Spellbound: The Books of Elsewhere: Volume 2

by Jacqueline West

  Olive glared at the cat. “Thank you, Agent 1-800.” She turned back to Morton. “That’s why we need you. You know your way around that house. You can help us sneak in. You can help us search. And maybe if Lucinda sees you . . .” Olive finished slowly, “Who knows?”

  Still frowning, Morton got to his feet. He kicked at the ground and folded his scrawny arms across his chest. Then he nodded.

  “I can take care of her,” he said. “She’s just my big sister.”

  23

  AS IT TURNED out, distracting Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody while the cats smuggled Morton out of the painting was much easier than Olive had feared.

  After lunch, the three Dunwoodys went out to the front porch to finish their lemonade and cookies. While her parents rocked on the porch swing, Olive stood next to the railing, tapping her foot impatiently. Near her tapping toes, a chain of ants was climbing up onto the porch, using each other’s bodies as bridges to get across the gaps in the floorboards in order to reach a cluster of cookie crumbs.

  “How do ants know to do that?” she wondered aloud.

  Mr. Dunwoody hopped up from the porch swing. He bent over the chain of ants. “Ah, yes,” he breathed, his eyes brightening behind his thick glasses. “Fascinating, isn’t it? Even without any central system of control, communication of the various entities enables them to reach a common goal.”

  Mrs. Dunwoody got up and peered eagerly over her husband’s shoulder. “Yes,” she agreed. “It requires message passing, but in this case, each autonomous computational entity can only communicate with its nearest neighbors. It does make one wonder what sort of pattern emerges . . .”

  Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody’s eyes met.

  Olive tiptoed backward toward the door as her parents took each other’s hands and began to whisper romantically about cellular automata and parallel computations.

  “Is it all right if Rutherford Dewey comes over?” she asked just before slipping inside.

  Her parents nodded distractedly.

  Olive bolted up the stairs, signaled to the cats, who were waiting in the hallway, Leopold standing at attention with his chin upraised, and Harvey hiding, spy-style, behind the banister, and then rushed back downstairs to the telephone as the two cats leaped through the frame into the painting of Linden Street.

  Within ten minutes, Rutherford, Morton, Leopold, and Harvey were assembled in Olive’s bedroom. Olive closed the door behind Rutherford and gestured to Morton, who was sitting on the bed with his knees up and his chin tucked firmly against his chest, looking like a hedgehog in defensive position.

  “Morton, this is Rutherford, from down the street. Rutherford, this is my friend Morton . . . from the painting outside my door.”

  Morton’s eyes flashed to Rutherford. He stared at him for a few moments, not speaking. In the bright daylight that filtered through the windows, his painted skin looked slick and streaked, and his old-fashioned nightshirt seemed strangely out of place.

  Rutherford, never at a loss for words, broke the silence. “Hello,” he said. “I’m Rutherford Dewey. I live two houses away. I’m an expert on the Middle Ages, and a semi-expert on dinosaurs, so I plan to eventually become a history professor, unless I decide to become a vertebrate paleontologist, focusing on aquatic dinosaurs. But if you’ve been in a painting for eighty-some years, like Olive says, you might not have heard much about dinosaurs. Then again, the word dinosaur was coined in 1842, and the so-called Great American Dinosaur Rush happened in the late nineteenth century, so maybe you did. In any case, just call me Rutherford.”

  Morton was frowning at Rutherford now. Olive couldn’t tell if this was because he disliked him, or because he was trying very hard to follow everything Rutherford had said.

  “How old are you?” Morton demanded.

  “Eleven and a half,” said Rutherford.

  “Oh,” said Morton, looking disappointed. He stiffened up again. “But do you know how to spell pneumonia ?”

  “P-N-E-U-M-O-N-I-A,” said Rutherford.

  “That’s right,” Morton mumbled. He glared at Rutherford out of the corner of one eye. “Did you . . .” he began, hesitating before playing his trump card, “. . . did you ever win first prize in a sack race?”

  “A sack race?” repeated Rutherford. “No, I can’t say that I have.”

  Morton looked considerably relieved. Still, he kept one eye on Rutherford as everyone settled down to work.

  Both the bedspread and the floor were crowded with sketches, hand-drawn maps, and strategy charts, and yet Horatio’s absence made the room feel empty. The spellbook—and the note Olive had left with it—had disappeared. Even though Horatio had done as she requested, the fact that he stayed out of sight meant that he still hadn’t forgiven her . . . and she was starting to wonder if he ever would.

  Leopold gazed down at the papers like a general in his war room and tried to make only gruff, important observations. Harvey, on the other hand, was beside himself with excitement.

  “Hey,” he panted, scrambling to the center of the rug and knocking a notebook aside. “Hey, everyone. We could call ourselves The Unpettables. Get it? Like The Untouchables?”

  No one answered.

  “Or how about the CIA, for Cats In Action?”

  “I think someone is already using that acronym,” said Rutherford.

  “That’s why it works,” insisted Harvey. Rutherford looked skeptical. “Okay, fine. No CIA. What about The Mata Hairies?”

  “Harvey, we need to focus,” said Olive, wishing for the thousandth time that Horatio were there to keep things under control. “We still haven’t solved the first problem. How do we make sure that Mrs. Nivens is out of the house and stays out of the house while we search it?”

  “Perhaps we can cause some kind of distraction,” said Rutherford.

  “We could lead an advance battalion to the front of the house, and while the enemy is engaged, we approach on foot, capturing the house from the rear!” proposed Leopold.

  “What battalion?” said Olive.

  “Oh,” said Leopold, crestfallen. “Yes. I see.”

  “Leave it to the special agent,” said Harvey, his eyes lighting up. “I’ll infiltrate the foreign territory under cover of night, and then—we’ll set her front yard on fire!”

  “No,” said Olive.

  Harvey pouted.

  “We need a simpler kind of distraction—something that won’t draw the attention of any of the other neighbors, but that still gives us enough time to search the house,” said Rutherford.

  Olive and Leopold nodded in agreement.

  “And if that doesn’t work, I can poison her with an MI6 standard-issue arsenic ink pen!” said Harvey.

  “NO,” said Olive.

  Harvey harrumphed.

  Everyone was quiet for a minute, thinking.

  “We could always use the grimoire . . .” said Rutherford.

  “No,” said Olive. “No, we can’t.” She glanced at Leopold out of the corner of her eye. He had tensed at the word grimoire, turning to look at her. “We’re not going to use the book anymore.”

  “I just thought of another problem,” said Rutherford. “It’s very likely that Mrs. Nivens knows you’ll try to get the spectacles back. What’s to stop her from just taking them with her wherever she goes?”

  It was a good point. Olive deflated, leaning back against her pillows. “I wish Horatio were here,” she said softly.

  But Horatio wasn’t there.

  And he stayed not there as the five of them put together their plan, covered Morton in a widebrimmed fedora and an old trench coat of Mr. Dunwoody’s to protect his skin from the sunlight, and hurried down through the house. In the kitchen, Olive slipped a flashlight into her pocket, just in case.

  Mr. and Mrs. Dunwoody were still on the front porch, busy with pencils and graphing paper.

  “We’re playing outside!” shouted Olive, not waiting for an answer before herding the whole group out the back door.

  The sky h
ad turned overcast, with a thick haze of clouds blocking out the late-afternoon sun. The air felt still and heavy. Everyone hurried down the steps into the backyard—everyone but Morton. Olive glanced over her shoulder.

  Morton was still standing on the porch, gazing across the overgrown backyard toward the upper floors of Mrs. Nivens’s house. Except for a weak breeze fluttering the bottom edge of his nightshirt, he didn’t move at all.

  “Morton?” Olive asked softly. “Are you all right?”

  “It looks so different,” he whispered. “But it also looks the same.”

  “Yeah,” said Olive. She looked at the house a moment, then climbed back up the steps and held out her hand. “Are you ready?”

  Morton nodded. The too-long sleeve of the trench coat reached out, and Morton took Olive’s hand.

  The five of them slunk along the side of the old stone house and hunched close to the lilac hedge, watching Mrs. Nivens’s windows.

  “All right,” Olive whispered. “Harvey, remember to keep both eyes on Rutherford. If anything goes wrong, try to alert us immediately.”

  Harvey, decked from head to toe in a camouflage of leaves, gave her a sharp nod.

  “Rutherford, just keep her busy for as long as you can.”

  “Don’t worry about that,” said Rutherford. “I’m very seldom at a loss for things to say.”

  “Everybody ready?” Olive asked, trying to keep her voice bold and cheery.

  The four others nodded. Rutherford set off toward Mrs. Nivens’s front door. Harvey slunk along behind him, keeping his belly smooshed against the ground, dodging behind every available plant or twig. Olive, Morton, and Leopold waited until they heard Rutherford give three loud knocks. Then they darted across the backyard, around the far side of the tall gray house, and huddled in a clump of hydrangeas where they had a clear view of Rutherford positioned on the front stoop.

  Mrs. Nivens’s footsteps made ladylike clicks as she walked up the hall to the front door. From their position behind the hydrangeas, they couldn’t quite see her, but they could hear her voice.

  “Well, Rutherford Dewey!” she exclaimed in her sweetest tone. Morton started as though someone had given him an electric shock. “What can I do for you this afternoon?”

  “Hello, Mrs. Nivens,” said Rutherford, very, very loudly. “I’m trick-or-treating.”

  “Oh.” Mrs. Nivens hesitated. “But Rutherford, dear, Halloween is more than two months away.”

  “I know,” Rutherford answered as Leopold slunk out of the lowest branches and headed toward the house. “You could say that I’m practicing. I’m planning the ideal route in order to visit the greatest number of houses in the least amount of time, with little or no backtracking.”

  “I see,” said Mrs. Nivens, sounding as though she certainly didn’t. “And why aren’t you wearing a costume?”

  “As I said, this is merely a practice round. A dress rehearsal. But without the dress. A pre–dress rehearsal, I suppose you could say.” Rutherford’s loud, fast voice covered up the soft rustle of grass as Olive, Morton, and Leopold crawled toward the house. “So . . . Trick or treat?”

  Mrs. Nivens gave an awkward little titter. She was clearly out of practice at laughing. “Well, you’re in luck, Rutherford. I think I may have some Halloween candy left over from last year. I’ll be right back.”

  “Yes,” announced Rutherford, speaking even louder than before. “You go and get the candy, which I assume is in the kitchen, while I wait right here on the front step.”

  There was a moment’s pause while Mrs. Nivens gave Rutherford a long, confused look. Then there was a creak from the floor and the sound of footsteps clicking down the hall toward the back of the house.

  “There’s a basement window that latches on the outside,” Morton whispered, leading Olive and Leopold along the foundations. “This one. It isn’t too far a drop to the floor.” Morton tugged the latch and raised the small, rectangular window.

  Leopold dove through first. “All clear,” he murmured from below.

  Olive wriggled through next, feet-first. As her head slid past Morton, who was holding up the window, Morton whispered, “She doesn’t really sound like Lucy. But at the same time, she does.”

  Olive nodded, gave a last wriggle, and plummeted into Mrs. Nivens’s basement. Morton was right: The drop wasn’t too far, but Olive still managed to land awkwardly, fall onto her hands and knees, and nearly squish Leopold in the process. Morton slipped lightly through behind her. The window clicked shut.

  Olive switched on her flashlight and took a look around. A few small windows at the tops of the walls let in the watery gray light from outside. Otherwise, the basement was dark. It was one large, square room, empty except for a gleaming washer and dryer, with a shelf full of detergents set up above.

  “This looks different but the same too,” whispered Morton.

  “Lead the way, sir,” said Leopold.

  Morton darted through the darkness to a set of creaking wooden steps. Olive and Leopold hurried after him. In spite of his size, Leopold could climb soundlessly. Morton was small and light and seemed to know where to step to keep the stairs from making too much noise, but Olive thundered behind, feeling like a hippo on a ladder made of toothpicks.

  “Shh!” hissed Morton as he reached the top of the stairs.

  “I’m trying to shh!” Olive hissed back.

  Morton turned the knob and eased the door open. Olive turned off the flashlight and slipped it back into her pocket. A sliver of light fell over the three of them as they crowded into the gap, peering out. They were looking onto a wood-floored hallway lined with closed doors. In the distance, to their left, an electric light burned.

  Rustling sounds came from the kitchen, where Mrs. Nivens was getting the candy. Then her steps clicked back down the hall, moving fast. Her shadow, with its neatly starched skirt and just as neatly starched hair, flitted toward them. Olive, Leopold, and Morton bolted around the corner into the living room, pressing their backs to the wall.

  “Here we are,” they heard Mrs. Nivens tell Rutherford cheerily. “Two candy bars. But don’t spoil your dinner.”

  “Actually,” said Rutherford, still speaking as though he were addressing someone on the other side of a busy street, “I can’t have this kind. I’m allergic to peanuts. The reaction can be quite severe.”

  “Well, just take the other one, then. It doesn’t have peanuts in it.”

  “The thing is,” Rutherford said, “I can’t have anything that contains peanut-derived products, or that even came into contact with anything that contains peanuts or peanut-derived products. You should probably check the ingredients on the bag, just to be safe.”

  Mrs. Nivens let out a breath that Olive could hear all the way around the corner. “All right,” she said, her voice losing some of its cheery polish. “I’ll just go do that.”

  “In fact,” Rutherford shouted after Mrs. Nivens, “you should probably make sure that the candy came from a factory that doesn’t process any peanut products at all. If it doesn’t say so on the package, you might want to call the company. Just to be safe.”

  In the kitchen, Mrs. Nivens muttered something that Olive couldn’t quite make out.

  Olive, Morton, and Leopold peeped out into the hall. Muffled sounds still came from the kitchen. With a soldierly nod, Leopold signaled that the hallway was clear. Morton edged around the front wall of the living room, turned to the left, and darted lightly up the staircase to the second floor with Leopold at his heels. Meanwhile, Olive slipped across the hall and through the doorway of the room where she’d seen the light burning last night.

  The room was empty—empty, that was, except for a long dining table covered with a lacy tablecloth, a set of uncomfortable-looking chairs, and an old-fashioned glass-shaded lamp. Two of the chairs were pulled slightly away from the table, as though they had been recently used. The rest of the room looked as though it hadn’t been touched, or even breathed in, for about fifty years. The
re were no paintings or spectacles to be seen.

  Olive edged back into the hall. She could hear Mrs. Nivens thumping cabinet doors in the kitchen. Giving Rutherford a reassuring nod, Olive hurried up the staircase.

  She found Morton standing in the upstairs hallway. He stared from side to side, looking at the blank walls. “There used to be pictures here,” he whispered as Olive tiptoed up behind him. “And right here, there was a little table. Mama used to put flowers on it.”

  Olive nodded, trying to hurry him along. “Where do you think Lucinda would have hidden the painting?”

  But Morton didn’t seem to be listening. Still staring up at the empty walls, he trailed forward a few steps and turned to the right, turning the knob of a closed door. Its hinges creaked softly as he pushed it open.

  Olive froze. She and Leopold exchanged a glance. Had Mrs. Nivens heard them? Olive strained to listen to the voices below. Rutherford’s voice was still coming from the distant front door. She thought she caught the words “Cretaceous period” and “K-T extinction,” which meant he was probably in the middle of some very long explanation. With a nod at Leopold, Olive followed Morton through the open door.

  It was Leopold who remembered to bump the door shut behind them. Olive was too busy watching Morton. And Morton was too busy looking around.

  The room in which they stood was painted a pale shade of blue. A small wrought iron bed sat in one corner, while the opposite wall was lined with a dresser and a bookshelf. An old wooden wagon sat in one corner, holding a baseball bat, a toy drum, and a somewhat deflated-looking striped ball. Black-and-white pictures were tacked to the walls, many of them cut from newspapers and catalogs—pictures of baseball players and exotic animals and funny old-fashioned cars that looked, to Olive, more like sleds on wheels. The paper of the pictures was yellowed and curling. The bed was perfectly made, all the furniture was dusted, but from the loneliness that hung in the air, Olive could tell that no one had used this room for a very, very long time.

  Leopold cleared his throat and nodded toward the door. It was time to move on. Olive glanced around, taking in every corner. There was no painting here.