from now, maybe two.’
‘OK, so we’ll work with seventy-five minutes,’ said Hitch, activating the countdown on his Spectrum-issue watch. ‘So where is it?’
Clancy led Hitch to his mother’s dressing room and Hitch surveyed the damage. He winced, ran his fingers over the wood. ‘Pear and walnut, made in the French provinces.’
He opened the drawers and examined their construction. ‘Circa 1727, very typical.’ He looked underneath the table top; found what he was looking for. ‘Surprising.’ Then he took a magnifier from his bag, held it over the damaged wood of the table. ‘A quality piece.’
He forwarded all this information via his watch – a thorough description of the wood, the polish, the patina, the exact colour of the remaining gold leaf and the precise extent of the damage.
Less than seven minutes later three restorers arrived. Hitch let them in and directed them upstairs. They said nothing but immediately set to work. Hitch handed Clancy a sponge and Ruby, who had just that minute arrived, a bucket of soapy water. He pointed to his car. ‘It will calm your nerves,’ he said. They didn’t argue.
When they were done washing the silver convertible they sat in the kitchen sipping the drinks Hitch had fixed – a couple of mint lemonade sodas. Hitch went up to check on the restorers. Sixty minutes after arriving, they had finished, their tools packed, dustsheets folded. Hitch took a fat wodge of twenty-dollar bills from his wallet, peeled off a large number and handed them to the guy in charge, shook them all by the hand and watched them leave. Then, reaching into his bag, he drew out a silver aerosol can, free of logo or label and sprayed it across the room.
‘What’s that?’ asked Clancy.
‘I think it must be an odour neutraliser,’ said Ruby.
‘I don’t smell anything,’ said Clancy.
Ruby looked at him. ‘Did the panic affect your brain? It’s to remove the smell – from all that polish and stuff.’
Done with that, Hitch picked up one of Mrs Crew’s perfume bottles, squeezed the atomiser and let it waft through the air. Now the room smelled as it should.
He checked his watch – seventy-four minutes gone. He took a final look around and, judging everything to be ship-shape, clicked his fingers, a signal that it was time to leave, then closed the door and walked speedily downstairs, trailed by Ruby and an awe-struck Clancy.
Before he exited, he turned to Clancy and said, ‘Don’t blow it by being all cute and nice to your mom. She’ll smell a rat in five seconds flat.’ He stepped into his car and turned the key. ‘Adios amigos,’ he called, then drove off in the direction of Cedarwood Drive. He had barely turned the corner of Rose when he saw Mrs Crew’s limousine sail by.
He glanced at his Spectrum-issue watch and smiled as the countdown hit zero.
Clancy watched as his mother pulled in through the gates. ‘Boy that’s some butler,’ he said.
‘Yeah,’ said Ruby, ‘that was impressive.’
Mrs Crew was getting out of the car.
‘Hey there Mom, how are you? Can I help you with your bags? Get you some iced-tea?’ called Clancy.
‘What are you doing?’ hissed Ruby.
‘I don’t know,’ whispered Clancy, ‘it’s the nerves.’
His mother was looking at him suspiciously. That was until Ruby kicked him hard in the shin and Clancy cursed loudly before punching her on the arm.
Mrs Crew’s face relaxed; everything was as it should be.
When Ruby returned to Cedarwood Drive, she walked upstairs into the kitchen. Mrs Digby’s voice called out. ‘A fellow dropped by to see you.’
‘Who?’ asked Ruby.
‘Well, it wasn’t Quent Humbert, if that’s what’s worrying you. It was that Ray Penny from the bookstore – he left something for you.’
There was a rectangular package on the hall table and next to it a scrawled note.
Your book came in, just thought I should drop it over, you being in such a hurry and all.
The poetry book cost no more than a few dollars. It was not a first edition, nor even a second. Its pages were torn and grubby and its binding was broken, some pages floating free of the spine. It was not signed by the author nor inscribed to anyone of note but still, the words were there and that was what really mattered.
Ruby began to read. She read it in the order the poems were set out. From front to back, every letter written she read, including the copyright page, the publisher’s address and the information saying where the book was printed. She read it all in case the dullest part of the book held some clue as to why it had been stolen. It didn’t seem to.
The weird thing was, there was a poem listed in the index – poem 14, ‘You Are a Poem, Celeste’ – but when Ruby looked for it, it didn’t seem to be there.
She checked the page number to see if perhaps one piece of the book had fallen out, become lost, but no, the page numbers were all in order; nothing was missing.
She remembered the newspaper article. She remembered that Mr Okra’s copy had been inscribed, by hand, by someone named Celeste.
Well, that’s certainly a connection, thought Ruby.
‘So what have you got there?’ said Mrs Digby, peering over Ruby’s shoulder. ‘Saints preserve us, that school of yours isn’t making you study that pretentious book of self-absorbed drivel?’
‘You know this poet?’ asked Ruby.
‘I do,’ replied Mrs Digby. She had her hands on her hips. ‘My cousin Emily had a job at the Scarlet Pagoda, back in the day and she said that JJ Calkin came in practically every week to watch the shows and gaze at his muse, whoever she might be – drove everyone quite doolally.’
‘From his poetry I would guess he wasn’t a happy guy.’
‘Lighten up is what Emily told him.’
‘How did that go down?’
‘He wasn’t a fellow who took criticism well – he never spoke to her again. You want a tuna sandwich? You look pasty.’
‘I’d rather have cake,’ said Ruby.
‘I’ll make you a sandwich,’ said the housekeeper.
It was much later, after supper in fact, that Ruby got a call, something important judging by the fly flashing amber on her Escape Watch. She excused herself, suggesting she needed an early night, climbed the stairs to her room, grabbed her jacket and climbed out of the window.
Her arm was buzzing – she looked down and saw that the fly was now illuminated red.
Jeepers, she thought. When do they expect me to sleep?
