The kid who can’t even remember to tinkle half the time or her address or how much her mother despises Ida Lupino just came up with almost the same gorgeous lie I was going to tell Gert! (I am definitely doing that ESP test on her tonight.)
“Did you need something else, Missus Klement?” I say, so very dutifully. “Because I really need to . . .” I bring out the feather duster that I’ve been holding behind my back, but then, like I just remembered something, I hit myself on the forehead and get ready to tell her the fib that, if I do say so myself, Mr. Howard Howard could sell in his precious gems and jewelry store in the fancy case. This fib is 24k. “Goodness gracious, I was so involved in my chores and praying that I almost forgot to give you a very important message!” Just in case her best friend didn’t pull Louise to the side over at the funeral and remind her about the meeting tonight, this next bit should take care of that problem. “Our dear, very punctual mother, who works her fingers to the bone and will make such an excellent new treasurer of the Pagan Baby Society, was in such a hurry this morning to start her new job that she asked me to ask you when you came by to check on us if you’d call her this afternoon at the Clark station to let her know what dessert you’d like her to bring tonight.” (Ever since Louise was the one and only suspect in THE CASE OF THE TROTS, she’s only allowed to bring a sure thing to the Thursday meeting. So all of them gals don’t have to stop doing what they’re doing and run to the little girls’ room every five minutes to deal with diarrhea, she needs to pick up a safe and scrumptious treat from Meuer’s Bakery.) “So, could you please do that?”
My Moriarty, Kryptonite, and Ming the Merciless all rolled into one nods, but then gives me the worst watery evil eye, because she was so sure she caught us doing some shenanigans and she doesn’t like being thwarted any more than I do. But believe you me, I know her, she won’t give up without a fight. (Unfortunately, we have this in common.) She’s still hoping to catch Birdie and me doing something, anything that she can tattle to Louise about when she calls her at work before she stomps off our front porch in a huff.
And sure enough, with another perfectly white, sneering grin—swear to God, next time I sneak into her house, I’m gonna steal those teeth—she asks me, “Did you go to confession today?”
“She certainly did go to confession today, Missus Klement!” Birdie shouts from the sofa. “You can even check with Jenny Radtke. And for the rest of the afternoon, when you come to check on us, if we don’t answer the door”—Birdie magically makes her blue rosary appear in her little hands—“it’s because we’ll be in our bedroom doing more praying, isn’t that right, Theresa Marie?”
Of course, I am feeling very proud and impressed by Birdie’s excellent lies under fire, but I don’t let that show when I tell Mrs. Klement to her face that’s growing redder by the minute, which I heard is a sign of a stroke, so here’s hoping, “That’s absolutely right, Robin Jean.” And as long as our neighbor is here darkening our door . . . this is such a long shot, but what do I have to lose? “And one of the people we’ll be praying for all afternoon is Sister Margaret Mary, because we’ve been in the house all day and haven’t heard one way or another if she’s been found.” Of course, Gert, being such a big-deal muckety-muck around here, she must’ve found out at the funeral that our principal still hasn’t shown up, so I bet she also knows what was in the note the nun left that probably explains what happened to her. “If she hasn’t turned up yet, does anybody have any idea where Sister might be? Robin Jean and me are so worried about her.”
I thought Gert might show off and spill the beans, because she doesn’t know about Kitten’s dare, but after she gives me one more disgusting look, she makes her way over to her house muttering “banshee” and “eternal damnation.”
And I, not slowly at all, rush to my sister’s side to ask her how in the heck she came up with that great half fib about our loud washing machine that really does spin out of control so bad that it can chase Birdie and me halfway across the basement and corner us near the furnace.
“Honey!” I tell her. “I’m so proud of you. How in the heck did you think—?”
“Can I please see the evidence I found behind Mister Gilgood’s mausoleum?” she says.
Still so impressed by her slick fibs, I don’t question why she’s in such a hurry to take a look at the St. Christopher medal, I just reach into my shorts pocket and hand it over to her.