But, of course, the second I see how tight her teeth are clenched, I knew what a hoping dope I’d been. And when she does open her mouth, I am shocked by how much she sounds like her idol, nasty Gert Klement, when she says, “For the last time, the name of the man I’m dating is Mister . . . Leon . . . Gallagher.”
So she says as she shoves back her chair and sashays out of the kitchen in a cloud of smoke. Because he hasn’t fallen into our mother’s wedding web yet, Birdie and me haven’t met “Mister . . . Leon . . . Gallagher,” so there’s no way to be 100% sure who he is. Chapter One of Modern Detection says: “A subject’s identity must always be verified by loved ones,” which would be the Finley sisters. Louise told us the ignorant slob she’s trying to replace Daddy with works on the assembly line at the American Motors plant, but I’ll believe that when I see it. I still think he might be #4 on my SHIT LIST. The grease monkey all the girls in the neighborhood call “The Peeker.” (Judging from how many times I’ve caught him licking his lips and grinning at me when I’m keeping guard over Birdie outside the Clark station’s restroom when she’s tinkling out the root beer on our way home from the Tosa Theatre, The Peeker seems to have a taste for redheads, so he probably was the one who recommended Louise for the cashier job.)
While I might be feeling a little slowed down by my mother’s chilly warning to mind my own beeswax when it comes to missing Sister Margaret Mary, believe me, I’m not about to throw in the towel. I immediately start working out in my head what the detecting Finley sisters have to get done today while I’m following Louise’s orders and filling the kitchen sink up with warm water and a squirt of Joy.
Of course, the most important things I have to take care of ASAP are examining the scene of the crime over at the cemetery and calling a meeting of The Mutual Admiration Society to order. And if I want those things to happen ASAP, I got to remind forgetful Birdie she needs to step on it.
“Honey?” When I turn around to make sure she’s quickly clearing the breakfast dishes like she’s supposed to instead of lazily licking off the leftovers . . . lo and behold! I’m the Lone Ranger without my Tonto!
Damnation!
I switch off the water faucet and call out, “Bir—Robin Jean?”
When she doesn’t answer, Here I am, Tessie! the way she’s supposed to if I lose sight of her, I wipe my soapy hands off on my shorts and run through the dining room to check for her in the living room. She’s not on the green shag carpet in front of the Motorola television set, and she wouldn’t go into the basement by herself, so I dash back through the kitchen and head up the stairs two at a time. “Honey?”
After I poke my head into the bathroom and our bedroom and come up empty, that only leaves the last place that I was dreading looking for Birdie in the first place. I really don’t want to find my sister in what was once the most special spot in the house. It used to smell like Daddy’s Old Spice, and there were always matchbooks and a pack of his Lucky Strike cigarettes on his bed stand, and a deck of cards sitting on top of the bureau, and just being in there filled me to the brim with love. But ever since we lost him, when I even think of going in there, a missing sadness comes crashing down on me, the same way it’s doing right this minute. I have to plaster myself against the hallway wall to keep myself from getting knocked to my knees. But what choice do I have? I made a solemn vow to step into Daddy’s shoes and I’m not going to let him down. Not again. I promised to take tender loving care of Birdie and that’s what I’m going to do. Come Hell or high water.
So I take a deep breath and try to push away the missing sadness the best I can, take shaky baby steps down the hall, and through the bedroom door. Because I’m feeling roughed-up when I plop down next to my sister on the edge of the bed Daddy used to snore in, I take an extra tight hold of her little hand. To steady myself, of course, but also to keep her glued to me. If Birdie starts to act up and do something really weird and loony, Louise, who is sprucing herself up at her vanity table, could change her mind and decide that “somebody more qualified” needs to keep watch over my sister today instead of me. I can’t risk that. The Finley sisters got what I’m almost positive is a kidnapping murder to investigate that could earn us great running-away bucks. That means getting stuck on Gert Klement’s front porch all day so she can keep her evil eye on Birdie and me while Louise is at her new job is completely out of the question.
I know that our mother has got to report to work by 8:15 a.m., but what I don’t know is how long she’ll be taking money for gas or tire-changing or whatever else a cashier at a filling station does, besides hopefully steal some of the big bills out of the till so we don’t lose our house. Will she be up at the Clark for the same eight hours that she spent at the hat shop called Turner’s Toppers that she quit after two weeks? It’s not like I’m going to miss her or nothin’, I just need to know when she’ll be back, so Birdie and me don’t get caught with our hands in the cookie jar.