Birdie gives me one of her irresistible grins—she’s got cherry bits stuck in her teeth—and says, “I yelled that we can’t prove that Mister McGinty murdered Sister Margaret Mary, because—”
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I say, forcing myself to sound nicer than I feel, because even though I want to throttle her, from years of experience, I know that when it comes to getting her to do what I want her to do, I’ll always catch more flies with sugar than vinegar. “Thanks so much for remindin’ me that we need a motive to prove that he didn’t do Sister M and M in.”
“What’s a motive?”
Oh, for godssakes.
“A motive is the why somebody would do a crime. Now, if you love me, I’m begging you—”
“I love you more than you will ever know, Tessie,” Birdie says, so heartfelt. “And you’re right. Knowing the why of the crime would be important to have in our murder case, but only if we had an even more important something.”
Well, this is going about as well as the Scarecrow’s search for a brain. (No joke.)
She’s about to tell me something really dumb, but if I don’t want to stand around in these scratchy bushes with her ’til the cows come home, I have to say, “Fine. What is the more important something we need in our murder case that we don’t have?”
“A dead body.”
See? Dumb with a capital D.
“We got a dead body!” I tell her. “The corpse of Sister Margaret Mary that I saw getting carted behind the mausoleum last night! Remember that?”
“And do you remember when you asked me to check for Charlie from the top of the hill that I told you I didn’t see him near the weeping willow tree but that I saw somebody else?”
I don’t care if she saw someone like a griever rushing to Mr. Peterman’s funeral, so I fire back, “And do you remember that I don’t got holes in my head the way you do? Of course I remember. My brain is a steel trap!”
“Then you better let what you caught in there out, because”—Birdie rocks back on her heels with the same pleased smile that Pyewacket the cat gets when she remembers that she’s got nine lives and she can afford to play a little fast and loose—“the somebody else I saw was Sister Margaret Mary running past the weeping willow tree!”
“You . . . you . . . WHAT?”
Oh, no . . . no . . . no . . . please, God, no.
FACT: Seeing a dead nun running through the cemetery is very bad. Very Virginia Cunningham loony.
PROOF: My poor little sister has finally lost every single one of her marbles.
Could this really be the awful moment I’ve been dreading?
I’ve always pictured this kid with the screwed-up brain and messed-up memory who really loves Daddy and Louise and quiz shows and me and Charlie and candy and playing cards and cat’s cradle and belly laughing at all my impressions and drifting away to parts unknown turning into a 100% raving loonatic on a dark and stormy night, not on a cornflower-blue-sky-as-far-as-you-can-see day. She’s not even doing #11 on the LOONY list—drooling, when not asleep. And she hasn’t murdered anyone, either, unless she did it during one of her wild streaks, so I can’t cross #10 off, either.
We got to hurry back home and pick up our plaid running-away suitcase, and the second thing we got to do is hit the road to California ASAP! But before those chips can fall into place, I have to get Birdie to play along, so I tell her in the voice that I’ve practiced many, many times in the middle of the night to BE PREPARED for when this day would come, “You’re safe with me, honey. Just come along quietly and nobody will get hurt.”
When my sister throws back her head, I’m sure she’s about to start raving crazy things the way a person would if they went from minor-league cracked to major-league cracked, but she surprises the heck out of me once again. Instead of letting loose of a loony-sounding, unhinged laugh like the movie gals who are locked up in padded cells make when it’s their turn to get dragged down to the steaming hot baths, she does one of her regular old belly laughs.
“That’s a very good impression of the head doctor in The Snake Pit movie, Tessie,” Birdie says, “but I got news for you. You’re the one that’s gotta screw your head on straight. I sister-promise that Sister M and M is not dead. Now”—she slips her little foot into my cupped hands—“what say we climb this fence, have a quick meeting with Charlie, and then we’ll all go up to church so you can confess to Father Ted in your Shirley Temple voice and question Kitten Jablonski to see what she can tell us about Sister’s disappearance.”
I don’t know, ya know?
It must be the Indian summer heat getting to me, because just for a second, I swear I saw something so smart beaming out of Birdie’s eyes that it made me doubt everything I ever thought about her, because never before have I heard her say so many smart things all at the same time.
Q. Could I have been wrong about her all these years? Maybe it’s not the size of a kid’s brain that makes them an egghead. Maybe a kid’s heart can make them really smart, too?
A. Ask again later.
Naw, that’d be a waste of breath, because my sister gives me the answer to those questions when I crouch down even further to give her a better boost over the cemetery fence and say, “Ready for the old heave-ho?” and she licks my cheek and says, “Ready, Frank!”
16
A MATCH MADE IN HEAVEN
12:36 p.m. Well, that just goes to show ya once again how life can change on a dime. If you would’ve asked me a few minutes ago what the chances would be of my sister stumbling across another piece of evidence, I would’ve laughed and launched a loogie at you from the top of the cemetery fence.
FACT: Sister Margaret Mary is not dead.
PROOF: Normally I take everything that comes out of my Birdie’s mouth with more grains of salt than a box of Morton’s (Joke!) but she sister-promised that she saw the missing nun alive. (Obviously, it crossed my mind that what she saw was a zombie, which is a person who is dead, but still gets around. But Birdie told me that she saw our principal running near the willow tree and in every movie about zombies I’ve ever seen at the Tosa Theatre, they are a very slow-moving people.)
Of course, it’s a huge relief to know now that Mr. McGinty isn’t guilty of killing, but he isn’t completely in the clear yet of performing any criminal activity. His initials are still on the St. Christopher medal I got in my front pocket, so even if he didn’t murder M. M., I still might’ve seen him kidnapping her outta my window last night. For all we know, what Birdie witnessed at the willow tree was our principal escaping from J. M.’s shack this afternoon, where she was being held prisoner for ransom. That nun might at this very minute be back at the convent already dialing up the cops at the Washington St. station house to report that she got snatched by our friend and that they better arrest him ASAP, but she’ll be shit outta luck in that department. According to the ton of gangster movies I’ve seen, kidnapping is known as a federal case and believe me, G-men are no laughing matter. They got worse senses of humor than my mother.
On the other hand . . . the ex–army sergeant who is always on high alert for intruders can be very fast on his feet, because he dodged all but one of the land mines he came across during the war. He would have no problem catching up with his escaped prisoner. Sister Margaret Mary could at this very minute be strapped with tidy but tighter knots to one of Mr. McGinty’s folding chairs at his card table.
But on the other, other hand . . .
FACT: My brain feels like a beehive buzzing with a million on the other hands and that’s not the way a trained investigator should be feeling if they want to hunker down and solve THE CASE OF THE MISSING NUN WHO MIGHT BE KIDNAPPED AND MURDERED BUT NOT BY MR. MCGINTY.
PROOF: Modern Detection says, “An investigator should always remain clearheaded. During the course of an investigation, you must not falter or doubt yourself. You must stay firm in your convictions.”
Easy for him to say.
I’m ashamed to admit that my mind i
s murky, and that I am faltering and doubting myself worse than Thomas, and I feel about as firm in my convictions as one of Gert Klement’s triple chins. I’m the president, for godssakes, and I don’t have a clue where I should lead The Mutual Admiration Society next, other than up to church so I can Shirley-confess and talk to my confidential informant, Kitten Jablonski, the way Birdie said we should after she performed ESP on me to learn my new plan. (Maybe her Indian vision is so good that she saw straight into my mind, because believe me, it’d be impossible for her to think up all those smart ideas all at the same time all by herself. After I tuck her in tonight, I’m gonna think of a number from one to ten and see if she can guess it, because her being able to mind read, well, as you can imagine, that would be a real moneymaker.)
Yes, if I’m being truthful with myself, our case has come apart on me. I have too many questions and not enough answers. The only something I’m feeling even a tiny bit good about at this point in the investigation is that there’s a chance that The Mutual Admiration Society might strike blackmailing pay dirt if Sister Margaret Mary is still kidnapped and if we can find out who did it. As long as it’s anybody but Mr. McGinty, we are in for such a windfall and I know exactly how I’m going to spend it, if we don’t have to use it to pay for Greyhound bus tickets so we can run away.
SHOPPING SPREE
Stick some money in Louise’s hiding place in the pantry behind the soup cans so she can pay the bill for the house that still smells like Daddy in its nooks and crannies.
Buy Birdie a lot of food.
Pick out bird-watching binoculars for Charlie at the pawn shop.
Pay for some advertising.
Order the X-ray glasses from the back of the Superman comic book.
Give deaf Jeffy Lanfre money to buy me some hearing aids at St. John’s School for the Deaf.
Talk to Mr. Yerkovich and his best friend, Terry, at Bloomers about giving me a break on a lifetime supply of pink roses for Daddy’s pretend grave.
Almost all of that list is written in blood, sweat, and tears, but I’m still working on my pro and con list for #4. If we’re successful solving our current case, The Mutual Admiration Society has got to find a way to let everyone know what hotshots we are.
But if we pay for some advertising, I’m not sure if we should buy a billboard like Mr. Art Skank did or if dotting our front lawn with signs like the election ones his sister, Mrs. Nancy Tate, has got stuck in hers would do the trick. Either way, those advertisements would only mention our detecting abilities, because we can’t broadcast the part of our business that charges to keep secrets secret. “The Mutual Admiration Society Is Our Name, Blackmailing Is Our Game” is a very catchy slogan, but that would be like that famous murderer and skinner coming up with—“Stop by Gein Upholstery Tonight after Midnight! Ask for Ed! Come Alone for a Life-Changing Deal!”
I adore them all, but #5 on my SPREE list is the one that curls my toes the most. I have been waiting so long to order a pair of those X-RAY SPECS for $1.00 that they got in the back of Superman comic books—Look at your friend. Is that really his body that you see under his clothes? After we get our blackmailing payoff from whoever kidnapped Sister Margaret Mary, I plan to stick a buck in the envelope I borrowed from Mr. McGinty’s desk and run to the mailbox faster than a speeding bullet! (Joke!) And on the day the package lands on our front porch, I’ll rip it open with more power than a steaming locomotive! (Another one!) And after building inspector Mr. Hopkins figures out that it was nothing more than Beans and Wienies Wednesday that was causing it to reek so bad in the school basement, I’ll show up the first day back with those cardboard specs in my navy-blue uniform pocket. And then I, Theresa “Tessie” Finley, blackmailer extraordinaire, will use those X-ray glasses to look through the Peter Pan blouses of the eighth-grade girls who stuff their boulder holders with socks every morning before they walk to school. Believe me, those boobie fakers will fork over their babysitting money so fast to keep me from announcing over the school’s loudspeaker that they’re not traffic-cone pointy under their white blouses, but flatter than Keefe Ave. The Mutual Admiration Society would make so much moola that we could laugh in the face of The Millionaire if he came knocking. This investigating business is turning out to be so much trickier than I thought it’d be, so boy, it’d feel good to pull off something I’m already great at, ya know? Something easy I can wrap my hands around. Something like fake boobies. (Somebody call the doctor, my joke department is having triplets!)
But for now, between being terrified that someone from the funeral might have seen my sister and the only reason they didn’t shout, Look at the top of the cemetery fence, everybody! It’s one of the Finley ghouls! is because they didn’t want points taken off for rowdiness while they were participating in the “Best Mourner in the Parish” contest, and my worries that I’m not going to make it up to church in time to confess, but also knowing that I’m finally about to see my fiancé, when I part the bushes in his backyard, I feel like I’m being attacked from every direction.
Birdie is jacked up, too. My little live wire is squiggling, struggling to break out of the half nelson I got her locked in so she doesn’t escape from these bushes and bolt toward my Charlie, which would scare the living poop outta him, because he, well, he is not the strong and silent type. Charlie is only the silent type. And he is not much to look at, either. If he rode past someone when he was delivering newspapers that person would never think, Gosh, what a handsome kid. Once they got a load of his head that all the ringworms ate the hair offa what they would probably think is, That kid just reminded me that I haven’t gotten up to Jerbak’s Beer and Bowl to play a game of snooker in a while. Charlie “Cue Ball” Garfield is also the runt of a family that is famous for rough-and-tumble sons who wrestle in state championship matches and win. But believe me, what my fiancé lacks on the top of his head and in his muscles, he more than makes up for in his heart and soul.
FACT: The two of us are one in a million. A match made in Heaven.
PROOF: I always thought since second grade when Charlie sat in the desk next to me that he was the cat’s meow, but he didn’t return the favor. We didn’t become engaged until a month ago, and I think I owe that good timing to my daddy and Charlie’s mom, Frances “Franny” Garfield. To make both of their kids feel better about having to live without them, I strongly suspect that our passed-away parents got together to hatch a plan, because I don’t care what the priests say about suicided people not going to Heaven. If her son can forgive his mother for committing the worst mortal sin then it doesn’t make sense that the Son of God, whose job it is to be all-forgiving and all-loving, would send Mrs. Garfield to Hell for ending her life before He could. That’s nothing but all-sour-grapes in my book.
The night Charlie showed up to throw pebbles at my bedroom window, I slid down the double-Dutch rope to ask him just what the heck did he think he was doing disturbing me in the middle of practicing my Miss America singing routine. “You are one of m . . . m . . . my favorite things,” he told me. And when he picked up my hand and pressed it against his soft cheek, I’m not kidding, I felt the earth move under my feet and I’m pretty sure I heard heavenly harp music.
But whenever I try to bring up the evening when he put stars in my eyes or the afternoon he became a motherless child, Charlie changes the subject to his newest whittling project (funnily, he’s been trying to sell cue sticks to Jerbak’s Beer and Bowl) or he starts talking about birds, blackmails, TV shows (Zorro is his favorite, just like it is Birdie’s), movies, and books (the Hardy Boys float his boat). Or he’ll just start reciting how many times people do things, which is another hobby of his, statistically speaking. I don’t know why he won’t talk about the night he showed up under my bedroom window, but I’m pretty sure that he won’t talk to me about his mom because his father, who is very ashamed of his wife for doing away with herself, has absolutely forbidden any of his sons to speak her name again. (When I think about what mean Mr. Garfield would do
if he ever found out that The Mutual Admiration Society takes the #23 bus every Saturday afternoon to the Forest Home Cemetery so Charlie can bring his mom a bunch of yellow daisies because those were her favorite and she couldn’t be laid to rest in Holy Cross on account of it being sacred ground because what she did is the worst sin for a Catholic to commit, I break out in a clammy sweat and have to gobble down four Tums.)
Yeah, before Mrs. Franny Garfield closed their garage door and started up their Pontiac, Charlie could’ve won a Most Popular Kid in the Parish contest, but my boy is nowhere near being that outgoing anymore, which is why I’m desperately working on loosening up his English stiff upper lip in more ways than one, if you get my drift.
Some other helpful hints on how to take care of the man of your dreams in the Good Housekeeping article called “Secrets of a Happy Marriage” were: “A dry martini can work wonders” and “Be a good listener.” Not to toot my own horn or nothin’, but I’m pretty good at both of those things. Daddy taught me how to mix all sorts of drinks for customers when him and Suzie LaPelt would have to go to the back room together for the longest time to fetch more bottles of booze and peanuts. I got plenty of experience sliding drinks down Lonnigan’s long mahogany bar, and over the years, I learned how booze of any kind can turn even the quietest people into real chatterboxes.
I figured what do I have to lose, so I offered to shake a dry martini up for Charlie after The Mutual Admiration Society had finished up one of our spy missions a few weeks ago. When we were putting away our TOOLS OF THE TRADE, I pointed to the bottles of vodka and vermouth I took out of our kitchen cabinet and stowed away in our garage and said, “Would you like a dry martini tonight, dear? They can really work wonders.” He smiled and said, “Thanks, but no thanks,” and then he nodded down at our Radio Flyer. “I’m on the wagon.” (He can be a pretty funny sad kid sometimes.)