by Amanda Hosch
“Hannah’s right,” Princess Bee Hannah agreed. “The only way. Do you travel by helicopter in Alaska, Vicky?”
“No,” Victoria said. She waited a beat, soaking up their disappointment. “Please call me Victoria, and we travel by sled dog.”
Then came a universal response from the class: “Cool!”
Within a minute, Victoria had the entire class on the edges of their seats as she described a wild ride in the Alaskan wilderness. Snow flying, dogs running, wolves howling. I had no idea if it was true, but — and I hated to admit this — her storytelling was fascinating. Maybe she could make it as an actress, after all.
I tuned out the rest of her introduction and grabbed her phone to delete the video of me snoring and drooling. I also erased the photo of me in bed. One problem solved.
Now on to problem two: Mom and Dad were gone again, and it seemed unlikely that they would’ve asked Frankenstella for help. According to the Rules, though, I should assume nothing. I would have to wait until this evening when their handler, Roy, called to check up on me. His job was to relay messages between my parents and me when they were in the field.
Number three: Frankenstella were planning some type of museum takeover. It would be bad if they found the spare key. Who knows what mischief they could cause in there?
Note to self: Find and hide the spare museum key.
Problem number four was a big one: Aunt Gertie was in jail. Why would Frank put his sister in jail? He’d have to accuse her of something bad and he’d need to have proof. I hoped she was nearby in the county jail, which was three holding cells in the Silverton sheriff’s office, just down the street from the museum and the Star’s Tale. After school, I decided, I’d go see her.
Frankenstella living in my house was problem number five. Even their own daughter thought they were up to no good.
I had liberated two pages from Frankenstella’s luggage — one with a photograph and the other with lots of handwritten numbers and many cross outs. They rustled as I took them out. Victoria glanced my way, but didn’t stop talking about winter days with very little sunlight.
I instantly recognized the photo as the New Orleans Silver Spoon Historical Collection. I’d just polished that set last week — seventy-five spoons in all. The spoons came from various events, including Mardi Gras Balls (some as old as 1908), the 1984 World’s Fair, and the Pope’s visit in 1987. Some of the plainer-looking soup spoons had the initials JL engraved in fancy script. Mom said they were rumored to have belonged to the pirate Jean Lafitte. The New Orleans collection was valued at $7,000, which I knew because all the spoon information is typed up on little cards next to each exhibit.
On closer examination of the second page, I realized it was a mess of dollar amounts, ranging from $5,000 to $25,000. All the amounts had lines drawn through them except for $14,500. That number was circled in red ink. Are these two pages connected? I wondered. Victoria glared at me from the front of the class, so I refolded the paper.
I reflected on all five of the major problems I was facing. The only one I couldn’t do a thing about was talking to Mom and Dad. If I could just think of a plan to bust Aunt Gertie out of jail, she’d help me retake my house. Easy-peasy, right?
Victoria, who had finally finished delighting my classmates with her cute stories about snow and wildlife, poked me with a pen under the table.
“What?” I mouthed.
“The HEGs seem nice,” she wrote in my notebook. “Why don’t you go to the sleepovers?”
“Because,” I whispered, not wanting to lose my train of thought. I rubbed my temples in an attempt to get my brain working. My mom always did it when she was pondering a problem. Just think of Aunt Gertie, Sunflower! I told myself. She was in jail, and she needed me.
Suddenly a crackled, distant voice filled the room. “Mabel Pear, report to the principal’s office.” It was the voice of Ms. Jones, the office secretary, coming in over the loudspeaker. “Bring your books and all belongings.”
Just great, I thought.
8
Never blow the cover of a fellow agent. Deny all knowledge of their work. Deny all evidence. Deny, deny, deny.
— Rule Number 5 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
Principal Baker was on the telephone when I walked into his office. He stopped running his hand through his short brown hair long enough to gesture for me to sit down in one of the chairs in front of his desk. As a principal, he’s not so bad. He knows all the kids’ names, not just the troublemakers, and sometimes he teaches classes when teachers are sick.
Mr. Baker didn’t say much, just a few “hmms” and “uh-huhs” to whoever was on the phone. He alternated toying with his wire-rimmed glasses and rubbing his eyes. Now and then, he jotted a word or two down.
I retied the bright-pink skull laces on my favorite pair of black Converse All Star high-tops — a gift from Aunt Gertie for helping out at the Star’s Tale all summer — as I waited for him to finish the call.
After what seemed like an hour, Mr. Baker finally hung up the phone and turned to me. Mr. Baker was usually jovial, but today he was serious. “Mabel,” he said. My stomach flipped, wondering what this could be about. “How are you holding up?”
That was a strange question. What was he getting at? “Um, I’m OK.”
“Mabel, where are your parents?”
“Why?” I asked, skeptical.
Mr. Baker sat up all straight and serious. “You know my wife, Prue, is the Silverton Sheriff.”
“Yes.” Of course I knew. In a town as small as Silverton, it’s impossible not to know.
“She informed me they have a federal warrant to hold Gertrude Baies for dealing in stolen goods.”
“That’s crazy!” The words exploded out of me before I could think. “I’m the one who made the mistake, selling that necklace. Anyway, the police and the FBI said Gertie wasn’t at fault. And that was months ago.”
“The indictment does not concern the Star’s Tale. It’s for the Spoon. The federal warrant claims that Gert has been using the museum as a front for smuggling rare artifacts in and out of the country.”
“What?” I knew for a fact there was nothing but spoons in the museum. “That can’t be true. How can Aunt Gertie be in jail for that? Why?” What lies had Frank told? I wondered.
“Mabel, those are all good questions. But first we need to contact your parents. Gert isn’t doing too well.”
An awful feeling swept over me. My aunt wasn’t young, and I began to wonder if she was being treated OK in prison. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know.” Principal Baker shook his head. “When Prue told her that Frank and his wife would take care of you, she muttered a lot of nonsense. She insisted I tell you to have…” He stopped to look at his notes, then continued, “to have farfalle for dinner.”
“What’s farfalle?” I asked. My dear aunt. She was locked up, but still she was worried about what I was eating.
The principal shrugged. “Maybe it’s a family recipe. You can ask your uncle tonight.”
“How did you know Frank and Stella are in town?” I asked.
“I talked with Mrs. Baies a few weeks ago about enrolling her daughter here.”
My jaw dropped. Weeks ago? That couldn’t be possible. The Great Reverse Heist was supposed to involve Frankenstella visiting for a week at Thanksgiving time. That’s all.
Mr. Baker searched his desk drawer and brought out a file folder. Opening it, he pointed to a paper titled “Application for Enrollment.” Below, in Stella’s handwriting, was Victoria’s name and information. “They used your parents’ address, so I figured you knew.”
He looked at me, questioning. Rats. If I admitted I didn’t know, it was sure to lead to questions about my parents being away. Lie, I thought. That’s what the Rules advise. “I thought they weren’t coming
until Thanksgiving.”
“Your aunt Stella didn’t have a firm date, either. I guess they sold their house in Alaska quicker than expected.”
House? During the summer, Victoria had said they rented an apartment.
But I couldn’t focus on that now. There were too many lies floating around. What I needed was the truth about what was going on, and that started with getting Aunt Gertie out of jail. “I can prove Gertie is innocent. She never goes inside the Spoon. The museum belongs to my mom and dad.”
“Not exactly.” A familiar-looking older man wearing a dark blue suit entered the room. He nodded at Principal Baker, then turned to me. “Legally, Le Petit Musée of Antique Silver Spoons belongs to Jane Baies Pear, Fred Pear, Gertrude Baies, and you, Mabel Opal Pear.”
Mr. Odd Sock! He wasn’t just a novice hiker, overdressed in his brand new gear. I knew there was something off about him.
“I asked you to wait outside, Inspector Montgomery.” Principal Baker stood up. “Under Washington State law, you are not allowed to question a minor unless a guardian is present.”
The words “inspector” and “question” sent tremors down my spine. Maybe it was a good thing I hadn’t had much breakfast. The half cinnamon roll was threatening to reappear soon.
“Don’t worry, Miss Pear, you’re not being held responsible.” Inspector Montgomery leaned against Mr. Baker’s desk, blocking the principal from my view. “No judge would charge an almost-eleven-year-old minor with being the mastermind of an international antiques smuggling ring.”
How did the inspector know my birthday was coming up? He must’ve seen my shocked face, because he pulled out a small notebook from his coat pocket and said, “October thirty-first. Then you will be a regular eleven-year-old minor.” He waited for me to digest the fact that he knew more about me than just my embarrassing nickname. “Your parents, on the other hand, are named in the indictment as ringleaders.”
“That’s impossible.”
“I’m sure it’s all a big misunderstanding.” Principal Baker walked around his desk so he could sit in the chair next to me. “But we’ll need your parents’ assistance to figure it out.”
I nodded, grateful for his support.
“When your parents went on their last spoon-buying trip, where did they go, exactly?” Montgomery asked.
Deny. Deny. Deny, I told myself. Do not blow their cover. “I don’t remember.”
“To a convention?” he continued. “Did they meet with a private seller? Did they leave the country?”
As far as I knew, no one knew about their most recent trip — the “Nebraska” one. I played it safe. “An antiques convention, I think.” I let my voice rise up, making my statement into a question, as if I didn’t remember or care.
Montgomery asked, “Where was the last place your father flew his plane?”
“To fix the telephone lines at a ranger station on Mount Rainier.” A semi-honest answer. “On October tenth.”
The inspector tapped his pen against the notebook. “You’re positive?”
“We had an early season snowstorm on October eighth,” Principal Baker said. “Then unseasonably warm winds melted it the next day, snapping lines all over the area. The roads were clear by the tenth.”
The inspector nodded at Mr. Baker, then turned to me. “Mabel, this is very serious. Where are your parents right now?”
“Monaco,” I said, sticking to the cover story. “At an estate sale.”
“Your aunt, Ms. Gertrude Baies, also claimed that,” Montgomery read from the little flip notebook. “But there’s a record of them leaving Sea-Tac Airport and catching an international flight to Vietnam. After that, the trail goes cold.”
Of course it did. They were highly trained international spies. “They told me Monaco,” I repeated. “A rich old lady had lots of silver spoons.”
Principal Baker looked at me. “I believe you,” he said.
“This isn’t school. It doesn’t matter what your principal thinks.” Montgomery pulled out a piece of blue paper. “All that matters is what is written right here.”
I grabbed it. “Which agency do you work for?”
“Washington State Border Patrol. I’m the head of the Anti-Smuggling Task Force.”
That explained a lot. He was domestic. He probably didn’t even know the Agency existed. Even his boss might not know. My parents usually worked outside of the United States as Cleaners, so their names probably didn’t pop up as anything special. “Aunt Gertie always knows what to do. Let’s go see her.”
“No,” Montgomery said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“It would be imprudent for you to have contact with the accused at this time.”
“Because?”
“Young lady, this situation is serious. Gertrude Baies is an accused criminal.” Montgomery peered at me, his nostrils flaring. “You may not contact her in any manner until I deem it appropriate.”
“You can’t do that.” I turned to the principal. “Can he?”
Principal Baker didn’t answer. Instead, he glared at Montgomery. “Inspector, you’re scaring Mabel. This interview is over.”
“Children today are too coddled,” Montgomery said in a flat voice, looking straight at me. “I will not sugarcoat the truth. This situation is a big deal.” He narrowed his eyes. “Your parents have gotten themselves into a world of trouble. But you can help.”
I was getting the uncomfortable feeling that this was more than a big misunderstanding. “I need to go home.”
“Why?” Montgomery’s pen was poised over his notebook.
I ignored him and turned to Principal Baker. “I need to go home now.”
In a special hiding spot in my room, inside of an old book, I had a cell phone to use for emergencies. Only one number could be dialed on it: Roy, my parents’ handler at the Agency. He called most nights when my parents were on a mission, at 7:02 exactly, just to check up on me. Come to think of it, he hadn’t called the previous night.
I didn’t know what Roy looked like, but I always imagined him bald and heavy-set, wearing a gravy-stained tie, sitting at a desk, and saying in his deep voice, “Yes, Sunflower. All is well.” Roy was awesome at helping with subjects like math, science, and spelling. Some nights he’d quiz me repeatedly until I got all twenty of my spelling words correct. He’d listen to my book reports and give suggestions to make them better. He also knew a lot of American history and could recite at least three major events that happened in any given year.
I’d never had the need to call him before. Until now.
“I’ll drive you.” Montgomery flipped his little notebook closed and started for the door.
“No,” Principal Baker said.
“Excuse me?” Montgomery straightened his blue tie. “This situation does not concern you, Principal Baker.”
“Mabel is one of my students. It is during school hours. I will not let her leave with a stranger, no matter how shiny his badge. I’m driving her in my car.”
“Fine.” Montgomery glared at the principal. “I’ll come with you.”
“Impossible.” A smile crossed Principal Baker’s face. “I drive a Smart Car. Two seats. But you’re welcome to run behind us.”
“I will follow. Take the girl straight home.” Montgomery’s nostrils flared again. “Don’t try anything funny or I’ll arrest you too.”
9
Always have an escape plan. Always.
— Rule Number 12 from Rules for a Successful Life as an Undercover Secret Agent
Principal Baker glanced over his shoulder as we drove along State Route 410 toward my house. “Montgomery doesn’t seem to be the trusting sort.”
“Government agents aren’t supposed to be,” I said.
Principal Baker stared intently at the road ahead, as if he hadn’t traveled it thousands of tim
es. “Very insightful, Mabel.”
Uh-oh! A normal fifth grader would not know about the usual habits of agents, secret or otherwise. To hide my mistake, I started babbling. “I woke up this morning to find my parents gone, Aunt Gertie in jail, and virtual strangers living in my h—”
“Victoria and her parents are your family.”
“Extended family, and I only met them for the first time in June.” State Route 410 had become Silverton’s Main Street without my noticing.
“That’s right.” Principal Baker nodded as if remembering the events of the summer. Frank’s epic temper tantrum had been the talk of Gloria’s Mini-Mart for weeks. There are no secrets in small towns. Well, almost none. “That wasn’t Frank’s first dust-up,” he said, turning into the driveway. He put the car in park but didn’t immediately unbuckle his seat belt. My mom’s old green Subaru was parked next to the house, but my dad’s new car — a red Subaru — wasn’t in sight. Everything seemed normal. “I’m sure your parents have told you about what Frank did to Gert and your mom years ago.”
“No. No one has told me a thing,” I said.
Principal Baker tapped his fingers on the steering wheel. I wanted to ask questions, but Mom’s advice sounded in my head for the second time this morning — Let the source talk — so I sat quietly.
“I probably shouldn’t be the one to tell you this,” Mr. Baker said, “but Frank absolutely refused to help Gert raise your mom after your grandparents died in the car crash. Emptied the bank account and left one day without saying a word to anyone. Gert came to school the next day, red-eyed from crying, clutching little Jane in her arms. She couldn’t believe her brother’s betrayal, especially so soon after the deaths of their parents.”
This was a new part to my mom’s story. “I didn’t know the details,” I said quietly.
“We all watched Jane and helped Gert as much as we could.”
“You used to babysit my mom?” My home and school worlds were suddenly crashing together, and I didn’t like it one bit.