by Delia Ray
Mr. Krasny leaned on his broom, peering at me through his thick glasses. He nodded sympathetically. “Understandable. Have days like that myself sometimes.” Then his watery blue eyes turned hopeful with an idea. “Would you like to come inside and have a Coca-Cola? The dogs can have a romp together in my backyard. I bet they’d enjoy that.”
I could almost feel C.B. glaring at me through his eyebrows as he sat waiting to be taken home. I didn’t want to go into Mr. Krasny’s stuffy little bungalow either. I had always wanted our house to be cleaner, but Mr. Krasny’s house felt too neat somehow—with the way its knickknacks and doilies and furniture were locked in their permanent spots, like some sort of museum or movie set from the 1950s. I glanced down at C.B. again, trying to think of an excuse, but then Mr. Krasny’s doormat caught my eye. BLESS OUR HAPPY HOME, it said. It must have been lying there for years, since before his wife died, before their two sons grew up and moved out to the coasts.
The next thing I knew, poor C.B. was trapped in the backyard with Spunky, and I was wedged at Mr. Krasny’s kitchen table with a glass of warm Coke in front of me. Mr. Krasny plunked down a plateful of cookies next to my Coke. “Here, have one,” he ordered. “I made them myself.” He told me what they were called—something that sounded like “shankies,” but I couldn’t quite catch the name.
I picked up a cookie, took a bite, and tried not to make a face. It was so plain, it tasted kind of like chalk dust.
“You need to dip it!” Mr. Krasny instructed from across the table, where he was settling himself with a cup of coffee.
“Excuse me?”
“Dip it.” He lowered a cookie into his cup, waited a beat, and then took a loud, slurpy bite. “Tastes much better this way.”
Yuck, I thought, but I shrugged and gave it a try.
He was right. It worked, even with warm Coke. We sat chewing in silence for a while, and I almost cracked up at how funny Mr. Krasny looked, happily munching away. He had floppy earlobes, and his white hair sprang out from his head like dandelion fuzz.
“So you’ve got a lot of homework, do you?” Mr. Krasny said after a minute or two. “What are you studying in school these days?”
“Oh, nothing too exciting.” I stretched back in my chair. “I guess we’re doing factoring in prealgebra and … a bunch of grammar work sheets in English. You know, the usual stuff.” As I shrugged and let out a big breath of air, it occurred to me how much I was sounding like the typical bored adolescent—the kind of kid that Mr. Krasny’s generation worried about. “But my class went on a pretty cool field trip to the historical society today,” I told him with a little more enthusiasm. “They kind of let us have the run of the place so we could get started on our research projects.”
“Oh?” Mr. Krasny perked up. “What kind of projects?”
I quickly ran through the basics of my Adopt-a-Grave assignment, forcing myself not to glance up at the loudly ticking cuckoo clock that hung on the wall by the refrigerator. Then I finished up by telling him a few things I had found out about the Black Angel monument that day. “Supposedly, the people buried there came here in the 1870s, from a place called Bohemia … wherever that is,” I added under my breath. I reached for another cookie. Maybe if I dunked one more of his shankies, Mr. Krasny would be satisfied and let me go.
But now he was watching me with an amused spark in his eyes. “Don’t you know? Those are Bohemian cookies you’re eating.”
I stopped chewing. “Really?” I mumbled with my mouth full.
“Yes. Sušenky,” he said, pronouncing the word more clearly this time. “It’s an old family recipe. My father was Czech. He came from a village not too far from Theresa Feldevert’s.”
I coughed in surprise, and a tiny spray of wet crumbs flew out. “You’re kidding!” I said with a hard swallow. “Did he know her?”
Mr. Krasny chuckled and handed me a napkin. “Not very well, as I remember. But they were certainly acquainted. Anyone who lived in this neighborhood back then knew about the Widow Feldevert.”
Mr. Krasny took a slow sip of coffee, collecting his thoughts, and I felt my leg start to jiggle with impatience. But then, all at once, he was back to his habit of firing out words like bullets. “This side of town used to be full of Czechs, every one of them from that same region in the middle of Europe called Bohemia. You’ll have to look at the map, Linc. Look for the Czech Republic, the western part. Germany and Poland on the north, Austria on the south. That’s where Theresa Feldevert and my father and all those others came from way back when. Hoping to make a better life in America. By the time I was born, the Widow Feldevert had definitely made a better life for herself. But she was a miserable old lady. Turned into something of a recluse.”
I scooted my drink aside and leaned over the table. “Why do you think she was so miserable?”
“Oh, she had a hard life. Lost her loved ones. After her son Eddie died, she disappeared for years. Moved out west somewhere. The other Czechs said she met a rich old German rancher and married him in a heartbeat. That’s how come she changed her name from Dolezal to Feldevert. Then what do you know? He died too. Left her all his money, and one day she appeared in town again out of nowhere. Folks said she had come back to dig up her son and bury him, along with her rich husband, in the fine style they deserved. She hired a famous sculptor from Chicago to make the Angel. Paid five thousand dollars! Quite a bundle back then. It was the talk of the town.”
Mr. Krasny sat back in his chair and shook his head as if he were finished with his tale. But then he said, “I saw her once.”
“You did?”
“Yes, indeed. I couldn’t have been more than six years old, but I’ll never forget it. My older sister and I, we used to love to pick blackberries on the edge of the cemetery. That’s when we saw her. We were heading home. Buckets full. And here she came, the old Widow Feldevert herself, squeaking along the path in her wheelchair.”
“Wheelchair?” I interrupted.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Mr. Krasny’s voice had turned low and mysterious. I felt my heart thump against the wooden edge of the table. “She only had one leg.”
“What?” I whispered.
“That’s right,” Mr. Krasny went on. “People said she had been bitten by a rattlesnake when she was out west living on that ranch with her husband. The infection from the poison was so bad, she had to have her leg cut clean off.”
I felt my eyes widening. A rattlesnake? Amputation? How was I supposed to prove my no-curse theory with mishaps like those lurking in Theresa’s past?
Mr. Krasny’s gaze drifted to the kitchen window and his story slowed down. “Such a long time ago. But I can still hear that sound. That squeak-squeak of her wheelchair when she pushed herself along the path.”
He squinted his eyes shut for several long seconds, as if he were watching the scene flash across the insides of his lids. “She looked like she was still in mourning. Black bonnet. Long black dress. Black collar buttoned up high. Long cane across her knees. And her face, the picture of sorrow. I’d never seen anyone look so sad.”
We both jumped when we heard Spunky scratch at the back door. Mr. Krasny blinked a few times. “Forgive me, Lincoln,” he said with a faint smile. “I’ve been rambling.”
“No, this is exactly the kind of stuff I need for my project,” I said, hurrying to reassure him. “Do you remember when Theresa died? It’s weird—there’s a birth date for her on the monument, but no death date.”
“That is strange,” Mr. Krasny agreed. “You know, I can’t recall hearing much about her death, and I don’t remember any sort of funeral. I wish my father were here. He could tell us. He made it his business to know about all the other Bohemians in town.” Mr. Krasny took a last gulp of coffee and hefted himself to his feet.
I had thought he was ready to let the dogs in and say goodbye. But then he told me that he wanted to show me something, and he led me into his shadowy front room to the row of bookshelves next to the fireplace. The sh
elves were packed with glass figurines and old black-and-white photographs in fancy frames. I braced myself for what must be coming next: a personal introduction to each of the old-timey faces in the hazy photos. But instead, Mr. Krasny reached past the collection of treasures and pulled a book from a row of matching volumes that lined the back of the shelf.
He rubbed his gnarled hand gently across the red leather cover. “My father’s newspaper,” he announced.
“Huh?” I said, forgetting my manners for a second.
“The Slovan Americký.” He pointed to the foreign words printed in gold on the spine of the book. “Or in English—the American Slav. This was the weekly Czech newspaper. Published for all the immigrants in these parts. My father, he was a jack-of-all-trades, and sometimes he worked as a reporter for the publisher. Very proud of his stories, he was. He kept every issue. Stacked them up in our damp basement next to the potato bin. Foolish! Awful musty down there. To surprise Tatínek, for his seventieth birthday we had them bound. He spent his last years reading and rereading each and every article. Dreaming of the olden days, I suppose.”
Mr. Krasny cracked the book open, and I peered down at the yellowed newsprint, trying to make sense of the words in the dim light. But the page wouldn’t seem to come into focus. I cocked my head for a better angle and stared at the mishmash of letters in one of the headlines: Velký jarní ples. The words looked … they looked a lot like that faded inscription on the Black Angel.
Before I could blurt out my next question, Mr. Krasny traced his finger under another bold headline, and suddenly his voice and accent transformed as he pronounced the words out loud. “Farma na prodej! Farm for sale!”
It was too good to be true. “You speak Czech?”
Behind his glasses, Mr. Krasny’s milky blue eyes shone with pride. “Samozřejmě! Of course. Tatínek always insisted we speak Czech at the dinner table. And when we were little, he sent us to Bohemian school. Held every summer morning in the elementary school down the street. We sang Czech songs, learned the old dances, recited poems—”
I couldn’t help cutting in. “Mr. Krasny, do you think you could translate something for me?”
He hesitated. “I don’t know, son. My Czech’s a little rusty—”
“It’s just a few lines. From the inscription on the Black Angel.”
His expression darkened. Maybe he was hearing that wheelchair again. That squeak-squeak in his head.
“Well, I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try,” he finally said.
“Great! I don’t have the words yet, but I’ll get them to you as soon as I can.”
I couldn’t believe my luck. I was one giant step closer to solving the mystery of the Black Angel. And all it took was sharing a few shankies with Mr. Krasny.
MAYBE MELLECKER THOUGHT it was a joke, I told myself. All that business about getting him the key to the Ransom vault. Or even better, maybe he and Beez would forget I ever proposed the idea in the first place. There was a big football game coming up on Saturday night. They probably hadn’t had time to give the Ransom key another thought.
But they didn’t forget. I knew it as soon as I filed out of the lunch line with my tray the next day. “Hey, Crenshaw, over here!” Beez shouted across the entire cafeteria. I glanced over at the BattleBots table, where I usually sat. I could see Cliff and his friends observing me as they hunkered over their trays, trying to figure out why the likes of Jake Beasley would be bellowing my name. If only I had been assigned to second lunch with Delaney. There was still more than a week to go before our stakeout at Oakland, but we could have used lunchtime to plan the details. Then the next thirty minutes would have flown by.
Beez was still waving me over like a traffic cop. With one last glance of apology toward the BattleBots, I headed to the opposite side of the cafeteria.
Mellecker’s table was packed and a lot rowdier than my usual spot. When I walked up, three guys at the other end were finishing up a milk-chugging contest. They slammed down their cartons and wiped their mouths on the backs of their fists. Amy and some other girls scattered between them broke into giggling fits when one of the guys let out a nasty sound halfway between a burp and a yawn.
Mellecker smiled up at me as I stood there hesitating, clenching the sides of my tray. “Welcome to my office,” he said. Beez had already scooted over to make room for me at the end of the bench. Even on the very end, I still felt claustrophobic with half the table giving me the eye and Beez’s bulky shoulder brushing up against mine as he dove into his pepperoni pizza.
“How’s it going, Crenshaw?” Beez asked with his mouth full. “Any new developments?”
“Nope. Not that I can think of,” I answered. I took a bite of my own lunch and chewed very, very slowly. Not an easy task when the menu of the day featured something called Chicken Stix.
“Well?” Mellecker’s eyebrows lifted. “Did you get it?”
“Get what?” I stalled. Think, I pleaded with my brain. Think.
Mellecker let out a dry laugh. “The key, buddy, the key!”
“Oh, that?” I forced my voice higher with disbelief. “You’re kidding, right? You think I can get the Ransom key just like that?” I tried to snap my fingers, but my hands were too sweaty for any noise to come out.
Meanwhile, the gears inside my head were spinning into overdrive. There was no way I could get the Ransom key for Mellecker. A long time ago Jeeter had shown me where the keys to the mausoleums were kept: in the cemetery office … in a closet … in a wooden case that looked like an old-fashioned medicine cabinet mounted on the wall. No one ever used the keys unless they needed to get inside a vault to add another coffin after a funeral. And now that Kilgore was in charge, he had probably beefed up security with padlocks and alarms, maybe a hidden video camera or two.
Beez was watching me suspiciously. “Hey, dude, you’re the one who told us you could get the key. What’s the deal? Can you get it or not?”
I felt my cheeks catch fire. A few more kids down the row had started to listen, and across the table Mellecker’s face had frozen into a queasy expression—like he felt sorry for me. But what was I supposed to do now? Tell him the truth? That I had promised him the key only because I wanted him to like me? No way. Instead, all I could do was lift my shoulders in a pitiful shrug and stare down at the shriveled pile of Chicken Stix on my tray, shaking my head.
“I told you he’d never do it,” I heard Beez say under his breath.
“Just forget it, Beez,” Mellecker murmured.
The lunchroom racket swelled around me. Somewhere at a nearby table, Sylvie was ranting about a spitball. “Ewww, it touched my sandwich! You’re gross, Douglas Spratt! I’m gonna kill you!”
“Oh yeah? How’re you gonna do that?”
“I’m gonna hire a hit man!”
Hit man. Sylvie, of all people, had given me an idea.
I lifted my gaze slowly, giving my features time to set into steel. Mellecker and Beez had gone back to eating their lunches. “Listen, you guys,” I hissed. They both looked up, disoriented by my sudden change in behavior. “I know I said I could get the key, but there’s something I didn’t tell you.”
The two of them traded wary looks as I motioned for them to lean in closer.
“Did it ever occur to you, Mellecker,” I began, “that maybe the reason you can’t find any information about the Ransoms is because they might not want people to know about them?”
Mellecker’s face went slack. “What are you talking about?”
Easy does it, I told myself. I needed to make each word ooze with warning—just like Dad when he used to do his impression of those guys from Mafia movies.
“Well, I don’t want to jump the gun here,” I said cautiously. “But living right next to the graveyard, I see a lot, you know. I’m pretty close with the people in the cemetery office. And let’s just say … something about the Ransom vault is … different.”
Beez’s mouth hung slightly open. I could hear him breathing. “Differen
t?” he asked uneasily. “Different how?”
I wiped my damp palms across my jeans under the table. It was nerve-racking making all this stuff up as I went along. But it was also kind of exhilarating, like a roller-coaster ride that you love and hate all at the same time.
At least I had a lot of good material to work with. “Well, there’s this real creepy guy named Kilgore, he’s the cemetery warden, and he keeps all the keys to the mausoleums in a steel box in his office. Every key is labeled and hung on a hook inside that box. Every key … except one.”
“Let me guess,” Mellecker said. “The Ransom key.”
I nodded ominously. “That’s right. Kilgore keeps that one separate, on a brass ring in his pocket, where he can be sure no one, I mean no one, can get to it.”
“Why?” Beez asked, keeping his voice hushed.
I pressed my lips together and narrowed my eyes. “I’m pretty sure the Ransoms are paying him off. I don’t know anything else about those Ransoms except they’re private and they’re powerful. And they don’t want anybody nosing into their business.”
I glanced over at Mellecker. He had leaned back from the table with his arms locked over his chest, still looking kind of skeptical. Beez, on the other hand, seemed seriously spooked. “Soooo …” I gave a little shrug. “What I mean is I can get you the key. But it won’t be easy. And once you have it, what are you going to do with it? I should be straight with you guys. I wouldn’t advise any friend of mine to mess with the Ransoms. For all I know, they’ve got hit men out there, on the lookout for anybody who gets too close.”
I focused on Beez, waiting for him to crack a joke, cram his last wedge of pizza into his mouth, and call it quits. But that’s not what happened. All of a sudden he sat up, breaking our little huddle, with a knowing gleam in his eye. “That’s where they keep it,” he said.
Now I was the one looking baffled. “That’s where they keep what?”