Chapter 10
We, the conspirators, played board games in the common room after dinner until it was well after midnight. Prakash ragged us as Brookie and I pulled on black coveralls, black gloves, black shoes, and black socks, plus black on our faces. We used washable marker. I don’t know what James Bond used. I was too keyed up to even laugh as I looked at Brookie, dressed all in black with his freckles blacked over. We hoisted the small packs on our backs, high-fived, and walked out of the door toward the dark monastery.
I kept muttering to myself, “I’m way in over my head,” during the whole hike over to the monastery in the dark. But being inside my own head was way scarier than anything that was happening outside. It was one of those nice fall nights, with a full moon shining through the partially leaved tree branches. The air was cool, and our shoes squeaked a little as we walked across the damp lawn. We ran quickly through the moonlight, around to the shadowed side of the building and into the herb garden that Brother Matthew had showed us. I could smell the pungent odor of crushed leaves as we walked into the garden beds. Brookie parted the vines and pointed. My eyes looked up, up, up the ivied wall toward a small window under the eaves.
“Oh, please, not that window,” I prayed, uselessly, under my breath. I took a glance at Brookie. He was in his element; he practically glowed like a nuclear facility gone critical. He took a small grappling hook from his pack, threw it up to the handy window ledge, and then, pulling the rope taut, began to climb toward the top. Hand over hand, he walked up the wall to the window and peered in. I glanced back from my post, keeping watch at the corner of the building. When Brookie was in, we would give Prakash a flash of our light, and then I would climb in, too. Brookie motioned me to come closer.
“It’s unlatched, Mac,” he whispered. “I just can’t get it open since it is so dirty and maybe painted shut too.” He wrapped the rope around his behind so he could use both hands and run a knife blade around the edges of the window frame. As the window gave way, there was a groaning sound that echoed out in the night. If I hadn’t been so scared, I would have laughed out loud if I could have seen the looks on our faces. “So flash Prakash and let’s go.”
I jogged around to the corner and gave the signal from my light, waiting for the answering flash. I did a quick visual check around the campus, and I could just see the night watchman, way over by the parking lot past the field house.
Brookie beckoned. “Grab on and climb up.” He was hanging feet first through the window, but he hadn’t dropped yet. As I walked up the wall, holding on to the rope, he disappeared over the edge inside. Peering in, I could see the floor, a long way down. Brookie was standing at the bottom, holding the end of the second rope he’d quickly attached to the rickety window frame for me.
“How did you get turned around?” I whispered.
“Grab and flip around as you’re coming through. Head first.”
I hoped it was easier done than said. I managed, just, to clear the tiny window. Going the other direction was going to be fascinating. I slid gently down the rope so I didn’t knock anything I couldn’t see in the darkened room, and then I made my way to the door, using my flashlight. It looked like a storage room of sorts. There seemed to be stacks of assorted old furniture. Opening the door, I looked around, and my heart stopped when I saw the altar.
“We came out in the chapel!” I hissed at him. “The sacristy of the chapel! Couldn’t you have found some other window?”
“Shhh, Mac. I checked it out after service on Parents’ Weekend, and it looked like a good location, right near the museum.”
I shook my head in disbelief.
“I’ll crack the door open and ease out, in case there is some late-night prayer going on,” I said.
“The brothers have better things to do on a Saturday night.”
We crept out, leaving the door ajar, our flashlights taped to only have a tiny ray of light visible.
“You’d better have your cell on vibrate, right?” Brookie cautioned. I’d like to have this guy on my side in a prison break. Maybe I would, if we got caught in here. He was shining his light along the wall at the pictures to spot the graduating Class of ’55.
“Here we go,” he said in a satisfied voice, just like a librarian who had spotted a good read in the fiction section. Could the guy never get serious? We eased the museum door open and crept to the book stand. I reached to turn on the desk-style lamp.
“Wait.” Brookie stopped me with his hand and then made a cone with a piece of paper and taped it to the lamp. “The light will be more focused on the book, and at the same time, outsiders can’t see it.” With his gloved hands, he opened the book, turning on the lamp. It was a leather-covered album, the sort you see used as guest books. The cream-colored pages had been hand lettered in pen and ink, with calligraphy and colored illuminations on the corners that made it look like a medieval manuscript. The pages were dingy with age.
“This is old, Mac. This goes back to the early days of the order, back to 1630.” Maybe it was as old as it looked. Gently paging through toward the present, Brookie bent his black-capped head close to the book. He ran his finger down the list headed “1900–1950.”
“Here, this page. Hold it flat, while I photograph it.” I braced my gloved hands on either side of the page, trying to read the entries as Brookie focused and snapped pictures. I gasped as I read. Sure enough, there was an entry for the Depression, 1929—for a what? The record was a little faded, so I strained my eyes to read. A pre-Columbian era artifact. Mesoamerican in origin. Ceramic statuette. Donated by Obadiah Brown.
Ka-ching. Was I smiling? You know it.
Brookie pocketed his fancy camera, turned, and hissed as quietly as he could.
“Shhh . . .” He paused, turning his head to listen better. “I think we’ve got company.”
A door slammed down the hall, followed by rapid footsteps.
We’d talked about what to do if this happened, trapped in a room with one door. Brookie motioned with his hand. I quickly moved to my place. Behind the door, which opened inward, was a display case. I got under it and hoped whoever we were hearing didn’t flip on the lights when he came in the room. Brookie took his spot behind the door and crouched down. He hadn’t turned off the book light before hiding, and I knew that would bother him later. Right now he squatted, alertly focused on the approaching sounds.
Our invader swung open the door. Brookie let roll a marble, which smacked into the far wall some thirty feet from where we crouched. The loud crack was earthshaking in the silence.
We only got a glimpse of a robe flying by as we slipped out the door behind the man dashing in. It was way too close a call for me, and my adrenaline levels were spiking at dangerous highs. I wasn’t being as quiet as I needed to be, I’m sure. But Brookie must have thought I was quiet enough, because he didn’t say anything. Just as we got back to the sacristy, his phone vibrated. Prakash.
“Lights, guys. Near the west corner. I think the security guard is heading your way.”
“Do we have enough time to make it?”
“If you get out the window now.”
“Roger, we’re doing it.” Even as he spoke, Brookie had hold of the rope and was up and over the sill, reaching down for me, pulling me through, while he shut the window behind me with his other hand. It was a touch-and-go moment when he pitched the rope and grappling hook to the ground, and I was left dangling from some vines. Brookie neatly rocketed off the tiny window ledge and landed on his feet in the garden bed below with barely a sound.
“Shoot,” I muttered, as I grabbed at a grapevine instead of the ivy. The vines gave way from the wall . . . with me attached to them, catapulting me outward, through a thorny shrub to the soft earth. Brookie had dropped clear and was gathering our gear while I lay on my back, gasping for breath from my fall. I saw the reflection of a flashlight coming toward me on the grass.
“Up you go,” said Brookie, grabbing my hand and pulling. I hit m
y feet running. We rounded the corner and headed for a huge pine tree that was in deep shadow.
“Up the tree,” Brookie hissed.
“Stop!” The guard shouted and began to run. Had he caught some glimpse of us? We huddled deeper under the spreading branches, and then Brookie and I took to the air in a bound, grabbing the lowest limbs and climbing like madmen to the densest part of the tree, and there we crouched. The stone wall was glowing pearly white by the light of the moon, but we were in shadow. Brookie loaded his slingshot and let fly a pinecone. It made a satisfying pock as it hit the side of the building that was farthest away from us. Like clockwork, the security guard turned and went huffing toward both the light and the sound. Unfortunately, it would be easy for him to spot the crushed plants in the herb garden, if he looked. He’d know exactly which window we had entered, and then follow our footsteps through the wet grass around to our shelter in the pine trees.
“Prakash, we need a diversion.” Brookie was whispering into his cell phone, as the flashlight was making wider and wider arcs toward us. There was a loud slam and, after a heartbeat, a boom. It came from the direction of the dorms, and that noise had the security guard off and running, away from our hiding place.
“Thank you, Prakash,” I prayed with gratitude. My heart gave a leap of relief as I climbed down the tree and scooted through the shadows with Brookie to the back door of the dorm. He was hunched over his cell again.
“Prakash, you were brilliant, man. Open the back door for us and we’re home free.”
Almost before he was done speaking, Prakash jerked the door open with one hand and pulled us in with the other. He practically dragged us up the stairs to our room, where we collapsed, shaking and panting, on our rickety bunks. Prakash’s concerned face was glaring down at us. Since he was less out of breath than we were, he was the first to speak.
“Let’s get this black stuff off you and get you in your other clothes, fast. In case the housemaster shows up, we want everything cool.” He handed us alcohol wipes. “Here, wipe the marker off your faces.” He sniffed at the air. “You guys reek of pine pitch and mint. Did you stop and take a spa treatment on the way back or something?”
“Lay off, Prakash. We had a little adventure in the herb garden, and I just took all the skin off my hands climbing a tree.” Brookie groaned as he pushed himself back on his feet, took an alcohol wipe, and began scrubbing the marker off.
I gave Prakash an awed glance as I scrubbed at my face.
“Just what was that noise, Prakash, a bomb?” I gasped, struggling with the zipper on my black coveralls.
“Nope, a water balloon,” he said casually.
“That was the mother of all water balloons, then.”
“That’s the only kind I use, dude.”
Prakash pulled out a black garbage bag and bundled our dirty clothes and backpacks into it before shoving it far under the bed. He put the shoes and alcohol wipes into a smaller bag, stashed it in the closet, and shut the door. The man was born to crime.
Prakash had put out drink cans and chips and crackers, thoughtful lad, as part of our alibi. We took a break to catch our breath and eat a brief snack. Then back to business. We snatched up Prakash’s laptop and Brookie’s camera. Prakash opened the camera files on his laptop, hit the print button, and we stormed the common room printer.
“Sweeeet! These pictures are great, Brookie. Look at that detail.” Prakash pointed enthusiastically at the broad, flat images of the book pages. The printer was already spewing out copies, and they were beauties. Brookie caught them as they came out.
“Here, Prakash. This is it,” I said, leaning over his screen. I pointed to the entry that had caught my eye in the museum.
“Name: Obadiah Brown, 1929, pre-Columbian ceramic statuette. No value listed,” Prakash mused, tapping his chin with his pencil.
“Here, everybody gets a copy. Back off from the laptop, Mac, you’re crowding me.” Brookie shoved the printed pages at me.
I grabbed eagerly. My finger crossed the page. “Where’s that St. Rupert’s directory Ian dug up? See if we can find any relatives of this Obadiah Brown who might be Harley’s accomplices.”
There were several Browns.
“Brother Matthew and Brother Roger were the only two monks who were around that day when Harley was masquerading as a monk near the museum. Let’s see if they have Brown for a last name.”
Brother Roger was easy to spot, but there was more than one Matthew in the list. We had to locate him by title, Assistant Headmaster.
“Here he is. Hey, he is a Brown too. Brother Matthew Brown, Brother Roger Brown. This is not a coincidence. Both monks there on the scene; both with the name Brown.”
“Yeah, so have we got the accomplices, then?
“Somebody, not necessarily named Brown, let Harley in the monastery on Friday and made sure he knew there was something valuable in the museum. Somebody got Harley into the Parents’ Dinner. You can’t prove it was one of them. Guilt by proximity?”
“Brown is a common name, after all.” I sure didn’t want Harley’s accomplice to be Brother Matthew.
“I don’t like the idea of Brother Matthew being in on this, either. And Brother Roger isn’t my idea of a mastermind criminal, but what are the odds, man? They have the same name.”
Prakash pulled the second page toward himself.
“Okay, so where is this thing stored?”
“Donation: pre-Columbian clay ceramic statuette. Date: 1929. And the display location is . . . where?” My finger stabbed at the place where that particular detail was supposed to be noted. There was nothing except the letters AO.
“That doesn’t tell me anything, guys. What is AO?” They both sat back in their chairs and looked at me as if I were seriously out of my mind.
“That’s AO. Like in the name of the abbot’s office, of course, dude. Abbot and headmaster.” I really must have missed a lot when I toured the admin building.
“Couldn’t be in a safer place, right?” I asked. I was disappointed, in a way, because it was such an obvious place and we hadn’t figured it out ourselves. Brookie slid off the table he’d been sitting on and started laughing like a demented fool.
“Oh, man. They have it displayed in the Head’s office? Not likely is it safe.”
I looked at Brookie, who was laughing so hard he was rolling on the floor. I knew I wasn’t going to get any answer from him.
“What does he mean, Prakash?”
“Father Dell’s office is one of the easiest places to get into. Once he gets back from his sabbatical, anyone can get in his office. He has an open-door policy during the school year, so he can ‘be there’ for any of the students. If Father Dell steps out for coffee, Harley can walk right in. Of course, he may lock his door when he isn’t in the office, but I wouldn’t bet on it.”
“Yeah, we know how ditzy Father Dell is,” said Brookie. “The statuette is probably one of his favorite collectibles, too.”
We stared at one another in dismay. I wished I’d paid more attention when I was making that visit with my mom. Though I racked my brain for any ceramic statuette that was on his desk that day, I had spent my time there staring at the shelves, not the desk.
“There’s no value listed here,” I pointed out. “I wonder if it is worth much?”
Brookie and I stretched out on the old chintz couch, each with our feet up and our backs against the armrests, the wind knocked out of our sails by the news.
“I guess it’s worth whatever somebody else is willing to pay Harley for it,” Prakash said with finality as he sat down at the table to google for more information. It didn’t take long. Quicker than you might think, he went to the printer and pulled out some sheets with pictures of pre-Columbian statuettes from museums around the world.
“Just wanted to see what we’re looking for, yeah?” Prakash smiled broadly as Brookie and I fell on the pictures like hungry jackals.
We were so distracted we barely heard
the timid tapping on the door.
“Housemaster, guys.” Brookie was on high alert.
We all three dove for the common room couch, back to the board game.
“Come in,” Prakash called.
I was fidgeting nervously with the game pieces, waiting for the boom to drop. I wondered what had taken the security guard so long to notify the housemaster. Now I knew how crooks felt, waiting for the flashing red lights and the cop at the door. Not a good feeling.
It wasn’t our housemaster after all. He’d gone for the three-day weekend like everybody else. We’d completely forgotten. Instead it was Miss Apples, our art teacher. She was spending the night in our dorm as his substitute, which we realized when she peered around the panel of the door. She had an intensely interested look on her face, and her gray hair was in chaos. She had taken the time to get partially dressed in a long sweater and shoes, but her nightie was sticking out under the sweater, and her scrawny legs were bare.
Brookie and I looked at each other, puzzled. Where was the security guard? Miss Apples gave us a disarmingly shy smile.
“Excuse me, boys. May I come in?” She pulled her old sweater down lower over her nightgown and peered over her half-glasses at us.
We nodded.
“Now, boys. What exactly has been going on?” She wouldn’t look at us but began untangling the chain that held her glasses. When we didn’t answer right away, Miss Apples looked up at us more sharply.
“I was just curious. Have you three boys been outside tonight?” She paused nervously to look at her watch. “Goodness me. It’s three a.m.?” she said quasi-conversationally. She seemed more uncomfortable invading our space than we were at having her there. “The security guard came to me with reports of loud noises, loud laughter, and a slamming window in our house, and frankly, boys, I’d really like to be kept in the loop on what’s going on around here while Mr. Benton is gone.”
Prakash nodded. “Of course, ma’am. We were trying to hit each other with water balloons and got carried away.” He looked smug. Brookie and I stared at him. Prakash was in his element, being apologetically respectful. But one look at Miss Apples told us smug wasn’t working. We could tell from the mildly impatient look on her face. She obviously wasn’t going to be so easily conned. Brookie jumped in to try to save the moment.
”And since we’re some of the few people here this weekend, Miss Apples, of course it was easy for you to draw the right conclusion. We’re the ones you are looking for.”
“What!” I started to say. Brookie gave me the calm-down gesture with his hands, behind Miss Apples’ back.
“Do you mind if I sit down here, boys?”
Miss Apples silently glided over to the couch and settled herself gingerly on the chintz cushions. She eyed the can of soda that was sitting on the table and crossed her legs and sat swinging her sneakers in an impatient manner. The silence was deafening as she picked up the papers we had left on the table next to the board game. She waved a sheaf of pictures at Prakash.
She gave me a significant look and then looked at Prakash, then Brookie.
“I see you are interested in Mesoamerican art, boys?”
Prakash and Brookie were speechless. They didn’t know Mesoamerican from a ham sandwich, I guess. That left me to be spokesman.
“We were, you know, ummm.” I coughed. “Your sculpture class next week. We wanted to take it. And make some pre-Columbian-style statues.”
“Humor an old lady who has been around the block a few times. I don’t know what you are up to, but I doubt you are interested in my sculpture class,” she said kindly. She was pretty smart. She had added up the evidence, the pictures, the loud noises, and our guilty faces. How much had the security guard told her about the museum break-in? She looked down with interest for a moment, examining the pictures through her glasses. “It certainly won’t hurt you to take a few sculpture classes, though.” She had a satisfied smile on her face as she flipped through the pictures. She looked up again, with not a shred of uncertainty in her eyes.
“I’ll see you in class on Friday, then, boys.” And we knew that attending her class was the price we would have to pay for our freedom to keep investigating the statuette’s mysterious presence at St. Rupert’s Academy.