The 100-Year-Old Secret (2 page)

“What does it mean?” Xander asked.

Xena shook her head. She had no clue.

But they were about to find out.

X
ena refolded the paper and stared at it. “What's with this disappearing ink?” she asked.

“I thought that was something made up in spy movies,” Xander said.

“And what does this mean, milk for our snake?” Xena wondered aloud. “We don't even have a snake.”

“Snakes don't drink milk anyway,” Xander said. He screwed up his face, his eyes closed, and Xena could tell that he was putting his photographic memory to work. In another minute he spoke as though reading from an encyclopedia, which, in a way, he was.

“Most snakes are carnivores,” he recited, “or insectivores.” He paused, and Xena knew that he was mentally skimming the next few paragraphs. He opened his eyes. “Nope,” he said. “No milk.”

“And I don't think they drink out of saucers,” she said. “Do they?”

He scrunched up his face again. Then he opened his eyes and shrugged. “No mention of saucers. It's got to be some kind of code . . . or a
password
,” he said, his eyes growing even larger with excitement.

“Who was that guy?” she asked. “Did you get a good look at him?”

Xander shook his head. “Nope,” he said. “I wasn't paying attention. Why would he want us to go see some dancing men? And what did he mean about our illustrious ancestor?”

“Well,
illustrious
means ‘famous,' right? So maybe he thinks we're related to the famous detective Sherlock Holmes,” Xena said with a laugh.

“I wish,” Xander said. He loved reading mysteries, especially the ones about Sherlock Holmes because they shared the same last name. Plus they were great stories.

“The note sounded as if the person who wrote it knows us,” Xena added. “How did it start, again?”

“My dears. My very, very dears,” Xander recited.

“And what's a plooman's lunch?” Xena asked, pronouncing the first syllable of
ploughman
as if it rhymed with
through
.

“I think it's a pluffman's lunch,” he answered, rhyming the first syllable with
rough
.

“Actually, it's pronounced
plowman
,” said a voice behind them. Xena and her brother turned. It was the doorman, the friendly one who had given them the cookies.

“So what's a plowman's lunch?” Xena asked.

“Oh, it's a nice piece of bread and some cheese and pickle. Standard pub fare.” He smacked his lips. “They do a good one at The Dancing Men.”

“The Dancing Men?” Xander asked. “But that's—”

Xena dug her elbow into his ribs to keep him from saying anything about the letter. After all, there was nothing left to read, and the doorman would think that they were nutty Americans if they showed him a blank piece of paper. Xander poked her back with his own pointy elbow.

“The pub over there,” the doorman said, leaning forward and pointing down the street. “They'll fix you right up. It's about lunchtime now, isn't it?”

Xena and Xander looked at each other. “Well,” Xander said, “Mom did give us money for lunch. All she said was that we had to be at the hotel by the time she got back from her meeting with the real estate lady.”

“Mom thinks we're going to eat at McDonald's,” Xena objected. “And, anyway, a pub is a kind of a bar, isn't it? Can we even get in?”

They turned to the doorman, who nodded. “Oh, sure you can. Just don't order a drink, not even a shandy!” He laughed.

“Let's go, Xena!” Xander was hopping from one foot to the other.

Xena considered. What could be wrong with going? Their mother hadn't said anything specific about McDonald's, after all. “Okay,” she said. “Come on!” She was as curious about the note as Xander was.

“I thought we'd understand everyone in England because they speak the same language,” Xander said as they pushed open the door to the pub with the dancing stick figures on the sign above it. “But
English
English is confusing. They spell
plow
differently and they call cookies biscuits and they drink something called a shandy . . .”

The pub seemed like a cross between a bar and a restaurant. There were small wooden tables all over, and a lot of people stood or sat at the bar, eating lunch. The ones who weren't talking were watching soccer on the large TV. A rushed-looking waitress waved them to a table,
and when she had a chance to come over to them, she seemed pleased that they knew already what they wanted.

“You'll like that,” she said. “It's my own kids' favorite.”

After she had taken a bite, Xena said, “Yum! And it costs even less than what Mom gave us for McDonald's.”

“I'll have a shandy,” Xander said when the waitress came back to check on them.

The waitress laughed. “I'll bring you one without the beer in it,” she said. A few minutes later she returned with two glasses of lemon soda, which she called “lemonade.”

“So a shandy is a mixture of lemon soda and beer?” Xena asked, wrinkling her nose. “Yuck.”

She took a sip of her soda. “So what do you think this society thing is?” she asked.

“The Society for the Preservation of Famous Detectives,” Xander said.

“I know that's their name,” said Xena. “But I mean, I wonder what they do. And why did they ask us to come here?”

“Maybe it's some publicity stunt,” he said. “The Society gives those mysterious notes to random people and when the ink disappears they get curious and come see what it's about.”

Xena looked around at the bustling room. “I don't think this place needs publicity,” she said.

Xander shrugged and finished his lemonade. “So what about the snake thing? Shouldn't we ask for the milk for our snake?”

“I don't know.” Xena was reluctant. “Don't you think that's some kind of a joke? I don't want the waitress to think we're crazy.”

“Oh, come on,” Xander urged her. “Let's take a chance. If she thinks we're nuts, we don't have to come back.”

They were finishing up when the waitress came by and asked if they wanted anything else. They hesitated and glanced at each other.

Xena took a deep breath. “Just some milk,” she said.

“A glass of milk, coming right up,” the waitress said, and she started to walk away.

“No,” Xander piped up. “Not a glass of milk. A
saucer
.”

The waitress froze.

“For our snake,” Xena said, and held her breath.

The waitress turned back to them, and the expression on her face was hard to read. Was it confused? Excited? Before Xena could decide,
the waitress nodded and put down her order pad. “Follow me,” she said. “It's in the back here.” She started off at a brisk walk toward the rear of the pub.

Now it was Xena's turn to freeze. She didn't know what she was expecting, but it certainly wasn't this. “Maybe we shouldn't—” she started, but Xander hopped up and darted after the waitress.

“Wait!” Xena called after him. He either didn't hear her or was ignoring her, so she pushed back her chair and flew after the two figures as they disappeared through a curtain at the back of the room. By the time she caught up with them they were at the end of a long bare corridor.

“In there,” the woman was saying as she pointed at a dark brown wooden door with a gleaming metal knob.

Before Xena could stop him, Xander opened it and stepped into a dimly lit room.

Xena leaped in after him and grabbed his wrist. “What are you doing?” she demanded. “Following a stranger like that? Mom is going to
kill
—”

But before she had the chance to finish her sentence, the door slammed shut, the thud followed
by an ominous click. Xena tried the knob but knew even before it refused to turn that it was no use. That click told her what she didn't want to know. She rattled the knob. Nothing.

The door was locked. They were trapped.

W
hat's the matter?” Xander asked. Why was Xena messing with the door when they could be trying to find out what that snake message meant?

Xena didn't answer right away. Her long brown hair hung over her face, hiding her expression. She
knew
they shouldn't have come in here. “The door is locked,” she said.

“Let me try,” Xander said, pushing her aside.

The knob turned smoothly, and the door moved a fraction of an inch when he yanked on it. But then it stopped.

“Yup. It's locked.” He fought back a surge of fear and turned to take in their surroundings.

“What is this, a storeroom?” he asked. It was filled with boxes in uneven piles on a concrete floor. Dust swirled in the weak afternoon sunlight slanting down from the only window, set high on one wall.

Xena didn't answer, but instead said, trying
to sound calm, “I'm sure the waitress didn't mean to lock us in. I'm sure she's on her way back to let us out.”

Xander sneezed.

“Bless you,” Xena said automatically.

Xander turned back to the door and pounded on it. “Help!” he shouted. No answer, so he kicked it. “Ow!” He hopped on his other foot and sneezed again.

“It's no use,” Xena said. “That hallway we came through was deserted. No one will hear you unless they happen to be standing right outside the door. We'll just have to find another way out, that's all.” They both gazed up at the window.

Xander pulled one of the big boxes over to the wall and started to climb on it, but the cardboard collapsed under his foot. He tried another one, hoping it was stronger. Still no good. Time for Xena to do her thing.

“Can you get to it?” Xander asked, looking at the window. Aside from being an excellent long-distance runner and having a black belt in karate, Xena was an expert rock climber.

Xena nodded. “Piece of cake.” She took off her running shoes and her socks, spat on her hands, rubbed them together, and started pulling herself up the cinderblock wall.

Compared with some of the rock walls she had scaled back home, this was as simple as climbing a ladder. The cinderblock surface was irregular, and her toes and fingers found easy purchase as her long arms and legs moved smoothly, pulling her toward the light. Most people said she climbed like a cat, but Xander thought she looked more like a spider.

In next to no time she was high above him, her hands gripping the windowsill. She peered out through the dirty glass.

“Go on!” Xander called. “What are you waiting for? Call for help! Climb out and get someone!”

Xena looked down at him over one shoulder. “There's no one out there,” she said, and the defeated tone of her voice made his heart sink. “It's an alley or something. And there are bars on the window. Even if I broke the glass I couldn't get out.”

She descended more slowly than she had gone up and then dropped the last few feet, landing lightly on her toes. She put her socks and shoes back on and glanced at her brother. He looked so worried that she swallowed her own fear.

“Don't worry,” she said. “We'll get out of here. I promise.” Fortunately he didn't ask her
how. Now if she could only reassure herself as well as her little brother. “Okay, let's figure this out,” she said. “Where are we, anyway?”

Both of them looked around again. “Some kind of storeroom,” Xander said. He inspected one of the boxes. “‘Tableware—Seconds,'” he read. “What does that mean?”

“You know,” Xena said. “Remember those sheets that Mom got where the colors didn't match? Those were seconds. They're cheaper than the first-quality ones. They must buy a lot of things like that for the pub.”

“Well, that's not going to help much.” Xander kicked a box labeled
DISHES—DEFECTIVE
, and the box flopped onto its side.

“That's weird,” Xena commented. “The box is sealed but it seems empty.” She dropped to her knees and pried it open. They both looked inside.

“It
is
empty,” Xander said.

“I guess they already took the dishes out,” Xena said.

“But why would they leave the empty box taped shut in here?” Xander said. He noticed a large carton, about waist high, marked
BAKERS—IRREGULAR
. It was against a wall next to another one that read
LINEN—SECONDS
. He gave the
linens box a shove, and it slid easily across the floor.

“You know, those first two boxes broke when I tried to stand on them,” he said. “They must have been empty too. But all these empty boxes are taped and piled up, as if someone's going to use them. I wonder why.”

“It's like they're props in a play or something,” Xena said slowly, “or else someone wants this to look like a storeroom, but it isn't.” So what was it?

And something was different about the box labeled
BAKERS—IRREGULAR
, but what? It was dented and dusty and there were holes on the top, though most of the other boxes weren't in great shape either, so that wasn't it. Xander ran his hand along the top of the box, and then realized something. “Xena,” he said.

“Hmmm?” Xena replied. She was staring up at the window, trying to figure out a way to break through the bars. She knew she was strong, but not
that
strong.

“Look at this.” He pointed to the top of the weird box. “This dust. It isn't real.”

“What do you mean, the dust isn't real? How can it be fake dust?”

“I don't know,” Xander said. “But I think it's
glued on, or painted on. It doesn't come off.” He swept his hand over the top of the carton again. “See? No dust. And no sneeze.”

Xena got up and crossed to the box. “Now, that's weird,” she said. “Why would someone want to make something look dusty?”

Xander tapped on the box. Something about the phrase
Bakers—Irregular
seemed familiar, but when he tried to remember where he had seen—or heard—the words before, it slipped away from him. He closed his eyes in concentration, shutting out all sound except his own breathing.