The North Star

by Shepherd

  CHAPTER

  8

  Evie pointed at the curator’s shoes, which were caked in mud. Mud spattered the trousers of his brown suit.

  “This . . . this is nothing!” the curator sputtered. “I stumbled on the sidewalk and stepped into a mud puddle on my way into the party.”

  Sophia pounced. “Nice try, but I saw you talking to my dad at seven fifteen; there wasn’t a speck of mud on you then. And I’m sure the police will have no trouble matching your shoes to the muddy prints we found underneath the window!” She raised one pale arm to call over the uniformed sergeant in the doorway.

  “Wait!” Arturo cried.

  Sophia dropped her hand and looked at him expectantly. “Well?”

  The curator closed his eyes for a moment, as though he were struggling to recollect the evening’s events. “I just remembered. I think it’s possible that I may have left the room for a . . . short while.” He walked over to the open French doors and gestured for the others to follow him outside.

  Evie raised her eyebrows. “This should be interesting.”

  Arturo led them to a quiet corner of the patio, twisting his damp handkerchief in his hands. “I overheard some other party guests talking about their bids. They were much higher than I expected. Much higher.” He shook his head.

  “So what did you do?” Zach asked.

  Arturo gestured to the garden. “I . . . took a breath of fresh air.” He looked at the others beseechingly. “You have to understand that the museum had been well positioned to offer a fair-market bid for the North Star. But on the way here I received a call. The board cut my bidding authorization in half. In half! What was I supposed to do? Let the museum become a laughingstock? They were forcing my hand, pushing me to do something rash.”

  “Are you confessing to stealing the North Star?” Vishal asked.

  Arturo looked alarmed. “Steal it? My goodness, no! How on earth would a reputable museum display a stolen necklace?”

  Vishal reddened. “Well, you did say ‘something rash,’” he said.

  “I meant rash as in resigning from my post, you nitwit. The museum’s budget cuts have been increasingly intolerable, but tonight was the last straw. Do you know they cut my salary by twenty percent last year? Twenty percent! And I just took it, because I believed the board was doing what was best for the museum.”

  Vishal shook his head. “Dude, none of this is making you sound any less guilty.”

  “You can think what you want,” the curator snapped. “When I heard the other potential bids, I knew there was no way we could compete. It’s obvious that the board cares more about their own bottom line than the reputation of the museum. So I stepped outside of the party where it was quiet and dictated my letter of resignation into my phone.” He slipped his phone out of his pocket and tapped at the screen before handing it to Sophia. “Here. See for yourself.”

  Sophia saw the date of the voice memo, recorded at 7:40 p.m. She tapped the Play button. “Ladies and gentlemen of the board, it is with great regret that I must tender my resignation, effective immediately . . .” She handed the phone back.

  “Wait a minute,” Evie said. “That still doesn’t explain the mud.”

  A guilty expression passed across Arturo’s face. He led them across the patio to a covered veranda. “I had a . . . slight mishap. I was here on the piazza—”

  “You mean the porch?” Vishal asked.

  “The piazza,” the curator repeated firmly, “but it was too noisy, so I rounded the corner of the house to find someplace quieter, where I wouldn’t be disturbed. I had just found a quiet corner. It was perfect except for this eyesore of a pot. Honestly, it had no business being there; it was absolutely the wrong place for it.”

  The group followed Arturo around the side of the house until they were standing exactly under the window where they had found the broken pot.

  “So the pot was already here,” Evie said.

  “I certainly wouldn’t have put it here! Look at it! No concern at all for aesthetics or safety, for that matter. I mean, it was clearly a hazard.”

  “Why do you say that?” Zach asked.

  “I almost broke my neck on this hideous thing! I was deep in thought, working on my letter, when I heard a bloodcurdling scream almost directly above my head.” He pointed at the window above. “I was so startled that I stumbled and tripped over it, getting mud all over my favorite suit. And these shoes are obviously a total loss.”

  “So you broke the pot,” Sophia said.

  The curator drew himself up to his full height. “Hardly,” he said huffily. “There’s no reason that pot should have been there at all. It was in my way. Honestly, you should count yourself lucky I don’t sue!”

  Sophia’s eyes flashed. “We only have your word that you didn’t move the pot yourself.”

  Zach pointed at something on the ground. “Not just his word. The evidence backs it up.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  The group was disappointed to discover that Arturo’s footsteps went in the opposite direction from the drag marks of the pot. They followed the officious curator back inside, tired and dispirited.

  “Well, that bites. I thought we had this one in the bag. He seemed like the perfect culprit,” Vishal said. “He had motive and opportunity, plus he was kind of annoying.”

  “Just because someone’s annoying it doesn’t mean they’re a criminal,” Zach said. “Besides, how would he have gotten the combination to the safe?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Vishal said sheepishly. “I kinda forgot about that part.”

  “Well, that still doesn’t rule out Evan Masterson,” Sophia said firmly. “I know he’s got to be behind this somehow. I just have to prove it!”

  “Zach! Evie! There you are!” The kids looked up to find Mrs. Mamuya waving to them across the room. She looked tired, and the lines in her face sagged, but her blue eyes carried the familiar sparkle that always came with a good story.

  When their mother finally wended her way over to them, Zach and Evie introduced her to Sophia. The reporter’s eyebrows raised in recognition, and she reached into her coat pocket for her notebook. Evie put her hand on her mother’s arm. “Not now, Mom, okay? It’s been a long night.”

  Mrs. Mamuya looked at her watch and nodded. “It’s after ten. I should get you kids home.” She turned to Sophia, taking in her disheveled hair and tired, drawn face. “Sophia, it was lovely to meet you. I wish it were under better circumstances. I’ll do everything I can to help the police track down the thief.” She reached into the pocket of her blazer and pulled out her card. “And if you happen remember anything and want to talk . . .”

  Sophia stared at the card like it was week-old fish. “I don’t talk to reporters,” she said flatly, and turned away.

  ***

  Later that night, all was quiet at the Mamuya apartment. Mrs. Mamuya had finally gone to bed after typing her notes into her laptop, and before long, the sound of her gentle snores drifted down the hallway.

  Evie’s door opened a crack. She had on her mom’s old Carleton College sweatshirt and a pair of soft navy joggers. Zach popped his head out of the room next door. Evie could just make out the blue-and-white Lynx WNBA Championship tee he always wore to bed.

  “Is the coast clear?”

  Evie nodded. “I think so.” Evie slipped out of her room and padded down the hallway, Zach and Vishal close behind. A moment later, they were standing in the tiny alcove off the living room that Mrs. Mamuya used as a home office. The cork side walls were tacked with old family photos, to-do lists, and business cards. An overflowing inbox sat on one side, and pens and pencils were clustered into two lumpy clay mugs that Evie and Zach had made in summer camp a few years back. The rest of the desk was scattered with books, newspapers, and Post-it notes and scraps of paper with cryptic messages written in Mrs. Mamuya’s distinctive, jagged cursive. The wall behind the desk was a painted chalkboard with rows of neatly labeled built-in cubbies below, some burs
ting at the seams. Evie noticed a roll of glitter tape and a hairbrush in the “Mailing Supplies” cubby. In a place of honor on the right-hand corner of the desk sat a framed photo of Zach and Evie’s father smiling proudly in his police sergeant uniform. He had died when Zach and Evie were toddlers.

  “Laptop?” Vishal asked.

  Evie sighed. “We can’t. It’s password-protected. We’ll just have to look elsewhere for clues.”

  “What, exactly, are we hoping to find?” Zach asked. “If Mom found out anything useful, she would have gone straight to the police with it anyway, so how is snooping through her stuff going to help anyone?”

  “The thief must be one of the party guests, and Mom had a chance to talk to all of them. Maybe one of them let something slip. Something tiny that Mom might not have known was a clue.”

  “Are you sure we’re talking about the same Mom? The one who figured out you snuck an extra lollipop from the dentist’s office because your lips were purple instead of blue? Yeah, I doubt we’re gonna find anything that slipped past her tonight.”

  “Look, do you want to get the necklace back or not?” Evie asked, exasperated.

  “Obviously I do,” Zach shot back. “I just don’t think we should be ransacking our own mother’s desk to do it. It’s not like she stole anything.”

  “Fine,” Evie said. “Then Vishal can do it.”

  “What?!” Vishal’s face paled. “Why me?”

  “Well, Zach doesn’t think we should go through our mother’s things, and she’s not your mother. So you can do it instead.”

  Zach sighed. “That does not remotely make sense.”

  “Look, Mom’s notes are the only leads we have. We have to at least look.”

  “Well, I still don’t see why we can’t just ask her first.”

  “Because if we ask her, she’ll say no,” Evie explained patiently. She carefully lifted up the freshest-looking pile of paper and scanned its contents. “Nope,” she mumbled to herself. “This is all about some trial she’s covering.” She put the papers down where she found them and pulled open a desk drawer.

  “Evie, you should definitely stop now,” Zach said. “You might mess something up.” Evie ignored him. Zach looked at Vishal. “This is a bad idea, right? Help me out.”

  Vishal took a step backward and held up his hands. “Don’t look at me, dude.”

  Evie slid the drawer closed and turned to the two boys. “You know, it would go a lot faster if you guys helped me.”

  “Hang on,” Vishal said. “I think I might have found her notebook. And it looks like there’s a clue inside that can help us.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  Early the next morning, Zach poured cereal into three bowls and set them around the table. Mrs. Mamuya bustled through the house in a pair of black pants and a cream silk blouse. Her hair was wrapped in a towel. “Has anyone seen my hairbrush?”

  “It’s in the mail cubby behind your desk,” Evie said automatically. Zach shot her a look, and Evie shrugged.

  “Thanks, ’Vie,” her mom said. She grabbed the brush and shoved a stack of papers into her work bag along with her laptop. She tried to fit another stack of paper-clipped documents into the bag, but they wouldn’t fit. She paused for a moment and scanned the desk. “Was someone at my desk earlier?”

  “Yeah,” Evie said. “I couldn’t find something.”

  “Oh no! Did you find it?” Mrs. Mamuya zipped up her bag and dropped it and the stack of documents at one end of the dining table.

  “Yup. Thanks, Mom.”

  As their mom disappeared back into her bedroom, Evie smirked at Zach. “See? And I didn’t even have to lie.”

  “For real.” Zach shook his head in an expression of mock woe. “Our own mother . . .”

  “Will thank us when we get the necklace back and give her the story of the year,” Evie said confidently. “So, that clue we found: AM something wine cellar something locksmith. Anybody have any new ideas after last night?”

  “It’s got to mean there was a locksmith in the wine cellar some morning, right?” Vishal asked. “But how would that connect to the necklace?”

  “Maybe if the locksmith was alone, he had the time to sneak upstairs from the wine cellar and make a dummy key to the safe,” Zach suggested. “We should call Sophia and check.”

  Vishal pulled his phone out of the pocket of the hoodie he had been wearing the night before. He swiped at the screen, then tapped it. Nothing happened. He poked at the various unlock buttons, but the phone didn’t respond.

  “Is your phone dead?” Zach asked.

  “No,” Vishal said. “It’s just not working.”

  “That’s weird.” Zach reached out his hand. “Let me see.” He fiddled with the phone. “Usually a phone only gets wacky like this if it’s been near strong electrical currents or magnetic waves. You didn’t put it on a transformer box or something last night, did you?”

  Vishal shrugged. “I don’t think so. The only thing it’s been near all night is this.” He pulled out the shiny hockey puck and handed it to Zach.

  “Huh. What kind of waves would this thing give out?” Zach put the puck on the table and slid it across the surface. Suddenly, the stack of documents toppled and flew across the table, the paper clips smacking against the puck. “Whoa! What just happened?!”

  “Dude! It’s got to be a magnet! That’s so awesome!” Vishal pulled at the paper clips that were stuck to the magnet. “Man, they’re really stuck on there! I’ve never seen one this powerful before.”

  Zach laughed and picked it up. “I wonder what else we can do with it. YouTube?”

  “Definitely! Where’s your phone?”

  Evie rapped on the table. “You guys, focus! I thought we were tracking down that wine cellar clue. Maybe we can call all the locksmith companies and see which one went to the Boyd house recently.”

  “I thought we were just gonna call Sophia. That’s like a million times faster than calling a bunch of random locksmiths.”

  Evie picked up her empty cereal bowl and dropped it in the sink with a clatter. “No way we’re calling her. Did you see how rude she was to Mom last night?

  ‘I don’t talk to reporters.’ I mean, where does she get off?”

  “Who was rude to me last night?” Mrs. Mamuya asked, walking into the kitchen. Her hair had been blow-dried and smoothed, and she had added a light coating of lipstick to her otherwise bare face.

  “No one. Just that rich girl Sophia,” Evie said.

  “Oh, don’t blame her; that happens to me all the time. People nowadays treat every reporter like we’re from that awful gossip rag, the Twin City Tattler. I swear it’s given journalism a bad name.”

  ***

  Sophia’s mother picked up her phone from the breakfast table and cried out in alarm. “This is outrageous!”

  Mr. Boyd peered over her shoulder. “What happened?”

  “Apparently the Twin City Tattler wrote an article on the theft last night, and it accuses Maurice outright! It’s bad enough that the police were hounding him, but for the paper to name him as the perpetrator without a shred of evidence? It’s beyond irresponsible; it’s libel! Everyone’s going to think the poor man’s guilty!” She put the phone down in disgust.

  “They’re not going to arrest Maurice, are they?” Sophia asked.

  “Don’t worry,” Mrs. Boyd said. “The police can’t arrest someone without evidence.”

  Sophia felt a buzz in the leather-lined phone pocket of her pleated wool miniskirt. The number wasn’t familiar. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Sophia? It’s Zach. Evie said we shouldn’t call you—”

  “Don’t tell her that!” Evie’s loud whisper could be heard in the background.

  “Okay, um, anyway,” Zach continued, “we found something in my mom’s notes from last night that could be a clue. Did you have a locksmith do some work in the wine cellar? Maybe in the morning?”

  “Hang on,” Sophia said. She moved the phone aw
ay from her face. “Mom? Dad? Was there a locksmith here recently?”

  Both parents shook their heads. “Why?” asked Mr. Boyd.

  Sophia shrugged. “No reason, I guess.” She picked her phone back up and walked into the kitchen, where the chef and a kitchen helper were having breakfast at the sunny table near the window. “We didn’t have any locksmith here,” Sophia said into the phone.

  “Weird,” Zach said. “We found a note that said something about a locksmith in the wine cellar in the AM. Are you sure no one was down there?”

  “That is weird. I’ll go check and call you back.” Sophia opened the door to the dim, cool cellar and flipped on the light. When she was little, it had been one of her favorite hiding spots during hide-and-seek, and more recently she had often spent time down there with her father, listening and learning as he taught her about the new bottles and vintages he was constantly adding to the family’s collection.

  When Sophia reached the bottom of the stairs, her mouth hung open in shock. Much of the room was in disarray; bottles of whites and reds were all mixed together, and a few hadn’t been put away at all. The wine cellar was Mr. Boyd’s pride and joy. How could the staff have left it such a mess?

  She stormed back up to the kitchen. “Have you seen the wine cellar this morning? It’s a mess!”

  The chef looked alarmed. “No! Was anything broken?”

  “No, but it’s all out of order. I know it was a busy party last night, but I can’t believe anyone here would leave it in such a state!”

  The kitchen helper, Isabel, was a soft-spoken, petite women with long hair worn in a tightly coiled bun on top of her head. “Maybe it was the lady who was down there.”

  Sophia’s ears perked up. “What lady?”

  “I saw a lady from the party go down there last night. At first, I thought she was lost and looking for the bathroom, but she was there a long time.”

  “What time was this?” Sophia asked.

  “It was early, just before Lucy hurt her ankle. Maybe about seven fifteen?”

  Sophia’s eyes glistened thoughtfully. “Did you see her come back up?”