A Recipe for Robbery (11 page)

I
was up by seven-thirty the next morning. I shared a piece of cinnamon toast with Henry, took a quick swig of an orange soda I'd hidden in the refrigerator, and then rushed out the door. I even got away before Mom had a chance to start in with her typical comments about my fashion choices, like “Don't you have any shoes in your closet besides flip-flops, Lindy?” or “Isn't that T-shirt a little worn out, dear?”

It was going to be another scorcher outside. I could tell by the early-morning sun; it glowed over the horizon like a giant pink grapefruit.

When I got downtown, the festival was in full
swing: Tarts flipping pancakes, balloon clowns cranking out hats, and the Cornhuskers Bluegrass Band warming up for a group of cloggers.

I found Gus right away. He already had a tower of pancakes drenched in blueberry syrup. I got some, too, then sat across from him. First, I explained about Margaret's baby-sitting job. Next, I told him the newest on Granny Goose's problems. Last, I took a deep breath and said, “Leonard's got the locket.”

Gus's eyes bugged way open. “Wha-wha?” He tried to keep talking, but his mouth was too crammed with pancakes and syrup for me to understand him. He gulped and sputtered and held a pointed finger in the air, like he was trying to say, “Just a minute,” but I rushed through my story and suspicions about Leonard without taking a breath. The whole time I talked, Gus stared at me and chewed, and when I finished, he leaned back in his chair and wiped a glob of syrup off his chin.

I felt so stupid, like I should have a flaming red
S
branded on each cheek, because hadn't Gus been the one to insist we hide the locket on the top shelf? If I'd only just listened to his NSCCB statistics, we wouldn't be in this situation now.

Gus took a swig of his milk. “Don't feel bad,” he said, “'cause, seriously, here's the thing: There's only a forty-five percent chance, tops, of a double cross in cases like this. Odds are way higher that Leonard still has the locket, or it's hidden with the other heirlooms at Simply Paris. So don't worry. We're gonna find all of them.”

I didn't have a clue where the NSCCBs dug up all their percentage facts, and none of what Gus just said made any sense to me, but for the first time since I'd discovered the locket was gone, I felt a tad bit—maybe 10 percent—better.

After finishing our pancakes, we headed straight to Simply Paris. The wooden cutout of François stood poised outside the café again this morning, only this time it held a different sign:

B
LOOMSBERRIANS: MAKE HASTE
.

D
ELIGHT YOUR BUDS OF TASTE
!

J
OIN US ON THE MORNING OF
S
ATURDAY, THE
18
TH DAY OF
J
UNE, FOR AN UNSURPASSED
F
RENCH
O
MELET
B
REAKFAST
E
XTRAVAGANZA, PRESENTED BY
F
RANÇOIS
P
OUPPIÈRE OF
P
ARIS
. D
OORS OPEN AT
9:00
A.M. PRECISELY
. N
O EARLY BIRDS, PLEASE
.

(A
N ADDED BONUS
: P
ATRONS WILL BE GREETED AND SEATED BY OUR VERY OWN
C
UCUMBER
P
RINCESS
.)

P
ATIO DINING IF WEATHER PERMITS
. C
UCUMBER
F
ESTIVAL
S
PECIAL
, O
NLY
$25
PER PERSON
.

 

“Oh, crud,” I said, “I can't believe Angel's going to be here.”

Gus didn't say anything, but his face paled a little. I silently vowed to ruin the second princess gown if Angel muttered even one word to us this morning.

I pressed my nose against the restaurant window. Servers zipped back and forth like honeybees, carrying
long-stemmed glasses and silverware and vases filled with flowers. François stood in the middle of the dining room, his mustache tips curled into perfect
O
s. His apron was gone today, replaced by a sleek black coat with long tails, a black bow tie, and black pants. His chef's hat seemed even puffier than yesterday's, and it had a swirly black
F
stitched on the front of it.

I couldn't read François' lips, but it looked like he was firing off instructions. Every few seconds he would clap his hands and point to something, and all the servers would scramble in that direction. A stern-looking woman stood beside him, checking things off in a notebook as he spoke. She towered over him, and except for the chef's hat, they were dressed exactly alike. Her raven black hair was pulled into a knot at the back of her neck.

When the woman pointed at a clock on the wall, which read eight twenty-eight, François clapped his hands again. He headed toward the far end of the
restaurant, which opened into a large patio. Like robots, the workers all followed him outdoors.

“Man, this is working out perfect,” Gus said. “The meeting's supposed to last until eight forty-five. We should be able to scope out the pantry and his office without any problems.”

I felt shaky and light-headed as we swept around the alley corner. We strode together toward the kitchen, and just like yesterday, accordion music blared from inside. I pressed my face against the screen door. Gus was right. Not a soul in sight; they all were at the meeting.

Gus looked over his shoulder and down the alley, both ways. “Let's hit it,” he said. He pushed on the door.

It didn't open.

“I
t's stuck,” Gus muttered. He rammed the frame with the palm of his hand. The door flew open, slamming into a tall coatrack. The rack crashed to the floor, and a bunch of white aprons and chef hats sailed across the kitchen.

We scurried around the floor like mice after crumbs, trying to get everything picked up and hung back on the rack. The wall clock read eight thirty-two. We'd already blown two minutes.

I checked out the tidy kitchen. Sauces simmered on a twelve-burner stove; chopped veggies sat in bowls, waiting for their omelets; and long loaves
of French bread—at least twenty of them—were lined up on the counter. Next to me, a collection of knives glistened against the wall: long, skinny fish knives; short paring knives; bread knives; curved knives; hooked knives; serrated knives. It was the knife in the middle that raised the hairs on my neck: bigger than a hatchet, with a razor-sharp edge. I shivered. What did François use that for anyway?

We crossed the kitchen and ventured into a narrow hallway. Three closed doors led off it. The door to my right had a sign that said E
MPLOYEES
' R
ESTROOM
, so we could scratch that. The door to my left was unmarked. Gus turned the knob. “It's the pantry,” he said. “I'll take it. You take the office.”

He pointed down the hall to a door with frosted glass. I approached it cautiously. A wooden plaque on the wall said, C
HEF'S
O
FFICE
. K
NOCK BEFORE ENTERING
!

“Wait,” I whispered. “What if someone comes back here? Let's go over our escape plan.”

“Okay, if one of us hears or sees something, we'll cough three times to let the other know. Then, when the coast is clear, we'll take off back through the kitchen. Got it?”

I nodded, but my heart hammered hard. I still hadn't forgotten François' meltdown from yesterday.

Gus stepped into the pantry, then peeked back out at me. “This might take awhile. There's a bunch of stuff stored in here,” he said. “I'll meet you in the alley at eight forty-five.”

And then he disappeared, pulling the door after him.

Now it was my turn. I reached for the knob, my hand so slick with sweat I could barely turn it. Luckily, it opened. I flipped the overhead light on and slipped into the room, closing the door after me. Where to begin?

The first thing I checked was a large wooden desk in the corner. It was crammed with framed photographs of François, loose papers, recipe books, and
garden catalogs. A cutlery magazine was opened to page 16, where the headline read, N
O
M
ATTER
H
OW
Y
OU
S
LICE
I
T
,
THE
K
NIFE
M
AKES THE
D
IFFERENCE
.

A digital clock on François' desk said 8:35. Ten minutes until the meeting ended. I wasn't having any luck on top of the desk; maybe I should look under it. I leaned down, checked all around the floor. Nothing. Just an empty trash can. I started to pull myself up, then…

Rrrrrring…rrrrrring…rrrrrring.

The phone! Suppose François ran in here to answer it? Panicking, I scrambled under the desk. I scooted as far back as possible and huddled against the trash can.

The phone rang five times, until François' answering machine picked up. “
Bonjour
. You have contacted the office of Chef François Pouppière, proprietor of Simply Paris, European dining at its best. Deliver a message,
s'il vous plaît
, and I shall return it as quickly as possible.
Merci beaucoup
.”

“Yeah, uh…hello,” said the caller. “Snout here.”

Leonard!
I almost spit up in the trash can, his voice scared me so bad.

“I'll be over today at four with everything,” he said, “after you close shop. Got the rest of those Pitayas—that ruby variety you liked.” He chuckled, sending shivers up my spine. “So, errr…guess we'll go over everything you've got before your trip, eh? Oh, one last thing. My labor's gonna run higher than the original estimate.”

You could've knocked me over with a puff of air. Leonard and François, today at four, and Leonard was bringing the Pitayas. The locket, too, I bet. And I'd been lucky enough to hear all about it.

Wait till I told Gus and Margaret. They'd flip.

I crawled out from under the desk, all set to run to the pantry after Gus. But when I stood up, I noticed a door in the far corner.

Could more of the heirlooms be in there?
François was hiding some of them, I'd just heard so. “Guess we'll go over everything
you've
got,” Leonard had said.

I checked the clock again. Six minutes, plenty of time. I sped across the floor and opened the door, into a closet. Against the back wall sat some kind of bundle, covered with a blanket. I dropped to my knees, lifted the blanket, and pulled out a small suitcase.

I fumbled with the clasps. Locked. I shook it. Whatever was in there rattled and slid around like…
jewelry!

I'd found the heirlooms.

I leaped up from the floor, ready to shout, “Hallelujah!” I reached for the suitcase. Should I take it? No, bad idea. Because it wasn't holding all the heirlooms; Leonard still had the Pitayas and the locket. If I took the suitcase and François checked the closet later, he'd tip Leonard off. We might not recover everything.

We'd have to wait until four o'clock when they met, when they had everything laid out. I pushed the suitcase into the closet, threw the blanket over it, then flew across the room. I turned off the light and slipped back into the hallway, trembling with excitement.

I'd just started after Gus when footsteps clicked across the kitchen floor. Snappy, no-nonsense clicks, and they were getting louder.

I
stood against the hallway wall, frozen with fright. I couldn't yell for Gus. I'd be heard. There wasn't time to run to the pantry after him; it was too close to the kitchen. So I coughed. Three huge hacking barks that left my throat raw.

“Goodness. That's quite a cough, dear. Allergies?”

I spun around. A woman—the same one who'd been with François in the dining room—stood a millimeter away from the pantry door. She looked at me curiously. Could she hear my heart, thumping its way up my throat?

“Er…I'm fine, thanks.” I sputtered one last,
pathetic cough into my fist. What was Gus doing? I hoped he'd heard my warning, and that he'd stay hidden.

“My goodness,” she said, “I certainly didn't expect to find our Princess in the bowels of the restaurant.”

Princess
? Oh, no. She thought I was Angel.

“I'm Greta, François' fiancée.” She grasped my hand firmly, pumping my arm like it was a barbell. “I run the dining room, so you'll be reporting to me. Now. First things first. Let's take care of that cough.” She took my arm, and I obediently pattered beside her to the kitchen, every nerve in my body on fire.

Greta poured a tall glass of water and handed it to me. I took a swig, then another and another, frantically thinking of something to say.

“Th-thank you.”

“Are you certain you'll be able to greet properly? François will have a fit if you cough on any of our diners.” She had her back to me and was flipping through the rack of aprons and hats.

“This should do nicely.” She pulled a miniature chef's hat from the rack and tugged it onto my head. “Although we definitely need to do something with those bangs.”

She tucked my loose hair under the hat, then stepped back and studied me, frowning. “No,” she said, crinkling her nose. “The shorts and flip-flops are not going to work. Actually, I'm a bit taken aback by your attire. François and I expected you to arrive in your princess gown.”

“Sorry. It's stained.”

“Tsk, tsk, that's a shame.” She grabbed a long white apron and pulled it over my neck, wrapping its strings around and around my waist, tying them so tight I could barely breathe. “This will have to do. At least it will hide the shorts. Okay, dear, let's go. The doors open soon. It's about time for you to charm our customers.”

She took my arm, and I forced three more coughs up from my lungs, signaling to Gus the coast was clear. I hoped he heard me.

I clunked alongside Greta, sweating like my dad after a hard day at the fire station. What would happen when the real Princess showed up? Or even worse, what if François recognized me? He'd peg me as an impostor right away. Did he know I had the planner? Suppose Cricket had told him I'd been in his car?

I looked around, plotting my escape. I'd have to slip back through the kitchen, but I couldn't go anywhere until Greta left my side.

“I'll let François know you're here in a minute,” she said. “First, I want to go over your routine.”

She took hold of my shoulders. “Stand up straight, please. As you well know from your beauty pageant experience, posture is a critical component of poise. Do…not…slouch. I repeat, do not slouch!”

I snapped my shoulders back and stood at attention, straighter than a bamboo rod. No point in getting her irritated with me now. If we got this over with quick, maybe she'd join François on the patio
and I could get away before Angel showed up.

“You are the official greeter,” she explained. “The first impression of Simply Paris, so to speak. Do you comprehend that?”

“Uh…yes.”

“Good. Now, we'd like to see your Princess qualities shine through to our diners. Do you know how to curtsy?”

“Uh, well…”

Uh-oh. From the corner of my eye, I'd just spotted trouble, all decked out in a pink gown. She was standing outside the restaurant door with her grandmother. Mrs. Grimstone rapped on the glass.

“Hold on,” Greta said to me. “We've got early birds. You know, I'm sometimes astounded at the rudeness of people. The sign clearly states that we open at nine. Can't they read?”

She clicked across the granite floor, toward the door.

The last thing I saw before running was Gus. He
was standing behind Mrs. Grimstone, waving at me.

Once I made it to the kitchen I tore off the apron and the hat and flew out the back door. I shot down the alley, trying to swallow the squeal at the back of my throat. I slid to a stop where the alley met the sidewalk, then peeked around the corner. Gus was still staring in the window of Simply Paris, looking confused.

I couldn't go get him, because I couldn't chance being seen outside the café's window by Greta. Suppose she pointed me out to Mrs. Grimstone, saying, “This girl is an impostor! Someone call her mother immediately.”

I whistled, and Gus looked up. I whistled again, caught his eye for a split second, then ducked back into the alley.

“Oh, man,” he said, swinging around the corner of the building to join me. “That was a close call.”

“You're telling me.” I leaned against the brick wall, still shaking. And then I filled him in on what
I'd found and overheard in François' office.

“Holy tamale! That's awesome! I can't believe it!” He sputtered on and on, praising me so much I thought I'd burst with pride. “Man,” he said, “this is one hundred percent in the bag now. All we have to do is be here for the four o'clock meeting.”

“Sounds good to me.” I grinned at him, but on the inside I was still shivering. What if Leonard and François caught us? They wouldn't be exactly thrilled about three kids foiling their plans. I'd already gotten an earful of François' temper, and Leonard wasn't what you would call a fluffy little teddy bear.

I started down the alley, anxious to get away from Simply Paris before Greta or François saw me, maybe go for a cold drink and work up more nerve for this four o'clock rendezvous. Gus called me back. “Wait. I almost forgot. I just overheard Mrs. Grimstone tell her husband she wanted to talk to Cricket. She mentioned Granny Goose, and it sounds like something else happened. Maybe
you should go in the salon, see if you can get the scoop.”

“Me?” I wasn't so sure I could pull it off, the way my heart was still pounding.

“Yeah. I'd go, but I figured it'd look funny for a guy to be hanging around a hair salon. Know what I mean?”

I said, “Okay,” and Gus waited in the alley while I hurried past the front window of Simply Paris. Opening the door to Shear Magic, I quickly checked out the salon, looking for Cricket and Mrs. Grimstone. I didn't see them, so I figured they must be somewhere in the back, behind the row of whirring hair dryers.

The girl behind the counter clipped on her M
ARCY
name tag and looked up at me. “You here for a trim?” she said, staring at my bangs. She rapped her fingers on the appointment book.

“Oh. Hi, Marcy. I, uh, would like to schedule a haircut. How about next week?”

“Yeah, but I only got an opening with Tammi. Chenille, Deb, Paula, and Madison are booked up, and Cricket's going to be out of town for the next couple of weeks. I've got Wednesday at ten.”

“That'll work fine,” I said over my shoulder as I headed to the far end of the salon. “I'll be right back. I just need to use your bathroom.” I wound my way around the dryers and comb-out stations, stopping in front of a curtain with a sign that said N
EW
N
AILS
N
OW
! M
ANICURES
/P
EDICURES
. When I heard Mrs. Grimstone's voice behind the curtain, I parted it, ever so slightly.

“There should be an arrest very soon,” Mrs. Grimstone said to Cricket. “I just stopped by the police station. An officer was at the Unger woman's house this morning, and of all things, he found one of my Pitayas in that kook's turtle pen.”