The Dead Drop (29 page)

Dear Parents:

The child you are accepting back into your home may be a little different from the child you dropped off the first day at Spy Camp. “Different how,” you ask?

On the positive side, your child may seem brighter--more intelligent, happy, and self-confident. While this is cause for celebration, you may also notice your child acting sneaky, elusive, and displaying a penchant for assembling odd gadgets with obscure purposes. In short, you may feel that your innocent little one is now “up to something.”

In the interest of full disclosure, I am providing you with a checklist.

YOUR CHILD HAS THE FOLLOWING SPY SKILLS:

Dear Friends,

I think you will find tht the enclosed information is worth double our usual price.

I will be, out of contact now because I have a gut feeling that someone in the agency may be investigating me.

As soon as I rec&ve your payment, I will be, taking a long vacation during the next few weeks.

 

As always, The Poet

Hey, Wendeeeeeeeee!

It’s about 1:00 A.M., but I just had to write to tell you about this amazing spy party that Caitlin and I threw at our apartment!

Aren’t you proud of me? I’m dying to call you, but I’m restraining myself for once! I had the phone in my hand, but instead of pushing the buttons and waking you up, I sat down to write a detailed letter. (There’s no need to thank me.)

Just WRITE BACK IMMEDIATELY!!

For all I know, maybe you’re still awake. Maybe you and my brother are out on a date, gazing into each other’s eyes and whispering sweet nothings about obscure math equations and space robots. Pardon me while I quietly say:

“Eeew.”

Anyway, about the spy party we threw to celebrate the fact that I helped solve a mystery of national significance. You heard me right--NATIONAL significance. The CIA and FBI are doing their best to keep their own investigation under wraps, but it’s only a matter of time before you hear about this on the news. When the story breaks, you’ll know that I had something to do with it!

When I’m back home I promise I’ll give you all the details. (WARNING: If you disclose classified information to Stephen, I can’t be held responsible for the consequences.)

Remember my roommate Caitlin? Did I tell you how she wears nothing but black pantsuits or workout clothes every day? Well, this morning we went to a vintage clothing store in the city, and we both found the most amazing spy minidresses! You would love them. In fact, Caitlin liked the concept so much, she also bought a clip-on hairpiece and false eyelashes at the drugstore to go with her dress. When we got home, I created 1960s spy-chic hairstyles for the two of us-- buns on top of our heads and the rest of our hair curled with hot rollers. Then I showed Caitlin how to wear eyeliner and false eyelashes to create these mysterious-looking cat eyes. (Full disclosure: Caitlin was a total baby about the eye makeup. She said, “It looks like a couple little tarantulas are trying to crawl out of my eyes.”) She doesn’t yet have our experience with makeup and disguises: we know that wearing little eyelash spiders feels normal if you just give it time, right?

Next, Caitlin made nonalcoholic “mocktails” in pink plastic martini glasses for the party. I told her that she didn’t have to make mocktails on my account: underage sleuths like me are used to being around inebriated intelligence officers who drown their sorrows in whiskey.

“No way,” said Caitlin. “I’m your mom for the summer, and I insist we keep it to mocktails.”

Lately Caitlin’s been on this “I’m your mom for the summer” kick. If she is my mom, I’m one heck of a latchkey child, since she’s hardly ever here.

But as I was saying, we made the drinks with ice cream, sherbet, soda, coconut flakes, pink food coloring, and maraschino cherries, and they were FABULOUS! I’ll make you one when I get home. (But don’t ask me to make one for Stephen. He’ll just say it looks “too pink,” and then it won’t be fun anymore.)

 

 

PARTY ATTENDEES:

I invited everyone I work with at the Spy Museum and Caitlin invited all her friends and coworkers (about half of Washington, D.C., right there) along with an elevator full of people who live in our building.

Did I ever tell you about Roger, the guy who designs the exhibits and who first saw the Spy Museum ghost? Well, he brought us a compilation of spy music from movies, and even his own original synthesizer composition called “Spy-Ghost Rock.” His wife came with him, and if you ask me, she seemed a little annoyed at all the time Roger had spent creating music for a museum intern’s party. She came to the party wearing a tiny sleeping baby in a contraption strapped to her stomach. You’d think a spy party would be too noisy for a sleeping baby, but Roger said, “This is the first nap he’s taken all day. He likes it here.” (To be honest, I couldn’t understand how such a tiny, helpless infant could cause two grown people to look so totally haggard and exhausted.)

 

 

A PROMISING MATCH OR AN IMPENDING DISASTER?

At one point during the party, I spotted Caitlin standing in the corner talking to Matthew Morrow (Spy Museum historian), who turned up wearing spandex bike shorts and a huge T-shirt that said BARENAKED LADIES. It’s no wonder he doesn’t get invited to the more sophisticated Washington, D.C., soirees if that’s his idea of party wear.

Get this: Caitlin and Matthew got in a huge argument about some obscure historical fact, and after a few minutes, Caitlin flounced into the kitchen, came up to me and whispered, “I really like that guy you work with at the museum! I think he might ask me out.”

I glanced over at Matthew and if you ask me, he looked more like someone who had just been hit by a bulldozer than someone who was thinking about asking Caitlin on a date. Either Caitlin was totally deluded or Matthew had an odd way of demonstrating his interest in a girl. “I’ll go see what I can find out,” I said.

“Be subtle,” said Caitlin.

“I’ll be so subtle, he’ll hardly know what I’m talking about.” I moseyed over to Matthew, who was still standing by himself in the corner.

“Hi, Gilda.”

“So what do you think of my roommate?” I hoped Caitlin couldn’t hear my point-blank question.

“Your roommate?”

“You know. The girl you were just talking to. She’s pretty cute, huh?”

Matthew blushed, which made me think that Caitlin might be right after all. “She’s completely wrong about J. Edgar Hoover, that’s for sure,” he said.

“Who’s J. Edgar Hoover?”

Matthew looked at me with contempt. “You’ve been working at the Spy Museum all this time and you don’t even know who J. Edgar Hoover is?”

He sounded really familiar, but I wasn’t sure.

Matthew sighed. “He was a very formative director of the FBI for no less than forty-eight years. He was pretty much responsible for giving the FBI an iconic status in American culture. Anyway, your roommate insists he actually went to work at the FBI wearing women’s clothing, and that’s totally absurd.”

“He worked at the FBI wearing women’s clothing?”

“Of course not! The idea of him being a cross-dresser was a rumor started by the KGB. A very successful propaganda rumor, I might add.”

“Oh.”

“Try telling that to your roommate.”

“Well, Caitlin just told me that she thinks you’re cute and really smart.”

Matthew was dumbstruck. “She did?” Suddenly he didn’t care so much about J. Edgar Hoover’s panty hose. His face lit up.

“Oh, yeah. She said you’re the first guy she’s ever met who didn’t start crying during an argument.” By now, I was feeling like a real CIA case officer, using somewhat manipulative tactics, “relationship building” from behind the scenes.

Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed my least favorite Spy Museum coworker, Janet, glaring at Caitlin from across the room as she pretended to examine a collection of CDs and books. (I’d better warn Caitlin that Janet may be out to get her soon.)

By the time the party ended, Caitlin and Matthew were making plans to train for a marathon together. If they end up running around the city arguing about J. Edgar Hoover’s strapless gowns and negligees, I guess it’s partly my fault. Only time will tell if my intervention falls into the category of a helpful matchmaking strategy or ill-advised CIA interference!

 

 

SPECIAL GUEST OF HONOR:

Balthazar Frobenius came to my spy party. You heard right: BALTHAZAR FROBENIUS CAME TO MY PARTY. A week ago, if you had told me I’d be able to write that sentence, I’d never have believed it.

He turned up wearing a flowered shirt and flip-flops, and everyone assumed he was just some guy who lives in the building--maybe a computer programmer or a journalist. Nobody suspected that here in the middle of our party was one of the great psychics of our time.

Balthazar prefers it that way: in fact, when he’s at parties he tells people that he’s a travel writer. “Otherwise, I end up in the corner doing psychic readings and someone inevitably gets mad when I tell them something they don’t want to hear.”

 

 

ANOTHER SURPRISE OF THE EVENING: BALTHAZAR ENJOYED TALKING TO JANET!

Go figure! Actually, I was relieved when Balthazar went over to Janet and started talking to her about ghosts in D.C., because I was worried that she was going to attack someone if she didn’t get her mind off Matthew Morrow.

As it turns out, Janet and Balthazar are going on a “ghost walk” through the nation’s capital tomorrow. I guess Janet can’t be all bad if Balthazar thinks she’s okay, but she’s still my least favorite coworker.

 

 

NEWS ALERT:

I couldn’t believe it. Standing right there in the middle of our party was that spooky, grannyish lady who has awakened me several times with the lights going on and off in her apartment! What in the world is she doing here? I wondered. “Take a look at who turned up at our party,” I said, grabbing Caitlin’s arm.

Caitlin peeked into the crowd while mixing mocktails in the blender. “Oh, yeah; I invited her. She was standing on the elevator when I told some other people about it. Believe me, I’ve learned the hard way that you have to invite the old ladies. Otherwise they hear the music and call to complain when what they really want is just to be invited.”

Okay, I admit I never found evidence linking Flashing Lights Lady to either the museum haunting or the dead drop. Still, I couldn’t help it; there was just something freaky about her. ”I still think she’s up to something weird in her apartment,” I said.

“No better time than the present to find out,” said Caitlin.

Caitlin walked over to “Lady Flash,” handed her a pink mocktail with a big maraschino cherry on top, and introduced herself. I half expected Lady Flash to do something bizarre, but the pink mocktail seemed to normalize her and within a couple minutes, she and Caitlin were sitting on the couch chatting like old friends.

“Okay--here’s the deal,” said Caitlin, returning to the kitchen a few minutes later. “Her name is Catherine. She seems to be independently wealthy because she inherited a fortune from her parents. They’re dead, of course, and now she manages their estate. She also has a part-time job in some government agency just to keep busy.”

I had to admit it all sounded more normal than I expected. I mean, the fact of her being a rich old lady was a little surprising considering the drab way she dresses, but it wasn’t exactly shocking. “But what about the flashing lights?” I guessed there was no way Caitlin could find out about that in less than fifteen minutes.

“I asked her about that, too, and she said she’s really sorry if it keeps you awake. She told me she has this condition where she has a compulsion to do things like turn off the lights exactly seventy-two times before she goes to bed. And get this: if she doesn’t do it exactly the right way or if she loses track, she has to start all over again; otherwise she can’t sleep at all. She said she worries a lot about things happening here in the city, and I guess turning her lights off and on makes her feel safer or like she’s controlling something, even though it makes no sense. I think that’s why she acts so unfriendly --like she’s always afraid of being attacked or something. Anyway, she said she’s working on it, but in the meantime she’ll try to remember to close her curtains. She’s actually not quite as weird as we thought. I mean, her breath smells like old chickpeas, but after you get to know her, she’s fairly nice. Satisfied?”

“I guess.” Well, I felt kind of bad for being so suspicious after hearing this. After all, I had experienced firsthand how easy it is to be fearful in a city filled with intrigue and secrets. Who could really blame an old lady for turning her lights off and on in the middle of the night?

 

 

NOTE TO SELF--ADD THE FOLLOWING ITEM TO THE “MOSCOW RULES” FOR SPIES:

You learn a lot by peeking into people’s windows. Sometimes you learn even more when you invite them to a big party and serve pink mocktails.