The Grimm Legacy

by Polly Shulman

  Chapter 18:

  Marc makes a deal

  The building on Otters Alley was an old factory with huge windows and eight buzzers. Marc pressed the one that said W. Stone.

  After a minute a crackly voice came out of the loudspeaker: “Who is it?”

  Marc and I looked at each other in dismay. We’d forgotten to come up with a cover story. Before we could stop her, Jaya pushed her face forward and announced, “It’s Jaya Rao. I’m here to rescue my sister.”

  Silence for a few seconds; then the door buzzed open. We took the clanking old elevator up to the seventh floor and rang the bell.

  It only took me a second to recognize Wallace Stone: the repository patron, the man who had tried to take the box of acrobats on Fifth Avenue.

  “Well, it’s you! Hello again,” he said. “Have you brought me back my package?”

  “You!” I said.

  “Where’s my sister?” said Jaya.

  He turned to look at her. “My, my, my,” he said. “The other one—a matching pair.”

  “Where is she? Where’s Anjali? Give her back!” Jaya filled the hallway.

  “I wish I could, but I don’t have her.”

  “Anjali! Anjali! Where are you hiding her?” Jaya pushed past him and stuck her head in the apartment door. “Anjali!”

  Mr. Stone opened the door wide. “By all means, come in and look around. Bring your friends. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. Your sister’s not here.” He cocked an eyebrow at me and Marc with polite, almost affectionate patience. We all followed Jaya into the apartment.

  The smell overwhelmed me for a moment. It was as unmistakable and impossible to pin down as the smell in the Grimm Collection, yet rawer, harsher. It smelled like the false package Mr. Stone had tried to give me instead of the acrobats. Not hyacinths but paint thinner; not loam but wet ash.

  Reeling from the smell, I looked around to get my bearings. The apartment was a big loft with a high ceiling. It seemed to be part home, part warehouse. Pedestals, tables, and stands displayed lovely old objects—clocks, paintings, vases, radios—that all looked as if they might be magical. On the computer, some sort of dizzying screen saver whirled and churned sickeningly. It reminded me of the swirling inside the kuduo. I looked away.

  “Can I get you anything? A soda?” offered Mr. Stone.

  “My sister!”

  “Excuse me a minute.” Mr. Stone went behind a low wall. We could hear the refrigerator open and shut. Jaya stomped around, looking behind furniture for Anjali.

  Mr. Stone came back with drinks and cookies. “Root beer? Sparkling water?”

  “My sister!”

  He poured a glass of root beer and held it out to me. “No, thanks,” I said. He offered it to Marc, who shook his head. Jaya didn’t even acknowledge the offer—she just glared at him.

  Mr. Stone shrugged and sipped the soda himself. “So,” he said. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Wallace Stone, but I imagine you know that already. I think you said you were Jaya Rao?” He held out his hand to Jaya, but she put hers behind her. Mr. Stone seemed to find that funny—at least, his eyes twinkled. “And you?” He offered me his hand. “We’ve met before, of course, but I don’t know your name.”

  I didn’t want to shake his hand, but I thought it was probably a good idea to be polite if we wanted to get any information out of him. “Elizabeth Rew,” I said.

  “A pleasure.”

  He turned to Marc next and held out his hand. “And you’re the great Marc Merritt, aren’t you?”

  Marc towered over Mr. Stone and didn’t offer his hand.

  “Now, have some gingerbread and tell me why you thought your sister would be here,” said Mr. Stone, holding out the plate of cookies.

  “We know she came here this morning, and now she’s missing,” said Marc, accepting one.

  I couldn’t resist taking one too and bit off its leg. It was delicious. I tasted ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and some other spice—what was it? Nutmeg? Cardamom? No, something a little more unusual in gingerbread—orange peel, maybe? Not quite: it was a darker flavor somehow, more like, I don’t know, caramelized apples or wood smoke. I took another bite. Sweet and dark, like roast duck or cedar pencils.

  “Well, you’re right—Anjali did come to see me,” said Mr. Stone. “But as you can see, she’s not here anymore.”

  “She was here? When? What happened to her?” Jaya chomped the head off a gingerbread man furiously, as if it were Mr. Stone himself.

  His eyes flared. “Thank you, my dear. You’re about to find out.” He cleared his throat and intoned: “All who gobble gingerbread,

  Whether from the feet or head,

  Be you swineherd, king, or queen,

  Turn into a figurine!”

  Nothing happened.

  Well, Jaya seemed to sort of shudder for a moment, rippling around the edges like a reflection in a pond on a windy day; also, my stomach felt odd. Marc leapt to his feet. But nobody turned into a figurine.

  “That’s strange,” said Mr. Stone. He looked annoyed.

  “Did you miss what I just said?

  By the power of gingerbread,

  Whether swineherd, king, or queen—

  Turn into a figurine!”

  Jaya rippled again. “Stop it!” she yelled, shaking herself like a wet dog.

  Marc grabbed Mr. Stone by the shoulders. “What are you doing? Did you just try to turn us into figurines?” he growled, his nostrils flaring.

  “Yes, of course. What on earth went wrong? By the power of gingerbread . . . Let me see that!” He caught hold of the knot on Marc’s wrist. “What is this? Abigail Bender’s work?”

  “Mine,” said Jaya, with a touch of smugness mixed into her fury. “Miss Bender taught me. Is my sister a figurine? Where did you hide her?” She began tearing through the closet, flinging coats on the floor and dumping out the contents of hatboxes.

  Marc wrenched his arm away from Mr. Stone. He opened his knapsack and reached in. He held up a burlap sack and said, “Cudgel, out of the bag!”

  A stout wooden club with a leather handle flew out of the sack, straight at Mr. Stone. He threw his hand up in front of him. The club paused in mid-flight, beating at the air. Then slowly, thrashing and struggling as if it were being dragged against its will, it turned around and lowered itself, handle first, into his hand.

  “Thank you, Marc—what a pleasant surprise. The bag too, please.” Mr. Stone held out his other hand and the bag twisted itself out of Marc’s grasp into his. “Did you really think you could beat your friend’s whereabouts out of me? In my own home? How crude.” He shook his head sadly.

  Marc stared at him in horror.

  “What was that? What’s going on?” I cried.

  “The Grimm cudgel,” said Marc in a choked voice. “He got the Grimm cudgel!”

  “The what?”

  “The Grimm cudgel. It beats up anyone you send it after, until you tell it to stop. At least, it’s supposed to.”

  “Marc, Marc, Marc. Don’t you know violence is never the answer?” Mr. Stone seemed to be enjoying himself. “Cudgel, back in the bag.”

  “You thieving piece of—”

  “Please—you’re addressing a member of the Association of Authenticating Antiquarians, not to mention the Better Business Bureau. I prefer the term ‘art dealer.’”

  “You sick little creep! You! You’re the one who stole that stuff from the Grimm Collection—just like you stole Anjali! Where is it?”

  “Perfectly safe, I assure you. My clients are very careful with their collections.”

  “You’ll tell me! I’ll make you tell me,” roared Marc.

  “What about that other page—the one that disappeared? Mona? Did you take her too?” I asked.

  “Mona Chen? Slippery little character. No, unfortunately—I don’t know where she is. I thought I could get her to help me in my business, but she not only refused to cooperate, she ran away.”

  “Where is Anjali?�
�� yelled Jaya again.

  “Sit down, all of you, and please, stop yelling. Let’s settle this like adults,” said Mr. Stone. “I have something you want. You have something I want. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”

  “What arrangement? You’ll give me my sister back?”

  “As I keep telling you, I don’t have your sister. But I do know where she is. I sold . . . that is, I placed her with a very good customer of mine, a distinguished collector, who might be willing to part with her if you can make it worth her while.”

  “Who? Who is the collector? Where is she keeping Anjali?”

  “Please. Sit. I’m willing to share that information in exchange for . . .” He paused. “Let’s see. You have access to the Grimm Collection, yes?”

  “No!” I said. “Do your own dirty work. We’re not stealing anything for you!”

  “Anything else, you mean?” Mr. Stone held up the cudgel bag. I shot a bitter look at Marc, who wouldn’t meet my eyes. “But I’m not asking you to steal anything,” Mr. Stone continued.

  “I’m only asking for something that’s rightfully yours,” he said, turning to Marc. “There’s an Akan bronze ceremonial vessel with a puff adder and a hornbill on the lid. Bring me that and I’ll tell you where Anjali is.”

  “You mean Doc’s kuduo?”

  “No!” I said. “Even if we wanted to, we can’t take it out of the repository. Doc says no one can except its rightful owners.”

  “Ah, but that’s just the point.” Mr. Stone’s eyes were twinkling. “Young Mr. Merritt here is the rightful owner.”

  “What are you talking about?” said Marc.

  “Nobody told you? You, young man, are descended from great men and women. Chiefs in Africa, in what’s now Ghana. The kuduo in question belongs to your family. Those prigs at the repository? They have no more right to it than—well, than Jaya here. It’s yours to do with whatever you want. Including trade it to me, for information about your friend’s whereabouts.”

  “The kuduo? Mine?”

  “Exactly.”

  “He’s right,” I said. “Doc told me it belongs to your family.”

  “Why tell you and not me? What’s it doing in the repository?” said Marc. “How did they get it?”

  “How did they get any of their holdings?” answered Mr. Stone. “The place is rife with trickery, shady deals—”

  “That’s not true! The kuduo’s on loan. Doc said Marc’s uncle loaned it to the repository!” I said.

  Mr. Stone said, “You think the people running that institution are paragons of virtue? Your people have a proverb, Marc: ‘If a bug bites you, it’s from inside your clothes.’ Believe me, I could tell you a thing or two about a few of your librarians . . . But I won’t. I’m a gentleman. Bring me that kuduo, and I’ll show you where to find Anjali.”

  He got up and opened the door. “Well, this has been a pleasure. I look forward to further profitable meetings.”

  “What now?” I said when we got downstairs. We were all three practically shaking with rage at our own powerlessness.

  “Now Marc goes and gets that doodoo-oh or whatever it’s called and we rescue my sister,” said Jaya.

  “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I said. “I don’t trust that guy. What’s he going to do with it? Sell it, like he sold Anjali? Or use it somehow, like the cudgel? That kuduo is powerful. I think we should ask Doc for help.”

  “No! That’s the worst plan possible,” said Marc. “Our only hope of finding Anjali is the kuduo, and Doc would never let me take it.”

  “But you can’t take the kuduo! It’s too dangerous—and it’s full of important things! We need help. Jaya, what about your parents? Can we tell them?”

  “No,” said Jaya. “We have to get Anjali back ourselves. They would kill her if they find out about . . .” She looked at Marc. “About all of this. They would ground her for decades.”

  “I would rather be grounded and safe,” I said.

  “Anjali wouldn’t. Not when she could be safe and not grounded instead. Let’s just go get that thing Stone wants right now and rescue her.”

  Marc looked at his watch. “Too late now,” he said. “The repository’s closed, and we don’t have the key. We’ll have to get it tomorrow.”

  “Okay. I’ll tell my parents Anjali’s staying at your place tonight.”

  “I guess,” I said. “I still think it’s a terrible idea to steal the kuduo.”

  “Can you think of any other way?”

  “Not if you don’t let me tell the librarians,” I admitted. I still thought that was a better idea, but I could see Marc’s point. There was a chance that one of them could be in on the thefts themselves, and even if they weren’t, I couldn’t imagine them agreeing to trade away the kuduo. If that was the only way to get Anjali back, we had to try it. “I’ll see you at the repository tomorrow,” I told Marc.

  Maybe we could even find a way to empty out the contents, like my sense of direction, before we turned it over to Mr. Stone.

  Chapter 19:

  Embarrassing reflections

  After dinner, my phone rang.

  “Elizabeth? It’s Aaron, Aaron Rosendorn.”

  My heart did a little funny flip, like Doc’s mini acrobats. Stop it, heart, I told it. You have more serious things to think about than Aaron Rosendorn. “Hi, Aaron,” I said. “What’s up?”

  “Can you come over to my place? There’s something I want to show you.”

  “Really? What?”

  “It’s just . . . an idea I had.”

  “Okay,” I said. “Where do you live?”

  “On West Eighty-first Street, down the block from the Museum of Natural History.”

  “I have a bad sense of direction these days. I’m not sure I can find it.”

  “Of course you can. It’s not that hard.”

  “No, really. I get lost in my own bedroom.”

  “You can at least get to the Museum of Natural History, can’t you? The subway goes right to the door. Tell you what, I’ll meet you there,” he said.

  I found my way to the subway okay and managed to get off at the right stop. Then I had to circle the entire museum before I found the entrance where Aaron was waiting for me.

  He was leaning against the pedestal of the statue of Teddy Roosevelt, his cheeks red with the cold. It was the first time I’d seen him since that embarrassing dream.

  “So what’s at your place? The thing you want to show me?” I asked.

  He looked around at the people on the museum steps: a school group, some nannies with their charges, a pair of older men. “Something from the GC,” he said, lowering his voice.

  “Something you borrowed?” I asked.

  He nodded.

  “What?”

  “Not here,” he said.

  He steered me by the arm, preventing me from making at least three wrong turns. Even through my coat sleeve, I was very aware of the spot where he was touching my arm.

  He lived in an old apartment building from the same period as Anjali’s, but less fancy.

  “Hi, Aaron,” said the doorman.

  “Hi, Jim. Is my mom home?”

  “No, not yet,” said the doorman. “You have the place to yourself.” To my embarrassment, he winked at me.

  We took the elevator to the seventh floor. Aaron unlocked a door and I followed him down a long, dark hallway, through a cluttered living room, to a small, dark room behind the kitchen.

  He held the door open and cleared his throat. “So. Come in,” he said.

  His room was neater than mine, but not by much. I wondered whether he usually kept it that way. Or had he cleaned it up for me? He took off his coat and I handed him mine. He put them both down on the bed, which was made, if sloppily.

  I looked around for somewhere to sit. I had a choice of the bed, a beanbag chair, and his desk chair. I chose the desk chair; Aaron leaned against the wall, his knees bent.

  “Did you borrow that invisible chair from t
he GC? Is that what you wanted to show me?”

  He laughed nervously and stood up straight.

  I felt nervous too. Something wasn’t quite right in the room. Slowly I figured out what: the place reeked of magic, the scary kind. It was laced with undertones of awfulness, the way air freshener might claim to smell like strawberries, but you would never willingly put it in your mouth. It smelled like Mr. Stone’s loft or the worst items in the Grimm Collection, the murky picture or the Snow White mirror.

  No wonder. There on the wall over the dresser hung the Snow White mirror.

  “Is that what I think it is?”

  He nodded. “That’s what I wanted to show you.”

  “You borrowed it?”

  He nodded again.

  “Did you leave a deposit in the kuduo?”

  “Of course! What do you take me for?”

  “What did you leave? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  “My firstborn child.”

  “But you don’t have—”

  “My future firstborn child, silly.”

  “Wow.” For some reason the thought of that gave me the shivers. I turned to the mirror. “Why did you take this creepy mirror home? Why not just talk to it at the repository?”

  “It’s not safe to talk to it there. I’m not sure it’s even safe to talk to each other there. Things keep disappearing, and I don’t know who to trust.”

  But he thought he could trust me.

  I felt flattered and a little guilty—I might not have lied to him exactly, but I hadn’t been entirely open with him either. I decided to tell him about Anjali’s disappearance and our trip to Mr. Stone’s. I left out the part where Mr. Stone told Marc to steal the kuduo, though. I didn’t think that would get a very positive reaction from Aaron.

  “Anjali vanished?” The concern in his voice was painful to hear. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What do you mean? I just did.”

  “But why didn’t you tell me right away? Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I don’t know, Aaron. It’s not like I was hiding it, it’s just . . .” What could I say? I couldn’t exactly tell him that it didn’t occur to me to tell him, and if it had, I might have been too worried he would blame Marc.