“I’ll catch you yet, with my net,” sang her older sister Vanessa. Vanessa wasn’t casting a spell. She wants to be a poet and frequently speaks in rhyme. She zipped through the room after Claire, a large net held high. Vanessa rarely moves that fast; she’s more often found writing poetry in one of her “private” notebooks.
I ducked one way and Shannon ducked another as they burst out of the room.
“See,” said Jordan, “I told you to beware.” Then he ran out, too.
Mrs. Pike stuck her head in the door. “You just need to keep the insanity to a medium level until five-thirty,” she told Shannon and me. “I’m hoping they’ll burn off some Halloween energy early.”
“No problem,” I said. Secretly, I was wondering whether Shannon and I wouldn’t need a book of baby-sitting spells. Not that either of us believe for one minute in spells. There is no such thing as a spell.
But clearly the Pikes were either believing, or pretending they believed, in Jordan’s newly acquired spell-casting abilities, and I couldn’t help thinking that maybe baby-sitters could play this game, too, turning it to our advantage. Not that we necessarily needed drastic measures of any sort with the Pikes. They represent high energy compounded by sheer numbers, but baby-sitting for them is usually fun, not like sitting for sullen or rude kids. Or those kids — like this family we once sat for — whose parents were serious bigots, and were trying to teach their kids to behave the same way. If spells really worked, they would have been good candidates.
Come to think of it, if those people had been moved back in time a few hundred years, I could imagine them accusing other people of being witches and wanting them hanged for it.
Hmmm.
“I hate to ask, ‘Where is everybody,’ but …” Shannon said to me as soon as Mrs. Pike had gone. She and I were now standing in an empty den. Pike-free.
I was still thinking about spells. I said, “Maybe Jordan put a spell on the whole family and made them invisible.”
“Shh! Don’t give him any ideas,” said Shannon in mock horror.
She and I split up and went to hunt for the various Pikes.
Nicky, who’s eight, was in his room, with coins spread out around him. He looked up when Shannon poked her head into his room and said, “Hi.”
“You look like a banker,” Shannon teased him. “Is that how we’re going to be paid for baby-sitting today? In pennies?”
Nicky peered at her through his glasses, then smiled slightly. “No. Dad brought home rolls of pennies from the bank, and I’m going through them to find old ones that are valuable. You can do that sometimes. I once found an old penny that was worth five whole dollars!”
“That’s a good return on the investment,” Shannon commented.
“Uh-huh,” said Nicky, losing interest in Shannon and the conversation as he opened another roll of pennies and spread it out on the floor around him.
Vanessa and Claire had abandoned their chase and had also taken to the floor. They were in Vanessa’s room, with Claire’s cardboard wings spread out flat, along with what looked like at least a hundred crayons, plus the B volume of the World Book Encyclopedia, open to the color plates of butterflies. Margo, who is seven, was with them, too.
Shannon didn’t need to ask what was going on. Clearly, the wings were about to be decorated butterfly-style.
Meanwhile, I had tracked Jordan, Byron, and Adam down to the dining room table. Make that under the dining room table. They were huddled beneath it with a blanket draped over the top. The lights were off, and Jordan was holding a flashlight to illuminate the blanket cave.
As I lifted up one side of the blanket, Jordan whisked something out of sight. “Halt,” he said, making his voice deep. “Who goes there? Who dares enter Merlin’s Cave?”
“Hi, guys. What’s up?”
The triplets exchanged glances. Then Jordan intoned, “We shake, we bake, our spells to make.”
“What have you got there? The Shake ’n Bake Spell book?” I couldn’t resist asking.
“Be gone or be poofed!” said Jordan thunderously.
“Poofed?” I asked. I didn’t laugh. And it wasn’t easy.
“Poofed. You know, I cast a spell on you and ‘poof!’ you vanish. Or turn into something else,” said Jordan.
Adam and Byron nodded solemnly. Then Adam added, “We’re working on a spell to help Claire fly when she is wearing her butterfly wings.”
Holding up my hands and letting the edge of the blanket drop, I said, “I’m poofing, I’m poofing.” I headed toward the den and met Shannon on her way back from Vanessa’s room. For the moment, at least, the Pikes were all relatively peacefully occupied. But that could change at any second. Like good baby-sitters, Shannon and I decided to be prepared by having a snack ready and waiting in the kitchen. We also decided that in half an hour, even if there hadn’t been any eruptions, we’d gather everyone together to eat the snack.
“And maybe we should just mention that you can’t really cast spells, and you shouldn’t believe in them,” I suggested. I told Shannon about the flying magic the triplets were concocting for Claire.
“Yes,” agreed Shannon. “Although Claire will probably find out soon enough, if she tries to fly.”
At that moment the phone rang.
I picked it up. “Pike residence,” I said.
“Jessi? It’s me. Mal.”
“Mallory! Hey! Are you guys having fun?”
“I can’t fill you in right now, Jessi. I don’t have time. This is important!” said Mal urgently.
I snapped to attention. “Mal, what is it? What’s wrong?”
Shannon, who had been putting out plates and napkins, looked up.
“The Witch’s Eye has been stolen. Stacey and Mary Anne were in the museum when the alarm went off. Kristy and I were at the House of the Seven Gables, but Stacey found a clue in the museum and then Mary Anne and Abby found another one in the bushes outside the hotel….”
I looked at the phone. Had Jordan cast a long-distance spell on Mallory, making her lose her reason? “Mal! Mallory! Slow down. You’re not making any sense. For starters, what is a Witch’s Eye?”
I could hear Mallory take a deep breath at the other end of the phone. “Sorry,” she said at last. “There is this diamond —”
“Wait a minute. I think Shannon should hear this, too.” Shannon nodded and whisked out of the kitchen. A minute later I heard the click of the extension in the den being picked up.
“Hi, Mallory,” said Shannon. “What’s up?”
Mallory took another deep breath. “There is a famous diamond called the Witch’s Eye,” she began. “And it is right here in Salem, on display for Halloween. Or it was, until it was stolen from the Trove House Museum this morning.”
We listened closely as Mallory told us what had happened. When she’d finished, Shannon said, “Amazing. Absolutely amazing. You went on a perfectly ordinary school trip and you’ve landed in the middle of a mystery.”
“Yes,” said Mallory, “but I can’t solve it without your help.”
I admit it. As Mal was talking, I had been feeling a little envious and left out of the adventure. Now, this was more like it! I immediately started feeling better. “Definitely!” I said. “What do you want us to do? Research at the library? Follow a local suspect? You name it.”
We baby-sitters have done all that and more, in the process of solving other mysteries.
But Mal’s next words punctured that balloon. “No, no, no,” she said impatiently. “Nothing like that. Just send me the mystery notebook. I — we — have to have it.”
“What?” I said.
“The mystery notebook,” Mallory repeated. “You know, the one I helped put together from all the notes about the other mysteries in our club notebook, remember? When we were being followed by that stalker?”
“I remember. But how is that going to help you solve this mystery? Do you already have a suspect? Someone we know about and made notes on? If you do, I can look
it up for you.”
“No,” said Mallory, sounding surprised. “Where did you get that idea?”
“Because you said having the notebook would help you solve the mystery.” It was my turn to sound a little impatient.
“Well, of course. We have to make notes in the notebook to solve the mystery, don’t we? I mean, what am I supposed to do? Keep a list of clues in my social studies notebook?”
“It doesn’t matter where you write the clues down to solve the mystery,” put in Shannon.
She was right, of course.
But Mal was having none of it.
“No,” she insisted. “I have to have the notebook. Listen. Coach Wu’s husband is supposed to drive up with Mr. Blake’s wife to join us for the weekend. Can you give the notebook to them, and they can bring it to me?”
I gave up. “Will do,” I said. “Meanwhile, I guess you’ll have to keep the mystery notes on inn stationery, or something.”
“Wellll … okay,” said Mal. “I guess it will be all right, as long as I can transfer all the notes to the notebook just as soon as it gets here.”
“Call if you need any more help with the mystery,” I said. “Anything at all.”
“No, that should do it,” Mal said happily, and hung up.
Shannon was laughing when she came back into the kitchen. “Sorry, Jessi,” she said, as we returned to putting out snacks. “I don’t mean to laugh at Mal. I can tell she’s really excited about this, and I’m sure I would be, too. It’s just that she sounded as obsessed with that book as Jordan is with his spell book.”
“I know,” I answered. “I guess we have our hands full right here.” When the Pikes had assembled around the table a few minutes later, I looked around. “Where’s Nicky?”
“Still in his room,” replied Margo.
Shannon stood up, ready to go find him, but was stopped when Nicky burst into the kitchen, holding something high. “I found it! I found it! Another five-dollar penny! The spell Jordan cast worked. It worked!”
Claire leaped up, her cardboard wings (now a riot of colors) flapping crazily. “I’m going to fly!” she announced. “Wheee!”
It took a few minutes to restore order. The fact that Jordan folded his arms smugly and just sat there with a “See, I told you so” look on his face didn’t help.
When everyone had calmed down and was more or less refocused on their snacks, Shannon and I exchanged glances. Then I cleared my throat. “You do know that you can’t really cast a spell, don’t you, Jordan?”
We gave the Pikes the “There is no such thing as a magic spell” speech. But we weren’t sure we succeeded.
After all, how could we argue with a five-dollar penny?
He’d nailed me again. I should have seen it coming, but I didn’t. After breakfast, we assembled with our buddies, plus Mrs. Bernhardt and our local guide, and walked to the House of the Seven Gables. As we walked, the guide pointed out the Salem Maritime National Historic Site. “Although Salem is most famous, or perhaps infamous, for the Witch Trials of sixteen ninety-two, don’t forget that in the seventeen hundreds it was known throughout the world as a port of trade,” she told us. “In fact, it was the sixth largest port in this country.” The guide showed us the Custom House, where Nathaniel Hawthorne once worked, and told us that our admission fee to the House of the Seven Gables historic site would be used for the upkeep of the house, and to support a settlement house that helps people in the neighborhood. “Old and retired sailors, by the way, were known as ‘old salts,’ from having been on the salty seas for so long,” she informed us.
Mal whipped out her notebook and scribbled away. When we arrived, Mal counted the gables just to make sure there were seven. She wasn’t the only one. We toured the house itself (where we learned that Nathaniel Hawthorne never actually lived there, but he used to visit his cousin Susannah Ingersoll, who did) and the other cool old houses that were part of the site.
On the way back to the inn, we convinced Mrs. Bernhardt and the guide that we had to check out a local candy store. I was surveying the trays of chocolate behind the glass (and thinking that it was too bad Claudia wasn’t with us) when Alan said, “Wow. Free samples!” He scooped one up into his mouth and passed a little dish to me. It only had one chocolate on it. That should have tipped me off. But I wasn’t thinking. I took the chocolate and put it in my mouth.
And spit it out in my hand again. “EEUUUUWW!” I screeched. “That’s disgusting! It’s salty!”
Everyone in the store looked at me, and two women who had been standing next to me moved away with looks that said, “Kids. No manners!”
I was gagging, and groping for a napkin to put the disgusting salty, gooey mass in so I could throw it away (and wipe my hands), when I realized that Alan was practically laughing his stupid head off.
A candy store clerk came bustling out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his white apron. “Is everything okay?” he asked.
I was mortified. I swallowed hard, trying to get the taste of salt out of my mouth and said, “Yes. I’m sorry. It was a, uh, flavor I’m allergic to.” How could I explain that Alan had offered me a salted chocolate — and I had fallen for it?
I saw Mrs. Bernhardt looking over at me and forced myself to smile. At last the clerk went away and everyone stopped staring at me and went back to staring at the chocolates.
Spinning around to face Alan, I said, “You, you, you despicable worm.”
Cary Retlin, who’d been leaning against the wall with his arms folded, watching the show, straightened up. “I guess this makes you an old salt, then, Kristy.”
I turned my back on both of them and went outside to breathe Alan-and-Cary-free air. Mal came out to join me. “At least they didn’t slip you one of those antique Gilbraltars,” she said, referring to a kind of candy that was originally popular because it could survive long sea voyages. A jar of Gilbraltars, with a label explaining that the candy inside was 150 years old, had been on display in the shop.
“That is no consolation,” I said. I brooded over the Alan problem all the way back to the inn.
Of course, things weren’t any better there. As we walked up to the Salem Gables and saw the police car out front, I realized that I must have missed out on some kind of excitement, probably at the very moment I was being salted by Alan. It did not help my mood.
While the others giggled and pointed at the side of the police car, which featured the silhouetted witch on a broomstick that is part of Salem’s town symbol, and Mrs. Bernhardt suggested that we all take a break in our rooms until it was time to meet downstairs for lunch, I charged up the stairs and into the inn.
“What happened?” I demanded. “What’s going on?”
At the front desk, Mr. Hewson had opened the registration book for a funny-looking man to examine (I later found out that he was Detective Frizell, who had interviewed Abby and Mary Anne). He looked up at my outburst.
“There’s a police car out front,” I pointed out.
“We’re conducting an investigation here,” said the funny-looking man severely.
“Of what?” I asked.
Mr. Hewson was about to answer, but Detective Frizell cut him off. “There has been a theft, and some clues may have turned up here at the inn. Now if you’ll excuse us.”
“A couple of classmates of yours found the clues,” said Mr. Hewson, refusing to be intimidated by the detective. He smiled at me. “Mary Anne and … Abby, I think it was.”
“Thanks,” I said, and headed for our rooms at top speed, with Mal behind me.
Stacey, Mary Anne, and Abby were gathered in Stacey and Abby’s room when I burst in.
“Hey, it’s our fearless leader,” said Abby.
“You’ll never guess what’s going on,” said Mary Anne.
“A robbery,” I said. “What’s missing? Have they dusted for prints? Do they have any suspects? What clues did you guys find?”
“Whoa,” said Abby.
“How did you know??
?? asked Mary Anne, looking a little disappointed.
I slowed down a little and grinned. “Cop car out front. So I asked Mr. Hewson what was up, and he told me that much. Elementary, my dear Spier.”
“Agatha Kristy strikes again,” murmured Abby. It was a nickname she’d stuck me with during our winter ski mystery.
“But he didn’t tell me everything,” I added.
By then, Mallory had caught up with me. She came into the room, closed the door, and sat down on one of the chairs. “Did you know that the Witch’s Eye is missing?” she demanded.
“Yes!” Abby, Stacey, and Mary Anne chorused.
“The Witch’s Eye!” I yelled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“We’re trying,” said Abby. “But we’re not telling you anything else until both of you quiet down and let us talk.”
Mal and I shut up immediately.
When they’d finished, Mal said, “Why didn’t I bring the mystery notebook? If we had it, we could write the clues down in it.”
I brushed that aside. “You didn’t see anybody leaving the museum, Mary Anne? Stacey? Nobody in a maintenance worker’s uniform?”
They both shook their heads.
“And nobody has any idea what the numbers mean?” I continued.
“No, but I think they must be some kind of code,” said Stacey.
Folding my arms, I announced, “I declare this an emergency meeting of the Baby-sitters Club. We have a mystery to solve.”
“Why would the thief hide his — or her — clothes in the bushes outside the inn?” asked Abby. “Unless they wanted to come inside wearing normal clothes?”
“That means that they are either visiting someone here or staying here,” I said.
“I vote for staying here,” said Stacey. “It fits. Trove House is practically right next door. No getaway cars, a perfect disguise as an upright guest. Plus, those numbers were written on inn stationery.”
We all nodded. Then Abby picked up the phone.
“What’re you doing?” I asked.
“Calling the front desk to see if anyone checked out today.”