“Before I can tell you for sure if this is a clue or not,” I tell Birdie, “I need to check it against the medal I gave you. Turn around and lift your hair.”
When I unhook the St. Chris I had to steal from the five and dime from around her going-green neck because he’s the patron saint of travelers and she needed some divine intervention to keep her from falling off our bike every five minutes, my uncoordinated sister doesn’t give me any guff, which is usually the first sign that her wild streak might be petering out, thank God.
“Well?” Birdie asks as I hold the two medals in my hand, side by side.
“Mmm . . .”
’Cause the massive mausoleum is casting a shadow over us, I take a step away from the shade toward a patch of sunlight that’s skirting the edge of Phantom Woods so I can get the best look at them. Whoever is the owner of the medal Birdie found wore it a lot, because St. Chris looks pretty tired of holding up Jesus, who looks more like a hump on his back than a holy baby, but I can tell by how heavy it is and how shiny it is compared to my sister’s cruddy one that . . .
Oh, boy.
Birdie, up on her toes and the edge of her seat, comes so close to me that I can smell Louise’s Evening in Paris perfume wafting out from behind her ears and the chocolate on her breath when she insists, “Tell me!”
I really, really, really, really don’t want to.
I’m not proud of that, but her beating me out in anything other than card games and cat’s cradle doesn’t happen very often and it’s very discombobulating. It’s like a bear getting eaten by a chipmunk or . . . or a Model T winning against a Corvette Stingray in a drag race. That’s just not normal.
But I, the president of a detecting and blackmailing society, have sworn to do my best to solve any and all mysteries that come my way, even if they are against the laws of nature, so I got no choice but to tell #1 on my TO-DO list, “Bingo!”
“Bingo?!” she says, very put out. “This is no time to play games, Tessie!”
“For Pete’s sake, Bird. I don’t wanna play a game. Bingo! is a famous saying that means”—this is killing me, it really is—“that you’re a hundred percent right, okay? The medal you found is nicer than the usual cheap ones people hang off the gravestones. It’s real gold.”
“Geronimo!” she whoops. “Woo . . . woo . . . woo . . . woo . . .”
I knew she’d do that. She always goes loco like this after she beats me at something other than races. (I still haven’t added her repulsively-poor-winner problem to my list of BIRDIE’S NOT-SO-GOOD QUALITIES, but the second I get the chance, believe me, I’m going to write down: #47. She lords winning over me. #48. She couldn’t do a decent Apache impression if her scalp depended on it.)
Once Birdie gets the woo . . . woo . . . woo–ing out of her system, she points down to my hand and says, “Did you notice that the clasp is bent? I bet that’s why it fell offa the neck of the killer or the limp body he was carrying around last night.”
This is the very last straw.
“So what if the medal did fall offa one of their necks?” Who in the hell does she think she is, anyway? She finds one dumb clue and all of a sudden she’s Heap Big Chief Birdie and I’m General Custard? “How is knowing that gonna do us any good? Huh? Will it narrow our suspect list down?” I am going to give her both barrels. “For your information, that’s what clues are supposed to do. Point a detective toward an alleged perpetrator and finding this medal doesn’t do that. Everyone and their brother has one of these. Ya think you’re so smart, go ahead. Name one person in this neighborhood who doesn’t wear a Saint Christopher.”
“Mister Johnson wears a deer tooth,” Birdie says, very sure of herself. “And . . . and Mister Lebowitz!? He wears something called the Star of Dave at his deli store and . . . and Missus Pitts who owns the pet store, she’s a prostitute who doesn’t wear nothin’ at all!”
She’s right about Mr. Ernie Johnson. He’s something called a taxidermist and the only person on Keefe Ave. who doesn’t show up at St. Kate’s for Mass or every Saturday night to play bingo or for potluck suppers, either. I am very suspicious of him, because he’s always in his basement stuffing God only knows what, which is what I guess Lutherans do for a good time.
She’s also right about Mr. Lebowitz, who is a Jewish man who doesn’t eat fish sticks on Friday. For some unknown reason, he eats locks and beagles.