beckett’s parents.”
Clementine sighed and said, “Fine. Come on in.”
I followed her into the living room. The layout of the apartment seemed to be exactly the same as the Jones’s place, except the furniture was older and looked more lived-in. On the living-room wall was an electric guitar, hung as though it were a painting.
“That’s cool,” I said.
Clementine gazed up at the guitar and said, “My dad collects them. That was his first Stratocaster; he doesn’t want to play it anymore because it’s too valuable or something.”
“Is your room back here?” I asked, pointing to the door off the living room.
“How’d you know that?” she asked suspiciously.
“Your apartment looks just like Beckett’s family’s place, and his bedroom is over there,” I explained.
“Oh,” said Clementine. “Yes. Follow me.”
The first thing I noticed about Clementine’s room was the color. All four walls were painted green. Not a soothing minty green or a rich dark shade—I’m talking primary-color bright green, like a Girl Scout uniform.
The next thing that struck me was the view. Clementine’s bedroom window looked out onto my friend Beatrix’s building. And the buildings were so close together that I could actually see what was going on in the apartment next door. An older kid was at his desk, on a computer doing homework, maybe, or looking at Instagram or something. I couldn’t see his computer screen, but he was so close I could tell he had bushy eyebrows and a picture of John Lennon on his shirt. That’s how close I was; I felt like I could reach out and touch the window next door.
“See anything interesting?” Clementine asked.
I spun around. “That building is so close to this one!” I said, gesturing across the street.
“I know,” said Clementine. “That’s why I always make sure to close the curtains at night, because I don’t want anyone peeking in.”
“That’s probably a good idea,” I said, looking around.
Clementine’s room was the neatest room I’d ever seen for a kid. Her bed was made and her green blanket was tucked in, hospital-corner style. Her desk was covered with notebooks arranged at perfect right angles. There were some highlighters in her pencil cup—pink, green, yellow, and blue, each spaced about an inch apart, almost as if she’d measured them.
A blue highlighter—with the same color ink as the note on the back of the box of Thin Mints. I could feel Clementine’s eyes on me, so I looked away. She had a row of file folders in a metal holder. Each folder was neatly labeled: Cookie Sales, Competition, New Customers, Old Customers.
“Is this your file for Girl Scout cookies?” I asked. “I hear you’re pretty ruthless.”
“Who told you that?” Clementine wondered, eyes narrowed.
“Gabby,” I said. “The artist who’s using them for some sculpture.”
“How do you know her?” asked Clementine.
“I ran into her on the street the other day. She had so many cookies with her, I was curious.”
Clementine nodded. “She’s my dad’s old friend, and she’s been my best customer this month. I’m hoping she does a whole series of Girl Scout sculptures. I keep asking her to.”
“Do you keep track of who gets what?” I asked.
“Sure,” said Clementine, pushing her glasses farther up on her nose. “I keep records of every single sale, and I even created a computer program so I know how many boxes each person ordered last year. That’ll help a lot for this season, which is just around the corner.”
“And once the boxes go out, is there any way to track them?”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“Like, each individual box. Say I had one and wanted to trace its origin. Would I be able to do that some way?”
“That would be impossible,” said Clementine. “There are too many to keep track of. My sales volume is humongous—I’m the top seller for the entire state of New York. Third on the East Coast.”
“That’
s amazing,” I said.
“I know. I’m going for the world record.”
“There’s a world record for Girl Scout cookie sales?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Clementine. “The record holder has sold a hundred thousand boxes. They call her the Cookie Queen. Except it’s not fair, because back then there wasn’t a bakery on every corner. Also, she started when she was six, and I didn’t get to start until I was seven, but I’m doing my best to make up for lost time.”
“How so?” I asked.
Clementine shrugged and inched closer to her desk to stare at her files. “I can’t tell you. Some things have to be kept secret.”
Suddenly something small and furry appeared from nowhere and rubbed up against my leg.
“Ach!” I yelled. Looking closer, I was relieved to discover it was a cat. “Who’s this?” I asked. The cat arched her back and purred as I stroked her chocolate-brown fur. When I stopped she blinked up at me with green eyes, as if begging for more.
“Thin Mint,” Clementine said, like that was the most obvious thing in the world. “I named her that because of her coloring. Like the cookie.”
“Oh, yeah,” I said.
“Are you done with your questions? Because I have stuff to do.”
“I do have one more,” I said, stalling for time and trying to figure out why Clementine was acting so cagey. “What did you think of Sonya’s Sweets?”
“What’s that?” asked Clementine.
“It’s the new soda fountain on Seventh Avenue. My friend’s family opened it up a couple weeks ago.”
“Never heard of it,” Clementine said, glancing down at her feet.
Alarm bells went off in my head. I tried not to smile, but couldn’t help myself. “Funny you should say that,” I told her, “because I was looking through pictures of the grand opening just an hour ago, and I saw you in one of them. You were with an older woman. Maybe your mom?”
Clementine shook her head. She seemed nervous, which would make sense if she was lying. “My mom is in London for work.”
“When did she go?” I asked.
“Last week,” said Clementine. “I mean, a few weeks ago; I don’t remember the exact date. And I’ve never even heard of Sonya’s Sweets.”
I stared at Clementine, trying to figure out whether she was bluffing. Her expression didn’t tell me a thing. I guess I could’ve insisted I had photographic proof, but I didn’t want to confront her like that. I was more interested in why she might be lying to me.
“Why are you asking all of these questions?” she asked.
“It’s a long story,” I said. “But you must’ve seen the place, since it’s so close to here. It’s right on the corner of Seventh Avenue and President Street.”
“Sorry. I’ve never noticed,” said Clementine. “But if you’re done with your questions, you should probably go. I have a lot to do.”
As she led me to the door, her dad, Rex, walked in. “Hi again, Maggie. Going so soon?”
“Yup,” I said. “I’m on my way up to see Beckett now.”
“So nice of you to drop by,” he said, beaming. “Wasn’t that nice, Clementine?”
Clementine shrugged.
Her dad handed her a large, colorful bouquet of flowers. “Here you go, sweetheart. And I got ice cream, too. Cookies and cream—your favorite.”
Just then Thin Mint made a dash for the back of the room, followed by another cat, this one black and white.
“Oh, you have two cats?” I asked.
“Yup,” said Clementine’s dad. “Thin Mint and Samoa. We found them in the alleyway between this building and the one next door when they were kittens. Someone must’ve left them there.”
“Samoa?” I asked.
“It’s another type of Girl Scout cookie,” Rex explained.
“Of course,” I said, trying to keep the grin off my face. Because Samoa wasn’t just the name of Clementine’s kitty or a cookie—it was an important clue. Samoa was the person who signed for the shipment of chocolate that was supposed to go to Sonya’s Sweets. Could Clementine be behind that, too?
Rex said, “We’re a little obsessed with Girl Scout cookies in this household, as you can tell.”
“Where’d they both go?” I asked, since both cats had disappeared, seemingly into thin air.
“Oh, they like to travel in the space between the walls of the building,” Rex explained. “They’re both skinny enough to fit through the cracks. I keep meaning to patch up the holes, but at the same time, I think it’s nice that they have all the extra space.”
“Huh,” I said.
Suddenly something dawned on me. That scratching at the walls I thought I heard when I was babysitting last weekend? It must’ve been Thin Mint and Samoa scampering about. And that must be what makes Nofarm act so crazy in the building. Perhaps the kitties’ antics behind the walls also fueled the rumors about the building being haunted.
At least that explained the ghost of Margaret. One mystery down, one to go!
I thanked Rex and Clementine for their time and said good night.
Before I went to Beckett’s apartment I sat down on the steps in between floors and pulled out my notebook, because sometimes writing things down makes me think more clearly.
1) The ghost of Margaret is possibly a couple of cats named Samoa and Thin Mint.
2) Those cats are also clues to the soda fountain sabotage: The note at Ricki’s store was written on the back of a box of Thin Mints. The missing shipment of chocolate was signed for by Samoa.
3) Clementine would do anything to sell more Girl Scout cookies, but does that include sabotaging the competition? Possibly, but how am I supposed to prove it?
Chapter 16
When I got upstairs, Finn and Beckett were on the floor building something with LEGOs.
“Welcome,” Lisa said as she let me inside. “Thanks for coming tonight. And thank you for bringing your amazing brother.”
“Amazing?” I asked.
“See, Mags—some people appreciate me,” Finn called from the floor.
“Beckett is thrilled,” said Lisa. “You two look so much alike.”
“Thanks,” I said. “If that’s a compliment. I never know what to say when people tell me that.”
“Say, ‘yeah, I know,’” Finn said. “And it’s definitely a compliment, because I’m exceptionally good-looking.”
“‘Exceptionally’?” I asked, raising my eyebrows and turning to Lisa. “See what I have to deal with?”
She laughed. “I’ve got a brother, too. So believe me, I know!”
“We won’t be out as late this time,” Caroline promised as she rushed out of her bedroom in a small, silver sequined dress. “Hi, Maggie. Good to see you.”
She stepped into a pair of shiny black boots that were perched by the door.
“Stay out as long as you’d like!” Finn called from the floor. “We’re good here, right, little man?” he asked Beckett and held out his hand.
Beckett slapped him five and giggled. “Bye, moms.”
“Bedtime is at seven,” said Caroline, glancing at her watch. “That’s in twenty minutes. Okay, sweat pea? Hear me, Beckett?”
Beckett didn’t answer until Finn whispered something in his ear. Then he giggled some more and said, “Okay, Mom. Don’t worry. Have fun.”
I could not believe how buddy-buddy these two were, when they’d met only ten minutes ago. Or how okay Beckett was with his moms leaving this time.
“Don’t even ask,” said Lisa, as if she could read my mind. “The two of them simply clicked from the moment they laid eyes on each other. So let’s just go with it.”
Once Lisa and Caroline were gone, I walked over to Beckett and Finn. “You guys need help?” I asked.
“No,” said Beckett, encircling the LEGO city with his arms. “This is just for me and Finn to play with.”
“Okay, no problem. I’ll be right here if you need me.” I flopped down on the couch. Then I opened up my backp
ack and pulled out the gigantic biography I’d just found at the library: Jonas Adams, Brooklyn’s King of Chocolate. I still had to write my extra-credit report, and I didn’t yet have enough material.
It seemed eerie but appropriate, writing about the Adams family in the actual Adams mansion. And with Finn to keep me company, the apartment seemed way less creepy.
In the first chapter of the book I learned that Jonas’s father was a candy maker, too, except he wasn’t so successful. His company went bankrupt when Jonas was just a young boy. He moved out when Jonas was twelve years old, but he left behind his tools. That’s why Jonas started creating chocolate concoctions of his own. He and his mom made candy in their kitchen, and then Jonas traveled all over New York, selling individual pieces to pharmacies and five-and-dimes. Back then this was something that could be accomplished only in cold weather. New York summers were too hot and humid, and refrigeration and insulation technology was not so advanced. Whenever Jonas tried to sell chocolate door-to-door in the summer, his inventory melted.
This was interesting stuff, but it wasn’t anything I could use for my report, so I wrote down a few notes and skipped ahead to when Jonas made his fortune. Just as Milo had told me, his mansion had the first passenger elevator in a private home in all of Brooklyn. Jonas lived there—here, I suppose—with his wife and his daughter. I couldn’t imagine three people living in this gigantic, five-story mansion. What did they do with all the space? I suppose it didn’t matter for my purposes. I searched for information about Margaret and finally saw her name buried deep in the chapter on domestic life near the end of the book.
Like the other wealthy families in Brooklyn in the 1920s, the Adams family had a large staff. One summer, when they left for their vacation home in Maine, their elevator malfunctioned, and a nineteen-year-old Irish immigrant named Margaret O’Mally got stuck inside. Sadly, she perished.
I stared at the few sentences about Margaret, hardly believing how little space was devoted to her despite her losing her life. “Sadly, she perished,” the book said. End of story. End of her story, that is.
Suddenly I felt a chill, as if the cool night air had penetrated through the walls. The windows were closed, but they were old and drafty. I was shivering.
Secrets at the Chocolate Mansion Page 11
