We have so much in common, Gilda thought. I’m actually standing next to Balthazar Frobenius, the famous psychic. We’re working together on a case involving national security!
They entered a banquet room in which chandeliers dripping with crystal hung from gilded ceilings. Elegant little tables with white linen cloths and roses were set for dinner, but the room was virtually empty except for a couple seated in a corner who spoke in hushed tones. As Gilda took in the details of the large, dim room, she realized the atmosphere was overwhelming because it was at once elegant and so totally zany and cluttered, it was hard to know where to focus her attention.
Everywhere she looked, Gilda’s eye rested on something unexpected: amid Victorian lamps and enormous bouquets of silk roses were sculptures and paintings of angels, ridiculous marionettes that hung from the ceiling and walls, and knick knacks and figurines featuring everything from fat ladies to elves and fairies. Hundreds of paintings and books on every topic imaginable were stacked in precarious towers and stuffed into nooks and crannies.
“Good evening, Mr. Frobenius,” said a hostess. “Will you be having dinner with us tonight?”
“Yes, and my colleague Ms. Gilda Joyce will be joining me.”
I’m Balthazar’s colleague, Gilda thought.
“Sit anywhere you like. As you know, dinner is buffet-style; you just help yourself.”
“I have a feeling Gilda might like to take a look around first.”
Gilda realized she must have been staring at the room with her mouth open.
“You can go anywhere except the rooms marked private. There are about one hundred rooms, thirty-two secret doorways, and twenty thousand books. Enjoy your evening.”
“Did she say ‘thirty-two secret door ways’?” Gilda whispered.
“I thought this would be your kind of place,” said Balthazar. “For some reason, I find that the whimsical noise from all the clutter in here keeps out some of the negativity and stress from the outside world—at least temporarily. I’m going to sit down and think about things for a minute; why don’t you take a look around? Just don’t get lost.”
Feeling as if she had stepped into one of the magical worlds in a children’s book where a secret doorway or magic mirror might lead into another universe, Gilda wandered from room to room, sometimes touching paintings or bookshelves that turned out to be secret doorways leading into yet another room.
“This hotel is disorienting,” she scribbled in her reporter’s notebook.
It’s kind of like walking through a mystery. One clue leads to another, and just when you think you’ve found a solution, you realize you’re really only seeing a small part of the whole picture—or that you’re looking at something different than what you thought you were seeing.
There were bathrooms with games of chess set up on crystal tables, secret reading nooks, bedrooms with colorful skies painted on ceilings, a billiards table perched upon gilded dragons, and numerous stairways decorated with stacks of precariously teetering china dishes.
By the time Gilda found her way back down to the first floor, Balthazar was in the banquet room piling a plate with macaroni and cheese, meatballs, and biscuits.
“My appetite got the best of me,” he said.
Gilda surveyed the sprawling buffet and was delighted that whimsical, silly foods like licorice sticks, lollipops, and even marshmallow cream were available next to more serious meals like pasta, meatballs, grilled chicken, mashed potatoes, and bean salad. She was also delighted to find books displayed alongside the foods.
She and Balthazar loaded up their plates and then found a secluded table.
“Now,” said Balthazar, spreading a napkin on his lap. “I’m sure you have a lot of questions for me.”
Gilda hardly knew what to ask first. How did Balthazar develop his psychic skills in the first place-or was he just born that way? How should the two of them catch this CIA mole Loomis Trench? And who, exactly, was the ghost in the Spy Museum?
While Gilda contemplated these questions, Balthazar stared at her with a strange intensity.
“What’s the matter?”
“You remind me of someone. My sister, actually.”
“Isn’t she a lot older than me?”
“She would have been.” Balthazar wiped his mouth and Gilda perceived the faintest quiver of emotion in his voice. “Sadly, she passed away when she was much younger than you; she was only eleven years old.”
“What happened to her? I mean, if you don’t mind my asking?”
“It’s complicated. To make a long story short, we both became very ill one winter. I recovered and she didn’t. She was truly psychic; she had far more natural talent than I do.”
“No way.”
“It’s true. When we were young, she had remarkably vivid dreams with exact details of things that were going to happen to us the next day. ‘You’d better study your spelling words tonight, ’ she’d say, ‘because Mr. King is going to give us a pop quiz tomorrow.’ And she was always right. She also had an uncanny ability to sense danger before it happened. She saved my life on at least one occasion.”
Balthazar paused as if uncertain whether he wanted to open a floodgate of memories. “Anyway, after my sister died, I changed. I suppose that’s when I started to become psychic; it was as if a new channel had opened in my brain.”
Gilda listened intently; she literally perched on the edge of her seat, nibbling on a rope of red licorice.
“My sister spoke to me every night in dreams. But now, instead of telling me whether my teacher was going to give a pop quiz, she would tell me about other people. Sometimes I would read an article in the newspaper about a shooting in the neighborhood or a family who perished in an arson fire, and that night my sister would show me how it had happened. She would tell me who did it. Sometimes she even showed me where bodies were hidden. After I awoke the next morning, I would try to forget, but I couldn’t. I knew.
“So I began sending anonymous tips to the police department. Sometimes they would act on them, and usually they would ignore them. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed the courage to accept my role as a psychic—to develop my skills so I could use them to help people without being afraid of what I might learn. Of course, as I was reminded today, nobody’s perfect. We’re always students of the craft.” He regarded Gilda pointedly. “But you already know that.”
“Know what?” Gilda put down her licorice. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that you’ve clearly been studying your craft, and now you’re actually becoming a psychic.”
“I am? You really think so?” Gilda had always believed she had potential as a psychic even though her gifts were not completely natural; she had had to work hard to develop whatever psychic skills she possessed. Hearing this affirmation from Balthazar Frobenius himself was a dream come true.
“Gilda, if not for your work on this case, I might still be in the dark, oblivious to the fact that every reading I ever did for the CIA has been sabotaged. I think you have a unique talent, but more important, the focus, creativity, and spirit to really want to get to the truth. Not too many people have that.”
Gilda smiled, wishing she could somehow put the moment in a container, freeze it, and then take it out to relive it the next time someone doubted her ability to solve a mystery. “Balthazar,” she ventured, “I know you probably always get asked stuff like this—”
“Don’t tell me; you want to know if I’m picking up anything from your father, right?”
Gilda froze. She met his eyes, hoping.
“His name was Nick?”
“Yes!” Gilda felt as if fire were racing through her veins. He knows Dad’s name.
Balthazar closed his eyes and concentrated. “For some reason, I’m picking up something odd his spirit wants to say to you—something about . . . orange peanuts?”
Gilda felt ridiculous because without warning, she felt tears welling up—tears of surprise and nostalgia. These days, sh
e often found it hard to picture her father’s face, but she could vividly imagine the sweet, chalky smell and texture of those orange circus peanuts he used to share with her. For a moment, it was as if her dad were right there at the table. You aren’t alone, he seemed to be saying. I’m always here for you.
Gilda giggled as she wiped her eyes on a napkin. “Of all the things he could say to me right now when I’m sitting here with Balthazar Frobenius—he picks ‘orange peanuts’!”
“I admit I have no idea what that means.”
“Oh, it was just something silly my father did when I was little. I’d go with him to the hardware store and he’d always buy me these bags of circus peanuts—you know, those really fake-looking orange candies—because I thought they were so funny-looking.” The more she thought about those orange peanuts and the memory of her father, the happier she felt. She looked across the room where a vintage poster of President Lincoln was displayed next to a Beatles album cover. “I think Dad would like this place,” she added.
“Sounds like he appreciated the silly side of life.” Balthazar took the opportunity to steal a Twinkie from Gilda’s plate of assorted junk foods.
“That’s for sure.”
“Now,” Balthazar whispered, leaning closer. “While you were looking around the mansion, I came up with a plan—a way we can make sure Loomis Trench makes one more drop of information. Only this time he’ll get caught in the act.”
TO: GILDA JOYCE
FROM: GILDA JOYCE
RE: !!!!!!!!PSYCHIC INVESTIGATION BREAKTHROUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
IDENTITY OF PERSON LEAVING DEAD-DROP NOTES DISCOVERED--CIA MOLE LOOMIS TRENCH UNCOVERED!!
A man with the highly suspicious-sounding name “Loomis Trench” has been selling classified information to the Russian government.
OUR PLAN: Balthazar and I need solid proof--some kind of hard evidence to prove without a doubt that Loomis is a CIA mole.
Tonight Balthazar will call Loomis Trench and tell him he wants to meet for an emergency remote viewing session. Balthazar will say he’s picking up some very interesting information that the American government needs to know. (In truth, he’ll just be making up something about the identity and location of some Russian or Middle Eastern spy.) Then, we’re hoping that once Loomis Trench has this new, juicy “information,” he’ll want to pass it along to the Russians right away.
But when Loomis turns up to leave the information, he’ll get a big surprise. Ta-da! The CIA and FBI will be there waiting to catch him!
Balthazar and I will be heroes! I can already imagine the headlines in all the papers:
“ANYONE WOULD HAVE DONE WHAT I DID TO SAVE THE U.S.A.,” CLAIMS PSYCHIC SLEUTH GILDA JOYCE
NEW SPY MUSEUM EXHIBIT FEATURES TYPEWRITER, TRADECRAFT ITEMS USED BY RENOWNED PSYCHIC SPY GILDA JOYCE
Caption: typewriter (model), half-eaten peanut butter, banana, and chocolate sandwich (model), Jackie Kennedy-style office wear, and assorted spy gear used by Gilda Joyce in her heroic mission to track down and capture CIA mole Loomis Trench.
SPY MUSEUM HAUNTING:
Tomorrow night I have a rare opportunity to spend the whole night inside the Spy Museum. Chances of spirit activity are strong. Now that I know the identity of the mole who’s been leaving notes in Oak Hill Cemetery, I’m hoping to figure out the specific identity of the Spy Museum ghost. Based on the clues that turned up in the museum, my guess is that she wants the truth about Loomis Trench to be known. She wants him to get caught once and for all.
36
Midnight Spy Slumber Party
We kind of want to see a ghost, but now we’re kind of scared, too,” said Stargirl.
She and Agent Moscow had decided to camp out in the East Berlin exhibit, thinking that they might see more ghost graffiti.
“I don’t think this ghost would harm anyone,” said Gilda, trying to sound more fearless and confident than she actually felt. “Just call me on my cell phone right away if you see anything unusual.”
Throughout the evening, Gilda had kept an eye out for signs of spirit activity in the Spy Museum, but so far nothing had happened.
The boys on Team Crypt all opted to camp out in the exhibit featuring a classic spy car from a James Bond movie. Gilda was surprised and not a little suspicious when they all climbed into their sleeping bags at the very moment the museum lights dimmed.
“We’re really tired,” said James Bond.
“Yeah, we’re totally exhausted,” said Baby Boy, scooting into his Spider-Man sleeping bag and feigning loud snoring.
“Good night,” said Gilda, making a mental note to check in on them frequently.
After saying good night to her recruits, Gilda crawled into the sleeping bag she had borrowed from April Shepherd. After sensing a strong tickle in her ear near the Spy Museum’s model of a 1940s-era movie theater, Gilda had decided this spot had lots of psychic potential, and decided to camp out there on her own. During the day, the theater played a series of short films dating from World War II, including a cartoon that warned people not to blab military information that might be overheard by the spies lurking in ordinary places around town. “Loose lips sink ships!” the cartoons warned.
Now the theater was silent: the dramatic, colorful posters decorating the walls and the moody velvet curtains draping the movie screen looked spooky in the dim glow of Gilda’s flashlight.
Gilda was just drifting into sleep when she heard scuttling and rustling sounds that made her think of a sinister little animal—an animal that made choking, gasping, snuffling sounds. She gasped, fumbling for her flashlight. A shadow slipped into the room, moving close to the ground.
Finally locating her flashlight, she pointed it in the direction of the creature. Illuminated in the beam of light was a row of garishly painted faces with dark smudges for eyes, mouths covered in red lipstick, and multicolored hair. One wore an incongruous mustache. “Oooooooo! I am the ghost who lives in the Spy Museum!”
“Nice try,” said Gilda, doing her best not to appear as unnerved as she felt. “I knew you had something up your sleeves.” She was now fully awake.
“How come you didn’t scream?” Baby Boy asked.
“Because I knew it was you guys.” The truth was that Gilda had been fooled for the first few seconds.
“Now we’re going to sneak up on the girls in the East Berlin exhibit,” said Baby Boy.
“No,” said Gilda, “you’re going to go back to your sleeping bags, or I’ll have to call your parents.”
“But we aren’t tired.”
“No buts. Just take off your makeup, wash your faces, and get your butts under the covers.”
“I thought you said ‘No butts,’” The Comedian joked.
“No puns, either,” Gilda retorted.
“Is a pun like a ‘bottom burp’?” Baby Boy asked.
“A ‘bottom burp’?!” The boys broke into laughter.
“Excuse me, Madame,” said The Comedian, speaking in an English accent. “I feel a wee ‘bottom burp’ coming on.” He blew grotesquely loud raspberries and the entire group dissolved into a fit of raucous laughter.
Whoever thinks girls are the only ones who get silly and giggly has never been around a group of boys in the middle of the night, Gilda thought.
“Good night, Case Officer Zelda,” said the boys, once they were back in their sleeping bags.
“Good night, boys. No more pranks, okay?”
“Okay.”
Back in the movie theater, Gilda sat alone in the dark, watching, listening, and waiting. The museum had grown quiet; it seemed the entire building had gone to sleep.
As Gilda once again drifted into a sound sleep surrounded by posters of spy stories, the velvet curtains at the front of the movie theater opened.
37
Svetlana’s Story: A Film
The setting: a small, sparsely furnished apartment with only a bed, a few chairs, a carpeted floor. A young woman whose elfin face has small, sharp features stands by the
window, peering into a mirror.
“My name is Svetlana,” she says. She opens a tiny perfume bottle and the room fills with the scent of roses and vanilla.
She closes her eyes and applies bright violet eye shadow, then outlines the rims of her eyes with a thin liquid line. Her dark, chalky makeup resembles that of a little girl dressing up for a pretend game.
Svetlana looks at her reflection and tries to smile, revealing one crooked tooth. The tooth is one of the most memorable and noticeable details of her face, but it is a detail she rarely shows.
“I am lucky,” Svetlana says as she gets dressed. She wears a jacket with big shoulder pads and a voluminous skirt with a fitted waist, cinched with a vinyl belt. She puts on a pair of bright plastic earrings, then pulls on high-heeled red boots with pointy toes and a fox-fur hat.
“Most of my friends dress very nineteen-seventies even though it is nineteen-eighty-eight. I am more in fashion—because my boyfriend can get clothes from overseas.
“My boyfriend is a KGB officer. He has promised me marriage and a better life. He is also my spymaster.
“See? He gave me this beautiful red star brooch. And you see? It hides a tiny, secret camera.” The layers of Svetlana’s 1980s clothing conceal the thin cord that connects the camera shutter to a handheld control in the pocket of her full skirt.
Svetlana looks in the mirror, smiles, and squeezes the button in her pocket. The center of the brooch quickly opens to reveal a tiny camera lens, and she snaps her own picture.
The Dead Drop Page 19