“And now, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, a special treat,” he said. “An object so horrifying, so terribly grotesque, so murderously macabre, it will blow holes in the brain of any civilized man! It will make you shiver and shout, and send you home praying for protection! Never before seen on the shores of this or any God-fearing country . . . I give you . . . the shrunken head of Chief Ticuna-Piranha!”
With a grand sweep of his hand, he whipped off the velvet drape, just as the spotlight brightened and fell on the single object on display there: the shriveled, blackened head, teeth bared as though it were grinning. Thick tufts of wiry hair sprouted from it; feathered earrings hung from ears so shriveled, they resembled dried apricots. Around its neck, or what remained of its neck, was a bone necklace.
It didn’t actually look all that impressive to Pippa—just kind of gross and sticky, like a rubber ball charred in a fire. But it had the desired effect. Several people gasped, and someone screamed. A flash went off.
Then there was a heavy thump and another scream, this time long and much, much louder.
Suddenly, everything was chaos. Pippa was nearly toppled by Hugo, who came running onto the stage, yelling for someone to call a doctor.
The lights in the auditorium came up; Pippa saw that the ancient woman in the front row was lying facedown on the floor, directly on top of her very noble nose.
“I about swallowed my tongue when the old balloon sat up,” Max said. “I thought for sure she’d croaked.”
Philippa shot her a look. “Don’t sound so disappointed.”
Max shrugged.
“It’s too bad she didn’t, in a way,” Thomas said thoughtfully. He was still covered with dust from the vent, which he had used to travel between floors to report on the progress of the police and hospital workers as they loaded the old woman, whose name was Mrs. Weathersby, onto a stretcher. “The probability of someone dropping dead from shock is one in forty million. It would have been kind of exciting.”
“Thomas!” Philippa said.
The four children were gathered in Mr. Dumfrey’s office on the third floor, where they had been ordered to wait by Miss Fitch so they would be out of the way.
“Have any of you ever seen one?” Max asked. Seeing Philippa’s expression, she rolled her eyes. “You know, a stiff? A body? A dead person?”
“I saw the magician hold his breath underwater for seven minutes,” Thomas piped up. “He looked dead.”
“That’s not the same,” Max said.
“Have you?” Philippa demanded. Max colored briefly.
“I known plenty of dead people,” she mumbled.
“But have you seen one?” Philippa pressed.
From the way Max’s lips went tight, Philippa knew that she had not.
“I have,” Sam said suddenly from his position in the corner, where he was pushing crumbs of bread to Mr. Dumfrey’s pet cockatoo, Cornelius, through the bars of its cage.
For as long as Pippa had known him, Sam was the quietest person she had ever met. He could go for days without talking. She remembered the time, a few years back, when he was sick with chicken pox and had lain in bed for a week without saying a word. Finally, Thomas had asked him what chicken pox felt like. “Itches,” he had replied.
Hearing his voice now, she practically tumbled out of her chair.
“What did you say?” she squeaked at him.
“I have,” he said. As usual, he wouldn’t make eye contact, and looked everywhere—the piles of yellowing papers on Mr. Dumfrey’s desk, the shriveled big toe of an albino orangutan floating in an alcohol-filled bottle on the bookshelf, the hissing radiator—but at Philippa. “Seen dead people.”
“Where?” Max said, and her voice held a challenge. “When?”
To Pippa’s deep surprise, Sam turned his eyes to Max calmly. “When I was little,” he said. “I don’t like to talk about it.”
“I don’t believe you,” Max said.
Sam shrugged. “That’s because you never saw one. If you did, you’d understand.”
A moment of tense silence settled on the group. Max and Sam continued staring each other down. Max looked like she was considering whipping out one of her knives and trying to puncture Sam with it.
The door flew open, banging hard against the wall and rattling the various shelves. Cornelius the cockatoo squawked loudly.
“They’re gone! Gone at last!” Mr. Dumfrey stood in the doorway, mopping his face with a handkerchief. “I tell you, children, I thought they would never leave. Between the questions, and explanations, and questionable explanations . . .” He exhaled loudly. “Well. This calls for a celebration, don’t you think?”