The Mystery of the Pink Phoenix Papers (2 page)

The Penguin House in Central Park Zoo off Fifth Avenue is a great place to go when you need to think. It’s dark and quiet in there. Dorothy and I watch the penguins dive and zoom under water. They stop to rub noses with us up against the glass. “Quite the opposite of the regal phoenix!” Dorothy chuckles. We could stay here forever, but Dorothy says we must get going, as we have a dinner reservation at her favorite restaurant off Lexington Avenue.

Outside the Penguin House, I step on something smooth in the gravel. It is a playing card—the jack of clubs. On the back of the card, there is an image of a winged bird, rising from the flames—a phoenix! Dorothy says that jacks, clubs, and phoenixes are all rife with meaning, so I slip the card in my backpack. “A trip to the library will help us interpret these signs,” Dorothy says with a wink.

What makes Mme. Roulade’s so special is that Dorothy’s dear friend Mr. Kirk Irving is the pianist there. As he plays “Moonlight on the Nile,” I see Dorothy’s eyes widen behind her thick glasses. “Look!” she gasps, pointing to a matchbook on the table. “A phoenix! Right on the flap.”

There is no doubt, phoenixes all over are definitely a sign—but of WHAT??? I tuck the matchbook in my backpack. We decide to clear our heads and take in the latest Czech film,
Cirkus Bláznů
(“Circus of Fools”), at the Paris theatre. I feel very grown-up watching a movie with subtitles.

First thing next morning, Dorothy and I head to the New York Public Library, armed with pencils and note cards.

We climb the steps to the entrance between Patience and Fortitude, the two great marble lions that lie sphinx-like in front of the library, guarding the secrets within. “Doing research, my dear, is much like going on an archaeological dig,” Dorothy whispers as we enter the great hall. “Finding just the right tidbit is as thrilling as putting the last piece in a puzzle.”

“Dachshunds are far more than mere low-slung beasts, and this proves it,” says Dorothy.

“Wands are a fire sign,” she adds, “so we’re on the right track. The phoenix, too, represents fire.”

“Could this be connected with the fire that destroyed those papers?” I wonder out loud.

“Precisely,” nods Dorothy. “But what of the prince of wands? Where does he come in???” Uggh! I wonder if archaeology is as frustrating as research!?

We have just enough time to clear our heads before heading back uptown for
The Firebird
at Lincoln Center. “How apt that we should be seeing a ballet about a bird of fire!” says Dorothy. We grab a couple of mango smoothies across the street.

From the fountain, we have a perfect view of Chagall’s paintings inside the Metropolitan Opera House. It is getting dark and the fountain is lit up from inside.

The ballet is thrilling. Dorothy and I are riveted from Stravinsky’s first fiery note to the last curtain call. “A fitting finale to a day of discovery,” says Dorothy.

Nothing ever closes downtown, so it’s the perfect place to spend a Sunday looking for clues. The Village is on the southern end of Manhattan, and south is where we want to go. It’s a funky part of the city. We walk from Dorothy’s hotel through Washington Square Park on our way to the art supply store down on Canal Street.

Pearl Paint is five stories high. I need a new scrapbook, and Dorothy needs cartridges for her fountain pen. We stop to smell the erasers. “Heavenly!” Dorothy exclaims. The colored pencils have names like “aubergine” and “coffee bean.” I buy one called “scarab green.”

Canal Street stretches through Chinatown. It is loaded with teeny shops that sell everything from sunglasses to luggage. Dorothy and I buy a pair of matching Pino Raton handbags for four dollars—perfect for keeping our supplies in.

Somehow, we find ourselves on Prince Street. Dorothy stops short. “Look!” she says, pointing to a small, secondhand bookshop. “The symbol above the door is a phoenix!” Etched on the glass door it says Phoenix Secondhand Bookshop. “Prince Street,” I say. “The playing card! The jack of clubs equals the prince of wands!” Dorothy squeezes my hand as we enter the shop.

Entering the bookshop is like stepping into another world. We rummage for hours. I find a first edition
Harriet the Spy,
my favorite book of all time. Dorothy buys it for me. As I look over the shelves of kids’ books, one book catches my eye. It’s spine is frayed.

When I pry the book loose, it just about falls apart in my hands. I blow away the dust to find a portrait of a lady wearing a pith helmet. A brooch at her high-collared throat glows pink—a scarab! THE PINK PHOENIX!!!

“Criminey!” I practically fall over, handing Dorothy the book. She reads the title:
The Exotic Travel Diary of Violet Pilfer-Snodges 1863-1865
. Then she whispers, “Zoe Sophia Sherlock—you’ve done it! You’ve found the missing volume that will reveal the
Pink Phoenix’s
magic powers! Congratulations, my dear, and many thanks. You have the magic touch the true scholar needs!”

Clutching our treasures, we find there is still time to catch a boat ride around the island of Manhattan. “Let’s do it!” says Dorothy, and I am game.

“I can just imagine how Violet Pilfer-Snodges felt all those years ago, traveling down the Nile, with the very journal we now hold in our hands,” says Dorothy, as we stand on the windy deck of the ferry boat.

“The New York skyline always fills me with hope,” Dorothy says. She tells me that the skyscrapers are built on solid granite, which is why they can touch the clouds.

We pass right by the Statue of Liberty. Miss Liberty is actually made of copper. Her scarab-green color comes from her long exposure to the air.

Most New Yorkers have never been to any of the local sights. Dorothy herself has never been to the Empire State Building and neither have I! We agree on the spot to go there together before she leaves.

Dorothy’s reading at Somerset Booksellers was a smash. Everyone came. Even Mickey was allowed in. After the big event, Dorothy and I had something very important to do.

The Empire State Building (Fifth Avenue and 34
^th
Street), was once the tallest building in the world. The elevators shoot up like rockets, making us queasy. It is very windy up there. “Nothing like a bird’s-eye view to give you some perspective,” Dorothy says.

The city lights sparkle like tiny gems. We huddle together to keep warm. Looking past Greenwich Village, Dorothy says, “Now I understand why Tibor said to look south for answers. South is also where the Twin Towers once stood. I am quite certain, my dear, that like the phoenix, something magnificent will rise there from the ashes.”

“Tomorrow I’ll be seeing this from my airplane window and thinking of you,” Dorothy says. I hug her tight. “Don’t worry,” she adds, “you and I have the whole world to explore.”