Even though I’m still scared because we’re standing here chatting with a possible murderer, I can’t help but answer, “That’s right, Bird,” with a little relieved smile on my face, because her saying something goofy like that means her wild streak is finally over, which is gonna make getting her to do what I want a whole lot easier.
Because he has known my sister for her whole life, Mr. McGinty doesn’t circle his finger around his head or roll his eyes the way other people do when my sister says stuff like that, he just asks his question in another way, one he knows she’ll understand. “What are you two doing this morning, Birdie?” He usually finds us at Daddy’s pretend grave or the weeping willow tree having a Mutual Admiration meeting, so I understand why he’s suspicious, especially if he’s the guilty party that I’m beginning to think he is.
“We’re doing . . . um . . .” Birdie swivels her head around in a what-the-hell-just-happened way, which is normal after one of her streaks is done and dusted. “What are we doing this morning, Tessie?”
“Remember, honey?” I think fast and wave around the whittling stick I found under the necking tree. “We came over here this morning to gather these for Charlie’s hobby.” I lied, because a detective such as myself knows that it’d be very stupid to say that we’re looking for clues in a kidnapping and murder investigation in front of an armed and very strong suspect.
Of course, someone as nice and religious as Mr. McGinty cutting the heads off the Finley sisters in broad daylight is still pretty hard for me to picture, but Mr. Lynwood “My friends call me Woody and my enemies call me their worst nightmare” Bellflower, a detective for over thirty years in New York City, also writes in his excellent book, “You must suspect everybody during an investigation. Do not allow yourself to be swayed by appearances or personal relationships. Leave no leaf unturned.” And it cannot be a coincidence that is exactly what Birdie did. She turned over all the leaves in the pile behind the mausoleum to find our first piece of evidence, which is pointing straight at the guy standing in front of us, which means it’s time for the Finley sisters to make like bananas and split.
“Hey, it was great seein’ ya, Mister McGinty,” I say, “but time is a-ticking.” I reach into my shorts pocket where I keep Daddy’s watch to prove my point, but when I do, I can feel that the Timex has gotten tangled around the St. Christopher medal. His St. Christopher medal? I can’t tip my hand until I know for sure, so I leave both of them where they are. “We got a long TO-DO list this morning.”
I wish he wasn’t so dang blasted tall. I’d love to get a good look at his neck before we take off, because if his medal is missing in action, that’d be such a great clue. It’s to him what Daddy’s Swiss Army Knife is to me. Holy lucky. He’d never let that medal out of his sight on purpose. He loves it so much that if it ever broke, he would not drop everything and run up to Mr. Howard Howard’s jewelry store on North Ave. to get it repaired. He would drop everything and if his red-and-purple-scarred shrapnel leg wasn’t aching too bad, he’d run over to the equipment shed where he keeps his shovels, shears, hedges, mowers, and whatnot to fix the medal himself at his wooden work table. “I’m beholden to Saint Christopher for saving my life countless times during the war,” he told me once during a game of checkers we were playing on the card table in his shack. “I believe it was his divine guidance that helped me come back”—he knocked his fist against his head that’s got the plate in it—“mostly in one piece.” And then he hopped over two of my red checkers with a winning grin. “Christ the King me.”
“What’s this?” Mr. McGinty says when his eye catches something and he bends down to pick it up out of a low branch of the bush that Birdie is standing next to. It’s a gold candy wrapper from a Rolo. He despises littering, but he could have that frown on his face because he thought he’d found his golden medal that he lost last night when he was up to no good.
Needing to get as far away as possible from him while the going is still good, I put my arm around my sister and hold her to my hip, so when I turn around to leave, she’s gotta turn with me. “You go right ahead and straighten things up, Mister McGinty. Like I said, we need to get to work, too, right, Birdie?”
“Roger that, Tessie, but . . . I need to tell Mister McGinty something before we—”
“No, no, no, no honey, we don’t have time.” I can’t risk that the “something” she wants to tell him is, We found your medal and Tessie and me think you might be the culprit who kidnapped and killed Sister Margaret Mary, so I say to her the only thing that I’m sure will make her leave the scene of the crime. “But I sister-promise we’ll come back tonight and you can eat windmill cookies and pet Pye and talk all you want, okay?” But when I try to pull her in the direction of the weeping willow and Charlie, Mr. McGinty takes a giant step, blocks our way, and says in his commanding Velveeta voice, “I understand that you’re on a tight schedule, Tessie, but I have a matter of the utmost importance to discuss with you and it shouldn’t be put off until tonight.”