by Lois Lowry
But the man at the Laundromat was a good example. He really had been very much like the buck-toothed Apatosaurus, with his nose too high on his face. Fortunately, old Apatosaurus was weak and dumb and harmless; probably that man would go home from the laundry and eat some lettuce and cucumbers for lunch, since Apatosaurus was a plant-eater. He wasn't a danger to society, but he was a good example of Caroline's theory that some people are little more than barely evolved dinosaurs. She was surprised that no scientists had noticed it yet.
James Priestly Tate, for example. Talk about a creepy-crawler. Her brother was a perfect example of a practically unchanged Coelophysis. Small, skinny, with a rat face and lousy posture. Little clawlike hands and a terrible disposition. And a carnivore, to boot. J.P. had gnawed into that second bologna sandwich as if there was no tomorrow, just the way a Coelophysis would. J.P. even ate eggplant.
And now—Caroline thought about her Tate Theory again—there was Frederick Fiske. Extremely tall. Big head, with a grin all the time. When she had first begun to notice Frederick Fiske, after he moved in upstairs, she had thought his grin was just the kind of indiscriminate friendliness that some adults display. Now she knew differently. Now she knew why that grin was familiar. It went with his tall body and his long strides. Probably concealed behind that grin was a whole mouthful of steak-knife teeth.
She recognized all of the symptoms. They belonged to the most terrible dinosaur of all, the one that a book she had read described as having a completely sinister pattern of life. It was the kind of life that she now knew Frederick Fiske was leading. The author had described it as: Hunt. Kill. Eat. Sleep. Hunt. Kill. Etc.
She was quite, quite sure now that her theory was correct, and that Frederick Fiske was, in truth, little more than an unevolved Tyrannosaurus Rex.
The Great Killer.
When the telephone rang, half an hour later, Caroline jumped up to answer it. Her mother had gone out to the grocery store, and J.P. was in his room, busily removing all the inside parts of Joanna Tate's clock-radio.
Stacy was breathless. "I jogged," she said, panting. "All the way there and all the way back. I stepped in one dog mess and almost got hit by a taxi. But I'm safe, except my left shoe stinks."
"What did you find out?"
"Let me get my breath." Stacy panted for a minute. "Yuck," she said, finally. "Now that I can breathe normally, I can really smell my shoe."
"Take it off."
"Hold on a minute." There was a very long silence while Caroline held the phone and waited. Finally Stacy came back.
"Okay," she said. "I scraped it off into the trash-masher. Now, Caroline, listen. This is really bigger than both of us."
"What do you mean? Come on, Stacy, tell me what you found out!"
"Your guy Frederick Fiske? He's not just your ordinary murderer. He's part of a ring. Probably international."
"Stacy. How do you know? What did you find?"
"Well, like you said, it wasn't an office called Poison, Limited, or anything. It was just an apartment house, with a doorman."
"Oh, rats. So you couldn't get in. Doormen are such snots."
"That's not true, Caroline. You just think that because you've never had one. We have a doorman, so I know how to deal with them."
"What did you do?" asked Caroline.
"First, after I saw that it was an apartment building with a doorman, I went back around the corner and wiped off all the Crimson Shadows lipstick. I didn't want him to think I was a hooker or anything."
"Then what?"
"Then I put on my most innocent face. You know that face I can do, with my eyes all wide and everything?"
"Yeah."
"I did that face. And I went right up to the doorman and in my innocent voice—you know the one?"
"Yeah. High and babyish."
"Right. And in that voice, I said, 'Please, could I have the correct spelling of Mr. Broderick's name? I have to write him a letter for a school project, and if I don't spell it correctly I won't get a good grade.'"
"Big deal, so he spelled it for you."
"Caroline," said Stacy patiently, "doormen don't spell. He opened the door and he watched me while I went over to the mailboxes and copied it. I had my investigative notebook with me, of course."
"Stacy, I could have spelled it for you. I have it right here on the letter."
Stacy sighed an exasperated sigh. "Caroline, you'll never be a great investigator. I didn't care about the spelling. I was looking for clues."
"How on earth can you find clues on a mailbox?"
There was a dramatic pause. Then Stacy said, "Right there on the mailbox, it said 'CARL BRODERICK, AGENT.' "
"Agent?"
"So you see."
"See what? He could be a real estate agent!"
"Does a real estate agent tell his clients to kill children?"
Caroline thought. "Maybe if an apartment listing says 'No pets or children.'"
"Come on. Face the facts."
"You're right," said Caroline. "You're absolutely right. It's a murder ring of some sort."
"Is there anything else you want me to do?"
"No," said Caroline thoughtfully. "I really have to sort things out. I'll call you."
"Okay," said Stacy. "I'll be here. I'm going to type up these notes."
"Stacy, don't leave your notes lying around where anyone can find them."
"Are you kidding?" asked Stacy. "Caroline, I'm not a newcomer to this field. I type in code."
5
"I'm going to the Museum of Natural History, Mom," said Caroline after she had talked to Stacy.
Her mother was putting groceries away in the refrigerator. She looked startled when Caroline came into the kitchen, and then guilty. She stood awkwardly in front of the table, as if she were trying to hide something. Caroline looked at her suspiciously for a moment.
"Did you buy another eggplant?" she asked.
"No, of course not," said her mother. She began to hum a little tune. A sure sign of some sort of guilt.
"What is it, then?" Caroline lunged forward suddenly and got past her mother, who tried a football blocking maneuver. But she moved to the right; Caroline moved to the left, past her, and took a good look at the kitchen table.
Eggs. It wasn't eggs. Caroline liked eggs. Bread. That was okay. Hamburger. Nothing wrong with hamburger.
Then she saw it. Them. Two lumpy, repulsive, no-color things lying on the table side by side. Like something you would look away from if you saw it lying in a gutter.
"All right, Mom," said Caroline. "What are they?"
"They're good," said her mother. "I have this recipe—"
"What are they?"
"Parsnips," said her mother.
"Parsnips! Mom! Nobody makes their kids eat parsnips! Listen, before you do another thing, Mom, call the Hot Line for Child Abuse. Confess to them that you were planning to feed parsnips to your children. They're there to help you, Mom."
"Look," said her mother hastily, picking up a cookbook. "This recipe says you cook them with orange juice and brown sugar. It's called Candied Parsnips."
"Mom," wailed Caroline.
"I know," her mother said dejectedly, sitting down in a kitchen chair. "But J.P. will like them. He eats anything."
"So does any Coelophysis," Caroline pointed out.
But her mother didn't pay any attention to that. "Caroline," she said, "they only cost forty-nine cents."
Caroline groaned. "Mom, you have to find a million aire to marry very soon. Otherwise we're all going to die of starvation or malnutrition or dysentery or something."
"Hey—" Her mother brightened. "You said Stacy wanted you to eat at her house some time this week."
"Right. What night are you planning Candied You-know?"
"Monday?"
"Okay. Monday night I'll eat at Baurichters'. You and J.P. can have a Parsnip Orgy without me."
"Agreed. They may not taste too bad, actually."
Caroline made a
face. "You know, Mom, if you'd just go to some of the lectures at the Museum of Natural History, I know you'd meet a terrific man. Probably one who can afford pork chops and steak—"
But her mother sighed. "Caroline, I can't bear to hear about spiders and things. I get queasy."
It was true. Caroline's mother couldn't even look at a National Geographic, for fear there might be snakes or lizards or insects inside.
She had tried some other methods for meeting Mr. Right, even though she absolutely refused to go to singles bars. She said she was too old for that; she was already thirty-four. Also, she was afraid she might meet stranglers at singles bars, and Caroline thought she might be right about that.
First, she had joined the Gourmet Eating Club. But after six weeks it was a disaster. She had gained fifteen pounds, none of her clothes fit, and all of the men she had met at the Gourmet Eating Club had ended up dating each other.
Then—after a diet to lose the fifteen pounds—she had joined the New York Scrabble Players Society. Actually, Joanna Tate was pretty good at Scrabble. She always beat Caroline. And she had enjoyed the weekly Scrabble tournaments. More important, she had met a man. He seemed to have an okay job—he was a stockbroker or something—and he wasn't bad-looking, although he wore glasses so thick that his eyes always looked huge, as if you were seeing them through a magnifying glass.
He knew eighty-two two-letter words. That was the problem. He took Scrabble very seriously. He took Caroline's mother out for dinner one night, after taking her for coffee several evenings after Scrabble tournaments. Caroline waited up until her mother got home at eleven-thirty, just to find out how the evening had gone.
"Boorring," said Caroline's mother.
"Why? What did you talk about?"
"Ut," said her mother, kicking off her shoes. "Ai. Jo. Re. Ti. Li."
"Mom, why are you talking so weird?" Caroline had asked.
"I'm not. That's what we talked about. Two-letter Scrabble words. He wants me to memorize this list. He wrote it up especially for me." She groaned and handed Caroline a neatly typed list on a piece of yellow paper.
"And that's all?"
"Of course not. There are seventy-six others. Xi. Pi. Eh. Ah. Fa..."
And she groaned again, picked up her shoes, and went off to her bedroom, muttering two-letter words. Caroline didn't blame her for never going out with him again.
Her mother put the parsnips into the refrigerator, sighed, and poured herself a cup of coffee.
"Better wear your raincoat if you're going to the museum," she said. "It looks like rain. Your brother said his barometer is falling or rising or something."
Caroline made a face and got her raincoat out of the hall closet. She loaded her bookbag with paper and pencils for her museum research and left the apartment. Much as she hated to admit it, J.P. was right: the sky was dark with storm clouds, and a wind had come up, scattering litter across the streets and sidewalks in puffy gusts.
The museum wasn't a long walk. Caroline headed east to Central Park, and then south to 79th Street, where the enormous building covered the entire block.
In front of the museum, next to the huge statue of Theodore Roosevelt, a boy was unwrapping a candy bar. He dropped the wrapper on the museum steps.
"Excuse me," Caroline said to him politely and pointed to the nearby sign: LITTERING IS FILTHY AND SELFISH. SO DON'T DO IT.
The boy looked at her for a moment. Then very carefully he reached into his pocket, removed a wadded-up tissue, and dropped it ostentatiously next to his candy wrapper. He grinned nastily and sauntered off.
Caroline looked around for a policeman. But there were only two nuns, a taxi driver leaning against his parked cab, and a couple of mothers with a troop of Brownies.
She thought about making a citizen's arrest. But the boy was bigger than she—he looked at least fifteen—and besides, he was already down at the corner of 78th Street.
She sighed and picked up his trash with two fingers. It was almost as bad as touching parsnips. She dropped it into a trash can angrily and headed up the steps into the museum.
"Hello, Mr. Erwitt," she called into the office inside the front door. Mr. Erwitt looked up from his desk and waved.
"Hello there, Caroline," he called back. "Great exhibit in Meteorites, Minerals, and Gems this afternoon!"
"Thanks anyway, Mr. Erwitt," she said. "I have work to do on the fourth floor."
She showed her membership card to the woman at the admissions booth, took the little blue button that indicated she hadn't sneaked in, and attached it to her raincoat. Then she walked past the postcard counter and the gift shop, down the hall to the elevator.
The fourth floor was absolutely her favorite place in the entire museum. No question. Biology of Invertebrates, on the first floor, was okay; and so was Small Mammals. On the second floor, African Mammals was kind of interesting because of the stuffed elephants and the gorilla who looked like King Kong and had a leaf sticking out of his mouth to indicate that he was a harmless plant-eater. Primates, on the third floor, wasn't too bad.
But the fourth floor was heaven. The Hall of Early Dinosaurs even had blue walls, which was what Caroline had always supposed heaven had.
She went into the blue-walled Early Dinosaur room and stood there, awed, as she always was. There, in the center, were the Stegosaurus, the Allosaurus, and the gigantic Brontosaurus—only their bones, of course—standing in their huge, awkward poses.
"Hi, you guys," said Caroline. She thought of them as old buddies. She always came in to say "Hi," even when she was going to the Late Dinosaur exhibit, as she was today.
They all smiled their toothy smiles at her. Even Allosaurus, a fierce flesh-eater, looked sweet and happy and a little embarrassed, standing there without his skin, quite helpless.
Then she went over to say "Hi" to the mummified Anatosaurus in his glass case. They had found him in Wyoming, of all places, with his skin still on. Sometimes Caroline wished her father had moved to Wyoming instead of Des Moines; she would be tempted to visit him more often if he had. There might be a mummified Anatosaurus buried in his back yard.
Finally, she walked to the end of the huge room and said, "Greetings, Jaws," to the jaws of the giant extinct shark that hung at the entrance to the room of Fossil Fishes.
The jaws just hung there, wide open, as if they were waiting for a dentist to say "Spit."
Caroline wasn't all that crazy about the shark jaws. They gave her the creeps. But she always said "Greetings" to them, politely, before she left the Hall of Early Dinosaurs. She did it for the same reason that she was always very nice to Marcia-Anne Hennessy, the worst bully in her class at school.
She didn't want the giant shark jaws, or Marcia-Anne Hennessy, ever to take a dislike to her.
Then Caroline took out her notebook and headed to her destination: Late Dinosaurs. That room was just as big, though the walls were green. And in the center, dominating the Triceratops and the two Trach-odonts next to him, stood the hideous, monstrous Tyrannosaurus Rex. Even without his skin, quite naked and with all his bones exposed, he was horrifying. It made Caroline shiver just to look at him. It also gave her a stiff neck, because he was so tall that she almost had to do a backbend to see his face towering above her, looking down, with his sharp teeth exposed. If ever, by magic, he should come to life, Caroline thought a little nervously, he would only have to bend his mammoth neck, snap his jaws, and in one bite he could consume a whole Scout troop.
"Boo!"
Caroline jumped and dropped her pencil.
"Sorry, Caroline," said the man behind her. "I didn't mean to scare you, really."
Caroline smiled sheepishly. "That's okay, Mr. Keretsky. You just startled me. How are you?"
Gregor Keretsky was Caroline's hero. Stacy had two heroes: Woodward and Bernstein, the journalists who had broken the Watergate story in the Washington Post. And J.P.'s hero was Guglielmo Marconi, the Italian electrical engineer who had invented the wireless receiver. Caroline
could drive her brother into a screaming rage whenever she wanted to just by referring to Goo-goo Macaroni.
But she did that only when she was driven to desperation, because she knew how sacred people's heroes were. She was lucky that her hero was right here, in the Museum of Natural History, and that he was one of her best friends. Gregor Keretsky was a vertebrate paleontologist, one of the world's experts on dinosaurs. His office was on the fourth floor of the museum, and sometimes he invited Caroline to have a cup of tea with him. She loved his office; it had bookcases filled with every book that had ever been written about dinosaurs, and some of them had been written by Gregor Keretsky himself.
"I'm fine"—her hero grinned—"and I've been looking for you. I knew my little paleontologist friend would be here, because it is Saturday. And I need your help once again, Caroline."
Caroline sighed. Poor Mr. Keretsky. He had this problem that she helped him with from time to time.
"Neckties?" she asked.
He nodded, embarrassed. "Tomorrow I fly to London. There is a conference there on Monday morning."
"Let's take a look," said Caroline, and she followed him to his office.
He closed the door, because this was a very private consultation. Then he took a bag marked "Brooks Brothers" out of a desk drawer. He took three neckties out of the bag and laid them on the top of the desk.
"What do you think?" he asked helplessly.
Poor Mr. Keretsky was colorblind. No one knew, not even his secretary. And he had no wife. Caroline was the only person in the world to whom he had confided his secret problem since 1946. In 1946, when he had left Europe and come to live in the United States, the Department of Motor Vehicles had refused him a driver's license because he couldn't tell a red light from a green.
His suits were all gray, and his shirts were all white. So those were not a problem. But neckties, he said, made him crazy. He desperately needed help with neckties.