Amanda was shaking so hard she could barely walk. She didn’t always get along with her father, but now she felt a surge of affection for him. They may have had their problems but he didn’t deserve this.
At the same time she was outraged. This was his own fault, and her mother’s. They were always shooting off their mouths about how important they were. If her mother hadn’t pushed her father so hard, he wouldn’t have run for district attorney back in L.A., he wouldn’t have made so many enemies, and he’d be safe. And maybe, just maybe, she wouldn’t be stuck here in this miserable school in a freezing cold country where they didn’t know how to cook.
Anger aside, she was genuinely worried. Her father might be killed! She wondered where he was and whether he was being beaten or worse. Fury and worry overcame her and she started to run.
The good thing about barreling along the hall was that it emptied her mind. The bad thing was that she ran smack into Professor Stegelmeyer, who was holding a brand new microscope, which slipped out of his hands and shattered on the floor. But before he could say anything, Amanda was running again. She ran out the south door toward the garage, then to the right and all the way around the school, past the gluppy things, past the secret room, past the kitchen and the girls’ dorm. She was so distraught that she didn’t notice whether she was tired.
At last she went back inside. She entered the east door, sat down in the common room, and stared at the fire. She rarely got to see lit fireplaces back home. The weather was always too hot, except for maybe a week in December. The sight mesmerized and calmed her, and she watched for a very long time.
Then Ivy and Amphora came in. She didn’t want to talk to them, or anyone. She got up and walked right past them without a word. Amphora called after her, “Amanda, what’s wrong?” and she heard Ivy say, “What’s happening?” She ignored them and continued on toward Administration.
As soon as she reached Thrillkill’s office she realized she was being irrational. The headmaster had said he would let her know. He wouldn’t be pleased if she started bugging him. Despite his sensitivity to her situation, he was a buttoned up sort of person, and it wouldn’t be a good idea to push him. Maybe she could figure out this thing with her father herself.
Where should she start? She thought of Darius Plover’s words: if you know why, everything else will follow. But it was obvious why. Her father had lots of enemies—people he’d put in prison, their families, attorneys he’d gone up against, judges—the list was endless. How could she possibly work with that?
Think! How long had they been in this country? A few weeks. Was it possible he’d already made enemies here? Unlikely. There hadn’t been time. Had someone from the U.S. followed him here? They’d have to hate him very much to go to all that trouble. Had he prosecuted anyone in Los Angeles who had UK ties? She didn’t think so.
There was too much going on: her father, the explosion, the secret room with all that pink sugar and those awful slimy things, Simon’s suspension, the cook and her weird movements, drops of blood (what were those anyway?), her classes, her movie, Darius Plover, Nick, her neglected friends. She stopped. Aside from Nick and Simon, Amphora, Ivy, and Editta were the first real friends she’d ever had and she was pushing them away. Why was she sabotaging herself like that?
Maybe Professor Thrillkill was right. Maybe she should go talk to Professor Also. If she didn’t let some of this out she’d explode, just like the garage.
She walked next door, to Professor Also’s office. Fortunately the teacher was in. When she saw Amanda, she welcomed her warmly and motioned for her to sit in the rolling chair opposite her desk, upon which sat one of those silly-looking troll pens. The teacher’s hair was frizzier than usual, even more so than the troll’s. Amanda thought Thrillkill’s hair dryer might help straighten it out but wasn’t about to make the suggestion.
“Miss Lester, I am so sorry to hear about your father,” said the professor. Thrillkill must have told her about the kidnapping. How many other people knew?
“Thank you, Professor.”
“How can I help?” said the teacher, picking up the pen and finger-brushing the troll’s green hair.
“I’m not sure. I just thought it might help to talk to someone. I don’t really want to tell my friends because they’ll just hover, but I suppose they already know.”
Professor Also put the pen down. “Headmaster Thrillkill made it absolutely clear that the faculty is not to discuss this matter with the other students.”
“They’ll know. We’re talking about detectives.”
“So we are,” said the teacher. “I’m afraid the cat is probably out of the bag, but I would still like to talk with you.” Amanda noticed a snow globe on the shelf behind the teacher. There was a hobbit house in the middle. Professor Also turned around and grabbed it. “I see you like my globe. It was a gift. Would you like to shake it?” She held out the globe.
Amanda took the globe and shook. Snow drifted down onto the Shire. “You write detective stories, don’t you?” she blurted out. Where did that come from?
“Yes,” said Professor Also, pointing to a row of books on her shelf. There must have been at least twenty of them, all with her name on the spine. Amanda hoped they weren’t like Professor Stegelmeyer’s horror novels. “Cozies.”
“Why?” said Amanda.
“Why?”
“Why do you do it?” She shook the globe again, this time turning it upside down.
“Your mother writes detective stories. Haven’t you discussed this topic with her?”
“We don’t get along too well.”
“Ah,” said the teacher. “I see.”
“That’s part of what’s bothering me,” said Amanda watching the flakes. “I feel guilty because I don’t actually like my parents.” She shook the globe violently. The snowflakes flew around at blizzard speed.
“And you’re worried that because of that, you’re somehow responsible for what happened to your father,” said Professor Also, eyeing the roiling globe.
“Yes.”
“I know exactly what you’re going through.” The teacher placed her elbows on her desk and steepled her fingers.
“You do?” Amanda set the globe down. The water was still eddying.
“Yes. You see, I was in somewhat the same boat when I was young.”
“You were?” said Amanda.
“Yes.” Professor Also leaned forward conspiratorially. “I didn’t get along with my parents either.”
“That’s not so unusual. A lot of kids don’t.”
“No, but what is rather unusual is that when my mother died, I thought it was my fault.”
“You did?” Amanda wasn’t sure what to say to that. Should she express condolences? It was probably a long time ago. When do you stop saying you’re sorry someone died?
“Yes. And in a way it was.”
“No! I don’t believe that.” She really didn’t. Professor Also was way too nice to have done something so awful.
“It’s true. You see, I told someone something I shouldn’t have, and someone else found out about it, and that indirectly led to my mother’s death.” The teacher picked up the globe and held it upside down, then turned it right side up. The snow came down as a gentle dusting.
“That’s terrible! Didn’t you feel awful? I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“That’s all right, Amanda. No offense taken. I did feel awful, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. The thing is, though, that there’s always more to any story than you think. For a long time I believed I was the reason my mother died, but eventually I discovered that what I’d said had nothing to do with it. And the same is true in your case. How could you have possibly done anything that would have led to your father’s kidnapping?”
“When you put it like that—”
“Exactly. It’s not helping the situation to blame yourself. What’s important now is finding your father and getting him home safely.”
“All right,” said Amanda, twirling h
er hair around her finger. “Say I accept what you’re telling me and stop blaming myself. How can I find my father?”
“You don’t trust the police?” The teacher put the globe back on the shelf and turned it around so the hobbit house was facing them.
“No.”
“Well, maybe there are things you can do. I would say the first thing is to rack your brain and see if you can think of someone who might have done this.”
Amanda looked down at her hands. “I’ve done that already. I can’t think of anyone.”
“Fair enough. In that case I’d say it’s time to investigate.” She smiled as if imparting a wonderful secret.
“Really?”
“Yes, really.”
“Why aren’t you telling me to leave this to the police?”
“Because I’m a detective,” said the professor. “And so are you.”
Amanda broke into a huge grin. “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you very much.”