It wasn’t until after school on Thursday that Fairday had the chance to call Larry Lovell. She grabbed the phone off the kitchen counter, closed the door to block out the noisy construction, and sat down at the table. Fairday bit down on her lip as she opened the project folder. Taking a deep breath, she dialed the number Miss Mason had written down. Her heart was thudding against her chest as she anticipated an answer. Three rings later, a gruff, old man’s voice said, “H’llo?”
“Hi, is Mr. Lovell there, please?” Fairday asked much too quietly, her palms growing sweaty.
“Eh? Speak up, there. Who’s this?” the voice replied with a hint of irritation.
Gathering herself, she repeated, though much louder this time, “Um. Hi, hello. This is Fairday Morrow. May I please speak to Mr. Lovell?” Nothing. Pressing on courageously, she continued. “My, uh, teacher, Miss Mason, gave me this number so I can interview him for a biography project we’re working on in class?” Her uncertainty made the statement come out sounding like a question.
“Eh?” A hesitation, a muttering sound, and then, at last, a spark of realization. “Oh, yes! Fairday, Fairday Morrow. Maggie did mention something. I remember thinking how unusual that name is.” He cleared his throat. Fairday clung to the phone as his voice came back. “Yes, yes, this is Larry Lovell.”
Breathing a sigh of relief, she relaxed her grip on the phone. “Well, thanks for agreeing to be interviewed. I’m looking forward to meeting you. Do you have any free time this weekend?” she asked, feeling more confident now.
“It’s not a problem,” he mumbled. “Saturday mornings I’m at the library. Can you be there at ten o’clock?”
Fairday would have to check with her parents, but she didn’t think it would be a problem. “Sure. That would be great. It’s not too far. My family and I just moved into the old Begonia House.”
“D-did you say the B-Begonia House?”
“Yeah. I don’t know if you’re familiar with it?” She felt a rush of excitement as she waited for his response. From the moment Miss Mason told her about him, she’d been hoping he would know something about her house and its previous occupants.
“Oh yes. I am quite familiar with that house.” His voice turned grave as he added, “Quite familiar indeed. I wasn’t aware anyone had moved in there,” he murmured. “Yes, yes, this is very intriguing. Well, young lady, now I find myself compelled to ask you a few questions when we meet.”
Fairday gnawed at her bottom lip, contemplating what kinds of questions he would ask her. What could she possibly answer for him? Suddenly realizing he was still hanging on, she replied, “Well, I guess I’ll see you Saturday, and thanks again for agreeing to work with me.”
“No, dear, thank you. I must say you’ve given me a bit to think on.” Larry’s voice became stern as he added, “Be careful, Miss Morrow. Please be very careful.” She heard a click, and he was gone.
Fairday stood holding the phone midair, her mouth open. What did he mean? Who or what did she have to be careful of?
Fairday had planned to visit the library with Lizzy to research the home’s history. This was the icing on the cake, interviewing someone who actually knew about the Begonia House, besides the convenient point that she had to do all this for a project. Things were coming together. Saturday was going to be chock-full of surprises.
Scribbling down the meeting time, she skipped over to the laptop to email Lizzy. Keeping her partner informed about all the latest developments was top priority. Her eagerness about the upcoming weekend empowered her fingers to move in rapid keystrokes, and her thoughts flew onto the screen. She wrote about Marcus Brocket being a prospect for the DMS, including the fact that he had access to all sorts of detective equipment. Also, she touched on Marcus’s “rocket”-fast speed. Then she whipped off an abbreviated version of her conversation with Larry Lovell and mentioned the meeting at the library. Lizzy would be thrilled to hear about a potential new DMS member, and Fairday was sure she’d compile a list of intelligent questions to ask their interviewee.
Just as she clicked the send button, Mr. Morrow strode into the kitchen, doing his best impersonation of a train conductor, announcing that the gravy train was just about to pull into the station. Fairday turned and smiled up at her father, knowing this was his unique way of saying dinner was about to be served.
Mr. Morrow had outdone himself once again with a masterful cuisine of cheesy baked macaroni. Fairday felt satisfied and full as she placed the last dried dish back in the cabinet. Briefly glancing over at the hazy broken clock next to it, she noticed the time was still stuck at exactly three o’clock. Hmm. I wonder why it’s stopped. After all, the clock didn’t run on batteries; the stove was electric, and it was plugged into the same outlet, working perfectly fine. Had it stopped telling time at three in the morning or three in the afternoon? Fairday concluded there was no way to tell for sure. Was there any significance to that time? She made a mental note to jot it down in her DMS notebook and to ask her dad if he had tried to fix the clock yet, just in case it turned out to be important.
Now that dinner was done and her homework was completed, Fairday decided to get to work on the case. Knowing her parents would be preoccupied with fixing the house, she was looking forward to having a little more time to herself. Heading upstairs, she stopped in her room and grabbed her DMS pack. As she walked toward the door at the end of the hall, she couldn’t help but notice the painted faces hanging along the walls. Once again, she had the weird sensation of being monitored by their oily eyes.
The door creaked open, and Fairday began to climb the spiral staircase. Halfway up the winding steps, she suddenly heard the soft sound of bagpipes. Stopping dead in her tracks, she listened closely. The notes were sour and echoed around her for only an instant. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. Just then she heard her mother’s voice calling out to her. Mrs. Morrow’s hurried footsteps padded down the second-floor hallway. Breathlessly, she called out again, “Fairday, honey, where are you?”
Fairday twisted around on the stairs, answering, “I’m here, Mom,” her voice shaking a bit. Stepping down, she walked back to the door and peeked her head out.
“There you are! I swear, this place is like a maze!” Mrs. Morrow exclaimed, pushing back her smooth brown hair and adjusting Margo on her hip.
“Did you hear that noise a second ago?” Fairday blurted out.
“What noise, honey? Are you okay?” Mrs. Morrow reached out and lifted Fairday’s chin tenderly.
“I thought I heard…Um, I guess it was nothing.” Fairday shrugged, biting her thumbnail, worried that it was all in her head.
“Are you sure? You seem shaken.”
“Yeah, I’m okay.”
“All right, honey. I’m so sorry. I know you’re getting ready for Lizzy’s visit tomorrow, but I have so much to get together with the house right now.” She paused, looking apologetically down at Fairday, and added in a hushed voice, “Can you please watch Margo for a little while? Dad needs some time on the computer, and I don’t want to disturb him.”
Ugh, she thought, annoyance creeping over her. Fairday loved her sister, but there would be no real investigative work accomplished with Margo around. Sometimes being an older sister meant less time for herself. Reluctantly she replied, “Sure, Mom,” forcing a smile and stepping out of the doorway.
“Thanks, honey! I really appreciate it. And I’ll make sure you girls have all the space you need this weekend. I just changed Margo’s diaper and gave her a snack, so she should be pretty settled. You can bring her up there with you, if you want.” She motioned to the door behind Fairday as she handed Margo over. “But please, please make sure she stays out of trouble.” Fairday completely understood her mother’s concern; Margo could be a handful at times. Her mother spun around on her heels, adding, “Love you!” as she rushed down the hall.
Toting her sister in one arm and her DMS pack over the other, Fairday pushed open the door at the end of the hall with her foot. Mar
go’s head was turning left and right, eyes wide, as they wound up and up. When they reached the open archway, Margo caught sight of her own reflection in the mirror and pointed at it, shouting, “ME!”
Fairday smiled, admiring her sister’s bravery as she remembered jumping in fright when she first saw herself reflected in it. But there had been something very strange about her reflection that time. Fairday could have sworn she saw a door, slightly ajar, appear in the mirror. And two sparkling red shoes had been hastily retreating behind it. With everything else that had been happening, she had almost forgotten about that bizarre vision. She had chalked it up to her runaway imagination. But maybe there was something peculiar about that old mirror.
With a suspicious glance at it, she turned to the right and opened the door to the cluttered room. She gently set Margo on the floor. But before her sister could get a head start and run for the stairs or someplace else that was incredibly naughty, Fairday quickly turned and shut the door. Stepping in farther, she heard a crinkling under her foot and looked down to see what she had stepped on. She was surprised to find dried rose petals scattered across the floor. Odd, these weren’t here before. Reaching down, she picked one up, and it crumbled in her hand. Where could they have come from?
The sound of Margo knocking over the nearest empty cardboard box brought Fairday’s attention back to her little sister. As Margo crawled inside, Fairday pulled up the flap and pointed. “Okay, missy, now BE-HAVE!” Fairday accentuated the behave to make it sound like she was definitely the one in charge.
Margo popped out, smiling. And in her most matter-of-fact baby voice, she confirmed, “Mar-go BE-HABE. Okay, Far-fay.” Her tone suggested that Fairday was absolutely silly to think she would do anything other than act like an angel.
“Okay, as long as we understand each other,” Fairday said, patting Margo’s head just before it ducked back into the box.
With one eye on her sister, she sat on the floor and unzipped the DMS pack. Pulling out the notebook and pen, she flipped to the pages containing the list of items she had uncovered and wrote down the latest clues:
Time on stove clock: 3:00—Does this mean anything? Ask Dad if he tried to fix it.
Dried rose petals on the floor of secret room—weren’t there before.
They might be nothing, but best to keep track of everything that could be important. The DMS prided themselves on having all the facts straight.
Margo was still shuffling around in her newfound fort as Fairday began searching the room once again. She walked over to the bagpipe stuffed in the corner. “Ew, gross,” she mumbled as she picked it up and the cobwebs stretched off in long, sticky strands, the spiders scurrying away to darker places. It was pretty nasty, she thought, setting the instrument down on a table. The reed inside the mouthpiece was disgusting, tinged brown and green with mold. The red-and-black-plaid print was faded and worn, with holes gnawed through the fabric. Probably where all the spiders lived, she guessed.
Taking out her magnifying glass and flashlight, Fairday examined the instrument, though she tried not to touch it too much. After several minutes of close observation, she confirmed there was no possible way it had been played. But the more she recalled the music, the more she worried where these sounds were actually coming from. Maybe I’m going crazy. Opening the notebook once again, she updated her findings and conclusions, which at this point didn’t add up to much:
The bagpipe??? Covered in cobwebs and spiders/reed gross and moldy. Could it have been played? Is it a recording? *heard when we moved in (Sat.) and again today (Thurs.).
Fairday reread her notes and mused over the printout of the picture Lizzy had emailed. Her mind skipped to the mysterious shadow behind the willow tree. What exactly happened in this house? And who was Thurston Begonia? She was caught up in her thoughts, questions circling around like a carousel, when suddenly, a strange laugh broke through the silence. Her heart stopped. Jumping up, she scanned the room and saw the door was open. Hadn’t she shut it? She couldn’t hear Margo gurgling or bumping into anything. Where was she?
Fairday frantically raced over to the box and pulled up the flap. Nothing. Oh God! she thought. She couldn’t move fast enough, and ran out of the room. What she saw made her scream, “NO!” Unbelievably, in the mirror’s reflection, Margo was crawling through a door. She spun around, but there was only the empty archway. “What?” Fairday yelled, utterly confused. Turning back to look into the mirror, she couldn’t believe her eyes. Margo was almost gone, practically all the way through the opening of the nonexistent door. Without thinking, she dropped to her knees and stuck one arm into the mirror. “This is crazy!” she cried as her arm went right through the glass, which seemed to liquefy. Stretching as far as she could, Fairday managed to grab hold of Margo’s foot. Yanking hard, she tried desperately to pull her out. But something was stopping Margo from exiting the mirror. Fairday focused on the reflection and saw that her sister was tugging on something behind the door, something red and sparkling. “Please, God!” she pleaded as she held on to Margo’s foot. “Let go, Margo! Let it go!” Her voice rose in fear as she gave one great heave. Margo came flying out of the mirror. Fairday fell backward as her sister tumbled down on top of her.
She lay there, breathing hard, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Margo was all right; Fairday was relieved to hear her rosy giggle. Suddenly, a hard object dropped onto her face. She bolted upright and something fell into her lap. A shoe! Well, not just any shoe—a bright red high-heeled sneaker covered in rubies and diamonds. This is what I saw in the mirror. She held it up, taking note of the silky black ribbon tied to the heel.
Margo squirmed and reached out for it. “Where did this come from?” Fairday asked. The sneaker seemed to buzz with electricity, and pulsing vibrations moved through her fingers.
“My shoe, Far-fey? My shoe!” Margo shot out both a question and a statement, pointing to the treasure.
“This is really unbelievable, Margo! How did you get this?” Fairday asked, as though Margo were going to start speaking flawless English and explain how she had come across the extraordinary item. Clearly Margo could see the door in the mirror too!
“My shoe, my shoe, my shoe!” was the response, her tantrum voice growing louder with each declaration.
“Oh, right,” she said. At two years old, Margo wasn’t likely to see anything unusual about finding a jewel-encrusted high-heeled sneaker behind an invisible door that could only be seen through a mirror’s reflection. Nope, nothing at all odd about that! If it hadn’t been for the weight of the shoe in her hand, Fairday probably would have thought she was dreaming all this. What was going on?
Fairday heard footsteps running down the second-floor hallway, followed by her mother’s concerned voice. “Fairday, is everything all right up there?”
Immediately, she stood up and yelled down the stairs, “We’re fine, Mom.” Fairday then snatched up Margo and the shoe, noticing that the door was no longer in the mirror’s reflection. Not wanting to explain anything about what had just happened, she chucked the sneaker into the third-floor room and closed the door. It was just so unimaginable; who would believe her? Lizzy would, she thought as she rushed to pull herself together and smoothed out Margo’s hair and clothes. Fairday put on a calm face just as Mrs. Morrow appeared in the archway.
“I thought I heard you yelling.” Her mother was panting as she looked them both over. “What is going on?”
Fairday hated to lie, but she also didn’t know exactly how to explain that she had almost lost her sister in some crazy mirror, and the yelling had only been her freaking out about it. What would her mother think? After all, she wasn’t exactly sure what had just happened.
She started to shrug and give a noncommittal reply, when she was saved by her sister’s exclamation of “MA!” Margo reached out for her mother and Fairday handed her over, thinking how lucky it was that anything Margo said would just be chalked up as funny baby prattle.
“Hi, babypoo!
How’s my little snookiebear? Did you have fun up here with your big sister?” Mrs. Morrow took Margo and snuggled her close. Turning her attention to Fairday, she said, “Honey, I’m concerned. Is there anything you want to tell me?”
“No, I’m fine. Really! I was startled by a spider, that’s all.”
“Well, if you’re sure, then,” her mom said, looking skeptical. “You know if you want to talk about anything, I’m here.”
Before Fairday could respond, Margo blurted out, “My shoe, Mama. My pretty shoe.” Fairday froze.
“Whose shoe, baby? You want one of your shoes? Let’s go and get you settled for bed, and you can show me all of your shoes, all right, pumpkin?” Mrs. Morrow kissed Margo’s chubby cheek.
“Margo shoes?” Margo’s head popped up at the mention of her own stylish selection of pink and purple shoes, and a wide smile spread across her face.
Mrs. Morrow turned to Fairday. “Thanks for watching her, honey. It’s almost time for you to start getting ready for bed too. You’ll want to be well rested for your weekend with Lizzy tomorrow after school. I’m sure you girls will be up half the night poking around this place.” She turned to leave with Margo slung over her shoulder.
Fairday turned her attention to the mirror. It appeared to be functioning normally, with just her reflection looking back. Tentatively, she reached out and touched the surface. It was solid; her fingers brushed lightly over the smooth glass. She was now certain that someone or something was sharing this house with her family. Whatever or whoever it was had just attempted to steal her baby sister! Feeling scared, she stepped away from it. The thought of a stranger creeping around was very disturbing, but she couldn’t help feeling somewhat intrigued by the mystery of it all. Noticing the sheet her father had previously removed lying on the floor, she picked it up and threw it over the mirror, covering it. Perhaps the door couldn’t be opened if it was blocked. Though, of course, there was no way to be certain.
The Secret Files of Fairday Morrow Page 5
