“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 a complicated series of docks, several boats and the boathouse, which was bigger than many of the houses on Alan’s street. The tree was a huge maple, with its branches reaching out over the party-goers, tiny white lights twisted in the branches. A sunset was beginning to develop like a photograph over the lake—it was still light out, but it was that kind of golden light that reminded Alan of warm maple syrup.
When Monica walked up and touched Mr. Pratt’s arm to get his attention, Alan thought he saw his sister stiffen slightly, like Picasso the family cat did when a neighbouring cat invaded his territory.
“What’s she saying, do you think?” Ziggy said.
The violinist bent his head to hear Monica’s message, putting his arm around her shoulders as he did so. Monica leaned away, not looking very happy.
“Hmm,” Josée said. “He is creepy. Touchy-creepy.” Mr. Pratt put his other arm around Candace, who looked a bit unsteady. Alan wondered if her hurt foot was real, after all. The three of them seemed to be having an intense conversation.
“You know, this would be good practice,” Ziggy said.
“For what?”
“For when you’re a detective and you have to keep someone under observation. We should sneak up real close from the other side of the tree without them seeing us, and try to hear what they’re saying.”
“That would be eavesdropping,” Josée said.
“Not for the detective, it wouldn’t be,” Ziggy countered. “We’ll be his assistants. Information gathering, eh?”
“And if they catch us spying on them?”
“We just pretend it was a coincidence. Come on. It’ll be fun.” They wouldn’t really have to do much skulking around, just make their way around the edge of the crowd to where the tree was, then stand behind it. They’d be able to hear everything Mr. Pratt and the girls said.
There were a few people wandering around on the lawn, admiring the flower beds and strolling down the grassy slope, or taking the stairs to look at the boats. Alan began to make his way towards the tree, weaving his way past the chattering groups of adults. Maybe he didn’t have to sneak around at all—real detectives didn’t hide what they were doing, at least not the ones in his favourite books. The P.I. types in books just walked up to a suspect and asked them all sorts of nosy questions. And the people usually answered them, too. But that was when there was a crime under investigation. The only crime here was that Mr. Pratt was being creepy, and probably none of the adults noticed.
“Hey, I thought we were sneaking up on them,” Ziggy said, as Alan changed course.
“I thought it would be easier to go up and say hi, instead of sneaking around,” Alan said. But there was no point in doing either by then, because the next time they got a clear view of the spot under the tree, Hugh Pratt was talking to a husband-and-wife couple in matching shirts, and both girls had disappeared.
Four
Alan felt a tap on his shoulder. He turned around, and it was Monica.
“I thought you’d like to know, Mr. Pratt is playing for the guests out on the patio in a little while, if you want to stay and hear it. We can go down to the boathouse later, okay?” She smiled and slipped away.
“Great. She snuck up on us,” Ziggy said. “She wouldn’t even have seen us if we’d been doing it the right way.”
“That was nice of her,” Josée said. “I wouldn’t mind hearing what a million dollars sounds like.”
“I doubt you could tell the Stradder is worth a million bucks, just by hearing it,” Ziggy said.
“Can you imagine—all that money for a musical instrument?” Josée said. “When there are children starving in the Third World?”
“Do you think these people care about that?” Ziggy said. “How could you live in a house like this and at the same time be worried about starving Third World people?”
“Monica cares,” Josée said.