“You,” she spat out. “You distracted me. You made me throw to the left.”
“I’m sorry,” Lash said dazedly. “I don’t know what happened—I barely touched the darned thing.”
There was a growing rumble from the other side of the curtain. Once again, the audience members were calling for a refund.
“First Thomas, and now Betty.” Goldini shook his head as Smalls helped a blubbering Betty from the stage.
“It seems like everything’s gone wrong lately,” Danny said with a significant glance at Lash. Lash’s face went from white to a mottled purple color.
“He’ll ruin us,” Monsieur Cabillaud cried, gesturing to Lash, “even faster zan we can ruin ourselves!”
“I didn’t mean it, honest,” Lash said, looking around the assembled group. Danny turned away in disgust. So did Monsieur Cabillaud. Max felt sick to her stomach, and quickly looked down when Lash’s eyes landed on her. “I didn’t mean it,” he repeated, turning pleadingly toward Miss Fitch.
There was a long pause. At last Miss Fitch said, “Of course you didn’t.” Her voice was strained. “Go on, Lash. We’ll speak later.”
“You’re lucky,” Pippa said to Max. “You could have shaved off Betty’s nose.”
“You’re lucky,” Max snapped, “I don’t carve out your tongue.”
Pippa narrowed her eyes. “So long as you don’t get distracted.”
Max stepped toward her, but Thomas intervened. “Come on,” he said, resting a hand on Max’s arm. “No fighting. We’ve got more important things to worry about.”
“Yeah.” Max shook him off. “Like the fact that we’re all going to be out on the street. Or maybe we’ll be lucky and end up in Central Park with Solly Bumstead and the rest of his crowd.”
She pushed roughly past Sam, who was staring at her with his mouth all twisted up, as if someone had just force-fed him a spoonful of salt, and plunged into the darkness of backstage. Quickly navigating the tangle of props and set pieces, she threw open the performers’ door and emerged into the costume department and the makeshift infirmary. Beyond the clothing racks, she could hear the trill of Betty’s voice and Smalls’s murmured reassurances.
“At least,” he was saying in his rumbling baritone, “she didn’t get even an inch of your beautiful beard. Be thankful, Betty.”
Max kept going. She’d apologize to Betty later, although really, it should be Lash who said he was sorry. She was still angry with him, but she was also sorry for getting him in so much trouble. The two feelings wormed around in her stomach and made her nauseous and uncomfortable.
She didn’t feel like returning to the attic; she didn’t feel like staying in the museum at all. But there was a small cluster of angry customers standing by the ticket booth, demanding their money back, and Max couldn’t bear to face them. She turned toward the kitchen but was intercepted by Howie.
“Are you okay?” he said, stepping in front of her so that he was blocking the stairs.
Normally Max was flattered when Howie paid attention to her. But she didn’t want his sympathy—or even worse, his pity. Everything Howie did was perfect. Max was sure he’d never tanked onstage.
“I’m fine,” she said, once again trying to move past him, and once again failing.
“It’s not your fault,” he said. His eyes were like dark stones; Max could see herself reflected in them. Her chest tightened. She didn’t like it when anyone looked at her the way Howie was now. It was the same way Pippa had looked after she’d broken into Max’s brain: as if Max were one of the objects in the museum, to be examined and pointed at.
“I know that,” she said. She finally succeeded in ducking past him and started down the stairs.
“I meant, it’s not your fault that it’s so difficult for you.”
The words stopped her. She turned around, clutching the banister, certain she must have misheard.
“What are you talking about?” she said.
Howie shrugged. He was smiling his wide, easy smile. But Max thought she saw something dark flicker behind his eyes. “Come on, Max. Admit it. Some people are just born special. And others aren’t.”
Max suddenly felt like she was choking. “What—what are you talking about?”
Howie took a step toward her. “Don’t be mad,” he said softly. “I’m trying to help you. I’m trying to tell you I—”
“Lay off, Howie. She isn’t interested.”
Sam materialized in the hallway behind Howie. Max hadn’t been so happy to see him in weeks. Howie swiveled his head completely around on his neck so that Max was left staring at the smooth shiny cap of his black hair. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to interrupt?”
“Didn’t anyone ever teach you not to be such a moron?” Sam responded, color rising to his cheeks.
When Howie turned back to Max, he was scowling. “We’ll talk later,” he said.
“I could have handled him,” Max said quickly, once Howie had retreated. Her heart was beating very fast, like she’d just run a race. She couldn’t get Howie’s words out of her mind.
Some people are just born special. Others aren’t.
What did that mean for her, Max, who wasn’t born to be anything? Who was turned, made different, like a pear left to rot in the sun?
Sam made a face. “Like you’ve been handling him so far?”
Max felt a hot flush of embarrassment. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Come on.” Two vivid points of color appeared in Sam’s cheeks. “You’ve been doing nothing but making goo-goo eyes at him since he arrived.”
“Goo-goo eyes?”
“You know what I mean.”
“I know you should mind your own business,” Max said. She whirled around and pounded down the stairs.
“Max, wait!”
But she didn’t wait. She stormed through the kitchen and flew out the back door into the courtyard, where the trash cans were sitting under a shimmering veil of midday heat; up the stairs and onto the street, shoving aside a young couple holding hands and dodging a woman pushing a baby stroller. She heard Sam pursuing her but didn’t stop, following the same path she’d followed the night before, when she had sprinted after the shadowy figure she had, in her terror, mistaken for Rattigan.
“Max, wait.” Sam jogged around the corner of Eighth Avenue and finally caught up. “Look, I’m sorry. It’s just . . .” He had a funny expression on his face, as if his tongue had suddenly tripled in size. “Howie’s not exactly my favorite person in the world.”
“You didn’t even give him a chance,” Max said, though she wasn’t sure why she was defending Howie to Sam, especially after what he had just said. Maybe because it was the first time Sam had deigned to speak to her in more than a week, and he had still found a way to make her feel like an idiot. “You were awful to him from the start.”
“I was awful to him?” Sam gaped at her.
“You’ve been awful to him, and to me, and to everyone,” she said. They had stopped at the corner of Forty-Third and Eighth Avenue to shout at each other.
“Just because I don’t slobber over Howie like some people I know.”
“Maybe you’re just jealous,” Max burst out.
Sam’s face had gone very white. He forced a laugh. “Jealous of what?”
Max felt her voice dry up in her throat. Luckily, before she was forced to answer, there was a cough behind her. She turned and saw an unfamiliar man, dressed despite the heat in a three-piece wool suit, dark shirt and tie, and a broad-brimmed fedora hat. Every item of clothing he had looked worn and rumpled, as though he was in the habit of sleeping fully dressed. Even his face looked rumpled—there were smile lines at his eyes and mouth, and Max got the feeling he was trying not to laugh. She realized he must have overheard their whole conversation.
“What do you want?” she spat out, not bothering to try to be polite.
“Hello to you, too,” he said, tipping his hat. “I’m looking for the dime museum. You know where
it is?”
“Number three forty-four. Look for the big sign,” she added pointedly. She turned back toward Sam, but the man coughed again.
“What?” both Max and Sam said together.
“Don’t mean to be any trouble,” he said. “But I was hoping you might show me the way.”
“It’s just down the street,” Sam said. “You can’t miss it.”
“Be that as it may,” the man said, his eyes twinkling, “I think you’ll want to show me all the same. I’ve got business to talk over with Thomas. I figured it might interest you two as well. Might as well bring Pippa into it, too.”
Max felt a sharp current of fear go through her. “How?” She swallowed. “How do you know—?”
“It’s my business to know things,” he said easily. “Mackenzie, right? And Sam, of course. Pleased to meet you.” He extended his hand. When neither of them took it, he reached into his pocket and extracted a small white business card.
It read simply:
NED SPODE
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
“Is everyone comfortable?” Spode asked.
Sam shifted a little in the cramped space. He was decidedly uncomfortable, but he wasn’t going to say so, especially since Max, Pippa, and Thomas quickly nodded.
They were crammed together in the tiny projection booth of an abandoned theater on Forty-Fourth Street, surrounded by dusty projectors and old reels of film. Spode had suggested it, saying it would be safe, dry, and private. It was definitely private. Sam didn’t know about dry. Already, he could feel a spot of damp seeping through the seat of his pants.
Thomas had suggested they use the loft instead—the hidden storage space at the very top of the museum, which earlier in the year they had made their unofficial headquarters—but Max had quickly refused.
“There are mice in there,” she said. “Let’s go somewhere else.”
There had always been mice in the loft, and Max had never seemed concerned before. Still, she held firm. Maybe, Sam thought bitterly, this was Howie’s influence, too. Maybe Max would turn into the kind of girl who shrieked when she saw a spider, and insisted on keeping her dress clean.
“All right, then. Let’s get down to it.” Spode removed his hat and hung it from one arm of a rusted projector. His hair was pale yellow, and tufted like a bird’s. His eyes were dark as beads. “I was hired by Manfred Richstone before he died. He wanted me to help clear his name.”
“Wait a second. Richstone?” Sam shook his head. “The guy who did in his wife?”
“He didn’t,” Thomas said with a sigh.
Spode twisted up one corner of his mouth into a smile. “That’s what I think, too,” he said. “Unfortunately, I never got the chance to prove it.”
“I don’t understand,” Sam said, looking around the group. No one looked even the slightest bit surprised at the mention of Richstone’s name. Max was picking her teeth with the blade of a knife. Pippa was leaning forward, her arms wrapped around her knees, watching Spode intently. “What’s Richstone got to do with us?”
Thomas took a deep breath.
“Go on,” Pippa said, nudging Thomas with an elbow. “Tell him.”
“Tell me what?” Sam stared at Thomas.
The story came out of Thomas in a rush: about Chubby’s midnight plea and the letter Thomas had sent to Richstone in Sing Sing prison; about Richstone’s response and his sudden death less than a day later; about the connection Thomas was sure existed between the missing picture of Rachel Richstone and Eckleberger’s death.
Sam felt heat creeping up from his chest to his head, and fought hard to keep the anger from his voice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“How could we have?” Pippa said. “You were barely speaking to us.”
Sam looked away. He knew it was true. Ever since Howie arrived, he felt like he’d been walking around with his guts turned inside out: everything hurt, everything felt unfair. He had never loved performing—had never liked the feeling of people watching, evaluating, whispering about him in the dark—but now even the idea of being onstage made him sweat, made his stomach cramp. Several times he had even fantasized about running away from the museum, though he knew he never would.
Max, Thomas, and Pippa had been running around, scheming behind his back. It didn’t help to know that it was mostly his fault. Part of him wanted to get up and storm out of the room. But the other part of him was too curious—too curious, and also relieved to be back in the group.
“How did you find us?” Thomas asked.
“Richstone showed me your letter.” Spode raised his eyebrows. “I gotta admit, it was a nice piece of work. That bit about the missing photograph got me thinking. After Richstone croaked I decided I owed it to him to try to clear him. So I looked you up.” Now Spode grinned, showing off teeth faintly yellowed with tobacco. “You kids made a big stir with that shrunken head business.”
Sam felt himself blushing.
“Oh yeah,” Max said casually. “That wasn’t even the half—”
“It was nothing,” Pippa said quickly, shooting a warning glance at Max. Sam could tell she wanted to avoid revealing too much about Bill Evans’s role, and their ultimate confrontation with Rattigan.
Fortunately, Spode let it go. His expression turned serious. “Let’s cut right to the chase. If you got a theory, I’m all ears.” This last statement he directed to Thomas.
Thomas hesitated. He looked at Pippa. She nodded slightly. “Well, I don’t have any proof. . . .”
“They had no proof against Richstone, and he still ended up with a fist buried halfway in his guts in a prison canteen.” Pippa winced and Spode spread his hands. “Sorry, girlie, but that’s the way it is. Just start from the beginning and leave the proof to me.”
There was another pause. Even the dust motes spinning in the air seemed to hesitate, as if breathlessly waiting for Thomas to speak. A metal projector was digging uncomfortably into Sam’s back, but he was afraid to move, fearing it would break the spell.
Thomas took a deep breath. “It started when Mr. Dumfrey—he owns the museum—bought a few wax heads from Eckleberger.” Thomas hesitated again, glancing at Spode.
“The sculptor,” Spode said. “I looked him up, too, after I read your letter to Richstone. I’d heard about him before, but just the bare bones. He’s good at his job, though.”
“Was,” Sam burst in bitterly. “He’s dead now.”
Spode turned his hard black eyes on Sam. Sam felt a sudden tightening in his stomach, as if Spode had reached down into the very center of him and started prodding around.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “I’m sorry about that, son.”
Sam turned away, his cheeks burning, wishing he hadn’t spoken. Suddenly, Max reached out and seized his hand. He was so startled he forgot to be embarrassed. He was careful not to squeeze back, so he wouldn’t hurt her—and in a split second, she withdrew her hand.
“That’s just it,” Thomas said. Color was rising to his cheeks. It looked as if all his freckles were blending together. “That’s what first got me thinking. What if the whole break-in was staged? What if only one thing was important to Eckleberger’s killer?”
“The photograph,” Spode mused.
“The photograph,” Thomas confirmed. “Otherwise, why go through the trouble to steal it? She wasn’t important—Rachel, I mean. Eckleberger had got his hands on plenty of old pictures of her. There was something—or someone—in that picture that Eckleberger’s killer didn’t want us to see.”
Sam chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “You think the same guy who bumped off Eckleberger—”
“It could have been a girl,” Max interrupted.
Spode spread his hands. “All right. You think the same guy—or girl—did Rachel in, too.” It wasn’t a question.
Thomas nodded.
“Could be,” Spode said quietly. He was no longer looking at the children. He was staring off into space, his jaw working back and forth, back and forth, like
he was chewing on something invisible. “Could be.”
“Well, the police don’t think so,” Sam said. He was still angry that no one had thought to include him in the hunt for Eckleberger’s killer, even after Sam had gone on a midnight trek to Central Park to talk to stupid Bumstead, when Sam had perhaps loved Freckles more than anybody—angrier still, that he knew it had been mostly his fault. “Don’t you read the papers? The cops think they found their guy. Some bum who drowned with Eckleberger’s watch in his pocket.”
“Yeah, sure, I heard about that,” Spode said, his mouth twisting into a half smile. “I got a friend down at the morgue, even let me pop by for a look.” Sam repressed a shiver; even the word morgue brought back terrible memories of their adventure earlier in the spring, of the ice-cold room, and the cabinets filled with bodies. Spode shook his head.
“They’re barking up the wrong tree. I knew him: old ‘Buckets’ Tomkins, blind as a bat and harmless as a beetle. No way he could have killed anyone, or stayed sober long enough to do it.”
“So how did he get Freckles’s wallet?” Pippa asked.
“You tell me,” Spode said calmly.
“He might have found it,” Thomas said, frowning. “Maybe the killer dumped it, since it wasn’t what he was really after.”
“Or maybe it was a plant,” Sam said, desperate to contribute something to the conversation that would prove he belonged. Everyone turned to him. He felt his cheeks heat up. “Maybe the killer set him up and then gave him a push into the East River.” Instantly, he was sorry he’d spoken. The words sounded silly.
To his great relief, Spode nodded. “Could be,” he said once again. His eyes were practically black now. “If so, it means we’re dealing with someone who’s already killed three people: Rachel Richstone, your friend Eckleberger, and good old Buckets. We’ll have to be very careful. We might be tracking a very desperate and dangerous man—or woman,” he added, at a sign from Max.
This time, Sam couldn’t help but shiver.
Spode put his hands on his knees and hefted himself to his feet. Sam noticed he did so only with difficulty. Spode caught him staring. “War injury,” he said, reaching down to pat his left knee. “Still gives me trouble once in a while.”
The Screaming Statue Page 14