is a staff area, but I like it because it’s quiet,” she said.
Monica told them about her school in the city—the one her mother had attended.
“I don’t know many people up here,” she said. “That’s why I take summer ballet. I’m supposed to make friends.” She said it sadly, as if she hadn’t found any.
“You can come with us when we do stuff, if you want,” Josée said. Alan and Ziggy exchanged dark looks. Monica seemed okay, but four in the canoe would be crowded, and Josée acted more, well, like a girl when there was another girl around. It wasn’t as if Alan and Ziggy were interested in ballet. Alan’s violin lessons were bad enough.
“If I’m allowed,” Monica said, “that would be great.” Alan figured she probably wasn’t allowed to hang around with local kids, anyway. Except for ballet dancers.
“Who were you at the beach with, then?” he asked. Monica looked surprised.
“Oh, I was sort of babysitting—our gardener’s little girl. It was her day off, so my mother volunteered me to go along and look after Taylor. I think mother just wanted me out of the house.”
“Aren’t you a bit young for babysitting?” Ziggy said.
“I’m twelve,” Monica said. “Mother says I act like I’m twenty, though.” There was no answer to that, and anyway, she did seem a lot older than they were. Maybe it was because she was dressed up like Candace was.
“You said you’d met the violinist before,” Alan said. “Have you heard him play?”
“No—I’m not really into classical music,” Monica said. “My father plays opera CDs full blast Saturday mornings and it drives me crazy.”
“Ouch,” Ziggy said.
“Do you like that kind of music?” Monica asked Alan.
“He plays,” Ziggy said.
“I’m lousy at it, though,” Alan said at once. “But I like it if the person playing knows what he’s doing. Or she. My sister’s pretty good.”
“She’s amazing,” Josée said. “She’ll probably be famous like Mr. Pratt, one day.”
“Is that why she was following him around like a puppy dog up there?” Monica said. Yep, Alan thought. Monica Weems acts a lot older than she looks. A lot snobbier, too.
A woman in a glittery dress called to them from the balcony and beckoned to Monica.
“Shoot,” she said. “Mother wants me. You can go get more food if you want. I’ll probably be awhile. Maybe later you can come down to the boathouse with me. See ya.” She left her paper plate on the table and made her way back up to the patio.
“She’s weird,” Ziggy said.
“She’s lonely, that’s all,” Josée said.
They went back for seconds and watched as the guest of honour strolled around, being introduced to people, shaking hands. Every so often he would throw back his head, toss his floppy black hair and laugh at something someone had said. When he did so, every head would turn. He had a weird laugh, slightly metallic, as if the laughter was being piped in through a really tinny pair of speakers.
“Monica was right, Alain,” Josée said, suddenly. A kind of shadow was following the musician around—well not a shadow really, because she was perfectly solid. Candace. She was carrying that black leather briefcase thing, and they saw her bring him a pen when he asked for one, beckoning to her like she was a servant.
“What is with her?” Alan said. “She’s acting like his maid. Is she nuts?”
“A brush with fame will bring you shame,” Ziggy said, in his grandfather voice. “Look, I bet now she’s being asked to do something else.” Mr. Pratt had taken the pen (to autograph a CD), then muttered something quietly to Candace, leaning down to whisper in her ear. Candace became even more radiant as he did so—sort of eager, Alan thought. Like she’s picturing herself as a rising star and Mr. Pratt as the famous coach. She started moving in their direction, although she didn’t notice them as she passed. With a determined look in her eyes, Candace headed for the bar, the leather briefcase slung like a big purse over her shoulder.
“A glass of white wine for Mr. Pratt, please,” she said with confidence. There were two men standing at the bar table, who looked like they were waiting to be served, and she butted right in front of them.
“There’s no way she looks old enough. Even with the makeup,” Josée said.
The bartender picked up one of the open bottles sitting in the ice barrel and poured some wine into a long-stemmed glass. He handed it to Candace without a word and took the next drink order from the man standing behind her. She obviously wasn’t interested in drinking it herself—anyone could see that just by looking at her, Alan thought. She looked like she was carrying something holy. First it was his briefcase. Then his wine glass. What was next? His violin, probably. Which she’d break, then go to jail.
Carrying the Stradivarius violin case in from the van had not been such a big deal. It wasn’t heavy, and he hadn’t felt any strange alien vibrations from the instrument nestled inside. Still, he had to admit he’d felt relieved when he had handed it over to Mr. Pratt in the hallway.
“Hey, we could try what your sister just pulled off, eh?” Ziggy said. “Just go up and ask for a glass of wine for Mr. Pratt.”
“I doubt it would work,” Alan said. “Anyway, who wants to drink wine? Yuck.”
“I’ve tried it,” Josée said. “It’s sour and awful.”
“I just like doing stuff I’m not supposed to do,” Ziggy said.
“Well, not here, okay?” Alan said. “Mom would kill us.”
“And you’d puke,” Josée added.
“So what do we do if Dylan shows up?” Ziggy said when they had refilled their plates. Josée and Alan had slices of chocolate cake, and Ziggy had another pile of shrimp, as well as cake. Alan thought his friend might be sick anyway, even if he didn’t get to try a glass of wine. They stayed up on the patio to eat. The picnic table had felt too private, not a good place to be if Dylan found them.
“Monica said he was in the boathouse,” Josée said.
“Yeah, and she wants to take us down there,” Alan said. “Why?”
“Maybe she wants to lure us into the Weem Team’s torture chamber,” Ziggy said.
“Ew. Quel thought.”
“There she is,” Alan said a few minutes later, pointing. Monica was threading through the crowd, heading straight for Mr. Pratt, who was signing autographs again. Candace was standing at his side like an honour guard. They were standing under a tree at the furthest corner of the patio, just in front of a set of stairs leading down to the waterfront. At the bottom of the stairs was
