Mrs. Butterfield pulled a file from the cabinet and handed it to me. “Here we are,” she said. “Architectural drawings of the Randolph mansion. You’re not allowed to take this file from the room, but you may spend as much time as you like with it here.”
Mrs. Butterfield returned to her desk in the hall. I sat at a table in the library and studied the original floor plans. Once I got used to the way they were drawn I looked for familiar things such as the kitchen, our bedrooms, and the staircase to the fourth floor. My objective was to see if there was anything in the drawings that I didn’t recognize — such as a secret passage.
I noticed that what looked like a closet on the first-floor drawing was labeled “dumbwaiter.” It was there on the third-floor drawing, too. This one was in the “children’s playroom.” I studied the location of the children’s playroom. It was Dawn’s bedroom.
Mrs. Butterfield returned to the library to see how I was doing and to ask if I had any questions.
“I was wondering if you could tell me what a dumbwaiter is,” I said.
“My, yes,” she said. “It’s a small elevator used to move food from one floor to another.” She traced the plan with a forefinger. “In the Randolph mansion it went from the kitchen to the children’s playroom, where the nanny would serve the younger children their meals. As you can imagine, a dumbwaiter came in quite handy. You see, trays of food could be sent up, and dirty dishes sent down, without all that stair-climbing. Just with the pull of a rope.”
“So there are doors that open to the dumbwaiter in each of those eating rooms?” I asked.
“That’s correct,” she said.
After I copied the parts of the drawing that I wanted to show my fellow detectives, I took the file to Mrs. Butterfield. “Thanks,” I said. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“You know what’s curious?” she asked.
“What?”
“As you can see, we don’t have many visitors here. But you’re the second person this month who’s asked for information about the Randolph mansion.”
“Who was the other person?” I asked. (I figured it would be Mr. or Mrs. Menders, after they inherited the estate.)
“She didn’t tell me her name,” Mrs. Butterfield answered. “But I do remember that she spoke with a thick accent.” An accent? Well, that definitely ruled out the Menderses.
I left the historical society feeling both pleased and puzzled.
I was sitting in a lawn chair sketching the grove of pine trees.
“Hi!”
It was Georgio.
“Hi,” I replied cautiously.
He sat on the grass next to me. “It looks like you have the afternoon off, too,” he said.
“Everyone is having a quiet hour.”
“How would you like go for a quiet walk with me?” he asked. He held up a bunch of herbs. “I’m taking my grandparents some herbs from their old kitchen garden.”
“Your grandparents who were caretakers here?”
He nodded. “Do you want to come?”
“Sure.” I closed my sketchpad. “I’ll tell the others where I’m going. I’ll be right back.”
Even though Georgio gave me the creeps I knew I should go with him. I could ask his grandparents about the mansion, and work on finding the answer to what had become the biggest question of all for me: Is Georgio Trono the one who’s trying to frighten us, and if so, why?
Despite my doubts about Georgio, I enjoyed our walk to his grandparents’ apartment. Georgio loves his hometown, and I enjoyed hearing about what growing up in Reese was like for him. We passed his grammar school, and the firehouse where his father and grandfather served as volunteer firefighters. As we walked through the park where the Founders’ Day celebration would be held, he asked me, “How’s that float coming along?”
“We’re thinking of a historical theme,” I told him. “And wearing some of the old clothes we found in the attic.”
“I don’t think you should go up there.”
“Why not?”
“I told you,” he answered sternly. “No one’s used that part of the house in years. I’m not sure it’s safe. I’m sorry that I opened it up for you yesterday.”
I’d spent all morning in that attic the day before, and I hadn’t seen anything that looked dangerous. What was Georgio’s real reason for not wanting us snooping around on the fourth floor?
Georgio announced that we’d reached his grandparents’ house. The Tronos were pleased to see Georgio and to meet me. They served us homemade lemonade and fabulous brownies. And I didn’t have to bring up the subject of the mansion . . . because they did.
“That’s some big house, isn’t it?” Mr. Trono said to me.
“It certainly is,” I replied. “And beautiful. Do you miss it?”
“Oh, yes.” Mrs. Trono passed me the plate of brownies. “But mostly we miss Mr. Randolph. He was a fine gentleman to work for, and, I daresay, a dear, dear friend. We took care of him to the very end.”
“How did he die?” I asked.
“Oh, it was a long illness. He didn’t know us toward the end. He was always mumbling on about the past, the way dying people sometimes do.”
“About the past in the mansion?” I asked. This could be very interesting.
“He did mention the attic once or twice,” Mr. Trono said.
Georgio interrupted. “Claudia isn’t that interested in Mr. Randolph, Gramps. She wants to know how people dressed. Things like that. For a float she’s doing for the parade.”
Georgio was trying to change the subject because we were talking about the attic!
“I think the Menderses would be interested in knowing what their uncle was talking about on his deathbed,” I said firmly. “And so am I.”
“I suppose they would,” Mrs. Trono said. “Mr. Randolph often said he wanted his ‘treasure from the attic.’ But nothing he said in those last days made sense, so I’ve never believed there was any real treasure in the attic.”
Treasure in the attic! That would explain a lot.
“I think you’re right, Grandma,” Georgio put in. “Those were just the mumblings of a dying man. There’s nothing in the attic.” (How did he know what was up there?)
I wanted to ask the Tronos about the dumbwaiter. But since I didn’t want Georgio to suspect that I was doing detective work, I had to be careful how I brought up the subject. “What I like best about big old houses,” I began, “are all the special features like verandas and butlers’ pantries and dumbwaiters.”
“Well, the mansion certainly has everything you’ve mentioned,” Mr. Trono said.
“I haven’t noticed a dumbwaiter,” I said.
“Oh, the dumbwaiter has been covered up for years. We never used it. Mr. Randolph always liked to eat in the dining room off the veranda.”
“And when he was sick we carried him his meals,” Mrs. Trono added. She patted my hand kindly. “The dumbwaiter could be dangerous, dear, so do stay away from it.”
Georgio stood up. “We have to go now,” he said abruptly.
In a minute we were all standing at the front door. “What a lovely visit,” Mrs. Trono said. “Claudia, I do hope you’ll come visit us again sometime.”
I said thank you and goodbye, and we left. As I walked down the street with Georgio I thought over the evidence I’d gathered. I was more certain than ever that he was the “ghost” trying to scare us sitters and the kids. And now I knew why he was doing it. He wanted to find Mr. Randolph’s treasure and keep it for himself.
* * *
Wednesday was our night off. We had big plans — pizza and the summer stock production of Dracula. I put on my black gauze skirt and a red tank top, and tied my white silk bomber jacket around my waist. Then I put on my airplane earrings. Dawn, Kristy, and Mary Anne came into my room to keep me company.
I told them everything that had happened at the Tronos’, including the part about Georgio not wanting his grandparents to tell me anything.
“So
our ‘ghost’ probably isn’t a ghost,” Mary Anne said.
Dawn wanted to review all the clues again, but it was time to leave.
I loved having the evening off. And — believe it or not — Lionel was part of the fun. On the way to town he made us laugh so hard we couldn’t stop. He would speak in different accents and we’d try to guess where he was supposed to be from. I was the worst at guessing. When he put on a Scottish accent I thought it was Australian.
We took a big booth in the pizza parlor and ordered a pizza deluxe. While we were waiting for the pizza, we quizzed Lionel about his ghostly activities at the beginning of the week.
“Did you play hallway ghost two nights in a row?” Dawn asked.
“Yes,” he confessed.
“What color candle did you carry the first night?” I asked.
“Orange. But after I saw you guys inspecting the carpet, I realized the wax had dripped. So I bought white candles — dripless ones. A ghost wouldn’t drip wax, would it?”
“That’s debatable,” I answered.
“Lionel, where did you find the orange candle you used that first night?” Dawn asked.
“In the gardener’s shed, where Georgio keeps his tools,” he said matter-of-factly. “And speak of the devil . . .”
Lionel was looking toward the front door. Georgio had come in and spotted us. Or had he spotted us and then come in? In any case, he strode to our table and treated us like long lost friends.
After everyone had said hi, Georgio asked, “Mind if I join you?”
Naturally, we couldn’t object. As we made room for Georgio, Lionel told him, “We were just talking about you.”
“I hope you only said great things,” Georgio replied. He was looking at me when he said that. I felt myself blush.
Mary Anne said, “We’re going to see Dracula tonight.” Mary Anne was trying to change the subject, but her effort boomeranged, because Georgio said, “I know some of the guys working on that production. Do you mind if I come with you?”
I wanted to say, “I do mind. Leave us alone!” But how could I do that? Especially when Georgio told us he’d be happy to introduce Lionel to his friends who were working on the play.
We spent the rest of our time at the pizza parlor making plans for our Founders’ Day float. Georgio insisted that he should bring the clothes down from the attic for us, and he repeated what he had said to me at his grandparents’, that the fourth floor wasn’t safe.
I noticed Mary Anne’s eyes growing round with fright and Kristy looking suspiciously at Georgio. They were probably thinking what I was thinking. Get me away from this guy!
Going to the play was scary beyond words. I didn’t know who to be more afraid of in that darkened theater — Count Dracula on the stage or Georgio off the stage (he was sitting next to me).
By the time we left for home Lionel was hyper-excited. Georgio had introduced him to the teenaged ushers at the theater. They seemed to like Lionel, and said if he came by before the performance the following night he could meet all the people involved in the production and help pass out programs. I was in a hyper state, too: hyper-freaked-out by the dark, moonless night, Lionel’s nonstop imitation of Count Dracula, and Georgio (who insisted on walking beside me all the way home).
When we reached the mansion, Lionel raced ahead. He probably couldn’t wait to tell his folks about the theater group and the connections he had made. As the rest of us walked around to the back door, Georgio pointed to the fourth floor. “Look at that,” he said. “You guys must have left a light on up there.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I guess so.”
By then I think we all figured that somehow he was responsible for that light. So none of us would give him the satisfaction of seeming scared.
Then we all saw it — a flutter of white fabric moving across the widow’s walk. Mary Anne let out a frightened squeak and Dawn gasped. Otherwise we remained calm. Or pretended we were calm. I wanted to scream and run all the way home to Stoneybrook.
Naturally, Georgio saw the figure in white too, but he acted surprised (the rat!). “Something weird is going on here,” Georgio whispered to me. “I don’t want to frighten anyone, but, Claudia, I want you to promise me you won’t go to the fourth floor again.”
“Sure,” I said. “I promise.” I knew what was weird. Georgio. I was so disappointed in him. I’d hoped he was a nice guy.
That night I slept in Dawn’s room again. I heard the woman’s scream in the wall that she’d told me about. I reminded myself, it’s just Georgio’s female accomplice, not a ghost. But it wasn’t all that comforting. I couldn’t help wondering what Georgio’s next step might be. I was still lying awake, feeling upset, and frightened of more things than I could keep track of.
I went to the mini-fair. Claudia painted faces.
Karen was a cat.
Martha was a mouse.
Jill was a teenager.
Guess what I was? Rib-bid.
Claudia made lots of kids look like animals. She gave all the money to the swim team.
Martha made a new friend today. Karen didn’t help her at all. Martha’s friend is Jody. Jody is on the swim team. Jody wanted to be a mouse like Martha.
My baby-sitters are silly. At the fair they followed ladies who talked like Mary Poppins. Kristy said, “Andrew, I’m looking for someone, but I don’t want her to know. It’s a secret.”
Some of the people we followed were baby-sitters. Mary Poppins was a baby-sitter, too. But some of the other ladies were on vacation.
I asked Mary Anne, “How come people talk funny on vacation?” She said people come to America with their “accents.” When I go on a trip I take a suitcase.
Claudia asked one lady, “Do you know the way to Randolph Mansion?”
A silly-billy question! Claudia knows how to get to the mansion. We all know the way back. The lady thought it was a silly-billy question, too. She said, “No. Should I?”
Claudia told Kristy, “I give up.”
“Dawn, do I have to go to the mini-fair if I don’t want to?” Jason asked me.
Except for Jason, all the kids were excited about going to the fair, particularly because we were setting up a face-painting booth. When I told Kristy what Jason had said, we agreed that Jason shouldn’t be forced to go, and that I’d stay with him. I had a theory that Jill might have a better chance of making new friends at the mini-fair if I wasn’t there. Kristy agreed, adding, “I also want Jason to get used to going to the playground without me.”
After the others had left for the fair, I turned to Jason and said, “Let’s go to the ballfield and you can play softball.”
“Not without Kristy,” he said.
“Kristy’s going home in a few days,” I reminded him. “What will you do then?”
Jason shrugged his shoulders.
“Okay, well, how about playing catch here for a little while?” I suggested. I figured after we threw a ball around, I’d bring up the idea of going to the playground again.
We tossed the ball back and forth. I could tell that Jason was a little bored playing with me (softball is not my sport). So when I saw Lionel, I tossed the ball to him. The ball didn’t go where Lionel could easily reach it, but still he caught it. I was surprised — and impressed.
Lionel threw the ball to Jason, and Jason tossed it back to him. “Lionel,” I called out, “I have to go inside for a minute. Would you play with Jason until I come back?”
“I think I’m doing that,” he said.
The brothers were playing together for the first time that week. Inside I made fresh lemonade. When I went back out with it, Lionel was showing Jason how to throw a knuckleball.
While they were guzzling down the lemonade, I said, “Lionel, you seem to know a lot about softball.”
“His team won the Massachusetts Little League championship,” Jason said proudly. “He has a big trophy.”
“That’s great, Lionel!” I exclaimed. “So why don’t you take Jason to the ball
field?”
Jason’s eyes grew wide with excitement. “Would you?” he asked his brother.
“I suppose I could,” Lionel answered. “But I’m not a jock kind of guy anymore. I’m an actor.”
“Think of it as a part in a play,” I suggested, “and act the role of a guy who loves softball and is going to the ballfield with his kid brother.”
“Hey,” he said, “not a bad idea.”
I noticed that Lionel was wearing white linen pants and a beige short-sleeved shirt. “And don’t forget costuming,” I suggested. “You might want to dress the part, too.”
“Right again,” he said. “Be back in five.”
A few minutes later Lionel appeared before us in cutoff jeans, a T-shirt that read “Boston Red Sox,” and a baseball cap turned sideways. “It’s all in the details,” he told me.
After they took off, I was alone at the mansion. At first I thought I’d go to the mini-fair and catch up with the others. Then I decided this was a perfect opportunity to work on our mystery. I lay in the hammock reading over our vacation notebook, reviewing clues, and doing some strategic planning. By the time I figured out what our next step should be, Lionel and Jason had returned.
I met them on the lawn halfway between the hammock and the house. They each carried a quart bottle of Gatorade. Jason was grinning from ear to ear. “Lionel’s going to be our coach!” he announced.
“Lionel,” I exclaimed, “that’s wonderful! It’s absolutely fabulous.”
“Now we have the best coach of any team,” Jason said.
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