Last month, when that pretty librarian Miss Peshong found me loitering around my favorite aisle, she smiled, nodded at the stack of mysteries in my arms, and said, “Judging by the books you’ve been reading for the Billy the Bookworm contest, Tessie, I’ve been wondering if you’re interested in becoming a real-life Nancy Drew when you grow up.”
Of course, I breathed in deep, smiled back, and told her, “That’s a bright idea. I’ll think about that,” even though it wasn’t and I wouldn’t. The only reason I was interested in reading those books was so I could learn more about doing crimes, not solving them. But I liked that Miss Peshong had given my future some thought and that she always smelled like baby powder even though she didn’t have a baby and she kept a pink lace handkerchief in her blouse sleeve in case a kid accidentally started crying when she saw a dad and his daughter checking books out together, so I felt sorta cruddy about fibbing to her, but only a little, because believe me, honesty is not always the best policy. If I’d told the librarian the truth, which was that I thought her idea stunk up the joint because when I grew up I was going to keep being exactly what I already was—an eavesdropper, liar, shoplifter, cat burglar, poison-pen writer extraordinaire, and top-notch blackmailer—because she goes to Mass at St. Catherine’s Church, the same way most everybody around here does, I’m pretty sure that’d get around the neighborhood in nothing flat.
“Yes. Solving mysteries is an interesting line of work that I think you’d be very well suited for, Tessie,” Miss Peshong said with a wink as she pulled a thick, black book with gold writing off the shelf I was standing next to. “Perhaps this will help set you on your path.”
I told her, “Thank you,” even though my knees buckled under the weight of Modern Detection and I had 0% interest in reading the darn thing, but what choice did I have? I had to keep up my front.
I almost sprained my arm pulling home the nine regular-sized mystery books and the other giant one Miss Peshong gave me in my Radio Flyer wagon, but I knew that baby-smelling librarian meant well, so I didn’t hold it against her. I also knew that she would ask me what I thought of Modern Detection the next time I stopped by the Finney, because she had to, if I wanted the book to count for the Billy the Bookworm contest, which I did. So to have at least a little something to make her believe that I’d read it, I reluctantly cracked it open that night, but in no time at all . . . I found myself flipping through those pages with fingertips that felt on fire! And at Mass the next morning, I went ahead and said a few Hail Marys for Miss Peshong, because it was thanks to her that I learned I could play both sides of the fence. I could steal a cake and eat it, too!
Due to extenuating circumstances—my mother—I hadn’t found the time to finish the book that has turned out to be such an eye-opening life changer, but I had learned in Chapter Two of Modern Detection that when it came to crime, it was extremely important for me to arrive at the scene of it sooner rather than later. So I snatched the double-Dutch jump rope from the closet, knotted it to the bedpost, and got ready to climb out of my bedroom window. The second my feet hit the ground, I was going to run across our backyard to the black iron fence that surrounds Holy Cross Cemetery and monkey over it faster than King Kong scaling the Empire State Building to do some gumshoeing.
On the other hand—I’ve come to learn that there is always another hand to slap you around, usually about the time you’re feeling like you got the world by the tail—no matter how much my detecting mind was telling me that heading over to the cemetery in the dead of night was a swell idea, my guts were reminding me about that other famous saying, “Haste makes waste,” which means a person should never be too fast to act or they could end up holding the shit end of the stick.
Believe me, if I coulda, I woulda shaken awake my sleeping sister so we could snoop at the cemetery together, but since there wasn’t a snowball’s chance in h-e-double-hockey-sticks that I could get Birdie up and running at that hour of the night—she has never been much of a night owl—it was just me and my churning tummy that wrestled my trusty Roy Rogers flashlight out from under the mattress, slid Daddy’s lucky Swiss Army Knife from under my pillow, and got down to business.
Watching my father die taught me the most important lesson I’ll ever learn in life—BE PREPARED—so I was already wearing my regular snooping clothes—black shorts, a navy-blue T-shirt that matches my eyes, and filthy white sneakers—when I slid my always nicked-up legs out of our bedroom window, shot a quick look over at Holy Cross to plan the quickest route to where I thought the voice and the scream might’ve come from, and . . . and . . . lo and behold! In the glow of one of the flickering streetlights alongside the road that snakes through the cemetery, I caught sight of a guy slithering through the gravestones with what looked like a limp body in his arms seconds before he disappeared behind Mr. Gilgood’s mausoleum!