The three of us look around for somewhere to hide as the footsteps grow louder and louder.
“I really don’t give a rat’s—”
The static from his walkie-talkie drowns out the rest of his thought.
“But, boss, we have to go now.”
“Listen here, you little yellow-bellied coward. There is no way I am leaving the premises, after all this planning, with nothing but a few random paintings! This is the heist of the century!” The Midwestern Mastermind stops, thinks. “And we better not leave any witnesses.”
“Boss?”
“You heard me.”
Henry, Zeb, and I share a look. No witnesses. You know what that means, don’t you?
It means curtains. For everyone here.
We have to do something.
“I’m just stuck down some dank hallway. I thought you said there was some ancient stuff down here!” the Midwestern Mastermind barks.
More static.
“You better get up here, boss. The natives are getting restless.”
“Yeah, all right, I’m coming. But you know what to do if anyone tries to be a hero,” the Mastermind replies.
He turns, and we can hear his footsteps retreating back up the hallway to wherever he came from. The static follows him like the inside of what must be his brain, at this point.
Scrrrkkk. Scrrrrk Scrrrk.
The footsteps go silent as the three of us assess this new situation.
“Is this really happening right now?” Zeb asks. “Do we have to save the entire wedding from certain doom?”
“I’m afraid it most assuredly is,” Henry answers.
“Rad,” Zeb breathes. “And just so you know, after today, I plan on hanging out with both of you way more often.”
11
BY THE TIME we emerge onto one of the thousand landings of this labyrinth, the rain is already creating miniature lakes all over the outside stones. I guess irrigation wasn’t quite up to today’s standards back when the castle was built.
There’s a staircase leading up to what appears to be a lengthy corridor, door after door after door. From the ornate look of the doors, this is definitely not maids’ quarters. Heavy mahogany with black ironwork underneath stone arches. Doors made to impress.
The three of us duck into the first one, finding ourselves in what must be the most exquisite of all the rooms thus far. A giant four-poster bed with a canopy lords over the room of burgundy velvets and damask. Oil paintings from the Renaissance look down at us, the figures’ muscles visible beneath their skin.
“This must be some sort of guest quarters,” Henry assesses.
“Some guest,” Zeb quips.
As if in response, we hear the sound of splashing water coming from the smaller attached tiled room, the door slightly ajar. A bathroom. And now the sound of someone clearing their throat. A man.
As the three of us inch closer and closer, not wanting to see what we are hearing or hear what we are seeing, the sound of the splashing, and even a little hum, a meaningless, trifling little hum, come wafting out over the horizontal tile.
From where we are standing now, on the other side of a cherrywood vanity with a needlepoint stool, we can see the ivory shape of the end of a claw-foot tub, the claws of the tub in gold. Of course.
And, as we shuffle forward, we can see more of the white tub.
And, as we shuffle forward, we can see a toe coming out of the tub. Not a woman’s toe. Or, if it’s a woman, it’s a woman with extremely hairy toes.
Now a foot.
We lean forward, now almost drawn by a magnetic field.
The water, foamy, filled with bubble bath.
And now a newspaper.
A newspaper?
And just as we lean forward a smidge more, one of us (which we will all blame on one another later, by the way) accidentally topples a mother-of-pearl hairbrush over onto the floor.
Crash!
The sound of the hairbrush is not subtle on the parquet floors, echoing through the enormous stone chamber.
“Good heavens!”
And the newspaper comes down, down to the level of the bathwater, and there, staring at us with a rather judgmental look usually reserved for magistrates or nuns, is . . .
Winston Churchill.
12
NOW, YOU MAY ask, Who on Earth is Winston Churchill? I’m not here to question the quality of your education, so I’ll just tell you. Let’s just get it all out on the table, shall we?
About seventy years ago there was this little, well, not so little, actually, world war, called World War II. Yes, there was a World War I, as well, but just to make sure they figured out that war was terrible, they had another one. The whole world. At war.
Now, this war was particularly diabolical for a myriad of unspeakable reasons that really should be explained by a nurturing, kind, gentle, not totally stressed-out person whose life is not in peril and is definitely not me.
However, as in all things terrible, there is always a glimmer of hope, a light in the darkness, and for this particular war, that light in the darkness was he who sits bathing before us—none other than Winston Churchill.
There are as many scholars as there are rooms in this ginormous estate who would say that the war, World War II, was won because of this man.
So, he’s like a thing.
A big thing.
But alas, this particular big thing died over fifty years ago.
And yet, right about now, he is before us in all his bathtubby glory.
“Henry, are you seeing what I’m seeing?” I muster.
“Yes, Eva. Most definitely.”
“Wait, what are you guys seeing?” That’s Zeb.
Of course. He can’t see him. That would be way too easy.
We, Henry and I, are the ghost summoners, the ghost whisperers, the ghost . . . catnip, for lack of a better word.
Lucky, lucky us.
As I look closer I realize that good old Winston is surrounded by a kind of gray-blue shimmering. Yep. Not cosplay. Definitely a ghost.
“Do you plan on sitting there gawking, children, or is there a purpose for this rather inopportune visit?”
His voice a tenor grumble.
“We just, um, we just were—” I can barely contain myself.
“Well! Out with it! We were just what, dear child?!”
Henry composes himself.
“Sir Winston. Prime Minister of Britain. Your lordship—”
“I don’t intend to sit here all day listening to my many titles uttered from the mouths of babes. Come now, boy!”
“We were hoping to—”
“Do you know you’re a ghost?” I sputter out.
There’s a silence now.
Winston Churchill looks at us with indignity. Zeb is, also, looking at us like we’ve caught the last ticket to crazytown.
You could hear a mouse burp.
“BAH-HAH-HAH!”
The sound erupts from the bathtub, splashing the water all around in bubbles and suds, drowning the tile hexagons.
“Why, my dear children, of course I know. What do you think I’m doing here?”
“I’m sorry. Why are you—” Henry leans in.
“You’re the ones who summoned me!”
Summoned? My mind flashes back to the incantation in the basement, down the swirly-whirly ramp.
“The incantation.” Henry stares up at me with we-are-the-luckiest-people-in-the-world shining in his eyes. “Fabulae non morietur potest somnus solum legendas. Legends cannot die. Legends can only sleep . . . ?”
He turns to Winston Churchill, who is waiting patiently in the tub.
“We need your assistance. It’s quite desperate.”
At this I feel the need to cut in. Henry is just too polite at times.
It comes out in one sentence. “The thing is we are trapped up here, in Hearst Castle, just to be sure we’re on the same page as to where we are, we were supposed to be at a wedding, but then this rough
ed-up stranger interrupted the ceremony and practically all the guys and some of the ladies went down to save the town, well, it’s not really a town, more of a hamlet really, not the play Hamlet, like an actual itty-bitty town sometimes called a hamlet, and then it turns out that was all a ploy to get all the cops and security and able-bodied folks, actually, down the hill so the real bad guys could steal all the art and jewels and statues and maybe rugs in here, although the rugs seem to still be up for debate, and they’ve taken everyone hostage and they said everyone should just stay still and everything will be fine but now we overheard them, the Midwestern Mastermind that is, and he says they’re supposed to leave no witnesses!”
Silence.
I take a breath.
That was a long sentence. No question. My second-grade English teacher would not be proud.
“We see ghosts. My brother and I. Mostly, the ghosts of our ancestors. And well, they’re the ones who told us to go to the basement and say the incantation. They said you could help with the . . . the Mastermind.”
Winston peers at me over his glasses.
He regards me for what seems like three hundred years.
“I see.” He frowns. “And who came up with the name ‘Midwestern Mastermind’?”
“I did . . . sir,” I defer.
“Quite so. Very pithy.”
And now a glow seems to emanate from him and there is a twinkle in his eye. As if, perhaps, there is something in him that loves a good fight.
“Well then,” he says, “to best a mastermind, we’re going to need a few friends.”
13
IF YOU’RE WONDERING what Zeb’s been doing this whole time it’s mostly sitting crisscross-applesauce on the chaise lounge and meditating. Of course, he can’t see the esteemed Winston Churchill over there in the bathtub. He can only see Henry and me, talking to a bathtub.
To his credit, I’m sure most people would say, “Hey, that’s great you are talking to a bathroom utility, but I have some homework I just randomly remembered so I better hit the road.” But not Zeb.
From the other side of the room, we hear the sound of his chanting.
“Ohhhhmmm.”
Winston looks past us toward Zeb on the chaise.
“Good heavens, that boy’s hair is blue! Was he dipped in an inkwell?!”
“No, Mr. Churchill, that’s our friend, Zeb. He’s from Los Angeles.”
“I see . . . And what is he doing, exactly?”
“Winston, Mr. Churchill, I really think we should get back to the matter at hand. Aka, the horrible heist and the leave-no-witnesses element.” I try to veer him back, although he keeps furrowing his brow at Zeb.
“Ohhhhmmm.”
“Did Gandhi put him up to this?”
“Gandhi! Certainly not, sir,” Henry chimes in. “It’s just . . . this is what everyone does now, to alleviate stress.”
“Everyone?”
“Well, everyone in California,” I add. “But please, Mr. Churchill. We need your help—”
“No, no, dear children. You do not need a chubby old man lumbering around on your behalf. What you need is strategy. Strategy and faith. And the others. Just remember . . . If you’re going through hell, keep going.”
And now the suds start to disappear into the ivory of the bathtub, Winston’s glasses and cigar start to fade, even the newspaper turns to nothing more than a chiffon wisp.
I don’t want him to leave. I have so many questions!
“Wait, no! But you haven’t helped—”
“It was a pleasure meeting you, Prime Minister.” Henry does a kind of awkward bow.
“Indeed, dear boy.” And just as he is about to fade back into our imagination . . . a last bit of wisdom from beyond.
“Children, they shall expect you to be weak. They shall expect you to quit.” He nods. “That is why you must . . . never, never, never give up.”
And in a blink, he is gone.
14
I FIND MYSELF wishing Zeb could also see the ghosts. Because if he had seen Winston Churchill, the Winston Churchill, well, I’ll be honest with you . . . I think he would have been inspired.
I know I was.
And so was Henry.
The two of us stand in awe, still basking in the luminescence left far after Winston’s ghost has disappeared. A brush with greatness!
And then there are his words: Never, never, never give up. I mean, this is a man who thwarted the worst baddies of all time through sheer will and strategy. Yes, the Allied forces did the fighting, but would they have been so nimble, so inspired, without him? It was the frame he put around it. The story he told. He told a story about the good guys having to win. About grit, hope, and faith. I resolve to tell myself that story. Whenever I face something impossible: grit, hope, and faith. I will never, never, never give up.
Like now, for instance. In this situation, I could easily fall into despair. Into doubt. After all, Winston left us with nothing but a few pretty words. I could tell myself we are up the creek without a paddle and there is nothing to be done. But I can’t tell myself that story. Because if I tell myself that story, Henry will start to tell himself that story, too. And then Zeb. And the three of us are the only bulwark against this dastardly crew.
“Strategy.” Henry interrupts my train of thought. “Winston said we cannot defeat them with brawn. Only brains. We must think of a strategy.”
“All for one and one for all?” Zeb chimes in.
“That’s more of a slogan,” Henry contemplates.
“Live long and prosper,” Zeb offers.
“Okay, that’s Star Trek,” I add.
“May the Force be with you,” Zeb throws out.
“Annnnnd that’s Star Wars.” I smile.
“No, no, no. These are all just slogans! We need an actual strategy.”
“Oh, I know, I know. When the going gets tough, the tough get going!” Zeb suggests.
“Again, a slogan.”
“A bird in the hand beats two in the bush!”
“Slogan.”
“Divide and conquer!” Zeb offers.
“Wait . . . what was that?” Henry asks.
“Divide and conquer.” Zeb stops for a moment. The air is still.
“That’s it!” Henry turns to me. “Eva, didn’t you say there was some issue . . . some thing the Midwestern Mastermind kept going on about?”
“Well, he was pretty much mad about everything but . . . I guess he kept getting super annoyed about . . . the rugs?” I recount.
“What, exactly, about the rugs?” Henry asks.
“He didn’t want them to take the rugs because they were too cumbersome, and the guys wanted to. They said they were worth a lot,” I answer.
“Okay! Now we’re in business! We need to get ahold of one of those walkie-talkies.” Henry is excited now, pacing about the room, wheels turning in his head.
“We do?” Zeb asks.
“Yes, most definitely.” Henry paces more. “It sounds to me like the Midwestern Mastermind has hired this crew and doesn’t exactly respect them. Perhaps he’s exploiting them. That is something we can take advantage of. . . .” He’s churning, feet going back and forth across the floor. I’m not sure I follow his train of thought quite yet.
“Okay, so, um . . . how do you think we should go about getting one of those walkie-talkies?” I ask.
“Distraction.”
“And, um, who is going to be doing the distracting?” I ask.
“Eeeny, meeeny, miney, mo, catch a tiger by his toe . . .” Henry is already deciding. “If he hollers, let him go, my mother says to pick the very best one and you are not it.”
His finger is pointing at me. We both turn to Zeb.
“Well, Zeb, looks like you’re it. Can you think of a distraction?”
Zeb contemplates. “Yes. No. Maybe.”
Henry and I smile.
“Maybe it is! And remember,” Henry claps him on the shoulder, “divide and conquer!”
15
THE CATS AND dogs raining out of the sky are not letting up. They have become cougars and wolves. Buckets and buckets from the sky. It’s like the clouds have been hoarding for months, months, and more months, and now it is all coming down in one fell swoop. One night carrying all the rain for the whole year.
The only lights on in the castle seem to be emanating from the great hall, where the wedding guests are still gathered. I still can’t believe they’re all just sitting there. But then again, those guys don’t exactly look like happy little friendly Smurfs. Honestly, they look more like Smurf-crushers.
Never give up, Eva. Remember.
On the west-facing terrace, looking out to sea and the road down to the PCH, now closed, there is a guard walking back and forth. He’s not menacing, exactly. More like a guy just doing his job. Punching the clock.
Henry and I hide behind a giant bougainvillea-covered trellis while Zeb creeps up the back of the terrace. Neither of us really know what he has planned, but you would assume it involves a lot of sneaking.
Which is why it makes absolutely no sense when Zeb just walks up to the guy.
There is the guard, sinister, walking back and forth, and then, two seconds later, there is Zeb. Just standing right there in front of him.
“Hey, dude. I just wanted to see if I could get you anything . . . Water? Coffee? Maybe a Red Bull? I know, uh, heists can be exhausting sometimes and, you know, maybe they take longer than maybe you were expecting them to—”
“Tsh. Tell me about it,” the guard says. “To tell you the truth, this guy who hired us, he’s kind of a jerk.” The guard shakes his head. “You know, maybe I will get a water.”
“What?”
“You asked if I needed anything. Maybe I’ll get like a water. Like a bottled water? One that’s alkaline balanced, if you have it. You know, like the right pH level? You can’t just drink any water. It has to have the right pH level or your body will just stay thirsty,” the guard informs Zeb.
Henry and I look at each other.
“You’re from California, aren’t you?” Zeb asks.
“Dude, totally. You are, too. Right, little bro? I can tell.” The guard seems to have taken a shine to Zeb. I feel like everyone takes a shine to Zeb. He just sort of . . . glows or something.
Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts Page 7