She’s only half-right about Mrs. Pitts.
“Big deal!” I tell my getting-entirely-too-big-for-her-britches sister. “That’s only three people outta . . . outta hundreds in the neighborhood! Those are chump odds! And . . . and you’re not even totally right about Missus Pitts. She doesn’t wear a Saint Chris medal because she’s a prostitute, she doesn’t wear one because she’s a Protestant!” I know the difference between the two, thanks to Father Ted and Kitten Jablonski, but obviously, Birdie doesn’t. “So what do ya suggest we do to find Catholic suspects? How about we stare at everyone’s open shirt and blouse collars when they’re standing in the Communion line this Sunday to see if anyone is missing theirs?” I can just picture the two of us hanging over the edge of a pew during Mass. “We go eyeballin’ people’s necks like that and mark my words, Bird, somebody’s gonna start the rumor that the Finley sisters aren’t only ghouls, but . . . but vampires!” Every Sunday those hypocrites got no problem kneeling down at St. Kate’s Communion railing to drink the blood of Christ, but they’re always more than happy to throw the first stone. “And the second Mass is over, they’ll mob around Father Ted and beg him to command Louise to ship us outta the parish to homes or . . . or . . . maybe they’ll get so worked up that they’ll take matters into their own hands!” This is probably going a little too far, but I’d say and do anything at this point. “You’ve seen what ticked-off villagers do to vampires in the movies after they hunt them down.” I place the whittling stick I picked up over my heart and pretend to pound it in with my fist. “And if they don’t kill us by driving stakes through us, you’re gonna wish they did. Every single one of them will be gossiping about us and that’s gonna screw up Louise’s chances to win that stupid election, which will make her so furious that the next time you wrap your lips around a Three Musketeers bar will be in Heaven!”
That last crack was a very low blow, but I’m so desperate that I don’t care, and weirdly, it doesn’t seem to faze my candy-worshipping sister, either.
“Maybe you should flip the medal over and see if there’s any writing on the back, the way there is on the heart necklace that Daddy gave Louise for her birthday,” she says with a lot of zing. “A name would be a great clue that could narrow our suspect list down.”
She’s making me want to pull every hair out of my head, or hers, but all of a sudden, I find myself feeling a little less thirsty for a strawberry Mercury malt and a lot more interested again in solving THE CASE OF THE MISSING NUN WHO MIGHT BE KIDNAPPED AND MURDERED, because Birdie is almost right again. Finding a name on the back of the medal wouldn’t be a great clue. That would be an excellent clue that really could narrow our list down:
QUESTION OR SURVEIL
Mr. McGinty.
Kitten Jablonski.
Butch Seeback.
Mr. Johnson.
Suzie LaPelt.
But when I flip the medal over, I don’t see nothin’, so paying a visit to the Milky Way sounds like a much better idea again.
“That’s the way the cookie crumbles. Better luck next time, kiddo,” I tell her, but honestly? I’m not sorry at all. Her coming up with another clue in our case of the missing nun is starting to turn into a really bad habit. (No joke.)
But halfway to handing the medal back to her that I was going to let her keep as a shiny prize that she would probably gift to Louise tomorrow the way she gifted the pink, heart-shaped fake ruby ring this morning, the sun hits it in a way that . . . I still don’t see a name on the back of it, but there are some squiggles way down on the very bottom. I hold the medal up close to my eyes, move it back a bit and then forward again, tilt it. If only I had my magnifying glass on me, but it’s in our Radio Flyer wagon with our hobo disguises and all the rest of our spying TOOLS OF THE TRADE, hidden under some boxes in the garage so Louise won’t find them.
“I’m not sure,” I say, “but I think there might be some letters down on the bottom.”
Birdie sticks out her grubby hand and says, “Gimme.”
I don’t usually trust her to handle evidence of any kind, but she can see so much better than me that I’m going to make an exception to that rule, even though I’m not so sure how much help she’ll be. She recognizes small words like so, the, and be, and also mom and her name and mine and Charlie’s and Daddy’s, but her bad reading is one of the reasons she keeps getting held back to the third grade.
Because Birdie studies the medal for only a few seconds with her slightly bulging Indian eyes, I take that to mean that she can’t make the squiggles out, either, so I’m surprised when she breaks into what can only be described as, pardon my French again, a shit-eating grin and tells me, “It says, ‘To J. M. from M. M.’”
That can’t be right. “One more time?”