The Dead Drop (27 page)

“It’s complicated. To make a long story short, we both became very ill one winter. I recovered and she didn’t. She was truly psychic; she had far more natural talent than I do.”

“No way.”

“It’s true. When we were young, she had remarkably vivid dreams with exact details of things that were going to happen to us the next day. ‘You’d better study your spelling words tonight, ’ she’d say, ‘because Mr. King is going to give us a pop quiz tomorrow.’ And she was always right. She also had an uncanny ability to sense danger before it happened. She saved my life on at least one occasion.”

Balthazar paused as if uncertain whether he wanted to open a floodgate of memories. “Anyway, after my sister died, I changed. I suppose that’s when I started to become psychic; it was as if a new channel had opened in my brain.”

Gilda listened intently; she literally perched on the edge of her seat, nibbling on a rope of red licorice.

“My sister spoke to me every night in dreams. But now, instead of telling me whether my teacher was going to give a pop quiz, she would tell me about other people. Sometimes I would read an article in the newspaper about a shooting in the neighborhood or a family who perished in an arson fire, and that night my sister would show me
how
it had happened. She would tell me who did it. Sometimes she even showed me where bodies were hidden. After I awoke the next morning, I would try to forget, but I couldn’t. I
knew
.

“So I began sending anonymous tips to the police department. Sometimes they would act on them, and usually they would ignore them. It wasn’t until many years later that I developed the courage to accept my role as a psychic—to develop my skills so I could use them to help people without being afraid of what I might learn. Of course, as I was reminded today, nobody’s perfect. We’re always students of the craft.” He regarded Gilda pointedly. “But you already know that.”

“Know what?” Gilda put down her licorice. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that you’ve clearly been studying your craft, and now you’re actually becoming a psychic.”

“I am? You really think so?” Gilda had always believed she had potential as a psychic even though her gifts were not completely natural; she had had to work hard to develop whatever psychic skills she possessed. Hearing this affirmation from Balthazar Frobenius himself was a dream come true.

“Gilda, if not for your work on this case, I might still be in the dark, oblivious to the fact that every reading I ever did for the CIA has been sabotaged. I think you have a unique talent, but more important, the focus, creativity, and spirit to really want to get to the truth. Not too many people have that.”

Gilda smiled, wishing she could somehow put the moment in a container, freeze it, and then take it out to relive it the next time someone doubted her ability to solve a mystery. “Balthazar,” she ventured, “I know you probably always get asked stuff like this—”

“Don’t tell me; you want to know if I’m picking up anything from your father, right?”

Gilda froze. She met his eyes, hoping.

“His name was Nick?”

“Yes!” Gilda felt as if fire were racing through her veins.
He knows Dad’s name
.

Balthazar closed his eyes and concentrated. “For some reason, I’m picking up something odd his spirit wants to say to you—something about . . . orange peanuts?”

Gilda felt ridiculous because without warning, she felt tears welling up—tears of surprise and nostalgia. These days, she often found it hard to picture her father’s face, but she could vividly imagine the sweet, chalky smell and texture of those orange circus peanuts he used to share with her. For a moment, it was as if her dad were right there at the table.
You aren’t alone,
he seemed to be saying.
I’m always here for you.

Gilda giggled as she wiped her eyes on a napkin. “Of all the things he could say to me right now when I’m sitting here with Balthazar Frobenius—he picks ‘orange peanuts’!”

“I admit I have no idea what that means.”

“Oh, it was just something silly my father did when I was little. I’d go with him to the hardware store and he’d always buy me these bags of circus peanuts—you know, those really fake-looking orange candies—because I thought they were so funny-looking.” The more she thought about those orange peanuts and the memory of her father, the happier she felt. She looked across the room where a vintage poster of President Lincoln was displayed next to a Beatles album cover. “I think Dad would like this place,” she added.

“Sounds like he appreciated the silly side of life.” Balthazar took the opportunity to steal a Twinkie from Gilda’s plate of assorted junk foods.

“That’s for sure.”

“Now,” Balthazar whispered, leaning closer. “While you were looking around the mansion, I came up with a plan—a way we can make sure Loomis Trench makes one more drop of information. Only this time he’ll get caught in the act.”

36

Midnight Spy Slumber Party

We kind of want to see a ghost, but now we’re kind of scared, too,” said Stargirl.

She and Agent Moscow had decided to camp out in the East Berlin exhibit, thinking that they might see more ghost graffiti.

“I don’t think this ghost would harm anyone,” said Gilda, trying to sound more fearless and confident than she actually felt. “Just call me on my cell phone right away if you see anything unusual.”

Throughout the evening, Gilda had kept an eye out for signs of spirit activity in the Spy Museum, but so far nothing had happened.

The boys on Team Crypt all opted to camp out in the exhibit featuring a classic spy car from a James Bond movie. Gilda was surprised and not a little suspicious when they all climbed into their sleeping bags at the very moment the museum lights dimmed.

“We’re really tired,” said James Bond.

“Yeah, we’re totally exhausted,” said Baby Boy, scooting into his Spider-Man sleeping bag and feigning loud snoring.

“Good night,” said Gilda, making a mental note to check in on them frequently.

After saying good night to her recruits, Gilda crawled into the sleeping bag she had borrowed from April Shepherd. After sensing a strong tickle in her ear near the Spy Museum’s model of a 1940s-era movie theater, Gilda had decided this spot had lots of psychic potential, and decided to camp out there on her own. During the day, the theater played a series of short films dating from World War II, including a cartoon that warned people not to blab military information that might be overheard by the spies lurking in ordinary places around town. “Loose lips sink ships!” the cartoons warned.

Now the theater was silent: the dramatic, colorful posters decorating the walls and the moody velvet curtains draping the movie screen looked spooky in the dim glow of Gilda’s flashlight.

Gilda was just drifting into sleep when she heard scuttling and rustling sounds that made her think of a sinister little animal—an animal that made choking, gasping, snuffling sounds. She gasped, fumbling for her flashlight. A shadow slipped into the room, moving close to the ground.

Finally locating her flashlight, she pointed it in the direction of the creature. Illuminated in the beam of light was a row of garishly painted faces with dark smudges for eyes, mouths covered in red lipstick, and multicolored hair. One wore an incongruous mustache. “Oooooooo! I am the ghost who lives in the Spy Museum!”

“Nice try,” said Gilda, doing her best not to appear as unnerved as she felt. “I knew you had something up your sleeves.” She was now fully awake.

“How come you didn’t scream?” Baby Boy asked.

“Because I knew it was you guys.” The truth was that Gilda had been fooled for the first few seconds.

“Now we’re going to sneak up on the girls in the East Berlin exhibit,” said Baby Boy.

“No,” said Gilda, “you’re going to go back to your sleeping bags, or I’ll have to call your parents.”

“But we aren’t tired.”

“No buts. Just take off your makeup, wash your faces, and get your butts under the covers.”

“I thought you said ‘No butts,’” The Comedian joked.

“No puns, either,” Gilda retorted.

“Is a pun like a ‘bottom burp’?” Baby Boy asked.

“A ‘bottom burp’?!” The boys broke into laughter.

“Excuse me, Madame,” said The Comedian, speaking in an English accent. “I feel a wee ‘bottom burp’ coming on.” He blew grotesquely loud raspberries and the entire group dissolved into a fit of raucous laughter.

Whoever thinks girls are the only ones who get silly and giggly has never been around a group of boys in the middle of the night,
Gilda thought.

“Good night, Case Officer Zelda,” said the boys, once they were back in their sleeping bags.

“Good night, boys. No more pranks, okay?”

“Okay.”

Back in the movie theater, Gilda sat alone in the dark, watching, listening, and waiting. The museum had grown quiet; it seemed the entire building had gone to sleep.

As Gilda once again drifted into a sound sleep surrounded by posters of spy stories, the velvet curtains at the front of the movie theater opened.

37