CHAPTER
6
At school the next day, Hero decided her plan would be to attract as little attention as possible. She got to her classroom early, slid her notebooks into her desk, and steadily ignored the whispered dog comments that percolated from the back row. She found that if she avoided eye contact with Mrs. Vanderley, the teacher never called on her. Actually she wondered if Mrs. Vanderley even remembered her name. By afternoon, Hero had decided to concentrate all her psychic energy on becoming part of the laminate wooden seat, solid yet invisible. If she could keep her name from being spoken out loud for a few days, maybe the other kids would forget the dog association.
With this as her goal, Hero slipped through the rest of the day as quietly as possible. She didn’t talk to anyone. She didn’t raise her hand in class. She sat by herself in the cafeteria and ate, quickly and unobtrusively, the tuna sandwich her mother had packed that morning. She couldn’t entirely avoid the teasing. The boys standing behind her in the lunch line jostled one another and barked a few times. But, for the most part, they didn’t bother Hero, which made her feel relieved. And alone.
When she got off the bus that afternoon, she forgot all about school in her eagerness to get to Mrs. Roth’s. But as she was heading away from the corner, she heard frantic shouting.
“Ben! No! Give that back! Give it back! That’s my hat!”
Hero stopped and turned. Aaron was racing around the street sign, yelling and sobbing, while two much bigger boys tossed his beloved Orioles cap back and forth. Hero immediately recognized them as two of the boys who had been waiting at the bus stop yesterday. The third boy was leaning against the street sign. She realized with a start that he was looking directly at her. He was tall, with blond hair falling over his forehead. To her amazement, he smiled.
She looked at him in confusion. Then, suddenly, she felt a surge of anger. She dropped her backpack on the pavement and strode back to the street corner. There was Aaron, running between the two other boys, beating them with his fists and trying futilely to grab the hat they waved just out of reach. “No, Ben! Give it back! It’s mine!”
“Give him back his hat,” Hero said loudly. She could feel her hands start to tremble. She clenched them at her sides.
The tall boy looked amused. The other two just stared at her. The one holding Aaron’s hat had dark, curly hair, and something about him was familiar.
“What are you looking at?” the dark-haired boy demanded.
Hero could feel her cheeks grow hot. “Oh, I don’t know,” she said. “Just a couple of juvenile delinquents picking on a kid half their size.”
The boy stepped toward her, and Hero deftly snatched the hat from his hand. She tossed it to Aaron, who clutched it to his chest and fled toward his front lawn, his skinny white legs flashing in the sun.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” The dark-haired boy yelled. He grabbed Hero’s shoulder.
But the tall boy intervened. “Aren’t you Beatrice Netherfield’s sister?” he asked.
Hero shook free. All she wanted to do was get out of there.
“Yes,” she mumbled. She turned and started walking away.
“You’re Beatrice Netherfield’s sister?” She heard the other two boys laugh incredulously.
“Whoa, you look nothing like her.”
“What, are you adopted?”
Hero didn’t turn back. She could see the picket fence surrounding Mrs. Roth’s shimmering oasis of garden. She felt like a parched traveler in a desert. She began to run.
“Hey, Netherfield!” It was the tall boy. Hero kept running.
“Netherfield, wait up!”
She could hear him behind her. She stopped, her heart pounding.
“You forgot your backpack,” he said, holding it out.
Hero took it and looped it carefully over her shoulder. “Thanks,” she said coldly, turning away.
But, unbelievably, the boy fell in step beside her.
“I’m Danny Cordova,” he continued, unfazed. “Don’t listen to them.” He gestured back toward the street corner. “They can be jerks.”
“I thought they were your friends.”
“They are. But sometimes they’re jerks.”
Hero frowned in annoyance. “Oh, and you’re not.
That was really great, the way you stood up for Aaron back there.”
Danny Cordova shrugged. “Listen, Aaron and Ben are brothers. They’re always doing that kind of thing. I just stay out of it.”
Hero flushed, embarrassed. Of course, that was who the dark-haired boy looked like: Aaron. How could she have been so stupid? She had meant to rescue Aaron from a neighborhood bully, but all she’d really done was gotten herself mixed up in a sibling quarrel.
“I didn’t know,” Hero muttered. Surely this would end the conversation. Hot and humiliated, she walked faster.
But Danny Cordova kept walking right beside her. “You live in the Murphy diamond house, don’t you?”
“That’s right,” said Hero.
“Do you know the story?”
Hero nodded. “Yeah, I do.”
They had reached Mrs. Roth’s. Hero pushed open the gate, intending to say a curt goodbye. But to her astonishment, Danny Cordova followed her into the yard.
“Hi, Miriam,” he called out.
Hero stared at him, speechless. Mrs. Roth rose from her seat on the porch, smiling warmly at both of them.
CHAPTER
7
“Well, Daniel! I haven’t seen you in ages. How have you been?” Mrs. Roth took Danny’s arm and beckoned Hero toward the porch.
Hero followed in utter bewilderment. What was going on? Had Mrs. Roth befriended every kid in the neighborhood? Did they all know about the diamond? Maybe she’d already discussed the Murphys with Danny and a dozen other people.
“You know each other?” Hero asked glumly as they all sat down on the steps.
“Daniel’s father is the chief of police,” Mrs. Roth replied. “We saw quite a lot of each other during the Murphy investigation. And I had the prudence to hire Daniel to do a little yard work for me last year.”
“You did?” Hero found it hard to believe that anyone had ever done yard work at Mrs. Roth’s.
“Just some weeding and planting,” Danny interjected, seeing Hero’s doubtful look.
“Oh, he was a great help,” Mrs. Roth added, her voice warm. “Those tiger lilies over there are his doing, and my beautiful tulips last spring. I can’t manage bulbs anymore. Would you two like something to eat? Cinnamon toast, Hero?”
“That’d be great,” Danny answered. Hero nodded.
Mrs. Roth disappeared through the screen door, and they could hear her clattering in the kitchen. Hero shifted uncomfortably on the step. She wanted to be talking about the diamond with Mrs. Roth, not sitting here next to some boy she didn’t know, whose best friends had just made fun of her.
“Hero? That’s your name?” Danny raised his eyebrows.
“Yeah.” Hero focused her attention on one of her shoelaces.
“That’s kind of a strange name.”
“It seems to be popular for pets.”
Danny laughed. “I bet.”
Mrs. Roth returned with their cinnamon toast, neat triangles scattered on a floral plate. She sat down between them, balancing the plate on her knees.
“Her name is from Shakespeare, you know,” she said to Danny. “Much Ado About Nothing. Some of the less enlightened members of Hero’s class have found it too distinctive to forego teasing her about it.” She turned to Hero. “How did you fare today?”
Hero glanced at Danny, hesitating. She certainly didn’t feel like discussing school in front of him. But Danny had the same look of easygoing interest.
“Somebody giving you a hard time?” he asked.
Hero tried to sound casual. “Sort of.”
Mrs. Roth shook her head sympathetically. “Don’t pay any attention, Hero. People can be quite unforgiving of anything that’s
the least bit different. But they’ll come around.”
Hero thought this sounded absurdly optimistic, but she remained quiet. Danny finished his cinnamon toast and brushed his hands on his jeans.
“My dad always says, some people will treat you badly and you can’t help that. But how you handle it, and how it makes you feel, that’s up to you.”
“Exactly,” said Mrs. Roth. “I knew your father and I would find one thing to agree on.” She smiled conspiratorially at Hero. “Mr. Cordova and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye during the Murphy investigation.”
Danny stretched, looking across the garden to the Netherfields’ house. “So, Miriam, did Mr. Murphy ever try to get in touch with you again? After he sold the house?”
Hero’s heart sank. Mrs. Roth must have told him all about the Murphys.
But Mrs. Roth said simply, “No, he didn’t. I think he may be in Boston.”
Danny stepped down into the garden, idly yanking weeds. “My dad thinks the diamond might still be in the house. Somewhere. He’s betting Mr. Murphy will try to contact you. You know, to get it back.”
Mrs. Roth brushed the crumbs from her lap and stood. “Well, I would be happy to hear from him, but I really don’t expect to. And I’m sure your father understands that I probably won’t let the police know if I do.”
Danny continued to pull fistfuls of weeds, piling them next to the walk. He flashed his wide, easy grin. “Don’t worry. He’s not expecting you to cooperate. He never expects me to cooperate either.”
Mrs. Roth smiled back at him as she carried the empty plate into the house. Hero was left on the steps, not knowing what to think. On the one hand, at least the story of the Murphy diamond didn’t seem likely to be passed around the bus stop the next morning. On the other hand, how could she talk to Mrs. Roth about anything important with Danny Cordova sitting two feet away?
When Mrs. Roth came back to the porch, Hero got up reluctantly. “I should go,” she said. “I have tons of homework. My mom was worried when I got home so late yesterday.”
Mrs. Roth’s brow furrowed. “Oh, Hero. I was hoping—” she stopped. “I thought we could work on the crossword. But maybe tomorrow.”
Danny stood up, wiping gray smears of dirt on his shorts. “I have to go, too,” he said. He gathered the clump of weeds and tossed them into the bin at the side of the house.
“Thank you, Daniel,” Mrs. Roth said. “I hope you’ll stop by again soon.”
“Bye, Miriam,” he called.
He and Hero walked together toward the gate. At the street they turned in opposite directions.
“See you, Netherfield,” he said over his shoulder.
“Bye,” Hero answered quickly, heading for her driveway.
As soon as she reached the side door, it swung open. Beatrice grabbed her arm, pulling her into the kitchen. “I can’t believe you!” she squealed. “What were you doing walking home with Danny Cordova?”
“What do you mean?” Hero demanded, shaking free. “I wasn’t walking home with him.”
“Danny Cordova! Don’t you know who he is? He’s the hottest guy in the eighth grade.”
Their mother looked at Hero questioningly as Beatrice ran to the window. “Were you at Mrs. Roth’s again?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Hero, “but I didn’t stay long.”
“Look, Mom,” Beatrice continued. “Isn’t he cute?”
“Well, I can only see the back of his head,” Hero’s mother remarked drily, “but I’m sure he’s a nice-looking boy.”
“He is.” Beatrice sounded reverent. “He’s cool, too. Doesn’t care what anybody thinks of him.”
“How do you know that?” Hero asked. “Geez, Triss, it’s the second day of school! How do you know so much about him?”
Beatrice shrugged. “Everybody talks about him. He got suspended last year, and I guess it was kind of embarrassing because his dad’s a cop.”
Their mother raised her eyebrows.
“What did he get suspended for?” Hero asked.
“I don’t know,” said Beatrice. “Not drugs or anything. Something with a teacher.”
“Well,” their mother commented, “his reputation certainly precedes him. Tell me something, Beatrice.
Why is a boy more interesting to you and your friends if he has some kind of troubling background? I don’t understand that.”
Beatrice laughed. “Oh, come on, Mom, that doesn’t make him more interesting. It just makes him interesting.”
They all watched Danny’s tall frame disappear down the street.
“What were you doing with him, Hero?” Beatrice asked again.
“Nothing,” Hero said. “He asked if I was your sister, and—”
“He did?” Beatrice sounded pleased.
“Yeah, and then it turns out he knows Mrs. Roth. He used to do yard work for her.”
Beatrice looked thoughtful. “Maybe I should start hanging out over there.”
Hero laughed. “Yeah, it’s a great place to meet guys.”
Beatrice began to spread her homework on the table. “We’ll probably never see him again.”
“Probably not around here,” Hero agreed. “But you’ll see him at school.”
Beatrice shook her head, cheerfully resigned. “Not alone like that,” she said. “He’s always with his friends.”
Hero rummaged through her backpack for her Social Studies book, thinking about the strange afternoon. First the ridiculous mix-up with Aaron and his brother, then a wasted hour at Mrs. Roth’s with some strange boy who, as it turned out, probably was a juvenile delinquent. The one thing that had carried her through the school day was the thought of hearing more about the Murphy diamond. But she’d found out nothing else about it, not even where to begin looking.
CHAPTER
8
As the bus approached the street corner the next afternoon, dark gray clouds massed overhead, and the first large drops of rain speckled the pavement. Hero searched the bus stop for any sign of Danny Cordova and his friends, but the corner was deserted. She felt a rush of relief, and then, though she wasn’t sure why, a vague twinge of disappointment.
Aaron, who had been treating her like a returning war hero since the hat incident, commented suspiciously, “They’re just laying low for a while. My mom really yelled at Ben yesterday.”
“You could have told me he was your brother, you know,” Hero said. “Then I wouldn’t have felt so dumb afterward.”
“He’s not really my brother,” Aaron answered. “He’s, like, a stepbrother.”
“He is? You mean you have different dads or something?”
“No, but he’s like a stepbrother. He’s always mean tome.”
Hero tried not to smile. “You’d better run, Aaron. It looks like it’s going to pour.”
The words were barely out of her mouth when they heard a rumble of thunder. The rain fell in torrents, flooding the sidewalk. Hero held her backpack over her head and dashed down the street. By the time she reached Mrs. Roth’s, her sneakers were soaked and squelching, and wet strands of hair stuck to her cheeks. She scampered over the puddled walkway to the porch, where Mrs. Roth held open the front door and motioned her inside.
Hero ran into the house, shaking her hair away from her face. Gingerly, she leaned her sodden backpack against the door.
“My goodness! You’re wet to the bone,” Mrs. Roth exclaimed. “Let me get you a towel.”
Hero looked around. The inside of the house was not so different from the outside: shabby, cluttered, interesting. There were books everywhere, spilling out of the dark bookcases in the living room, stacked high on the dining-room table, even heaped on the piano in the corner. There were also flowers—marigolds, snapdragons, roses—stuffed haphazardly in odd-looking containers all over the room. A gleaming, ornately carved staircase curved away from Hero, and an old glass milk bottle filled with tiger lilies perched on the bottom step. On the wall straight ahead, a cluster of photographs hung next to a faded ma
p of Australia and two large gilt-framed oil paintings of the ocean.
Mrs. Roth appeared with a thick blue towel in her outstretched hand. Hero buried her face in it. It smelled sweet, like detergent, and musty at the same time, as if it had been in the closet awhile. When she finished rubbing herself dry, she peeled off her shoes and socks and followed Mrs. Roth into the kitchen. A wreckage of bowls and baking supplies littered the countertop.
“I’ve made muffins,” Mrs. Roth explained. “Blueberry, just put them in. Tea?” She filled the kettle and began pulling her china cups and saucers from the cupboard. “What a heavy rain! I love summer storms. They make the house feel so cozy.”
Hero nodded. “My mom says that when it rains you never feel like you should be anywhere but home.” She sat down at the table and looked through the window at the rain-drenched garden. “Hey, I asked my dad about Mr. Murphy. He said the reason Mr. Murphy was so interested in his job at the Maxwell was because of Mrs. Murphy. She was descended from some Englishman who might be the real Shakespeare.” She told the rest of the story, trying to remember all the details, looping back to correct herself, her words tumbling over one another. As Mrs. Roth listened, her eyes widened, and finally she slid into a chair and rested her chin in one palm. The teakettle whistled untended.
“Well, isn’t that astonishing,” she said when Hero finished. “I had no idea.” She shook her head slowly. “Eleanor said the Veres were English nobility but she never mentioned Shakespeare. If it’s true—well, does your father really think it could be true?”
“He’s not sure,” Hero answered. “He says there’s no proof. No one’s been able to explain why Edward de Vere would try so hard to keep it a secret that he wrote the plays.”
“Well, that is curious, isn’t it?” Mrs. Roth agreed.
She poured their tea. Hero held the cup with both hands and lowered her face into the warm vapor. “You were going to show me something, remember?” she said. “The other day?”
“Of course I remember. I didn’t want to bring it up in front of Daniel.” Mrs. Roth sounded almost apologetic. “He’s a dear, and I don’t like deceiving him. But he is the son of the police chief. I’d rather not put him in the position of having to lie to his father. Or of having to tell his father the truth, for that matter.”