Baby-Sitters' Fright Night

  My movement caught the attention of one of the guards. “Hey!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing in here?”

  I looked up from the scrap of paper to find everyone who had gathered around the now-empty display case staring at me.

  Don’t act guilty, I told myself. Of course the fact that they were all staring at me as if I were a suspect didn’t help.

  “I’m here on a class trip,” I squeaked out. “I had just come into the museum when the alarm went off.”

  The man in the suit suddenly nodded. “I remember you. You were here with a friend. Where is she?”

  “We were separated in all the excitement,” I said. It seemed the simplest explanation.

  One of the police officers said sharply, “What’s that in your hand?”

  I’d almost forgotten about the piece of paper. “Oh. A piece of paper — stationery — with numbers on it. I just found it under this case right here.” I walked forward, holding out the scrap of paper.

  The officer took the piece of paper by its edge and held it up. She read off the series of numbers. “This mean anything to anybody?”

  Everyone shook their heads. Then the guard volunteered, “But this room is vacuumed and mopped every single night. That paper had to have landed on the floor since then.”

  The other officer produced a plastic lock-top bag and dropped the scrap of paper in it.

  “Is it a clue?” I asked.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” said the woman suddenly. “Unless the police want you for questioning?” She looked at the officers.

  The first officer answered her. “I think we should secure the scene.” Then she turned to me. “Give me your name and number, and we’ll contact you later if need be.”

  The officer, who was wearing a badge with the name Saxon on it, led me out of the room and wrote down my name, the name of the inn, the names of all of our chaperons, and my home address and phone number. “Thanks,” she said. “You may go now.” She nodded toward the stairs leading down to the museum entrance.

  “You’re welcome,” I replied, trying to sound icily dignified, and miffed at being dismissed like a little kid. Adults! I was surprised she didn’t say “Run along and play!”

  I turned to go and my mouth dropped open. Mal’s newspaper spy was bounding noiselessly up the steps. He reached the top, and passed by without even noticing me. I watched him, waiting for Officer Saxon to hold out her arm and order him to halt in the name of the law.

  But she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward as the man held up what looked like a little wallet and flipped it open.

  “Officer Saxon,” said the man. “I’d like a complete briefing.”

  She nodded. “This way,” she said.

  And she led him inside.

  When I left Stacey, I headed straight for the front desk, where we’d had our tickets punched to admit us to Trove House. A guard appeared out of nowhere. “What are you doing here?” he practically screeched. “The museum is closed.”

  I held up my ticket. “We just came in and —”

  He didn’t let me finish. “Well, you can just go back out.” He put his hand on my shoulder and propelled me toward the door.

  “But my friend is still —”

  The guard’s walkie-talkie crackled.

  “Out, out, out,” said the guard. He opened the front door of the museum and pushed me through. I heard it close with a final thunk behind me, and I was standing alone on the steps of the museum.

  A small group of people had gathered on the walkway. They were watching a police car that had just pulled up at the entrance gate. Then they turned to look at me. I felt my face turn red. I didn’t like having all those strangers staring at me. I walked down the stairs just as another guard appeared and began to herd the whole group of people toward the gate. They must have closed off the museum grounds, too, I realized. What was going on inside of Trove House? Where was Stacey? And where was the rest of my group?

  The guard made us line up, and then he began to write down our names and addresses, checking identification for those who were old enough to have drivers’ licenses. I learned the answer to my question about the rest of the group when it was my turn to sign out: The names of everybody else, except Stacey, were already on the list. The guard looked up when I said my name aloud, ran his finger down to where Mr. Blake’s name was and said, “You’re with the Stoneybrook school group, right? Your teacher said for you to go straight back to the inn.”

  I nodded. For a moment I considered loitering around the entrance to wait for Stacey. Then I realized that it would be pointless. When she checked out, the guard would tell her the same thing.

  I headed back toward the inn, and turned down the path that led across the spacious lawn to the porch steps. Just as I put my foot on the bottom stair, I heard voices coming around the side of the inn. Something made me duck back into the evergreen bushes that grew beside the steps.

  A moment later, I felt foolish when I realized that the voices belonged to Agnes Moorehouse and Naomi Furusawa. The nurse was wheeling Mrs. Moorehouse around from the other end of the porch, where there was a ramp.

  “I’m ruined! My fortune is gone! It’s all over. I’ll end up in the streets!” Mrs. Moorehouse intoned.

  “You know that’s not true,” said Ms. Furusawa calmly. “Mrs. Moorehouse, you have plenty of money.”

  “Ha. That’s what everyone thinks,” said Mrs. Moorehouse sourly. “But the theft of that diamond will be the end of me, you mark my words.”

  “Now, Mrs. Moorehouse —”

  “Bankruptcy! Ruin! Or worse,” cried Mrs. Moorehouse. “Ruined! Ruined! Faster, Naomi. Get me to that museum!” Mrs. Moorehouse thumped the arm of her wheelchair impatiently. I could see her clearly from my hiding place. Rings flashed on her fingers. Bracelets shone on her arms. There were more sparkles at her ears. I realized that her hands had sparkled in much the same way the night before, as had her earlobes and her wrists. The Witch’s Eye wasn’t the only jewel Mrs. Moorehouse owned, unless all those rings and earrings and bracelets were fakes.

  The nurse, her expression surprisingly patient and untroubled, pushed Mrs. Moorehouse quickly down the path. She was as plainly dressed as Mrs. Moorehouse was dressed up. Although she wasn’t wearing a uniform, her outfit was almost exactly the same as the day before: pants, a cotton sweater, a blouse, comfortable shoes.

  She wasn’t very big, I noted, but she seemed strong. At Mrs. Moorehouse’s command, Ms. Furusawa had quickened her pace easily. A moment later the wheelchair bumped onto the sidewalk and disappeared from sight in the direction of the museum.

  The diamond? Stolen? Did she mean the Witch’s Eye? My heart skipped a beat. Was that what the alarm was all about? I stared after Mrs. Moorehouse. If the diamond had been stolen, someone must have just called her and told her about it, I reasoned. There was no other way she could have known about it so fast.

  But why was she saying she would be bankrupt? To own a famous gem like the Witch’s Eye, Mrs. Moorehouse had to be a wealthy woman. And I wasn’t sure, but I didn’t think people hired nurses to wheel them around unless they could afford to pay out a good amount of money. Then again, maybe insurance paid for that.

  Wait. Insurance! Surely Mrs. Moorehouse had insured the diamond. So even if the Witch’s Eye were the most valuable thing she owned, and it was stolen, wouldn’t she get an enormous amount of insurance on it?

  I mean, you couldn’t own something like the Witch’s Eye without having it insured. Then I remembered my father reminding Sharon, my stepmother, to pay the car insurance or she’d be driving without any insurance at all.

  Had Mrs. Moorehouse forgotten to pay her insurance? Could that be why she was so upset?

  Where was Stacey? The questions were churning in my brain, and since she’d managed to stay in the museum longer than I had, I was sure she would have some more information.

  Besides, Stacey would know about things like insurance. At least, I hoped she would. Peop
le who are good at math usually know things like that.

  I suddenly realized that I was still crouched in the bushes. Good grief! What if someone came along and found me there? How would I explain that?

  I put my hand down to push myself upright. It touched something soft and furry and very, very dead.

  I began to scream.

  A blister! Just what I needed! That’s what happens when you don’t stick to your tried and true brand of socks, I thought sourly.

  Not that it was a blister yet. Just one of those rubbed sore spots that could become a blister.

  I decided not to take any chances. I pulled alongside Coach Wu and told her the problem. With her permission, I peeled off from the jogging group as we swung back past the inn on our way toward the wharf.

  “Don’t go anywhere else unless you clear it with another chaperon first,” she reminded me.

  “Right,” I said. Where did she think I was going to go with a potential blister on my foot? Right up to my room to put gel and a Band-Aid on it, that’s where.

  But first, I nearly went to the moon. Really.

  I’d just reached the porch when a blood-curdling scream erupted from the bushes by the side steps. I leaped in the air and let out a little scream of my own, one of pure surprise. My heart stopped, I swear.

  As I returned to earth, cutting my own vocals short, I recognized the screamer.

  “Mary Anne!” I cried, and made a mad dash toward the sound. I hurtled down the steps and spun to face the bushes, which were swaying wildly.

  “Help me! Get it off me!” Mary Anne was nearly in tears.

  I stopped, and my heartbeat returned to something like normal. I stared, and then I couldn’t help it. I started to laugh.

  Mary Anne was engaged in hand-to-hand combat with what appeared to be a large black wig. I didn’t blame her for screaming. If I had a wig like that attack me, I’d have screamed, too.

  “Mary Anne. It’s okay!” I said. Reaching into the bushes, I tore the wig from her hand. I held it up and shook it. “See?”

  “Abby!” gasped Mary Anne. She emerged from the bushes, her face red. She was panting.

  “Having a bad hair day?” I asked sympathetically. “Or did you scalp somebody?”

  “Mary Anne looked from my face to my hand. “Oh,” she said.

  “If you don’t mind my asking, what are you doing lurking in the bushes? And where is everybody else?”

  “Uh, they’ve already come back from the museum. We had to leave early. There was a robbery.”

  “You’re kidding!”

  “No! The Witch’s Eye was stolen from the Trove Museum. They discovered it just as Stacey and I walked in. Then she and I were separated.”

  “And you were looking for Stacey in the bushes?”

  “No,” said Mary Anne seriously. “I hid because … well, I don’t know why. I heard someone coming and I just sort of ducked.”

  “Looks like you aren’t the first.”

  We both studied the wig. It was made of long, straight, shiny black hair. Up close, it didn’t look very natural. How had a wig ended up in the bushes? I looked up, vaguely wondering if it could have fallen out of a window.

  Mary Anne looked down at the ground and said, “There’s something else, something shiny.”

  “Maybe it’s the Witch’s Eye,” I suggested. I was kidding.

  Mary Anne didn’t seem to notice. “No,” she answered soberly. She bent forward and pushed her way back into the bushes. “It’s sunglasses,” she said. “I guess the sunlight was reflecting off the lenses. And look at this!”

  “What? What?” I couldn’t see past the branches, or Mary Anne, who was squatting on the ground now.

  “Clothes,” she said.

  “Kids playing games,” I suggested. “Like Alan Gray?”

  “I don’t think so.” Mary Anne backed out and turned around, holding out the sunglasses and what looked like a custodian’s jumpsuit. The name of the museum was embroidered in fancy script on the pocket.

  “Why would a custodian hide his — or her — stuff in the bushes here?” I said slowly.

  “The robbery!” gasped Mary Anne. “Maybe that’s how the thief got into the museum unnoticed.”

  I’d been reaching out for the sunglasses, but I drew my hand back. If they were a clue, the fewer fingerprints on them the better, although of course the criminal had probably used gloves. All criminals used gloves, didn’t they? It was standard criminal procedure.

  “The robbery,” I repeated. “Uh-oh.” I had a bad feeling suddenly. A mystery-is-about-to-happen feeling. Why had I thought for an instant that we’d have a nice, peaceful trip to Salem?

  “Tell me about the robbery,” I said, taking Mary Anne by the arm and steering her up the stairs. “Tell me all about it while we find someone who can take charge of this stuff. And call the police.”

  One of the owners of the inn, Mr. Hewson, was at the front desk. He sprang into action immediately and wouldn’t even let me go upstairs to fix my potential blister before the police arrived.

  I was walking — with an exaggerated limp — toward the gift shop just as Mr. Hewson, who was still on the phone with the police, said, “Martha Kempner? Yes. She just walked into the gift shop. Yes, I’ll tell her.”

  He hung up the phone and called out, “Ms. Kempner!” When she didn’t respond, he turned to us. “Girls — Mary Anne, Abby — would you please tell Ms. Kempner I need to give her a message?”

  “Yes, we’ll be glad to,” said Mary Anne politely.

  I kept limping. When I reached the door of the gift shop, which was at an angle from the front desk, I said, “Ms. Kempner? You’re wanted at the check-in desk.”

  Martha Kempner turned, a surprised expression on her face. She was even shorter than I remembered her to be. “Me?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said. “Mr. Hewson asked us to tell you.”

  “Oh. Well. Thank you.” Ms. Kempner bounded out.

  That’s when I saw the pumpkin. It was in a basket of hokey souvenirs near the door, a one-of-a-kind item calling my name. (I love souvenirs. You should see what I brought back from Hawaii!) I scooped it up. It was made of that fake ceramic stuff that doesn’t break easily, and painted a really bright orange. It had round eyes and a toothy grin. For a moment I thought it was part of a salt-and-pepper-shaker set that had lost its mate. But it wasn’t the right size and lacked the holes in the head.

  “The perfect pet,” I announced to the gift shop at large. “You don’t have to walk it, house train it, clean its litter, or take it to the vet. And, more importantly, I couldn’t possibly be allergic to it.” When I couldn’t find a price tag, I took the pumpkin over to the gift shop counter. “How much?”

  The shop clerk was leaning over the far end of the counter, staring out at the lobby, wide-eyed. The police had arrived. One officer was talking to Mr. Hewson. I didn’t see any others or Ms. Kempner, so I assumed she was being interviewed separately. Mary Anne was perched on a chair, looking apprehensive.

  “How much?” I repeated, as the clerk turned her head reluctantly toward me.

  “What? Oh.” She stared at the pumpkin I was balancing on my palm and wrinkled her forehead. “Gosh, I don’t know. Isn’t there a price on it?”

  Would I have asked if there had been a price on it? No. “No,” I said aloud.

  “Where did you find it?”

  “Over there,” I said, pointing to the basket.

  “Oh. I thought I knew all the merchandise, but that’s a new one. There must have been a new shipment, and the boss put stuff out without telling me.”

  “So how much?” I asked for the third time. I was feeling a little impatient. My foot hurt, I hadn’t finished my run, and I was about to be grilled by the police. I mean, give me a break.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’ll give you two bucks,” I said. “It’s got a little crack here at the bottom, see?”

  The clerk thought for a moment, then shrugged. “De
al,” she agreed. Pleased with my bargain, I paid for the pumpkin and carried it out into the lobby.

  Mary Anne was now in conversation with one of the police officers. She turned, saw me, and said, “There she is. Abby Stevenson. She was with me when we found the jumpsuit and the glasses.”

  “And I helped her subdue the wig,” I couldn’t resist saying.

  The inspector, a short, plump man with sideburns that made his round face seem even rounder, was not a jolly man. He did not smile. He wrote something in his notebook and said, “Abby Stevenson. And you and Mary Anne Spier are friends from school?”

  I started to say that I had never seen the girl before in my life. But my instinct for self-preservation stopped me. I nodded.

  The inspector (whose name was Frizell) motioned for us to sit down. Mary Anne and I pulled up a pair of antique chairs. Officer Frizell lowered himself onto a little bench and asked us lots and lots of questions. It was like taking a really boring test. At least I know all the answers, I thought.

  “Thank you,” Detective Frizell said at last. “I believe I have all I need here.”

  “You’re welcome,” said Mary Anne the ever-polite.

  “Our pleasure,” I added.

  Frizell pocketed his notebook and walked away.

  Mary Anne and I locked eyes. We didn’t have to say it. Each knew what the other was thinking.

  A mystery had fallen into our laps. This was a job for the Baby-sitters Club.

  “Eye of bat and apple core, beware who enters by that door!” chanted Jordan dramatically as Shannon and I walked into the Pike den. Sometimes we only need one sitter at the Pikes’, if the triplets are around. But today, Mrs. Pike requested two. It wasn’t hard to see why.

  “I can fly, I can fly, I can fly,” shrieked five-year-old Claire, racing through the room. A pair of large cardboard wings was attached to her back. They were crooked. If she had managed to fly, she would not have flown in a straight line. But then what little kid ever even runs in a straight line?