“Livia should pay just for making you eat that crap,” Oona said.
“She will,” said Luz, as if there wasn’t a doubt in her mind.
“So wait a second,” I said to Kiki. “All this time, you were just trying to prove that Verushka was innocent?”
Kiki swallowed a spoonful of gruel.
“When I read Verushka’s journal, I knew that I had to find the letter that could prove that Livia killed my parents. When I heard that she’d given the ring with the directions to Sidonia, I knew I had my chance.”
“That’s why you came to the Atalanta School?’
“Verushka thought I needed some friends, so she convinced me to join the Girl Scouts. That’s where I first saw Oona selling counterfeit badges. I paid her to forge the documents I would need to get into the Atalanta School. I thought if I were close enough to Sidonia, I could sneak a peek at the inscription inside the ring.
“I almost did it, too. I found out that Sidonia left the ring in her locker during her swimming class. If I wanted to see it, all I had to do was get past the combination lock. But another girl beat me to it. I was there when Naomi stole the ring. But Sidonia thought you had taken it, and I had to set her straight. After I wrote the note, I couldn’t go back to the Atalanta School. I knew Sidonia might have identified me. I had to find another way to get my hands on the ring. And I had to do it fast. Once Livia suspected Verushka and I were in New York, it was only a matter of time until she found out we were living just a few blocks away.
“Fortunately, I had another plan. When I found Glimpses of Gotham, I learned there was an entrance into Livia’s house through the Shadow City. I asked Oona to forge a birth certificate so that I could get access to the tunnel in the Marble Cemetery. I wanted to sneak into Livia’s house at night and take the ring. But Verushka wouldn’t let me do it alone. So I recruited you guys to help me.
“My plan might have worked if I hadn’t been so impatient. Livia was close to discovering our hiding place, and I made the Irregulars move too fast. After the explosion, I knew she would figure out who was responsible. I ran back that night to check on Verushka. But Sergei Molotov saw me on the street and followed me to the hidden house. He shot Verushka and we barely escaped. We hid in Chinatown for two years, and I had to make the kungfu movie to pay our bills.”
“Why didn’t you call us?” asked Luz. “We could have helped. We made a killing on the Reverse Pied Piper.”
“I wanted to tell you what had happened, but Livia would have killed you. So I had to let you all believe I had disappeared. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the robberies and kidnappings, I would have stayed in hiding. Sidonia’s scheme was brilliant. She made me come to her. I’m just sorry for dragging you along with me.”
“That is enough,” said Verushka, who had taken a seat at the table. “I am tired of these old stories. When can I hear about last night’s adventure?”
The five of us told Verushka everything—starting with the Bannerman Ball and finishing with Livia’s wig. She was a perfect audience, clapping with excitement in all the right places and gasping at the proper moments. When we were done, she sat back and stroked her chin.
“There is one thing I do not understand. If you made her drink the Devil’s Apple, how did Sidonia escape?”
“We don’t know,” I admitted.
“The answer is important,” Verushka counseled. “I think it is time for you to visit your friend Betty in the hospital. She may know something that you do not.”
“That’s our next stop,” said Kiki as she gulped down the last of her gruel.
• • •
On the way to St. Vincent’s Hospital, we stopped by Betty’s house. We planned to smuggle her out of the hospital before the police could ask too many questions, and we needed a disguise. We picked the lock on her apartment and grabbed a blond wig and a fake nose. DeeDee left a note on the kitchen counter for Betty’s parents, who, thanks to a false order for Matador costumes placed earlier by Luz, were still not back from work. Betty was spending the night at a friend’s house, DeeDee wrote. She’d be home in the evening. That gave us a few more hours for Betty to wake up. But once we were standing over her hospital bed, we wondered if our expectations might have been unrealistic.
Betty’s white dress had been exchanged for a hospital gown, and the makeup and grime that had covered her face had been carefully wiped away. She was still in a deep sleep, and her head tossed from side to side as if she were having a vivid dream.
“They’ll know,” she mumbled into the pillow. “You can’t trick them.”
“Betty,” whispered DeeDee, gently patting her arm. “You’re just dreaming.”
Betty forced her eyes open, straining as if her eyelids were made of lead.
“DeeDee!” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s the Princess. She kidnapped herself. She knew Kiki would have a spy at the party. You’ve got to warn her!”
“I’m right here,” said Kiki. “We’re all okay. How are you feeling?”
“Where am I?” asked Betty, her eyes darting around the room.
“St. Vincent’s Hospital,” I told her. “You hit your head. But you’re going to be fine.”
“What time is it? I’ve got to get out of here,” said Betty, sitting upright in bed. “My parents are going to kill me.”
“Relax. We left them a note,” Kiki said. Betty fell back on the pillows.
“I watched you at the party,” I told her. “You were very brave.”
“Believe it or not, it wasn’t that bad,” said Betty. “I was almost enjoying myself. Maybe I’ll go to more parties. Wait! Did you catch the Princess?”
“No,” admitted Kiki. “She got away.”
“What happened?” asked Betty.
“We drugged her, but somehow she managed to escape.”
“Oh, no,” Betty moaned. “If I had been awake, I could have told you. She found the Morlock’s Miracle Mixture in my bag, and figured out why the Devil’s Apple wasn’t affecting me. She drank the rest of it herself.”
I looked at Kiki. The news was not good. “The Princess was only pretending to be asleep when we left,” I said.
“We’ll worry about that later. Let’s take Betty home,” was all Kiki said.
We borrowed a wheelchair and rolled a disguised Betty out of the hospital room. Doctors and nurses passed us without so much as a second look. We were almost out of the building when a woman’s voice called out, “Kiki Strike!”
“Get Betty outside and grab a cab,” I whispered to the other girls.
Luz, Oona, and DeeDee rolled Betty out of the hospital. Kiki and I turned to greet Penelope Young’s mother, who sprang on us like an affectionate puppy.
“Thank you so much! Penelope told me you rescued her. The doctors say she’s okay, thank goodness, just a little messy. Can you believe that a bunch of kids were behind it all? The police caught them, but I’m sure you know that, don’t you.”
“Yes, we know,” said Kiki.
“So you’ll be collecting the reward, right?”
“Reward?” I asked.
“We offered a ten-thousand-dollar reward for Penelope’s return. Of course, there’s not enough money in the world to give you what you really deserve.”
“I don’t need any money,” said Kiki. “Penelope’s safety is reward enough. She’s a wonderful girl.” I saw the sides of her mouth twitch as if she were forcing back a smile.
“What?” scoffed Penelope’s mother, as if the notion of a good deed were too ridiculous to contemplate. “But you rescued our daughter. You’re a hero. I can’t let people think that you weren’t rewarded for all you’ve done.”
“If you don’t mind, Mrs. Young, I’d prefer it if nobody knew.”
“But you could be famous!”
“I’d rather not,” said Kiki. “If you insist on rewarding me, you can reward me with your silence.”
“But …” Penelope’s mother started to say until she realized she was getting a fantast
ic deal. “Well, if that’s what you want, I’ll be happy to oblige.”
“I’d appreciate it, Mrs. Young. Now if you’ll excuse me, I really have to go.”
We quickly walked out of the hospital and found a cab waiting for us on the corner.
“Jump in,” said Oona. We crammed our bodies into the backseat and made our escape with the rest of the Irregulars.
• • •
By the time I got home, the story of the foiled kidnapping had broken. I switched on the evening news and came face-to-face with the same overeager reporter who had covered the robbery at the Chinatown Savings and Loan.
“Good afternoon, Janice! I’m standing in front of a warehouse in Chinatown where last night, police foiled a kidnapping. I’m afraid stories don’t get any stranger than this, Janice. At four o’clock in the morning, police responded to an alarm at the Chinatown Savings and Loan, the site of a recent robbery. There they found two girls. One was Penelope Young, the schoolgirl who was kidnapped eight days ago. The other girl has not been identified and has since vanished.
“According to police, an anonymous tip led them to the warehouse behind me, where Penelope Young says she was held without access to clean clothes or running water. After a fierce battle with a Chinatown gang, police found the kidnappers unconscious in a secret room beneath the warehouse’s basement. According to police, the leader appears to have been Jacob Harcott, son of real estate magnate Oliver Harcott, and his teenage girlfriend, Naomi Throgmorton. In an even more surprising turn of events, the warehouse, which is owned by Mr. Harcott’s father, was found filled with counterfeit goods. Police are now seeking Oliver Harcott for questioning.
“But the million-dollar question, Janice, is who set Penelope Young free and directed the police to her kidnappers? So far, Miss Young has refused to discuss her mysterious benefactor. We can only hope that the person responsible receives the credit he deserves. Reporting live from Chinatown, this is Adam Gunderson for News Channel Three.”
“The credit he deserves?” I yelled at the television set. I considered setting them straight, then thought better of it.
The next morning, New York’s newspapers picked up the story, and headlines across the city screamed Superhero on the Loose! and Who’s Our Hero? Wherever you looked, there were profiles of Jacob Harcott and his father, yearbook pictures of The Five, and elaborate maps showing the warehouse and the location of the hidden room. But the only paper that had managed to get a real scoop was the Daily News, which published a small item in its gossip column.
Spotted: Princess Sidonia of Pokrovia and her mother, Queen Livia, at JFK Airport, boarding a flight to Moscow and rudely insulting an airline employee when they were refused an upgrade to first class.
I ripped the item out of the paper and set it aside for that night’s meeting of the Irregulars.
At 7:45, Iris knocked at my door. She was dressed in black and struggling with a Louis Vuitton suitcase and a dirty black backpack. The mysterious delivery of a case of Angus McSwegan’s Finest Scotch Whisky had gotten the nanny off her back for the night.
“Moving in?” I asked her when I opened the door.
“Sorry I’m early,” said Iris, smiling eagerly.
I had a feeling she had been dressed and ready to go for hours.
“Not at all,” I said. “It’s a good sign.”
“I brought everything.” She dropped the two bags near the door.
“So I see. Go ahead, take a seat. Do you want some coffee?”
“Do you have any juice?” she asked, looking a little embarrassed.
Betty was the next to arrive. Her face was free of makeup and her clothes were surprisingly normal. Even her trademark sunglasses were missing.
“What—no glasses?” I asked.
“I’m tired of all the disguises,” Betty said. “Unless there’s a good reason to be someone else, I’m going to try being me for a while.”
“And to think that all you needed was a knock on the head to bring you to your senses,” I told her.
“If that was all she needed, I’d have been happy to give it to her a long time ago.” Oona walked up behind Betty and put her arm around Betty’s shoulders. “You look fabulous,” she said. “Where did you get that shirt?”
Luz and DeeDee arrived together, comparing methods of stain removal.
“I didn’t know if you’d be able to make it to the meeting,” I told Luz. “Doesn’t your mom know you snuck out of the house last night?”
“No, Attila saved me. I’m telling you, I’m dating a criminal genius. When I told him I had to sneak out, he came over to my workshop and pretended to be me. You know, he can really sound like a girl when he wants to. It’s a little weird sometimes. He told my mother I was busy and wouldn’t let her inside the shop…” Luz’s voice trailed off the moment she spotted the black backpack that Iris had left in the hallway. “You took the gold?” she asked. From the sound of her voice, she didn’t approve.
“We found out whose it was,” I said. “Actually, Iris did. It belonged to Pearcy Leake. We thought he would want us to have it.”
“That skeleton was Pearcy Leake?” DeeDee asked. “The guy who wrote Glimpses of Gotham?”
“The one and only,” I said.
“What are we going to do with his gold?” Luz wanted to know.
“Split it up, I guess. Think of all the new equipment you’ll be able to buy. The coins are old. They’re probably worth a fortune.”
Luz stared down at the backpack and nudged it with her toe.
“I don’t want it. Give my share to someone else.”
“What do you mean you don’t want it?” I asked in amazement.
“It’s bad luck,” she said, not bothering to elaborate.
“If she doesn’t want it, I don’t want it, either,” said DeeDee. “You can give my share to someone else, too.”
“Okay, who’s the lucky person?” I asked.
“Why don’t we just give it back?” said DeeDee.
“What’s a skeleton going to do with a fortune?” Iris asked.
“That’s not what I’m talking about,” DeeDee explained. “Pearcy Leake must have died from a plague, right? I heard my dad saying that there’s a team of scientists at Columbia University who are trying to find a cure for the bubonic plague. Believe it or not, it’s still killing people. So why don’t we give the money to them?”
“Sounds good to me,” said Luz.
“Well, if you don’t mind, I think I’ll hold on to my share,” I told them. “Somebody’s going to need some money when the Princess comes back to town.”
“As long as you promise not to blow it all on shoes,” warned Luz.
By eight o’clock, everyone had arrived—except for Kiki Strike. By eight fifteen, we were starting to worry. Had she vanished? Would we see her again? At half past the hour, I heard a window open in my bedroom. I grabbed a poker from the fireplace and walked to the back of the apartment. Climbing through the window was Kiki Strike. I made a mental note to get better window locks.
“Do you have a problem with using the front door?” I asked.
“They’re after me,” Kiki said, thoroughly annoyed.
“They can’t be,” I told her. “The Princess and her mother were on a plane to Moscow last night.”
“Not them,” said Kiki. “Reporters. Penelope Young squealed on me. I nearly had my photo taken three times on the way here.”
“Penelope Young squealed?”
“Haven’t you been watching the news? She sold her story. She even had a piece of proof—that stupid business card I gave her mother. I don’t know what I was thinking. Now everybody’s looking for a short girl with white hair.”
I laughed. “You’re about the only person on Earth who doesn’t want to be famous.”
“It’s not funny. How am I supposed to get anything done when there are people watching me all the time?”
“I get your point,” I said. “Betty should be able to come up with a d
isguise for you. What would you like to be? An Eastern European princess?”
“I’m telling you, it’s not funny, Ananka,” said Kiki, but I could tell she was starting to lighten up.
• • •
The next morning, a blurry photo graced the front page of the New York Post, along with the headline: Is This Kiki Strike, Girl Detective? Wherever Kiki was, I knew she was cursing Penelope Young.
“Doesn’t this look like that friend of yours, Ananka?” asked my mother, holding up the newspaper as I ate my breakfast.
“What friend?” I asked, chewing on a piece of toast.
“Don’t be cute,” my mother warned. “And don’t talk with your mouth full. You know the one I’m talking about. The girl with white hair. You said you spent the night with her a couple of days ago. And she was at our house yesterday. I saw her coming out of the bathroom. She’s the same girl who asked me about poisons a while back.”
“I guess it does look a little like her,” I said. “But the picture’s not very good. It could be anybody.”
“Isn’t your friend named Kiki?” she asked, pointing at the headline.
“Yeah,” I admitted with a shrug of my shoulders. After being questioned by the FBI, it’s hard to be scared of your own mother.
“So is there anything you’d care to tell me?” she asked.
Where my mother was concerned, it was always best to stick with the truth. She never believed it anyway.
“Are you suggesting that I’ve been spending my nights fighting crime with my friends? Is that what you think?”
“I don’t know what to think,” she admitted, sitting down across from me at the kitchen table. “You’re not the same girl anymore.”
“No, but maybe that’s a good thing. You never found me all that interesting before.”
“That’s not true, Ananka,” my mother insisted. “You may be more mysterious now, but you’ve always been interesting. Just promise me that you’ll be careful. It’s hard to be interesting when you’re dead.”
“I promise to be careful,” I told her. “So do you really think I’m interesting?”
My mother sighed and shook her head. “You’re the most interesting person I know,” she said.