gone too, a stroke taking her a year ago.
The fire crackled, and Frank joined me at the window. Lamplight pooled around my socks, and rain rat-a-tatted on the roof.
“Rain, rain, go away. Come again, another day,” Frank said.
“You go from Lester Ruben to Mother Goose. I guess Shakespeare’s a stretch.”
“Oh yeah? ‘Being your slave, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire?’”
“English 101, right? One of the sonnets?”
“Sonnet 57, to be precise.”
“I’m impressed.”
“Never underestimate me.” His hand brushed mine, and a charge ran up my arm. “You know, you don’t need to be jealous of Esperanza. You’re as pretty as she is.” He stammered over the last few words.
My cheeks grew hot. No guy had ever called me pretty.
Frank put his arm around my waist.
Surprising myself, I leaned against him. Frank understood my complicated feelings for Esperanza and Abuela, how they shut me out and acted like nothing mattered except knitting. Our friendship went back forever. Words were unnecessary.
“What are you two doing over there?” Esperanza said from behind us.
Frank and I disentangled and whirled.
Esperanza, balancing a tray holding three steaming mugs, winked at me. She placed the drinks on the coffee table and handed Frank a mug. Eyes downcast, he sipped the drink, fire flickering behind him.
Esperanza kicked off her heels and curled up on the sofa. She pulled a triangular shawl, knitted with blood-red yarn, out of a basket. Candy wrappers, tissue paper, and toothpicks poked out of her work. Rows of bobbles protruded from the material like scabs.
“What gallery is that for? The pattern’s amazing.” I almost added disturbing but didn’t want to say anything negative after my bad joke earlier. I sat cross-legged on the floor and took my calculus homework from my backpack. I caught Frank’s eye. “Think you could help me with this?”
“If you’ll proof my Ruben essay.”
“It’s a deal.”
He stretched out next to me, our awkward moment at the window forgotten.
Esperanza rummaged through a paper bag and selected a handful of eggshells. She held them next to the shawl.
“Well?” Frank asked. “Who’s taking it? To be honest, it makes me uneasy.”
“I’m sure a collector will like its edgy quality,” I said.
“Gabby’s right. My customers want a visceral reaction to their art.”
“You mean people who live in loft apartments with lots of black leather furniture and secret rooms full of whips and chains?” Frank asked.
Esperanza buried her face in the bag, mumbling about a broken coffee cup. She extracted a chipped handle and pipe cleaner.
Frank chuckled. “Or men in trench coats, lurking in dark alleys?”
Like our orange-skinned friend from that afternoon. I blurted, “Are you sure you’ve never heard of Mr. C?”
Esperanza looked up from threading the pipe cleaner into the knitted shawl. “Why do you ask?”
Answering a question with a question, her favorite stalling technique, gave her extra time to think of a response, which might or might not be the truth. Someone pounding on the door saved her from replying.
“Our first trick-or-treater.” Esperanza dropped the knitting on the sofa and slipped into her heels. “I’ll get it.” She tottered from the room.
Frank handed me his essay. “Something’s going on.”
“No kidding, Sherlock.”
“Hey, no need for sarcasm. It’s not like you ‘eased Mr. C into the conversation’. Could you have been any blunter?”
“The question popped out before I could stop it.” The steady drum of rain turned into a volley of hail. “What are trick-or-treaters doing out in this weather?”
“And what’s holding up Esperanza?”
“I bet she’s avoiding us in the kitchen or her bedroom,” I said. “We might not see her again tonight.”
“The mystery continues. Oh well, we’ve got plenty to keep us busy.” Frank bent his head over my calculus homework while I read his essay.
Raised voices echoed from the hallway. Something crashed and Mr. C, arm intertwined with Esperanza’s, barged though the door.
He ripped off his cap, hair spiking around his head like a halo of orange flame. “I decided for a trick instead of a treat.”
Chapter 4
Pattern for Disaster
Esperanza twisted, trying to escape, but Mr. C held on tight.
“Let her go,” Frank said.
“Okay, Knight, she’s all yours.” Mr. C gave Esperanza a gentle push in Frank’s direction. She teetered on her heels, and Mr. C jumped forward, helping Esperanza steady herself.
“Don’t touch me,” Esperanza said. “And leave them out of this.”
“I don’t think so. You’ve swindled me, and I bet your sister and her Knight were part of the con game.” Mr. C cracked his knuckles. “I was easy on you kids this afternoon, knowing you’d lead me straight to the goods.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
Esperanza glanced in my direction but said to Mr. C, “Manipulating my sister will get you nowhere.”
“It got me here, didn’t it?” Mr. C nodded at Esperanza’s knitting and whistled. “The final tapestry in The Disaster Series?”
“Look, buddy, I’m calling the police.” Frank tapped numbers into his cell phone.
“Go ahead, but what are you going to tell them? We’re having a friendly conversation here. Right, Hope?”
Esperanza gestured for Frank to put his phone away. “How’d you find me?”
“It took a while, what with your letters coming from different postmarks and your phony name.” Mr. C fingered a piece of paper wedged inside his scarf. “I decided to use your abilities against you.”
“Wait a minute, that scarf was supposed to help someone find their lost love,” Esperanza said. “The scraps of paper were from their letters, or so you said. Was it a trick?”
“Yep,
