Radtke, the kid who is always the only one left standing next to me during a spelling bee, was only too happy to snitch to Louise last week that she saw me “loitering around the Milky Way with Birdbrain and Cue Ball” during the time I was supposed to be loitering around the confessional with Father Ted. (I got off easy, because Louise doesn’t know that making me go to bed without one of her “gourmet” suppers is not a punishment.)
Killing bird #2. When I’m at church, it’s going to cost me, but I’ll have the chance to question Kitten Jablonski. She’ll be there, without a doubt, because same as me she’s always one of the last kids to confess on Thursday and she always saves me a spot in line. I’m hoping that my confidential source will be able to give me some names to add to a new list that I’d love to make in my navy-blue detecting notebook: VERY LIKELY SUSPECTS THAT AREN’T MR. MCGINTY.
Long as I got my pencil out, I remove my most important list from my shorts so I can add on the new #10 and #11 and change #2.
TO-DO
1. Take tender loving care of Birdie.
2. Solve whatever happened to Sister Margaret Mary for big blackmail or reward bucks.
2. Hope we don’t find out why Mr. McGinty kidnapped and murdered Sister M & M and concentrate on finding someone else who did.
3. Make Gert Klement think her arteries are going as hard as her heart.
4. Catch whoever stole over $200 out of the Pagan Baby collection box.
5. Practice your Miss America routine.
6. Learn how to swim.
7. Be a good dry-martini-making fiancée to Charlie.
8. Do not get caught blackmailing or spying.
9. Just think about making a real confession to Father Ted, before it’s too late.
10. Stop at Bloomers for pink roses for Daddy.
11. Think up a catchy slogan for Louise that might help her beat Mrs. Tate in the election so she doesn’t blame Birdie and me when she loses.
After I make sure the updated list is safely tucked back where it belongs, I crane my head around the corner and say to Birdie like I’m walking on eggshells, because ya never know with her, “Honey? I’m sorry, I don’t want to rush you, but—”
“It’s okay, Tessie.” She stops patting her sticky hands against Daddy’s gravestone and polishes it back up with the bottom of her T-shirt. “I know we gotta have our meeting with Charlie now.”
“Good remembering!” I pull her up to her feet and give her four pats on the back. “And right after our meeting, we need to . . . ummm.” That was a close call. I almost reminded her about #9 on the TO-DO list, the making-a-real-confession-to-Father-Ted one, and I don’t want her to go very hellfire on me again. “We need to get the latest gossip about Sister Margaret Mary’s disappearance offa Kitten. But . . .” I take her face into my hands. “Before either one of those things can happen, we got one more really important caper to pull off first, Bird.”
“What one more really important caper do we have to pull off first, Tessie?”
“We gotta climb back over the black fence.”
Having good timing has never been more important, so I almost cry with relief when she turns back to the magnificent gravestone, and says, “Roger that, Daddy. Tessie and me have to go now, but we’ll see you tomorrow, same time, same station.”
The chocolate-covered cherries and the chat Birdie had with our father must’ve been an even bigger shot in the arm than it usually is, because she’s doing a great job of imitating me—monkey see, monkey do—when we scurry away from our most favorite place in Holy Cross to weave through the tombstones toward our final destination—Charlie’s house.
We’ve done a great job so far, and we’ll be home free once we get past the grave of MRS. ELIZABETH HUGHES APRIL 16, 1923–JANUARY 31, 1957. She got murdered by Mother Nature. A giant icicle cracked free of Mrs. Hughes’s roof and dive-bombed her head when she was shoveling her front porch during the bad storm two winters ago.
Wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute.
What are all these cars doing here?
Damnation!
Birdie’s bad memory must be rubbing off on me or something, because I forgot all about Mr. Peterman’s funeral again.