The Crims #2

by Kate Davies

  “Well, my grandmother has promised some knitting lessons,” she said, sitting up and looking a little too proud of herself. “Knitting is all the rage among bored hipsters!”

  “Cool, how retro!” said Ava. “How about you, Willa?”

  Willa glanced at Imogen, turned bright red, and looked at her feet as she said, “Um . . . the frozen yogurt place has donated a two-pound gift card. . . .”

  Ava nodded, her head tilted again to one side. “That’s about enough for one scoop, isn’t it?” she said. “Which is great! We don’t want anyone getting diabetes! What else?”

  The other girls were silent.

  “What about you, Imogen?” Ava said, smiling at her expectantly. “I know you’re going to blow the rest of us out of the water!”

  “Well, I could,” said Imogen, “but I don’t think anyone would want to bid for a homemade bomb!”

  No one laughed.

  Ava shook her head. “Please don’t bring a homemade bomb, Imogen,” she said.

  “Oh, no,” said Imogen, “I was joking! That was a silly joke!”

  Everyone kept not laughing.

  What had she been thinking? Jokes had never been her strong point. And queen bees, she reminded herself, don’t have senses of humor.

  “Do you have any actual pledges?” Ava asked, a hint of sourness in her sickly sweet voice.

  “Yes, actually,” Imogen said, thinking quickly. “My family might be willing to donate a secondhand Boeing 747. It’s attached to the roof of our house at the moment—my uncle Knuckles and aunt Bets live in it, but we can probably find room for them somewhere else. We just need to find someone to pry it up—”

  “Awww,” said Ava, pasting on a huge, obviously fake smile. “How sweet! That’s supernice of them! But 747s are a bit out-of-date—it’s all about the 787 Dreamliner now, isn’t it? Which means that so far, Imogen has gotten . . . no donations.”

  Imogen blushed. She hated blushing—pink didn’t suit her. She looked down at her phone so no one would see, and noticed a text from Big Nana: Where are you? You’re supposed to be breaking into the post office this evening. We need stamps. She turned her phone off without replying. Big Nana was much more demanding alive than she had been dead.

  When she tuned back into the meeting, Ava was still talking. “So, who wants to volunteer to be auctioneer?”

  Imogen and Ava both raised their hands.

  “Okay,” said Ava. “Let’s have a vote. Who wants Imogen to be auctioneer?”

  Imogen shot her hand into the air again. She looked over at Hannah, Penelope, and Willa. Penelope and Hannah raised their hands too—but Willa kept hers firmly down.

  Hmmm. Imogen cocked an eyebrow in Willa’s direction. Rebellion from the troops?

  “And who wants me to be auctioneer?” All five boys and Willa raised theirs.

  “I win!” said Ava, giggling in false modesty, which is the worst kind of modesty.

  She’s beating me at everything, thought Imogen. I’m going to have to bring her down somehow!

  Imogen was so irritated by Ava that she forgot to steal stamps on the way home. She was even more irritated when, while walking up to the back door, she suddenly fell into a deep trough hidden by pine needles—another of Freddie’s booby traps.

  “FREDDIE!” she shouted, trying to scramble out of the pit. If she hadn’t fallen into it, she might have been impressed—it was very deep and very well hidden. But she had fallen into it, and she had mud under her nails and all over her school uniform, so she was mostly just furious.

  Freddie lumbered around the corner, a hopeful look in his eyes. Once again, he seemed very disappointed to see Imogen.

  “Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Help me out of here.” She reached out her arm to him, and he heaved her out.

  Freddie helped her pick the pine needles out of her hair. “I really thought I’d gotten them this time,” he said.

  Imogen gave a sigh of frustration. “Don’t you think it’s time to give up on the booby trap idea? The only person you’ve caught is me.”

  “Twice!” said Freddie, who seemed much prouder of this than he should have been. “Plus a couple of cats. And anyway, they work as a deterrent. How many times have the Kruks attacked us since I set the traps? Zero, that’s how many.”

  “And I’m sure that’s all thanks to you.”

  Freddie looked pleased. “Really?” he said.

  “You’re really good at recognizing sarcasm,” said Imogen.

  “Thank you!” said Freddie.

  Imogen shook her head and pushed past him into the house.

  All Imogen wanted to do was take a shower and go to bed and forget about her complete failure of a day. She stomped upstairs, but as she passed Delia’s room, she heard the unmistakable screechy tones of Kitty Penguin singing her hit single “Bad Beak.” Imogen paused outside the door. She had barely spoken to Delia since the first day of school—and she hadn’t had any fun since then, either. Maybe that wasn’t a coincidence. She wondered how many crimes Delia had committed since Big Nana had announced the Crime Directive. Delia had so many grand plans. Had she stolen the giant hamburger sign from Blandington Burgers and put it in the kitchen as a subliminal message for whoever was cooking dinner that night? Had she kidnapped Makeup Boy, her favorite YouTube star, and forced him to teach her how to contour? And had she decided to try to find out what Big Nana was supposedly keeping from them, about why the Kruks were coming after them?

  She decided to find out.

  Delia was lying on her bed, doodling in her criminal plans journal and “singing” along to Kitty Penguin. She sounded like a vacuum cleaner in a lot of pain. She slammed her journal shut when she saw Imogen and asked, “What do you want?”

  “Nice to see you, too,” said Imogen. “I just thought we could hang out for a bit.”

  Delia sat up, arms crossed. “Why? I thought you were too good for me, now that you’re queen bee.”

  Imogen sat on the edge of Delia’s bed. “Actually, I don’t think I am queen bee,” she said miserably. “There’s a new girl in my class. Ava Gud—I mean, what kind of name is that?”

  “A bad one.”

  “Right. And she’s good at everything. And everyone likes her. And her voice sounds like angels singing. And she’s rich—like, the other day she said, ‘Taylor Swift doesn’t come to stay anymore, because she got upset that our house was so much nicer than hers.’”

  Delia raised an eyebrow. “What does she look like?”

  “She’s beautiful. Obviously.”

  Delia shifted closer to Imogen. “There must be something wrong with her. What does she smell like?”

  Imogen tilted her head, remembering. “It’s like . . . roses and butterscotch and freshly cut grass.”

  Delia shook her head, grimacing. “Man. You’re in trouble.”

  “I know.” Imogen sighed, kicking her legs against the bed. “I probably shouldn’t be focusing so much on school stuff when Big Nana’s so worried about the family. It’s just . . . I knew it would be hard to leave Lilyworth, but I thought at least I’d be best at everything in Blandington. No offense.” She looked at Delia. “Anyway. Enough about me. How are you? How’s the Crime Directive going?”

  “Not great,” said Delia. “I tried to steal a car earlier. Only it turned out it was a self-driving car, and it took me straight to the police station. I mean, I managed to run away before they caught me—those police officers really need to work on their cardio—but it was a total setup!”

  “How was it a setup?” Imogen asked.

  “The car just happened to be parked with its window wide open, right in front of the ice cream parlor I go to when I skip school.”

  “Couldn’t it just have been bad luck?”

  Delia gave an angry laugh. “OPEN YOUR EYES! Who would leave a self-driving—”

  But before she could finish her sentence, Big Nana’s head appeared around the door. “It’s time for a
family meeting!”

  Delia and Imogen looked at each other. The last thing they wanted to do was go to another family meeting. But they knew that if they didn’t go, it might literally be the last thing they did—Big Nana owned a lot of chainsaws for a sixty-five-year-old. So they stood up and walked sulkily downstairs.

  The other Crims were already assembled on cushions on the living room floor, apart from Big Nana, who was standing by the door, holding what looked like a police baton covered in glitter and hearts and pictures of weeping unicorns.

  “PLEASE, CAN I SIT ON THE SOFA?” said Uncle Knuckles, shifting uncomfortably, his massive knees knocking together. “THIS IS A LITTLE UNDIGNIFIED FOR A MAN OF MY AGE. AND MY HERNIA IS ACTING UP AGAIN.”

  “No,” said Big Nana. “This way we’re all equal.”

  “You’re standing up,” observed Aunt Bets.

  “Some of us are more equal than others,” said Big Nana. “Now. We have a lot of important issues to cover today, so we’re going to treat one another with loving kindness. Everyone’s opinions are valid. Particularly mine. So, we’re going to use the sharing stick.” She held up the strange-looking baton. “Only the person holding this stick can speak. If anyone interrupts, the person holding it can use the stick to hit them until they shut up. With loving kindness, obviously.”

  No one said anything. The stick was very large, and Big Nana was very strong.

  “Right,” said Big Nana, satisfied, thwacking her hand with the sharing stick in quite a threatening manner. “Delia told me she had a rather upsetting experience with a self-driving car earlier on. She tried to steal it—as anyone in their right mind would—and it drove her straight to the police station.”

  “Outrageous,” muttered Uncle Clyde.

  Big Nana pointed the sharing stick at Uncle Clyde. “Clyde,” she said, “are you holding the sharing stick?”

  Uncle Clyde looked down at his hands. “I am not.”

  “So are you allowed to speak?”

  Uncle Clyde shook his head.

  “That’s better,” said Big Nana. “So, I wanted to check with the rest of you— How has the Crime Directive been going? Have you had any trouble committing crimes in the last couple of days?”

  Sam, who was covered in gold paint, put up his hand. Big Nana handed him the sharing stick.

  “Someone left a note on my locker at school, saying that the security guard at the art supply store was legally blind, so obviously, I followed up on that. It went very badly.”

  “Is that why you look like an Academy Award?” asked Delia.

  “I DO NOT WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT!” yelled Sam.

  Uncle Knuckles put up his hand, and Sam passed the sharing stick to him.

  “I HAD TO BAIL SAM OUT OF JAIL!” shouted Uncle Knuckles. “AND I’D BEEN PLANNING TO USE THAT MONEY TO BUY MYSELF A MUD PACK.”

  Aunt Bets nodded. “Happened to me too,” she said. “I tried to raid the knitting store, but someone had set up a trip wire in front of the really expensive yarn.”

  “I tried to steal bananas from the supermarket, but the Masked Banana Bandit had already got them all,” said Nick.

  “What were you doing trying to steal bananas anyway? I specifically told you not to commit such pathetic crimes!” said Big Nana.

  Nate smirked at Nick. “That’ll teach you for not being original.”

  “You can talk,” said Nick. “Your face isn’t even original. IT’S THE SAME AS MINE.”

  “Now, now,” said Big Nana, grabbing the sharing stick and raising it threateningly. “Loving kindness, remember? And if anyone speaks without the stick again, they’ll be sorry. And in a lot of pain.”

  The Crims fell silent.

  “Does this mean that none of you have successfully pulled off a crime today?”

  The Crims nodded miserably.

  Big Nana frowned. “This just goes to show that we need to be on our guard. Particularly since Uncle Clyde was targeted inside Crim House, and Sam was targeted at school. Whoever left that note knew exactly which locker was his.”

  “And whoever parked that self-driving car knows where I go when I’m not at school,” said Delia. “Which means someone has been spying on me.”

  Big Nana nodded, looking serious. “It’s time to address the elephant in the room,” she said.

  “WHERE IS IT?” said Uncle Knuckles, jerking around to look over his shoulders. “I HATE ANIMALS WITH TRUNKS!”

  “Not a literal elephant, Knuckles, you oversize balloon,” said Big Nana. “A metaphorical elephant: There may be a mole in Crim House!”

  “A MOLE?” said Uncle Knuckles. “THEY’RE EVEN WORSE! ALL FURRY AND SMOOTH AND BLIND!”

  “NOT A LITERAL MOLE!” shouted Big Nana. “What I mean is, someone in this room is passing information to our enemies!”

  “NO!” screamed Uncle Knuckles.

  “YES!” Big Nana screamed back.

  “NO!” Uncle Knuckles screamed again.

  Imogen thought about this. Could there really be a mole in Crim House? She looked around at her family. There was no way any of them would pass information to the Kruks. They were all stupidly loyal to one another, even when they were stealing one another’s belongings and attempting to murder one another with tulip bulbs (which is quite difficult). Besides, even if one of them wanted to spy for the Kruks, none of them was actually competent enough to pull it off. Except Big Nana, who clearly wasn’t the mole, seeing as she was the one who had brought it up. In any case, Imogen still didn’t believe that the Kruks would actually want to spy on the Crims. Why would they bother foiling the Crims’ petty crimes? Why would they leave a note on a schoolboy’s locker?

  Imogen took the sharing stick. “Is there actually any evidence that there’s a mole?” she asked. “Couldn’t this all just be bad luck? Or, worst-case scenario, someone’s probably trying to prank us. There are loads of people who hate us in this town. Jack Wooster . . . Freddie’s whole gambling ring . . . the family of that dead woman Mum ran over . . .”

  Big Nana shook her head and took the sharing stick back from Imogen. “Jack Wooster is far too busy sitting on his golden toilet to prank us. Sorry—his golden toilet empire. I don’t know why you aren’t taking this seriously. The threat from the Kruks is real. These people are dangerous. They’re stopping us from pulling off crimes, which means we have no food in the house, which means we’re going to have to go to the supermarket and pay for our groceries!”

  “NO!” cried Uncle Knuckles.

  “I wouldn’t be seen dead in a checkout line,” muttered Josephine. “So demeaning!”

  “What do you even do in a checkout line?” asked Henry.

  “NO CRIM SHOULD EVER KNOW THE ANSWER TO THAT QUESTION!” cried Big Nana. “See what these people have driven us to?”

  “Hang on a minute,” asked Sam in his squeaky voice. “Have you tried pulling off any crimes recently, Big Nana?”

  “I shouldn’t have to,” snapped Big Nana. “I’m supposed to get you lot to commit crimes for me—it’s called delegation! It’s a management technique! And if I really were your manager, and you were my employees, I’d have fired you all by now!” She took a deep breath and closed her eyes, clearly trying to calm herself down.

  Imogen sighed. “Look,” she said. “Even if it is the Kruks who were leaving us notes and stopping us from committing crimes—which I really don’t think is the case—I’m not convinced that we need to be this worried. Sure, they’re psychopaths. But they’re not unbeatable. I took them on just a few weeks ago, and I won . . . remember?”

  “A very happy memory indeed,” said Big Nana.

  “And they had no idea I was even in Krukingham Palace. So why would they come after us?”

  Before anyone could answer, Nick and Nate leaped on Imogen, pinning her to the couch.

  “Get off!” she shouted. “What are you doing?”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” Nick said.

  “It really isn’t,” said Imogen, shoving his arm away fr
om her throat so that she could breathe more easily.

  “Why are you so sure the Kruks aren’t behind this?” said Nate. “YOU MUST BE THE MOLE!”

  “It all makes sense!” said Uncle Clyde.

  “No it doesn’t!” said Imogen, beginning to panic.

  “Yes it does!” screamed Aunt Bets, raising an extremely heavy-looking crossword dictionary over her head. “LET’S KILL HER!”

  Imogen’s heart was racing. She looked at Al, waiting for him to come to her defense. But for some reason he wouldn’t look her in the eye. And if her dad didn’t believe in her, no one would.

  “One,” counted Aunt Bets, taking aim with the crossword dictionary. “Two . . .”

  “WAIT,” said Big Nana, banging the sharing stick on the table. “I appreciate everyone’s enthusiasm for rooting out the mole . . . really, I do. It’s touching. But we have no evidence it’s Imogen.”

  Imogen took a deep breath. Thank badness for Big Nana.

  “Since when have we cared about evidence?” said Aunt Bets, still holding the crossword dictionary aloft; she’d obviously been looking forward to a little spot of murder.

  “Bets,” Big Nana said warningly. “If you kill Imogen, you’ll have me to answer to. And the questions I’ll ask you will be very hard. Trigonometry related, mostly.”

  “I hate trigonometry,” said Aunt Bets, reluctantly lowering her dictionary but giving Imogen an “I’ve got my eye on you” look.

  Imogen’s pulse began to return to normal. The danger was over. For now, at least . . .

  Silence fell over the Crims once again, like a strange, itchy blanket.

  “I think that’s enough for today,” said Big Nana. “And remember, all of you: If you see something suspicious, say something. And not just to yourself in the bathroom mirror.”

  That night, Imogen woke up with a jolt from a vivid dream. Big Nana was on a train full of Kruks, calling for her help, but Imogen was stuck on the platform and couldn’t move. She knew it had just been a dream—Big Nana had been dressed as a clown, and Big Nana hated clowns—but she couldn’t get back to sleep. She felt too hot and couldn’t get comfortable on her pillow.