“Show me how the brakes work,” said Annie.
“You just flip down these tabs,” he said. “See? It won’t budge. And then, when you want to move it, you flip them up again.”
Annie flipped the wheel tabs up and trundled the scaffolding sideways. “That’s great,” she said, beaming at him. “It rolls like anything.”
From then on her work was much more comfortable. Sitting on the edge of the platform, she was at just the right height to work on the middle level of the wall. For the top there was a clever second platform near the ceiling, twelve feet above the floor.
Now, when she showed Flimnap the second appearance of an ugly blotch on her wall, he was not dismayed. “I’ll use sealer this time,” he said. And within the hour the stain was gone.
Chapter 12
“So, Homer, you’ve got to talk to the police in Southtown. That’s where Pearl lived. Find out if her husband’s still there. His name’s Small, Frederick Small. See if there are any charges against him. You know, like wife-battering. Find out who called The Candid Courier with information about Pearl.”
“Oh, no,” groaned Homer, “you’re not back on that princess stuff again?” He made a pathetic face and waved a hand at the top of his desk. “Look at this!” A tippy pile of bluebooks landed on the floor with a slam.
“Oh, Homer, it’s all right. I’m just saying do it when you have time. Just whenever you have time.”
“Time! Why don’t you talk to the police department in Southtown? Go over there yourself and have a cozy chat.” Homer rolled his eyes at the ceiling and whirled around in his chair, knocking the rest of the bluebooks to the floor.
“Me? Oh, Homer, I can’t do anything this week, nothing at all. And right now I’ve got to get over there to Weston Country Day and teach some kind of history to all those little girls in the fifth grade. What an idiot I was to agree to be a so-called Historian in Residence! How could I have been such a fool?”
Homer looked at her balefully. “Because you’re sweet on Judge Aufsesser.”
“Oh, Homer, don’t be ridiculous.”
When Mary walked into the private girls’ school called Weston Country Day, she was greeted by the nervous headmistress, who shot up from her desk, clasped her hand, and propelled her down the hall to the fifth grade that was to be her headquarters.
“Mrs. Rutledge’s class is so talented,” said the headmistress. “Charlene Gast is a champion swimmer, and Judge Aufsesser’s daughter is in the class, and many of the others have very influential parents. Of course they are all a little high-strung, naturally, like thoroughbred racehorses. Perhaps you could be a steadying influenced?”
“I’ll do my best. Did you say Charlene Gast?”
“Yes, do you know her? Such a brilliant child!”
“No, I don’t really know her. My niece does.”
“Right this way. We’re all so pleased you’ll be teaching about the Greeks. It fits right in with our theme for the year.”
“The Greeks! Oh, well, all right. The Greeks it is.”
They walked into Mrs. Rutledge’s homeroom without knocking, and Mary was at once confronted by eighteen pairs of eyes. Eighteen sets of parents were paying twelve thousand dollars a year so that their ten-year-old daughters could be exposed to teachers like Mrs. Rutledge and protected from the imperfections of the public school system.
Mary grinned cheerfully as she was introduced, and most of the little girls smiled back. Which one was Judge Aufsesser’s daughter? They looked like good kids.
Mary wasn’t so sure about the teacher, who seemed damp with insecurity. She was given to speaking in italics. “The class is so excited! We could hardly wait. Right, class?”
There was a pause—obviously the class was uninformed. Mary plunged in, saying how much she would enjoy telling them about the Greeks. (She would have to bone up in a hurry.)
“Shall we introduce ourselves to Mrs. Kelly?” said Mrs. Rutledge. “We’ll start at the back. Cissie, will you begin?”
The little fat girl whispered her name. “Speak up, Cissie,” said Mrs. Rutledge sharply.
“Cissie Aufsesser,” murmured the little fat girl, looking down at her lap.
Beverly Eckstein, Carrie Maxwell, Becca Smith, Julie Ingledinger, Amelia Patterson, the names went on and on. They ended with a pretty child in the first row. “Charlene Gast,” said Charlene.
“Charlene is a champion swimmer,” said Mrs. Rutledge proudly, smiling at her.
“Well, good for you, Charlene,” said Mary.
Charlene was indeed a champion swimmer. Her bedroom in the house her parents rented from Annie Swann was a museum of medals and plastic trophies. She practiced obsessively, swimming laps for hours every day in the pool in the club her parents belonged to in Lexington. For Charlene the daily practice wasn’t a chore, it was a joy. Like most people who are good at something, she loved it with all her heart. Water was Charlene’s element. Last week she had beaten all the other young female swimmers from swimming clubs all over New England in the hundred-meter backstroke. Everyone knew she was headed for the Junior Olympics.