by Karen Kane
“I’m not sure,” Charlie said. “My friend Frog said you might be able to help—”
“Frog? I love Frog! She taught me the best sign.” Desdemona signed the letter C with one hand, and placed her fingertips and thumb on her opposite arm. “Power.”
Charlie copied the sign. “Power.”
“Power,” Desdemona said. “We all have our own power.”
“Okay,” Charlie said. “Well, Frog said you might be able to give us some information.”
“Charlie.” Desdemona gave him a reproachful look. “I can’t ‘give’”—Desdemona made air quotes—“anyone anything. All I can do is bring out what’s inside you.”
“What exactly,” Charlie asked, “is your new career?”
Desdemona pointed to a framed certificate on the wall.
DESDEMONA FINKELSTEIN IS HEREBY KNOWN AS A
FORTUNE-TELLER EXTRAORDINAIRE
UNLESS THE UNIVERSE TELLS HER DIFFERENTLY.
SIGNED,
DESDEMONA FINKELSTEIN, F.T.E.
“A fortune-teller?” Charlie said.
“Extraordinaire,” Desdemona said.
Charlie stood up. “I think there’s been a mistake—”
“SIT DOWN!” Desdemona was suddenly very lawyer-like.
Charlie sat.
Desdemona looked at him hard. “The universe brought you here for a reason, Charlie. Don’t you want to know what that reason is?”
Before Charlie could answer, Desdemona said, “Give me your palm.”
Charlie stretched out his left hand. Desdemona grabbed it and peered into it.
“I see a girl,” she said. “She’s Deaf.”
“I just told you that,” Charlie said. “It’s Frog.”
“I’m warming up,” Desdemona said. She leaned forward again.
“I see a friendship forming between—nope, not a friendship. I see you and Frog working together to solve some sort of problem or puzzle or mystery.”
“And then we become friends,” Charlie said. “Right?”
“The line on your palm ends here, right after the mystery-puzzle-problem thing is solved. After that, I can’t see what happens.”
“But am I going to stay?” Charlie asked.
Desdemona looked up. “What’s that?”
“Am I going to stay here? In Castle-on-the-Hudson.”
“Well,” Desdemona said, “that question, like the law, depends on how you interpret it. But I do have something for specific questions! My niece received two of these on her birthday, so she gave me one.”
Desdemona reached under her desk and pulled out a Magic Black Ball.
Charlie gave Desdemona Frog’s best are-you-kidding-me look.
“No,” Desdemona said, “I am not kidding you. Any object can be powerful. But an object only gains power from those who believe. Not those who doubt. Now. Do you have questions or not? This baby has nineteen possible answers for you.”
Charlie did have questions. Lots of them.
“Great.” Desdemona pulled out a form. “Do you mind signing this contract for services rendered? It says the usual stuff—the fortune-teller isn’t responsible for any actions you take because of the fortune told, nor is she responsible for damages, et cetera, et cetera.”
Charlie signed his name, thinking Frog would never have signed anything without reading it carefully first. He picked up the Magic Black Ball.
He asked his first question. “Am I going to stay in Castle-on-the-Hudson?”
He turned over the ball.
Anything is possible.
Well, that was true. And as long as it was possible, it meant it could happen. Charlie closed his eyes again. Frog had said they needed to go to Desdemona for vital information. He thought about the most vital information he wanted to know.
“Is Aggie going to be all right?”
He opened his eyes and turned the ball over.
No idea.
“You have one more question,” Desdemona whispered. “Then I have to bill you for the next quarter hour.”
Charlie closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Maybe the ball knew the answer even if Desdemona didn’t.
“Will Frog and I become friends?”
Charlie repeated the question to make sure the Magic Black Ball had heard him clearly.
He gave the ball a little shake and turned it over.
Perhaps…perhaps not.
• • •
Charlie left Desdemona Finkelstein, F.T.E., ten dollars lighter. He was tucking the rest of his money into his pocket when he walked right into two men.
Charlie looked up and stared into Dex’s cold eyes.
“Hello,” Ray said.
Charlie ran.
Charlie didn’t look back. He ran as fast as he could to the Castle-on-the-Hudson police station. Once again Chief Paley was on the phone, her feet propped up on her desk.
“Chief, I need to talk to you,” Charlie gasped.
Chief Paley held up a finger.
“Yes, ma’am, I do understand,” the chief said into the phone. “Yes, ma’am, you’re making perfect sense. However, I’m feeling”—the chief reached for her word list—“denigrated as we converse. That means I am not feeling great while we’re talking.”
Silence. Listening.
“Yes, ma’am, I know you don’t care. But is that a kind way to talk—Hello? Ma’am?”
Chief Paley sighed and hung up the phone.
Charlie jumped in. “Chief, I have to tell you—”
Chief Paley held up a hand. “Charlie, a writer’s words are her tools. Do you know what I want to build with my tools?”
“Build?”
“It’s a metaphor. Build with my tools, write with my words? A metaphor is a kind of cipher—a secret hidden in the words.”
“I don’t understand,” Charlie said.
“I’ll translate. Do you know what kind of books I want to write?”
“No,” Charlie said. “But—”
“That was a rhetorical question. That means I don’t expect an answer because I already know the answer. Mysteries. I plan to write mystery books set in a village on the Hudson River with a brave and brilliant chief of police. It’s a quiet little village, but it’s those quiet little villages that have the most secrets. And where there are secrets”—Chief Paley lowered her voice to a whisper—“there is crime.”
“Crime!” Charlie said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Crime? Why didn’t you say so?”
“I tried—never mind,” Charlie said. “I just saw Dex and Ray. The men looking for Aggie!”
“What were they doing?” the chief asked. “I never found them yesterday.”
“Well,” Charlie said, “they were just standing on the sidewalk. Ray said hello.”
“That was friendly of him,” Chief Paley said.
“Not really,” Charlie said. He told the chief about Dex and Ray following him and Frog into Junk and Stuff.
“But has a crime been committed?” Chief Paley said. “To answer that question I always follow the WWVVODMD rule. I’m sure you’re familiar with it.”
“Um, no,” Charlie said.
“What Would Vince Vinelli or Dorrie McCann Do?”
Charlie’s left hand repeated the letters. WWVVODMD.
Chief Paley looked at Vince Vinelli’s picture. “Vince Vinelli would say good people have to do something if a crime has been committed. Dorrie McCann would use her detective intuition and investigate any possible criminal activity. So let’s take another look-see around the village and find these men. But tell me something, Charlie Tickler.” The chief drummed her fingers on the desk. “Why do you care so much about this Aggie? You don’t even know her.” She leaned back in her chair and waited for Charlie’s response.
“Why do I care?” Charlie had not really thought about it. Parents, giant golden moles, boarding school, grandparents, and E-Z chair recliners flashed through his mind.
Suddenly the reason was simple and clear.
“I care,” Charlie said, “because everyone needs someone who cares about them. And I don’t know if anyone else cares about Aggie.”
• • •
Chief Paley hung a Back Soon! sign on the front door of the police department. Together she and Charlie searched Castle-on-the-Hudson. Charlie felt very small and very safe next to Chief Paley. But Dex and Ray were nowhere to be found.
“Charlie, I have to get back to the station. You see those two men again you come get me pronto.” The chief gave Charlie a bone-jarring pat on the back before striding away.
Without the chief next to him, Charlie did not feel so safe anymore. Charlie spotted Herman and his taxi waiting at the red light. In the backseat were Grandma and Grandpa Tickler, heading home from their bunion appointment.
“Grandma!” Charlie knocked on her window. Grandma Tickler rolled it down.
“Can I ride home with you?” Charlie asked. The light turned green. The taxi began to roll away. Charlie jogged along beside it.
“Herman never stops for other fares until he gets to his destination,” Grandma Tickler said. Both of Herman’s hands clutched the steering wheel with his chin resting on top of them. “But,” Grandma Tickler suggested, “you could just jump into the front seat.”
Charlie grabbed the front door handle, yanked it open, and jumped in.
Herman didn’t even glance over.
Charlie was eating a bologna sandwich, looking through Baking with the Grandkids: 101 Easy Recipes to Fill Their Stomachs and Your Heart, when the phone rang.
“Tickler residence. Charlie speaking.”
The phone had a long, curly cord. Charlie could walk back to the kitchen table and still talk.
“Charlie?” said a faraway voice.
“Dad!”
Loud crackling filled Charlie’s ear.
“Darling? Can you hear us?” Charlie’s mother was also on the phone.
“Mom! I can hear you!” Charlie said.
“Can you hear anything, Alistair?” his mother asked his father.
“Charlie? We made it to South Africa!” Charlie’s father said. “The giant golden moles are most appreciative that we’re helping them and—Myra, I don’t think he can hear me.”
“I can hear you! Can you hear me?” Charlie shouted into the phone.
Yvette came up from the basement with a laundry basket. “I sure can hear you,” she said before heading upstairs.
“Darling, we’re having the most marvelous time. The weather has been perfect. We have been swimming every day. Your father is so glad he brought two swimsuits, aren’t you, Alistair?”
“That was good packing advice, Myra.”
“Charlie? Darling? Are you there?”
“I’m here!” Charlie said. “I’m here!”
Charlie opened the kitchen door and went out on the steps, stretching the curly cord until it was straight.
“Mom! Dad! Can you hear me now?”
“I don’t hear Charlie,” his father said to his mother. “The connection is too weak.”
And no matter how loud Charlie shouted, no matter how clearly he could hear his parents, they could not hear him. His parents hung up. Charlie went back to the wall and put the phone on the hook.
Yvette came back downstairs with the laundry basket filled with towels and sheets.
“Well?” she asked.
“They couldn’t hear me,” Charlie said.
“The connection was just bad,” Yvette said. “South Africa is a long way off.”
“I could hear them.” Charlie pushed his plate away.
“Well, sometimes the connection’s better on one end,” Yvette said.
Charlie didn’t respond.
Yvette started to say something else and stopped. She sighed and went down to the basement to start a load of laundry.
Charlie practiced the signs Millie had shown him. “Mom”—the thumb of his open hand touched his chin—and “Dad”—the thumb of his open hand touched his forehead. “Mom and Dad.”
He looked in the living room. Charlie’s grandparents were napping in their E-Z chair recliners, plates of pimento-and-cheese sandwiches still on their laps. He returned to the baking book, more determined than ever to find something so delicious to bake with his grandparents that they would want to make it again and again. With Charlie.
The gondola swung in the gusty wind. Charlie breathed a sigh of relief when the cabin swept its way to the top of the bluff. Oliver opened the door and placed a stool underneath it.
“The gondola,” Oliver whispered to Charlie as he stepped out, “isn’t supposed to operate in wind like this.”
But Oliver hadn’t whispered softly enough. The woman behind Charlie gasped.
“It’s perfectly safe,” Oliver assured her with a brilliant smile. “Would this face lie?” Oliver moved closer to Charlie. “Wait for me while I tell Mr. Simple to ixnay ethay ondolagay until the storm blows over.”
Ixnay ethay ondolagay?
“Nix the gondola? Pig Latin? It’s a kind of cipher?” Oliver shook his head at Charlie’s confused look. “What do they teach kids these days?”
Once Oliver had radioed Mr. Simple, he and Charlie leaned into the wind and walked up to the castle. Charlie dropped off his backpack in Oliver’s room, and then they headed back down to the great hall.
“Just to warn you,” Oliver said. “Mom always gets a bit…intense this time of year.”
“Why?” Charlie asked.
“The Founders’ Day Dinner. Every year she wants the castle to look perfect for the alumni. That means we all have to pitch in. Forced labor. Frog was only allowed to invite you over because she told Mom you’re interested in the castle. It’s your cover while you investigate your murder mystery.”
“Not murder,” Charlie said. “Just mystery.”
“If that makes you feel better,” Oliver said.
“It does,” Charlie said.
“So what have you guys discovered so far about your not-murder-just-a-mystery?” Oliver asked.
“I’ll tell you if you tell me what you did,” Charlie said. “Frog told me you did something only she knows about. That’s why you have to interpret for her.”
“Wow.” Oliver paused on the stone steps. “You’re a lot smarter than you look, Charlie Tickler.”
“Thanks,” Charlie said. “I think.”
Millie was skipping up the stairs with Bear at her heels.
“Hi, Millie,” Charlie said.
“Hi, Charlie! I’m doing a special project,” Millie told him. “It’s a secret.”
“Sure it is,” Oliver said.
Millie stamped her foot. Bear growled. “It is, Oliver! You’ll see! Bye, Charlie.” Millie continued up the steps.
“Bye, Millie.” Oliver turned to Charlie. “Millie cannot keep a secret. Don’t tell her anything unless you want everyone to know.” Oliver pointed to a man entering the great hall. “There’s my dad.” The man paused and looked around carefully before hurrying toward them. Oliver signed to him. His father turned to Charlie and shook his hand.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Charlie. I’m Henry Hollander. I always have to explain to people that I did not take the Castle family name, although my children did.”
“Just call him Mr. Castle,” Oliver said and signed. “Everyone does.”
“Indeed! If it’s easier to remember, then by all means do so!” Mr. Castle was hard of hearing, and although his voice sounded tinny and far away, Charlie could understand him perfectly. “Frog tells me you’re interested in our school history. Why don’t you come up to the superintendent’s study with me before Frog gives you the tour? I’ll give you a lengthy but, I assure you, not boring introduction.”
“Dad is writing a history of our school,” Oliver said and signed. “He’s using Grandpa Sol’s office while Grandpa’s away. Dad, I’m sure Charlie would love to hear your lengthy, but definitely not boring, talk. Wouldn’t you, Charlie?” Oliver grinned.
“
Well,” Charlie said, “I’m supposed to be meeting Frog—”
“Oh, you have plenty of time,” Oliver said.
“Excellent!” Mr. Castle took Charlie’s arm. “But let’s hurry.” His eyes darted around the great hall. “It’s not good to stand where it’s so open and unprotected. My wife is hunting for—I mean, looking for—people to help with her list of chores, and I would much rather not—Agh!” Mr. Castle dropped Charlie’s arm.
Mrs. Castle stood at the top of the stone steps, arms crossed, foot tapping.
She signed something to Mr. Castle. Charlie turned to Oliver. But Oliver had disappeared. Mr. Castle signed back, pointing to Charlie and then toward upstairs. Mrs. Castle shook her head no. She looked at her list and pointed to the statue in the middle of the great hall.
Mr. Castle turned to Charlie. “My wife thinks it would be better if we discussed history while we polished the Alice and Francine statue.”
Mrs. Castle came down the steps and handed Mr. Castle a bottle of polish and rags. She checked something off her long list and marched back up the stairs.
“Eleanor,” Mr. Castle told Charlie, “gets very anxious this time of year. Not only does she want the castle to look its best for returning students, but this time every year my father-in-law hikes to a special spot on the Appalachian Trail. It’s the place where he proposed to his late wife. He always arrives the same day he proposed. Eleanor worries until he returns home.”
Charlie and Mr. Castle stood next to the Alice and Francine statue in the middle of the great hall. Two girls faced each other smiling. The younger girl was making the letter F with one hand. The older girl was making the letter A. Between them sat a small frog with a satisfied look on its face. On the base of the statue was a plaque with one word: FRIENDS.
They would need a ladder to polish the whole statue. Charlie fingerspelled LADDER. Mr. Castle shrugged and put some polish on his cloth and on Charlie’s. They began polishing the parts they could reach.