"Mr. Small, I'm calling you to inquire about your methods for obtaining the material for an article such as the one on Harrison Ledyard. It's a brilliant piece of reporting, by the way."
She covered the receiver and grinned at Caroline. "Flattery is a very effective way of getting information," she whispered.
Caroline could hear a man's voice on the telephone. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but Stacy was listening intently.
"Yes," said Stacy. "Oh, I see. Yes. Of course. Mr. Small, didn't you have to do any undercover-type work? I mean, you didn't consider looking through his trash cans or anything?"
Caroline could hear the man laugh. He went on talking.
"Oh," said Stacy, when he had finished. "I would certainly like to congratulate you on a fine job, Mr. Small."
"What?" Caroline could hear that the man was asking a question. "Mr. Small," said Stacy angrily, in her own voice, forgetting to use the fake one, "I wasn't rude enough to ask you how old you are. It's none of your business how old I am."
She listened as the man said something else. "Well," she said finally, "thank you for your interest. And for the information. Goodbye."
She hung up. She sat there glumly for a minute as Caroline watched; then she threw the telephone book across the room. It landed on the floor next to her backpack.
"Shoot," she said.
"What's the matter?" asked Caroline. "What did he say?"
"He said," said Stacy in an irritated voice, "that I should work on my school newspaper; that it's a good way to start to get experience in journalism. How did he know I was still in school? Didn't I sound mature?"
"I thought you did," acknowledged Caroline. "What else did he say? About Harrison Ledyard?"
Stacy groaned and flopped back on her pillow with her hands behind her head.
"He simply called up Harrison Ledyard and arranged an interview. Of all the dumb ways to go about investigative reporting. He went there for a day. He even took a photographer with him. What if the man had been a crazed murderer?" She sat back up and looked at Caroline. "What was his name—Michael Small? What a dope. He could have found himself, unarmed, right in the apartment of a brutal killer. Now if he had gone about it the way he should have, sifting through trash, doing surveillance work—"
"Stacy," suggested Caroline tentatively, "I think you're mixing up detective work and magazine work. I mean, maybe you are."
"Well," sighed Stacy. "The heck with Harrison Ledyard. Let him stay up there and vacuum with his hometown sweetheart. At least we have another case to work on. At least we know that other guy's a crazed killer. What was his name?"
"Frederick Fiske."
"And now at least we have some new ideas for methods, from Michael Small. We might consider calling for an interview and taking a photographer."
Caroline shuddered. "I don't think so, Stace. This guy isn't just a killer. He's a child killer. And you and me, Stacy, after all, we're—"
"Oh, Caroline," groaned Stacy. "I know. We're children. Don't remind me, please. Michael Small already brought it to my attention in a very tactless way."
There was a knock on the bedroom door. Caroline and Stacy both jumped. "Stand over there, Caroline," hissed Stacy under her breath, "by the closet door. I'll be here behind this chair. If they have weapons—"
The door opened. "Girls," said Mrs. Baurichter, looking in, "dinner's almost ready."
7
Caroline loved having dinner at the Baurichters'. She had eaten there before, and it was always wonderful—not just the food, although the food was always wonderful, but the whole atmosphere. The huge dining room, with deep gray walls and draperies; the crystal chandelier sparkling above the table; the tablecloth—tonight it was pale blue—and the silver candlesticks, with blue candles glowing and dripping wax slowly down their slender sides. At the ends of the table, at Stacy's parents' places, white wine stood in half-filled stemmed glasses. Once Caroline had asked Stacy why the wine glasses were always only half full, and Stacy had explained that that was the correct way to serve wine. Caroline planned to remember that the entire rest of her life so that she would never do it wrong.
At her own place, as well as Stacy's, across the table, there was a tall glass of ice-cold milk.
It was so different, Caroline thought, from her own house, where they ate dinner at the kitchen table because they had no dining room. J.P. always bolted his food with disgusting manners, because he was always in a hurry to get back to some project in his room. And Joanna Tate, Caroline's mother, was always tired and apologetic. Tired from work. Apologetic for the food.
"What's this?" Caroline had asked one night, poking suspiciously at a casserole.
"It's called Seafood Surprise," said her mother.
That sounded okay. Caroline spooned a big helping onto her plate. "What's the surprise?" she asked. "Why is it called Seafood Surprise?"
"Well, ah," her mother answered, beginning to sound apologetic, "it's because when you think 'seafood' you probably think of shrimp, lobster, scallops, right?"
"Right," said Caroline, with a forkful halfway to her mouth.
"Well, surprise!" said Joanna Tate. "It's all tuna fish!"'
"Oh," said Caroline sadly. By then she could tell it was all tuna fish. It was in her mouth.
"I'm sorry," said her mother.
"It's okay," Caroline had said. "Tuna fish isn't that bad."
At the Baurichters', nothing would ever be called "Surprise." From the kitchen door, the maid appeared with a tray, and carefully she placed a shrimp cocktail at each place.
I have died, thought Caroline, and gone to heaven. Shrimp cocktail. Even when her family went to dinner in a restaurant, which they did now and then for a special occasion, she could never order shrimp cocktail, because it always cost something like $6.00. She was allowed to order it only if she didn't have a main course.
Happily she speared her first shrimp, after waiting to be certain that Mrs. Baurichter had picked up her fork. Heaven.
"Tate," said Mr. Baurichter suddenly.
"What?" said Caroline with her mouth full. It was startling, to be called "Tate" by Stacy's father, who was wearing a three-piece suit and looked very distinguished. Sometimes Stacy called her "Tate," or some of her other friends, yelling across the school grounds: "Hey, Tate! Wait up!"
"Tate," he said again. Apparently he was only thinking about the name. "I don't think we know any Tates, do we, Helen?"
"I can't recall any," murmured Mrs. Baurichter.
"Of course there's the Tate Gallery," Mr. Baurichter said, wiping his mouth with the pale blue napkin. "Does your family have any connection with the Tate Gallery, in London, Caroline?"
"I don't think so," said Caroline.
"Did Stacy tell me you live on the West Side?"
"Yes. I take the crosstown bus to school," said Caroline politely.
Mrs. Baurichter wiped her mouth and placed her knife and fork on her plate. Caroline couldn't believe it. She had eaten only two shrimp. She was leaving shrimp uneaten. "You're fortunate to live on the West Side," said Mrs. Baurichter. "Many creative people live over there. Musicians, writers; I imagine you have many fascinating neighbors."
"A violin player lives in my building," Caroline told her.
"Really?" asked Mrs. Baurichter with interest. "Whom does he play with?"
Panic. Caroline thought as hard as she could about Mr. DeVito. As far as she knew, he was the only violin player at the Little Hungary Cafe.
"He's a soloist," she said finally.
"No one will ever measure up to Oistrakh," said Mr. Baurichter firmly. "At least not in the Sibelius Concerto."
"Well, it's all a matter of preference," said Mrs. Baurichter. "What does your father do, Caroline?"
"Well, ah, he's in sporting goods," Caroline said, and ate another shrimp.
"That's interesting," said Stacy's father. "I play a lot of squash, myself. Does your father—"
"He lives in Des Moines," Caroline exp
lained hastily. "My parents are divorced, and I live with my mother. My mother works in a bank."
The maid came in and took away the shrimp plates. Caroline was the only one who had eaten all of her shrimp. Sadly she watched the uneaten shrimp disappear, heading for the kitchen. She hoped the maid would get to eat them.
Mr. Baurichter stood up, picked up the wine bottle, and added wine to his wife's glass and then his own. He made them just half full again.
"I find it remarkable," he said, "how many women are entering banking these days. It used to be a male-dominated profession, like law and medicine. Now the vice-president of my bank is a woman, and—"
"Mr. Baurichter," interrupted Caroline. Even though she knew it was rude to interrupt, she wanted to set the record straight. "My mother's only a bank teller. She's not really what you would call a banker."
"Caroline's family doesn't have much money," Stacy explained matter-of-factly. "She and her brother both have full scholarships at school. And they're practically the smartest kids in the whole school, even though Caroline's lousy at math."
"Well, good for you, Caroline!" said Mr. Baurichter. "Tell me, do you have any idea what you want to be when you grow up?"
Most kids hated it when grownups asked that. But Caroline didn't mind. It sounded as if Mr. Baurichter was really interested.
"Yes," she said proudly. "I'm going to be a vertebrate paleontologist."
"KID DIGS PALEOLITHIC AGE," headlined Stacy.
"Actually," explained Caroline politely, "it's the Mesozoic Era that interests me most."
The maid brought in plates of steak. Sizzling, juicy, thick. Paradise, thought Caroline.
"Goodness," said Mrs. Baurichter, "you certainly live in the perfect place, then, over near the Museum of Natural History."
"Yes." Caroline grinned and picked up her steak knife. "I spend a lot of time there."
"You know," said Stacy suddenly, "even though you said all those creative people live on the West Side, we have a writer here in our own building. Harrison Ledyard."
Mrs. Baurichter groaned; a tasteful, quiet sort of groan.
"That man," she said, "is a complete bore."
The maid had appeared again and was coming around to each place. She was putting something down in front of each person. It was something weird. Caroline watched. Maybe it was some strange sort of decoration. Each one was a huge, fat, gray-green thing with what looked like leaves all over it. Looking out of the corner of her eye, Caroline saw that each of them—Mr. Baurichter, Mrs. Baurichter, and Stacy—was reaching for the thing. With their fingers.
"What do you mean, a bore?" asked Stacy. "I didn't even know you knew him."
"We went to a cocktail party at his apartment last week," her mother explained. Caroline watched in amazement as she removed a piece of the giant gray-green object, dipped it into a sauce, and then—yes—actually put it into her mouth. Stacy was doing the same thing. She was doing it as if it were no big deal; as if it were a casual, everyday event to eat a huge, gross, leafy thing.
Mrs. Baurichter went on. "He had a party to celebrate his marriage. So we went and met his new wife, who was actually rather charming—though somewhat out of her element, I think. She's from the Midwest. I'm sorry, Caroline, I know you said your father lives in Des Moines. I didn't mean to disparage the Midwest."
Caroline wasn't even listening. She chewed her steak slowly, watching them actually eat those nauseating things. And hers was still sitting there in front of her. She focused all her mental powers on it, willing it to disappear. But it stayed right there.
"But he is a crashing, colossal bore. Wouldn't you say so, Paul?"
Mr. Baurichter nodded his head in agreement. Caroline glanced at Stacy. Stacy had stopped eating altogether. No wonder, thought Caroline. She finally came to her senses and realized that she had been chewing on a repulsive object.
"We had to listen to him tell all about his work, which, frankly, was terribly dull, and then he told all about his courtship of this woman, which lasted, apparently, for years. He monopolized every bit of conversation at the party. I suppose we'll have to invite them here sometime, but—" Mrs. Baurichter continued to talk about Harrison Ledyard. Stacy was glowering.
Suddenly Caroline realized why. All those hours Stacy had spent wallowing through Ledyard's trash. She could simply have asked her parents; they knew Harrison Ledyard. They could have told her all about him. Poor Stacy. Life as an investigative reporter was filled with hazards and frustrations.
Finally Stacy shrugged and began to eat some more of the big round gray-green thing. Caroline looked at hers again. She looked away. She took another bite of steak.
"Hey, Caroline," said Stacy, "if you're too full to eat your artichoke, can I have it? I love artichokes."
Caroline smiled politely and passed the disgusting thing across the table to Stacy. Artichoke. So that's what it was called. She hoped her mother never discovered that they existed.
***
Later, after they had done their homework and gotten into their pajamas, Caroline and Stacy were lying on the beds in Stacy's room again. Miraculously, during dinner, a maid had come in and picked up Stacy's sweater, folded it, and put it into a drawer. Her backpack had been placed on her desk.
"Sometimes I really wish I were rich," said Caroline, staring at the ceiling. "But if I were rich, maybe I wouldn't ever have the motivation to be a vertebrate paleontologist. Maybe I would go to Asia Minor, and instead of digging in the desert, I would just want to stay in a Hilton Hotel. I wouldn't want that to happen."
"It wouldn't," Stacy answered. "Because look at me for Living Proof. My family's pretty rich—so I guess that makes me rich—but I still plan to work very hard. I already work hard at being an investigative journalist." She giggled. "Even if I go about it wrong, sometimes. Harrison Ledyard—what a bogus adventure that was! Me down there in his trash cans looking for clues, for heaven's sake, and the whole time he was upstairs practically sending out newsletters!"
"You know," said Caroline, "even if he's a colossal bore, like your folks said, I sort of wish that my mother had met him. There he was, an eligible bachelor, and my mother didn't even meet him. My mother never seems to meet any eligible men."
"Caroline," said Stacy in a solemn voice, "I am very worried about your mother."
"Oh, Stace, you don't need to worry about her. We're not headed for the poorhouse or anything. And she's not even miserably unhappy. It's just that she never gets to go out on dates or anything. Right at this very moment she's sitting at home, probably doing a crossword puzzle."
"That's why I'm worried. She's sitting at home—alone, except for J.P.—"
"Who is useless. He'll be in his bedroom, inventing something. He doesn't even play Scrabble."
"I'm not talking about games and entertainment and conversation, Caroline," said Stacy, who was sitting up now, talking in a low, hushed voice. "I'm talking about what might also be sitting alone, upstairs, above your mother." She paused dramatically.
"The Great Killer." Now Caroline sat up, too. "Frederick Fiske."
"Right. I'm sure he's there in his apartment at this very minute. Friends describe him as a loner, I'm absolutely sure of it."
"Stacy, can I use your phone?"
Caroline dialed the number of her apartment. When her mother answered, she said, "Mom, are you okay?"
"Sure." Her mother laughed. "I'm watching a dumb TV show and painting my fingernails, just for fun. I'll have to take the polish off, because they don't allow it at the bank, but it's kind of fun to try it out. How about you, Caroline? Are you okay? You're not homesick, are you?"
"I'm fine, Mom," Caroline said impatiently. "It's you I'm wondering about. How's the building? Is everyone in the building home tonight?"
"Caroline," her mother said and laughed again, "I haven't made an exhaustive study of that, the way you would. Let me see. Vinnie DeVito's at the Little Hungary, of course, because he never gets home till midnight. But Billy and his
mother are home; I saw them coming in from the park about five-thirty."
"I wasn't really thinking of the DeVitos. How about—well, how about the other people in the building, Mom?"
"Nobody home on the second floor. Did I tell you that Miss Edmond is in the hospital? Nothing serious, though; she had some minor surgery, and she'll be home next week. I sent her a card and signed all our names."
Miss Edmond was the retired schoolteacher who lived alone on the second floor.
"Who else, Mom?" asked Caroline tensely.
Her mother said lightly, "The Carrutherses are definitely home. I can hear them. They're chasing each other around the apartment again."
Jason and Nell Carruthers were newlyweds who had recently moved into the fourth floor. Caroline liked them. Nell Carruthers was an actress who sometimes made TV commercials; she was very glamorous on TV, where she used a hair conditioner and then cantered on a horse along a sunny beach. But in real life she wore jeans all the time, and her hair in a long pigtail. Her new husband was lighting director for a theater. They ran around their apartment, laughing and shrieking very noisily in the evenings, playing tag or something.
"And, ah, what about the fifth floor, Mom?" Caroline asked nervously.
"Fred Fiske? I don't know if he's home or not. I haven't seen him this evening. Why on earth are you interested, Caroline?"
"Stacy and I were watching TV," Caroline lied, "and they said that there was a burglar loose in the city. So I was worried."
Her mother hooted with laughter. "Caroline, there are a thousand burglars loose in New York City. You know that as well as I do. Remember J.P. had his lunch money stolen just last week? And by a little old lady? That was the weirdest thing, a little old lady—"
"Mom, be sure to lock all the locks on the door, okay?"
"I always lock all the locks, Caroline. You know that. Relax. Did you do your homework?"
"And the windows, Mom. Be sure to lock the windows."
"Homework, Caroline. Did you do your homework?"