A Recipe for Robbery (9 page)

M
y hands shook as I opened the planner. I thumbed through it quickly, flipping all the way to June.

“What does it say?” Margaret scooted closer to me, peering over my shoulder.

“I don't know. It's in French.”

We stood next to François' car, scouring every day of June, looking for English words. Margaret pointed to “Grimstone” and “Unger,” and I thought that's all we had, until I saw “Pitayas” under Tuesday, June 14. “Look,” I said, pointing it out.

“Ohmigosh. It's the eggs! He means the eggs.”

“We've got to keep this.” I slipped it into my pocket.

Margaret stared at me, wide-eyed. “Are you serious?”

“Of course I am. It's no worse than hiding the locket, is it? It's only a little notebook. It might lead us to the heirlooms.”

“But we can't read French.”

“There's a program on the Web we can use. All we have to do is type in the French words and it translates them.”

“What about Gus?” Margaret said.

“What about him?” I felt my neck growing warm.

“He can translate the French a lot faster than we can. Besides, we have to tell him what happened. You can't leave him out, Lindy. That's not fair.”

She was right, of course. I knew Gus was fluent in French because he'd bragged about it hundreds of times at school. Except now I had one gigantic problem. Gus wasn't speaking to me, and I doubted that he still wanted to be our partner.

Before we left the parking lot, I decided to get one last look in François' car. I leaned way over the door and was shuffling through more papers on the floor when Margaret whispered, “
Psst!
Here comes Cricket out the back of Shear Magic.”

I sprang straight up, just in time to see her cross the alley.

“Oh, uh, hi,” I said, brushing off my legs.

Cricket stopped. She popped a SureFresh mint in her mouth, staring at me the whole time. “Hey, what's up? You two looking for something?”

The perky smile on her face seemed more curious than anything. But the tilt of her head, the glint in her eye…that's what Gus would call body language, for sure. And what Cricket's body language said to me was, “Watch out, Lindy Phillips. I know you just swiped something from François' car, and you're headed for trouble, because I'm going to tell your mom what you're up to the first chance I get.”

“Yes, as a matter of fact, we are looking for some
thing,” Margaret said. She picked up a handful of fliers from the convertible's backseat and flashed her most innocent smile. “These. We're helping François distribute them for his breakfast tomorrow.”

Cricket's gaze flitted from me to Margaret, then back to me. Her eyes stayed squinted, doubtful, but all she said was, “Sounds like a plan.” And then she headed across the parking lot toward her car.

“Come on,” I said to Margaret. “Let's go translate this planner.”

We made it to my house in ten minutes flat. The good news was that Henry and my parents weren't around, so no one was using the computer. The bad news was that Margaret and I wouldn't be using it either. Because it wouldn't turn on. I pressed the “on” key at least fifty times. Nothing. Then I punched every single button on the keyboard. Still nothing.

“Let's go to your house,” I said.

Margaret shook her head. “Can't. My mom's got company, and they'll all be in the family room. Besides,
she won't allow me on it, anyway. I'm restricted to half an hour in the evening.”

We sat on the sofa, listening to the
tick, tick
,
tick
of Mom's grandfather clock in the hallway. Pixie purred on my lap. After silently counting along for thirty-six straight ticks, I took the phone from its cradle. I had to call Gus, no matter how awkward it felt. He'd been our partner from the very beginning, we needed him now, and it was my fault, not Margaret's, he wasn't here. I never should've said any of that to Angel. I should've stuck up for Gus. That's what a real friend would do.

I punched in the numbers, then put the phone to my ear.

I
held tight to the receiver, my hands slick with sweat. I'd almost rather have called Leonard Snout again.

One ring: My knee bounced up and down, up and down.

Two rings: The knot in my stomach felt tight and twisty, like a ball of rubber bands.

Three rings: Come on, Gus. Where are you?

He answered on the fourth.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound as bubbly and friendly as Margaret. “Where'd you go today?”

“Nowhere.”

Hmm…this wasn't going so well. “You want to hear what happened after you took off?”

Silence.

“Uh, well, Margaret and I found something.”

I waited for him to ask what, but all I heard was a TV in the background.

“François' daily planner,” I said.

“So?”

So?
Jeez. Couldn't he at least give me more than a one-word answer?

“So,” I said, “it might have important information.”

“What do you mean ‘it might'? Haven't you read it yet?”

Aha. Now he sounded interested. I smiled and nodded at Margaret. She was chewing on her thumbnail, watching me.

“We can't read it because it's in French.”

No answer.

“Well?” I said.

“Well what?”

“Well,
two
things,” I said, taking a deep breath. “We need you to translate the French in the planner, and…the only reason I said all that to Angel is I was jealous because I didn't get chosen for the trio. And I promise I didn't mean any of it, especially about the squeaking. And I'm really, really sorry.”

“Oh, man,” he said, and right then, right there, I could feel his NSCCB vibrations pulsing through the telephone lines. “You're brilliant! The daily planner? That's a spectacular find. One hundred percent cool. I'll meet you guys at the midway, by the bingo tent.”

 

We sat at a picnic table under the blazing afternoon sun. Gus was squished between Margaret and me like a pig in a blanket, and all three of us were munching kettle corn, slugging lemon shake-ups, and poring over François' scribbles. Every ten seconds a man in the tent next to us would holler something like “Under the
B
, ladies and gentlemen, it's beeee…six,” and I thought how much easier it
would be to win that bingo jackpot than figure out this mess called François' planner.

Even Gus was having a hard time. “Man,” he said, “his handwriting's terrible. I can hardly read this.” I didn't say anything, but I was starting to wonder if he was as fluent in French as he'd claimed.

Starting at Wednesday, June 1, Gus traced his finger down the pages, muttering random words and phrases to himself: “‘
couteaux d'ordre
'…order knives…‘
preparez la crème de citron—tôt
'…prepare lemon custard—early.”

“Got something,” he announced, stopping on Monday, June 6. “Here, François says ‘
téléphoné à L Snout—jardinier des fleurs du Grimstones
.' That means ‘call L Snout, the Grimstones' flower gardener.' And look here”—he showed us an arrow that led to one word in the margin—“‘
disposé
?' That means ‘willing,'” Gus said, “like François wonders if Leonard is willing to do something.”

My heart pattered. “Keep going.”

Gus fumbled over the entry for Tuesday, June 7. “It's messy, hard to read, but I think it says, ‘Book airline ticket—Air France. Depart June 20.'” Then he sucked in a huge breath. “Holy tamale! Wait'll you hear what's next.”

“What?” Margaret and I said together.

“On Wednesday, June 8, François says, ‘Contact Rousseau. Still in Paris?' Then it says ‘How…much…for G's…diamond?' Yep! That's it, all right. ‘How much for G's diamond?' I'm ninety-eight percent sure of it.”

Margaret spewed a mouthful of kettle corn into her hand. “Oh…my…gosh.
G
means Grimstone. He's going to sell Mrs. Grimstone's diamonds in Paris.”

“Yeah, Rousseau's his Paris fence all right,” Gus said.

“Fence?” I said.

“Yeah. It's the guy who buys the stolen goods; happens in about sixty percent of theft cases. So,
now we know our perp's got a fence. That's good for us, though. It means he's still holding everything, so we've got time to find out where.”

I reached behind Gus and gave Margaret a high five. Finally, we had some hard evidence against François and Leonard.

Gus read more random words and phrases, like ‘new boxers' and ‘restock pantry,' but his finger stopped, and his eyes flew open at Tuesday, June 14. “Here's something good. This says, “‘1
P.M
. Tarts' soufflé at G's. L to work!'”

“What's that mean?” I said.

“Simple,” Gus said. “Tuesday was the soufflé demonstration, the day Mrs. Grimstone thinks she got robbed. Here's how it went down: The Grimstones' house was open; François was keeping everyone busy in the kitchen. So that's when Leonard went to work, as in
pulled off the heist
. Man, those guys are slick.”

“But what about Mr. Grimstone?” Margaret said. “Wouldn't he have been home?”

“No.” I shook my head, because the Grimstones' porch conversation had come back to me. “Mr. Grimstone was away Tuesday, remember? He didn't even know about the soufflé thing.”

“François and Leonard must've known he'd be gone,” Gus said. He turned back to the planner. Two seconds later he slammed it on the table and whistled. “Hot dog! We got 'em! We got 'em good. Look.”

To me, it looked like a bunch of random letters, like something Henry had scribbled: ‘
Téléphoné au contact de Snout—Combien serrait la valeur des pitayas?
' But Gus was bouncing and whooping like he'd just uncovered a mummy.

“What?” I said, tugging at his sleeve. “What does it mean?”

“It means I'm a hundred and ninety percent sure we're right, that's what, 'cause it says, ‘Call Snout's contact—How much are the Pitayas worth?'”

“G
et…out.” Margaret stared at Gus in amazement, lemon juice dribbling down her chin.

“Here's another Wednesday, June 15 entry.” Gus hunched back over the planner and squinted. “‘
Appelez le serrurier.
' Hmm…Oh, I got it! It means ‘call the'…um…I'm pretty sure it's
locksmith
. And then it says ‘office and pantry.' Yep.” Gus leaned back in his seat. “That's what it says. Sounds like he needs better locks, huh? Makes you wonder why, like maybe he's storing something
valuable
back there?”

Margaret and I looked at each other in shock. I told Gus about the fit François had thrown earlier.

“This is making perfect sense,” Gus said. “He's paranoid, a normal reaction for a perp. Actually, paranoia strikes at least eighty percent of all criminals. And our man is definitely freaked out. No doubt about it, he's got heirlooms hidden at Simply Paris.”

Excitement zipped through my body. Even my toenails tingled. It all fitted together: the airline ticket, the locksmith, the meeting with Leonard, the Paris connection, the Pitaya contact…on and on.

“Wait,” Gus said, his finger in the air, his nose to the planner again. “One last entry. According to this, on Saturday, June 18, there's a staff meeting on the patio from eight-thirty until eight forty-five, before the breakfast.” He closed the planner and grinned. “That's tomorrow morning, and guess who's gonna be there?”

Margaret hiccuped. “Us?”

“Yep. It's the perfect opportunity. We'll let ourselves in through the kitchen door, check things out while François is holding his meeting. Seventh
guideline, NSCCB: Double-check what you can. Seventy-five percent of mistakes come from not confirming the facts,” Gus said.

Well, I thought, if nothing else, he sure has those percentages down.

Gus wanted to try to get into Granny Goose's yard again, maybe later in the day, but I nixed that because her gate was still locked and Mom had said Granny Goose would be working the Tarts' tent through the evening. So we planned to meet on the courthouse square for the pancake breakfast at eight o'clock the next morning, then hit Simply Paris at eight twenty-five or so, right before the staff meeting. One of us would be the lookout—probably Margaret because she was the most scared—while the other two scoped out François' office and pantry. I was a little worried the doors would be locked—especially after his blowup this morning—but we'd deal with that if it happened.

It was almost time to get back to work at Mom's
smoothie booth, so we crunched the last of the ice from our lemon shake-ups, tossed the cups, and headed out of the midway. “Are you sure you guys don't have a rehearsal tomorrow morning?” I said.

“Nope,” Gus said. “We have a final dress rehearsal at two-thirty right before the performance, but that's it. What about you? You got to work with your mom?”

Ugh. I'd almost forgotten. “Yeah. I have to help set up for the Tarts' fish fry and the finale. But that isn't until noon, so we'll have plenty of time.”

“By noon,” Gus said with a grin, “we'll be at the cops' station, giving our sworn statements.”