by Lauren Child
‘You need to lighten up,’ said Del.
‘I also need my head to remain attached to my body,’ said Clancy, ‘which is why you are not getting me snurfing.’
‘You can quit discussing it because no one’s going snurfing anyway,’ said Ruby.
‘Whaddaya mean?’ said Del. ‘I’m going even if that chicken liver doesn’t have the guts for it.’
‘Not without any snow you’re not,’ said Ruby.
‘Well, duh,’ said Del.
‘So you’re not going today is what I’m saying.’
‘You’re crazy,’ said Del, ‘it’s four inches deep already.’
But sure enough, by the time the clock struck noon it was all gone, barely a flake on the ground.
‘How did you know that was going to happen?’ asked Del.
‘I have my sources,’ said Ruby.
RUBY ARRIVED HOME THAT AFTERNOON to find a pale pink bike to the right of the front steps next to the bamboo. She didn’t touch it, she just looked at it.
‘Pink?’ she said out loud. ‘Pastel pink? Why in darn it did he make it pink?’
She typed a message into the Escape Watch; a very short message for Hal:
PINK?!
Ruby went into the house, slammed the front door and started up the stairs.
‘Where are you off to at such a lick?’ called Mrs Digby.
‘My room!’ shouted Ruby.
‘If you’re planning to watch TV then make it Channel 44 or Channel 17.’
‘Why?’ said Ruby.
‘You need to swot up on horror,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Swot up on what?’ asked Ruby.
‘Or crime,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Again, why?’ said Ruby. She turned, walked back down the stairs and stood in the kitchen doorway.
‘We got a date,’ said the housekeeper, pulling an envelope from her apron pocket and handing it to Ruby.
‘What’s this?’ asked Ruby.
Mrs Digby looked heavenwards. ‘Well, you’re not going to know unless you open it, child.’
Ruby pulled out a letter. On it was typed the following,
Thirty Minutes of Murder was a film general knowledge show aimed at the older television viewer. All the questions related to the movies of yesteryear, all in the horror, thriller or crime genre.
Ruby looked up at Mrs Digby. ‘So you have basically signed me up for a quiz show.’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
‘They need four hours to do our hair and make-up? Four hours!’
‘Is that all you have to say? I thought you’d be tickled,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Tickled’ was not the word Ruby would have used, but she didn’t want to rain on the old lady’s parade so instead just said, ‘OK, I’ll go watch something horrifying.’
Before Ruby had reached the stairs, the telephone began to ring. She picked up.
‘Redfort mad house, if we seem sane to you then you’re probably crazy!’
‘Ahh … Ruby?’
‘Hey, Dad.’
‘Guten abend.’
‘Are you sure about that?’
‘What are you saying?’
‘My point exactly.’
‘You’ve lost me.’
‘Dad, you’re speaking German.’
‘Oh yes, that’s right,’ came her mother’s voice. ‘Brant, wrong lingo, we’re in France.’
‘Bonne nuit,’ said her father.
‘Close enough,’ said Ruby.
‘We’re just about to hit la ville,’ said her mother.
‘When are you coming home?’ asked Ruby.
‘Tout alors!’ said her mother.
‘What’s that supposed to mean? You’re not making any sense,’ said Ruby.
‘It’s your father’s translation guide; it doesn’t work.’
‘I think you must be on the wrong page,’ said Ruby.
‘We’ll call back when we have more vocab,’ said her mother. ‘Bye, bye, bye.’
Ten minutes later, Ruby set down her glass of banana milk, plonked herself in the beanbag and flicked on the little TV that sat there on the shelf in between her general knowledge books and the lobster phone.
Channel 16 was showing a re-run of a not so funny sit-com. And on Channel 17 What’s Your Poison? was playing. She watched for a minute.
Greg Valence, the quiz master, asked: ‘What venom will cause the victim to repeatedly convulse?’
RUBY: ‘Tityus serrulatus scorpion.’
GREG VALENCE: ‘Which animal is widely considered the most dangerous animal in the world?’
RUBY: ‘The golden poison dart frog.’
GREG VALENCE: ‘There’s a bonus point if you can tell me under what circumstances a poison dart frog can be handled without using gloves.’
RUBY: ‘When it’s in captivity.’
The contestant did not know this unusual and interesting fact – that the frog’s toxicity came from its natural diet of insects. Once out of the wild it no longer posed a threat. If that’s what a change of diet can do to you, maybe I should consider it, thought Ruby.
She picked up the remote and clicked on, leaving the quiz master to his unchallenging quiz questions. She kept clicking until she came to Channel 44. Currently playing was a movie she didn’t recognise. She was fairly certain that it was not one she had watched before. She had entered the story as it was reaching its final scenes; a young woman was tiptoeing down a very grand stone staircase. In the hallway was a shadow of a hand, the fingers long and bony; the shadow reached out to touch the woman’s shadow.
The woman, unaware that she had company, walked into a dimly lit drawing room and began frantically searching the desk for something, pulling open drawers and rifling through the contents as if her life depended on it. And maybe it did, because when she found a little box with an amulet in it she sank to her knees and sobbed theatrical sobs. The actress had real screen presence and though the film was on the hammy side, Ruby found herself gripped. However, it was only when the woman caught sight of the figure, an elderly vampire, and the camera zoomed in close on her terror-stricken face that Ruby knew that she had seen her somewhere before. The film reached its inevitable conclusion, and as was the custom with old movies, there was no credit roll, just two words: The End.
Before Ruby could begin to wonder how she knew this woman, so appeared the smiling face of another, this one elbow-deep in dishes and very happy about the washing-up liquid she had chosen to scrub them with.
Ruby took a look down the periscope, something she had constructed a long time ago so she could check out the to-ings and fro-ings in the kitchen. Mrs Digby wasn’t there. So Ruby rang down to the housekeeper’s apartment.
‘Can’t an old lady expect a little peace and quiet?’ she complained.
‘Are you watching TV?’
‘Why shouldn’t I be?’
‘No reason, which channel?’
‘Thirteen.’
‘Oh.’
‘Why?’
‘I wanted to know what movie I just watched – you know, on Channel 44?’
‘Ah, glad to hear you’re studying. I’ll look it up in the Hound.’
There was a lot of rustling of paper and then … ‘The Shadow’s Touch,’ said Mrs Digby.
‘Who was the actress?’ asked Ruby.
‘It’s pitiful you don’t know,’ said the housekeeper. ‘It’s a fearful gap in your movie knowledge. I thought you took an interest in horror. You’re going to have to pull your socks up or we’ll never win the big cheque.’
‘So I’m taking an interest; just give me her name and I’ll look her up.’
‘Marnie Novak,’ said Mrs Digby. ‘Now I gotta go cos the commercials are over and the TV bingo is just about to start again.’
If Ruby had taken anything on board during her thirteen years of life, it was never interrupt Mrs Digby if she was watching TV bingo.
Ruby went over to her bookshelves and pulled out the volumes relating to film
. She had around forty, and they covered various genres of movie, some dedicated to particular directors or studios, others to actors and movie stars, and quite a lot of them were technical: books on props, sets, make-up and cinematography. It was in one rather dense book titled Stars of the B Screen that Ruby came face to face with the woman who had caused her so many sleepless nights.
Marnie Novak (formerly, Gretchen Ehrling).
The name was familiar – horribly so. For though Ruby had never actually knowingly crossed paths with the woman who called herself ‘Madame Ehrling’, she knew someone who had, a person who hadn’t lived to tell the tale. Agent Lopez had followed the woman to the Fountain Hotel in Everly, a town south of Twinford. There she had witnessed a meeting of sorts and managed to intercept a message intended for Ehrling’s cohort. Unfortunately Lopez had been spotted – for that mistake she’d paid with her life.
The FBI had found no recent picture of Ehrling, unless one counted the image caught on the Twinford City Bank security camera, her face obscured by a veiled hat. When they’d tried to trace her, they discovered that she had been dead for a number of years. So who was she and why, thought Ruby, do I feel so sure I know her?
As she stared at the film-still of the young movie actress, the answer came to her, the answer to the question: where have I seen her before?
Answer: On Wolf Paw Mountain. It was the eyes Ruby recognised; cold steel blue, the eyes of the Australian.
So Gretchen Ehrling reinvented herself as Novak, and Novak had gone to the City Bank playing the part of a Madame Ehrling. It seemed likely that Madame Ehrling had been an old relative, now conveniently deceased.
Things were beginning to join up.
There was a brief paragraph on Marnie Novak; a few facts about her short-lived career and a list of some of the films she’d appeared in, most of them thrillers and horror movies.
Marnie Novak had been set for stardom. Regarded as a great talent, she was the protégée of notorious film director …
And then nothing. The following page was missing.
Ruby leafed through the book. Where is it?
And then she remembered what Mrs Digby had said about Baby Lemon.
‘Darn that baby,’ she muttered.
The page had been torn out and very possibly eaten so if Ruby wanted to discover anything further about this killer actress then she was going to need to pop to the library.
RUBY WAS JUST PULLING ON HER COAT, having decided to try Penny Books rather than head across town to the City Library, when she received a phone call from Red.
‘Rube, I’m really sorry to do this, but I’ve got a bit of an emergency here … you see, my laces were undone and I kinda tripped and sorta sat on my brother’s guitar and he needs it tonight, but you know I sorta feel I should fix the situation before I tell him and that’s why I wondered, kinda hoped you wouldn’t mind if I told him he could borrow yours? It’s a lot to ask, I know … oh, by the way it’s me, Red.’
‘Hey, Red.’
‘I feel really bad about asking you, you can say no, I mean I haven’t forgotten what happened to your violin – I mean I realise I owe you a new one and believe me, I am saving.’
‘Don’t give it a second thought,’ said Ruby. ‘Who hasn’t sat on a violin or a guitar at some point in their life?’
‘Thanks Ruby, you’re a lifesaver. I’ll come and pick it up,’ said Red.
It was just at that moment that Ruby was sure she heard a click on the line, like someone was listening to her call – not someone in the house, Ruby had her own phone line so that wasn’t possible. No: if she was right, then she was being bugged.
‘You know what, I’ll bring it over,’ said Ruby, and two minutes later she was out the door.
Ruby decided, seeing as how it was dark and no one would see the colour, this would be the perfect opportunity to try out the pink bike. Plus the hyper-speed booster would allow her to stay ahead of any danger she might encounter.
The bike, despite its pinkness, was very impressive. It took little effort to cycle up to Red’s place in Silver Hills and Ruby arrived in no time.
‘Boy, you were quick,’ Red said, as she opened the door.
‘Yeah, turns out my new bike is kinda speedy,’ said Ruby. She looked around. ‘So, your mom not home?’
‘She’s working late, she has this big movie – lots of costumes to design.’
‘What kind of movie? Is it fantasy?’
‘I’ll say,’ said Red. ‘It’s about these kids who morph into crocodiles. But it’s the make-up artist who’s got the real headache. I mean what does a croc-kid look like?’
Ruby shrugged. ‘My guess would be: Archie Lemon.’
It was nice to have the chance to catch up with Red, for despite her proclivity for accidents and her unusual talent for flattening musical instruments, Red was a person who exuded calm. And right now calmness was something Ruby truly appreciated.
Jem, Red’s brother, was grateful for the guitar.
‘I owe you, Ruby,’ he said.
‘It’s not an owing type of a thing,’ said Ruby. ‘You’re welcome to hang on to it until you get a new one. I don’t see myself strumming for the next few weeks.’
The three of them hung out for a while, talking about school and the upcoming holidays, who might be having a New Year’s party, would Mrs Drisco ever think of retiring? That type of thing.
‘She used to be my homeroom teacher,’ said Jem, ‘so you have my deepest sympathy – I spent a lot of time in detention.’
Finally, they came back to the subject of what on earth a croc-kid would look like.
‘My mom told the make-up artist to go talk to Frederick,’ said Red. ‘If anyone’s going to know how you make a kid look like a crocodile, it’s going to be him.’
This immediately pinged an idea into Ruby’s head. If anyone was going to have the skinny on Marnie Novak, it would be Frederick Lutz.
Frederick Lutz was a Hollywood make-up artist and a nice old man. He had fixed Ruby’s face after she’d smashed it up when she and her skateboard had parted company – the resulting black eye had almost ruined her mother’s dreams of a picture-perfect photo portrait. Frederick had saved the day with his make-up skills, and no one would ever have guessed that the girl in the picture had collided with a cop car not twenty-four hours earlier.
‘Red, do you mind if I make a phone call?’
‘Sure,’ said Red. ‘Why?’
‘I’m thinking I might call in on Frederick Lutz,’ said Ruby.
Red looked puzzled. ‘Why, do you need to know what a croc-kid looks like?’
It wasn’t much of a detour to get to Frederick Lutz’s house. He lived on the edge of Silver Hills, at 119 Derilla Drive, and it was pretty much downhill all the way.
Ruby arrived as evening turned to night.
She rang the bell and when there was no answer she tried the door. It was open.
‘Hello?’ she called.
‘Ruby! Is that you? Come on in.’
She found him sitting in his sunroom looking up through the glass at the stars, his dachshund Paullie on his lap.
‘I could look at them forever,’ said Frederick, still gazing up at the twinkling night.
‘I don’t think much of your security system,’ said Ruby.
‘What does an old guy like me need with a security system? Robbers have got no interest in me,’ said Frederick. ‘Besides, I got Paullie here.’
He stroked the dog’s ears and the dachshund yawned.
Ruby doubted that Paullie was much of a deterrent to robbers, but then again she supposed Frederick was probably right, robbers were unlikely to give him the time of day.
‘Want an old-fashioned lemon soda?’ said Frederick, taking a can from his cooler box.
‘Sure,’ said Ruby.
He handed it to her.
‘So,’ said Lutz, ‘what is it I can help you with?’
‘I was wondering if you’d ever met an actress named Marnie Nova
k?’ asked Ruby.
‘Marnie Novak,’ mused Frederick. ‘Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long while.’
‘You knew her?’ asked Ruby.
‘Oh yes, I knew her,’ said Frederick. ‘She was a good actress. On the brink of a glittering career, they said.’
‘So … did she not have a glittering career?’ asked Ruby.
‘Can you name five films you’ve seen her in?’ said Lutz.
Ruby shook her head. ‘Actually, I’ve only seen one and I didn’t even know her name until about two hours ago.’
‘Which movie was it?’ asked Frederick.
‘The Shadow’s Touch,’ said Ruby, taking a big gulp of soda.
‘Oh, that’s a good one,’ said Lutz. ‘No one did horror like the Count.’
The next thing Ruby felt was soda shooting out of her nose.
‘Are you OK, Ruby?’ said Lutz.
It took Ruby a few seconds to get any words out.
‘It sorta went down the wrong way,’ she squeaked.
‘You’re telling me,’ said Lutz.
Ruby mopped at her face with her sleeve. ‘This Count, who, I mean … you did say Count, right?’
‘Yes,’ said Frederick. ‘He was the director of The Shadow’s Touch. Boy, was he a talent.’
‘Really?’ said Ruby. ‘He was good?’
‘Better than good, he was an artist,’ said Lutz. He got to his feet. ‘Wait there,’ he said. He came back five minutes later with a large book, a sort of encyclopaedia of movie directors. ‘Here,’ he passed it to Ruby, ‘you’ll find him in that.’
Ruby began flipping through the pages, scanning the Cs.
Clooning …
Coburn …
Coswell …
‘He doesn’t seem to be here,’ said Ruby.
‘Of course he’s there,’ said Lutz, leaning in. ‘Well, you’re looking under C, that’s your problem. What you need to do is look under V.’
‘V?’
‘V for Von Leyden,’ said Lutz. ‘Victor von Leyden.’
Pause.
‘What? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
