Henry & Eva and the Famous People Ghosts Page 5

  Maxine moans, “Aren’t we just staving off the inevitable, pretending there is hope, when, indeed, there can never be—”

  “Oh, quit it! We got lives to save! Eva, little darlin’, it’s up to you!” Beaumont steps in closer. “Boop!” He dabs me right smack on the tip of my nose.

  “Up to me?” I shrink.

  “Yes, dear child. We know you’re up to the challenge. Your brother, Henry, needs you. As do the rest.” Plum breaks the news, her words fuzzy and kind.

  “Undoubtedly, unquestionably,” August and Sturdy aver.

  Plum moves forward now. “This is a place of spirits, Evie. Myriad spirits. So many voices from the past. Echoing. Some wise, some restless.”

  “Quite, quite,” August and Sturdy add.

  “And yer gonna get ’em!” Beaumont nods.

  “Um . . . get them?” I gulp.

  “Yup, yer gonna snatch ’em right out of the woodwork so you can outsmart these bandits! You’ll see. Works like a charm. Well, come to think of it, it is a charm.”

  “I’m sorry . . . I’m confused.”

  Plum moves closer to me. “The spirits are here, Eva. You simply have to reach them. They will come to your aid.”

  “But how?” I ask.

  And now the ghosts are fading, disappearing back into the ether and back up into the paintings, as if nothing happened and this is all just a hallucination of a panicked child.

  “Underneeeeath the chapel, Evaaaa,” Maxine lilts, the last one to fade. “Uuuuunder the chaaaapel.”

  And now I am left, a stone in a stone fireplace, wondering if it’s possible I’m just losing my mind.

  “That can’t happen. Did that just happen?” I turn to a white marble bust of Tiberius Caesar next to me on a pedestal, staring out, the grave conqueror.

  He doesn’t answer.

  But I’ve been through this before, and the truth is—it’s always in your best interest to do what the ghosts say.

  1

  HAVE YOU EVER had so many things to do that you just feel like running under the covers and never coming out? Like all the things in the world just add up to this gigantic worry monster that you can only fend off by pulling the covers over your head? That’s how I feel right now. I don’t even know where to start.

  First, there’s the imminent danger below in the chapel. Then, there’s the mystery underneath the chapel, that might somehow help me with what’s going on inside the chapel, but maybe not . . . ugh.

  I don’t know what I’m supposed to do first. I mean, this is not exactly what they teach in school these days. Prioritizing spirit-calling and Confusing Castle Situations 101.

  Okay. Okay.

  Maybe, I think, if I can just figure out a way to get to Henry, he and I can do this together. Two heads are better than one, right? So, um, now just to figure out a way to get his attention without also getting the attention of those horrible- daunting-terrifying-looking guys scowling at each doorway.

  It’s on me. It’s on me.

  All right, think. Think, Eva.

  I know. I’ll create a distraction.

  A distraction!

  These guys don’t look like the brightest bulbs in the dashboard.

  What is the most distracting thing I can do that’s easy to accomplish, but will be large enough to give me enough time to get Henry’s attention? See, if I were Henry, I would probably have a million chemical experiments in my back pocket just to throw out the way most people can rattle off the alphabet.

  But I’m not Henry. And I need Henry.

  So let’s just keep it simple, shall we?

  Fire.

  Yes, fire.

  Kids, do not try this at home.

  2

  FROM WHERE I’M squinting, looking down below, Henry and Zeb are at one end of the chapel, with two guards near them and two at the other end. So, I’m going to have to get everyone to go to the far end, while making sure Henry and Zeb stay on their end.

  Okay, okay. I’ll start a little teeny tiny fire on the other end, tiptoe over to their end, yell “Fire!” from behind those red velvet curtains, and then grab Henry before he can run over to the now not-so-teeny fire distraction event.

  The giant stone fireplace next to me has a long, oval-shaped, rose-printed container next to me, which I’m pretty sure houses the matches for the fireplace. Okay, grab that. Grab that fire stoking thing. (What is it called? A poker? That seems like a pretty lazy name, actually. I mean, couldn’t they come up with something a little more wizardly? Like a hoffenpoffer.) It’s a black wrought-iron thing, possibly useful in a fight against . . . whoever these guys are.

  As I tiptoe out to hatch my diabolical plan, I hear the sound of footsteps coming down the hall toward me, a hollow sound, echoing off the marble floors. And now voices, one of them familiar, the nonCalifornia, Midwestern-sounding voice.

  “What did I tell you? Leave the rugs! I’m not looking to open a rug store, for God’s sake!”

  I duck behind the teal floor-to-ceiling curtains behind me, hoping to catch even a glimpse of this always-agitated criminal . . . mastermind?

  “Look, we don’t have much time, get it? If the rain stops, they’ll open the road back up. If the rain keeps going, we’ll get stuck in the mud! . . . I don’t care what they’re worth. No rugs! They’re cumbersome . . .”

  “What does—”

  “Oh my God, cumbersome! Slow! They take a long time, okay? Just stop what you’re doing and listen to me. Paintings first, then statues, then— Hold on a second.”

  The footsteps stop. The voice stops.

  On the other end I can hear the sound of a voice, but the Midwestern Mastermind interrupts him.

  “Shh. Shut up. Shut all the way up.”

  And now he begins slowly walking backward, retracing his steps, back to the doorway of this room.

  He’s walking softer now, as if trying to catch someone. Quiet.

  I’m a statue behind the teal drapes, holding my breath, hoping to God my shoes aren’t sticking out of the bottom of the curtains but too scared to look down, not wanting to shake the velvet.

  The Midwestern Mastermind peeks his head into the room. looking around. He comes in slightly, taking in the paintings and the ceiling. But his neck is up, suspicious.

  Static comes over the line of his walkie-talkie.

  “You there, boss?”

  “Shh.” He looks around some more, as if there’s something here he senses, a presence. He spends an inordinate amount of time looking at the ceiling.

  And then he looks directly—at me.

  3

  HAVE YOU EVER had one of those dreams where you’re at the grocery store or the park or your school and suddenly you look down and realize you’re completely naked? One hundred percent in your birthday suit. And the embarrassment and fear are almost overwhelming. Like you want to run away but you are just paralyzed with fear and confusion so you just stand there, a buck-naked statue in the middle of the cafeteria?

  Welp, that’s the feeling that I’m having now. Minus the embarrassed part. Standing there behind the velvet floor to ceilings with grumpy-yet-diabolical Mastermind of the Hearst Castle Heist in the middle of the room, staring directly at me. Or through me. Can he see me? How long can I hold my breath? Seriously, my record is two minutes. Not bad, but I used to be on swim team and you had to be able to swim to the other end of the pool and back holding your breath. But I’m out of practice. So I’m guessing more like one minute?

  And this is taking a thousand years.

  The Midwestern Mastermind starts to squint a little, taking one step closer, as if his spider sense is on full tilt.

  And now one step closer.

  And another.

  And one more.

  So, I’d say he’s about . . . um, four-five feet away from me right now?

  Gulp.

  Basically, what’s going to happen is he’s going to jump forward, catch me, drag me downstairs, and throw me to the wolves in front of everyone to
make an example of me. Not that I saw any wolves or anything. These are metaphorical wolves. But here, definitely gold ones. From the Egyptian dynasty.

  I’ve somehow lost my train of thought and have begun wondering if wolves were even depicted by the Egyptians in any hieroglyphs, considering their predilection for, fascination with, and adoration of cats. And all things feline. I mean you couldn’t swing a dead cat in Ancient Egypt without running into a hieroglyph of . . . a cat. Bad joke, I know. But you have to admit . . . pretty clever under the circumstances.

  I would almost smile, if the situation here wasn’t so dire. I mean, who knows, it might be my last smile. My last great stand against the Midwestern Mastermind and his invading army of fake security guards. Laughter in the face of fear. Joy in the face of hopelessness. They will build statues of me now, statues of my noble smile amid the chaos of the fall of Hearst Castle. A plaque underneath me, engraved in gold, will read:

  “In honor of Eva Millicent Billings. Despite the madness, she smiled.”

  Okay, that’s horrible.

  How about:

  “In honor of the deceased, Eva Millicent Billings. A true hero, who never allowed . . . the turkeys to get her down”?

  What am I talking about?

  I’m really losing my mind here.

  Maybe this is what happens when you’re about to go? You just get silly. Maybe the meaninglessness of it all just comes to you. All the struggles of the world, all the plans, maybe they come bounding down at you right before the moment of death, and you could laugh, you could cry laughing, at all the wasted effort put into, say, that test you crammed for until all hours of the night. Maybe the futileness of it all comes hurtling at you like a weight. And then a weight lifted. Ah! None of it mattered all along! Nobody told me! It was all for naught!

  (I’m beginning to sound like Maxine.)

  (I’m beginning to understand Maxine.)

  Wait. Maybe it’s in my blood?

  SCCCCRRRCTHHHHC. SCCRRTCH. SCCRRTCH.

  The static interrupts my melancholy revelation and the Midwestern Mastermind jumps where he is.

  “GEEZ!”

  “Boss, you there?”

  “Stop doing that! You know what, I’m turning off this thing unless I contact you! Got it? I contact you. You do not contact me. I’m turning this stupid thing off. And, yes, I’m here, dipstick. Where do you think I’d be?!”

  “I just. Was wondering. Awful quiet. Oh, I forgot what I was gonna tell you. . . . Oh, yeah, those kids are gone.”

  “What?”

  “’Member those two kids?”

  “Which kids?”

  “The wimpy ones?”

  “Yes.” The Midwestern Mastermind rolls his eyes.

  “Wull, they escaped kinda.”

  “What? What do you mean they escaped kinda? Did they escape or what?” Now the Midwestern Mastermind face-palms, sitting down on the chinoiserie silk chaise lounge, dark blue and gold birds nestled in branches.

  “Wull, they got out.”

  “They got out where? Where did they get to?”

  “I dunno, there was just a commotion on one side of the room and then, next thing we know, they were just, I dunno. Gone, I guess.”

  “You guess! You guess? You nincompoop!”

  So, Henry and Zeb executed my plan! They created a distraction on one side of the room and then bailed out the other. I love it. Great minds think alike!

  Again, I would smile, but the dark lord Mastermind is face-palming right there in front of me.

  “Lookit. You find those little trolls and bring them back to me. I’ve had just about enough of this Paw Patrol nonsense! I am not going to be foiled by a bunch of kindergarteners!”

  Beat.

  “I really don’t think they’re in kindergarten.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! Get me those kids before I—”

  “Okay, boss.”

  The Midwestern Mastermind stands up in frustration, chucking his walkie-talkie past me and into a Ming dynasty vase five feet to my left.

  CRASH.

  “AAHHHHHHHH!”

  It is clear that the Midwestern Mastermind is not having a good day. Suffice to say the only one having a worse day is Binky. At least for the Mastermind, it wasn’t supposed to be his wedding day.

  Although, to be honest, I’m not sure the Midwestern Mastermind could get anyone to actually marry him. He’s kind of skinny as a straw and has a face like a gravel driveway. I mean, my mother said never to judge, and she’s right, but this guy looks as mean and frustrated on the outside as he is on the inside, like his whole existence is just a scrunched-up mistake where nothing ever goes right. Dark circles under his eyes like he’s been up since 2003.

  But he’s not out of the room yet.

  He stomps over, swooping up his walkie-talkie in one hand and storming out, not looking back.

  Phew.

  That was a close one.

  Now, to get to my brother.

  4

  I’VE GOT SOME good news and some bad news.

  The good news is that the Midwestern Mastermind, aka MM, has disappeared. The bad news is that all of this is still happening and isn’t just some bad dream I’m having. I keep pinching myself to see if maybe I just fell asleep during “Pachelbel’s Canon,” but every time I just come up with some red skin and a renewed sense of panic.

  It’s clear from the overheard phone call that the first thing on my agenda has to be finding Henry. And Zeb. Before this menagerie of faux guards finds them and brings them to the Machiavellian Midwestern Mastermind. Triple M.

  Now, let’s see, how to do this?

  In order to find Henry, I have to try to think like Henry. What would Henry do? If I were Henry and I escaped from the chapel of confined guests and lunkhead guards, what would be the first thing I’d do?

  I know!

  Find Eva!

  (Aka me.)

  And if I were me, where would I go? Or, wait, if I were Henry thinking about me, where would he think I would go? Hmmm. Think, Eva. Did I express interest in any particular things before the great wedding disturbance? Was there anything I said I was looking forward to seeing? An area of interest, perhaps?

  Wait.

  The bloodthirsty protector of Ra! The sun god. The New Kingdom Egyptian statues! That’s what we were talking about before the great wedding debacle.

  But would Henry go there? Thinking that I was there?

  My head hurts.

  Just go to the Egyptian statues, I tell myself.

  Tiptoeing through a labyrinth of corridors, alcoves, and sitting rooms, I can catch a glimpse, every once in a while, of the inside of the chapel below. Even though there are menacing guards, I find it hard to believe the remaining wedding guests are all just going to sit around for this whole shebang. Maybe in Victorian times, but now? Really?

  There is the issue of the weather, however. What was it the Midwestern Mastermind was saying? The roads are closed because of the rain. But if the roads open up, I’m pretty sure all the heroes that rode downhill on their white stallions will be back. And not happy.

  But if it keeps pouring like this, I have a hard time imagining truckload after truckload after truckload of paintings, precious jewels, and sculptures heading down the steep incline toward the sea and not getting stuck.

  So the clock is ticking.

  But the clock is also ticking on Henry and Zeb. I mean, you heard the diabolical Mastermind. He said bring them back to him. And in the first conversation, he asked his henchman if he should take them out.

  Take them out where?

  (I don’t think he means to the store.)

  Now, if I can just find the two Sekhmet figures, the bloodthirsty protectors of the sun god, maybe, possibly, potentially Henry will be there because he was trying to think like I would think.

  Let’s all agree that it’s complicated.

  But at this point, it’s really all I have, and I’m sort of desperate to find Henry. He is my kid brothe
r, after all. Even if he is a budding Einstein.

  I’m at about a half run–half tiptoe down the servant’s stairwell when I hear a sound coming from within the hall. The sound of the wedding guests raising their voices. Then a few unreasonable, bullying voices barking orders back.

  I suppose the menacing guards are trained at keeping masses of unsuspecting people under control. Unsuspecting wedding guests.

  I shake my head.

  You have to admit.

  It’s a dirty trick.

  When I find Henry, we’ll need to find a way to be dirty trickier.

  5

  WHEN WE WERE little, before “the accident” (which is what we still call the death of our mother and father. Not the “boat sinking,” not “the explosion,” and certainly not “the murder.” It’s just “the accident.” It has to be that way. It was an unwritten agreement between Henry and me. Never spoken of. Never discussed.

  Once the mystery was solved and our traitor hippie uncle Finn was put in jail, Henry and I had to brace ourselves with words like “the accident” and “passing.”

  Gentle words. Kind words. Words you could carry off on a butterfly’s wings. Not words that could sink you to the bottom of the sea forever. Never. Never those words.)

  There was a vacation, a Thanksgiving, I think, when we went to visit our uncle Claude in what they call the “hill country” of Texas. A strange sort of place, nestled right in the middle of the Lone Star State. I always thought Texas looked like that super-old movie Giant with James Dean squinting into an oil rig, but I guess that’s just one part. Turns out there’s five parts of Texas. The desert. The hill country. The plains up north. The “big thicket” of pines to the east. And the swamp, which is the Gulf Coast part that always gets the hurricanes.

  But in this case we were smack-dab in the middle of the hill country at Uncle Claude’s ranch, which was more like a church to dead animals. I mean it, you’ve never seen such a collection of noble and gallant creatures, all now stuffed and posed in some ridiculous fashion imitating life, in a house in Texas under a cathedral ceiling. A lion about to pounce on a gazelle. A leopard on its hind legs. A wildebeest drinking from a bubbling fountain. Somebody really put some thought and effort into this taxidermy menagerie. And it was awful.