How to Curse in Hieroglyphics (9 page)

Artie frowned fiercely at them through the skewed lenses of his glasses but they just laughed harder. And behind them, the painted image of the princess stared at him haughtily.

“That's it!” he huffed. “I'm goin' home. This is dumber than dumb and you're all a buncha dummies for believing in some mouldy old mummy's curse. Mummy dummies! That's what you are.”

With that, he gathered his dignity around him, stuck his chin out and headed for the tent flap.

“You better leave that baseball here, Artie Bartleby,” Cheryl called after him. “You don't want a curse following you home!”

Without missing a beat, Artie reached into the
bib of his overalls, turned and cricked one leg up in a pitcher's stance, and threw. All things considered, he probably should have tried out for Little League that year. His throw was fast, straight, and his aim was dead on. Unfortunately, he'd been aiming at the scarab beetle jewel on the sarcophagus of the princess. The ball smacked off the jewel with a sharp
thwack!
and everyone flinched and froze.

There was a moment of silence.

The light in the tent seemed to flicker. Angrily.

Tweed peered at the scarab and in a horrified whisper said, “It's
cracked
…”

Artie ran forward and shouldered her aside, examining the stone for himself.

“I didn't do it!” he screeched. “It's old! It was already broken! Cheaply made! Manufacturer's defect! Glaack!”

Over the ruckus of Artie's panicked protests, Pilot and the twins suddenly heard a strange sound, like the moaning of a high wind. The tent canvas began to creak, like the sails of a ship straining against a rising storm. Scattered wood chips and shredded newspaper kicked up off the floor of the tent, spinning in a dozen little whirlwinds . and then . with a hollow cracking noise, the lid of the sarcophagus of the Princess ZaharaSafiya . began to open.

“Gaaaah!!” Cheryl and Tweed screamed in chorus.

A sickly, dusky-purple mist snaked out from the casket, and a sound like a ghostly shriek clawed at the air.

The twins were already out of the tent and halfway to the carnival gates by that point. They had seen more than enough mummy movies to know what was going on.

Pilot took off after them. “C'mon, Art-Bart!” he shouted over his shoulder as he ran. “Move those Keds!”

A handful of surprised carnies shouted at the “crazy danged kids!” as they careened past, and Colonel Dudley himself stuck his head out of his tent to see what all the commotion was about. But the twins just kept on running, a blur of plaid-and-denim and black-clad arms and legs windmilling crazily all the way back to the safety of the headquarters of C
+
T Enterprises.

7

CAT'S PYJAMAS

“L
et's … not … do … that … again …” Pilot gasped for breath, flopping over the side of the Moviemobile to land, sprawled in the convertible's back seat. Out of sight of any vengeful mummies or angry carnival folk who might be hot on their trail. “And Bartleby … if you ever … ever … uh …”

He drifted to silence, peering over the back of the front seats and counting the pairs of eyes that were staring up at him from hiding spots beneath the car's dashboard. The first pair were grey, beneath a fringe of dark hair. The others, blue and framed behind glasses on either side of a freckled nose.

One … two …

There was no third pair.

“Where's Artie?” Pilot asked.

The girls glanced around the Moviemobile, as if they expected to find him crouched behind one of the headrests or stuffed in the glove compartment. When he failed to appear, the girls clambered out of the car and, together, the trio crept back to the door of the barn. They cracked the barn doors open and peered out, bracing themselves for nightmarish visions of a shambling, bandage-wrapped apparition heading toward them. Or maybe a demonic sandstorm, devouring the carnival whole.

They expected screaming.

Panicked running and flailing.

Mayhem.

Not
a lone robin circling carelessly in the cloudless, late-afternoon sky, tweeting merrily as it soared over the tops of a handful of still-standing,
non
-smouldering carnival tents.

There wasn't a single rampaging, undead, bloodthirsty, flesh-craving revenge-bent monster of myth and/or legend anywhere to be seen.

Nor any eleven-year-old, bespectacled boys.

Tweed turned to Pilot. “I thought Artie was right behind you.”

“He was!”

“Aw c'mon.” Cheryl said. “Shrimpcake is probably halfway home by now! I'd bet half next week's allowance
and
my lucky toothbrush that if we got on our bikes and rode down to the general store, we'd find him hiding back behind the Dumpster. Just like usual.”

Pilot and Tweed exchanged a glance, but neither of them took her up on her offer. And, to be fair, Cheryl didn't exactly run for their trusty ten-speed steeds either. Instead she hesitated, hands on hips, staring out the barn door and off into the distance. She looked as if she was seriously
thinking
about going to look for Artie. But whether she was thinking about doing that back at the Bartleby store, or back at the carnival, Pilot and Tweed couldn't tell. All they knew was that there was a determined, steely glint sparking in her blue eyes.

The same glint that always got Pilot just a little bit worried.

But then, suddenly, Pops hollered from the house that it was getting late in the day and the girls had better get the weekend triple bill posted up on the roadside sign, gosh darn it all! Sundown was on the way! The girls jumped and glanced at each other guiltily. In all of the carnival kerfuffle, they'd both totally forgotten about their drive-in duties. Pops was counting on them!

“On it, Pops!” Cheryl yodelled, poking her head out the barn door and giving him a wave.

“Oh!” Pops said. “By the by, either o' you girls seen the Bartleby boy lately?”

The twins froze.

“Uh …” Cheryl glanced at Tweed.

Tweed glanced at Cheryl. “Uh …”

“Mrs. Bartleby was phoning around.” Pops shrugged. “Seems Artie went out this afternoon and never made it home for dinner.” Cheryl could see him frowning faintly as he shaded his eyes with one hand and gazed into the distance to where they could just see the top of the Ferris wheel poking up over the tent peaks. “I told her not to worry. I think I know where he's scampered off to. After you're done with the sign, I'll fix you both something to eat—Yeager, you're welcome to join us—so go on now, scoot.”

As Pops disappeared back into the house, Tweed sent Pilot to fetch the extension ladder, double time. She and Cheryl ran to get the plastic letters that slotted into the light-up sign below the drive-in's twinkly-shooting-star logo. Once they were both high up on the sign's catwalk, they craned their necks to see if they could spot Artie across the road. Or a shambling creature of the undead. But aside from the increasingly frantic bustle of carnival set-up and the occasional
KA-BLAAMM!!!
from Human Cannonball test shots, there seemed to be absolutely nothing out of the ordinary going on at the World-O-Wonders. It was befuddling.

“Is there a Dumpster over there?” Cheryl asked, anxiously, as she slid a letter
O
into place. “I'll bet he's behind the Dumpster.”

“I can't tell from here,” Tweed said, shading her eyes from the low-riding sun. “There are too many tents.”

“Hand me another
O,”
Cheryl said. “When it gets dark, everyone is gonna come here to the drive-in instead of going there. The place will be empty except for bored, lonely carnies, and we can sneak back in and find that pesky Shrimpcake! Hand me another
O
…”

Finally (and with only one spelling error on the sign—“LAGOOON” had sprouted an extra
O
somehow), the twins climbed down and flipped the big lever in the control box at the base of the sign. The day's chaotic events were forgotten for a moment as they stood gazing up, basking in the glow of their very first night as the Starlight's official programmers, supremely confident that such an irresistible roster would triumph over paltry carnival offerings.

But only for a moment. On the way back to the barn to stow the ladder, they filled Pilot in on their plan to sneak back into the carnival after nightfall and rescue Artie. They had barely stepped through the barn door when the big black rotary phone on the workbench started to ring.

Cheryl left the others to put away the ladder and picked up the clunky handset with her standard “Yello …”

Tweed watched, curious, as her cousin listened to a high-pitched, rapid-fire stream of conversation, all the while trying to jam a word in edgewise. An intriguing parade of facial expressions marched across Cheryl's features.

“What can I do for y—”

Cheryl paused, clearly interrupted but listening attentively.

“Last Minute Club? Cruise, huh? Bu—”

Her eyes went a bit wide as she listened some more.

“We're a little busy—”

She nodded and tried again.

“Well, of course we weren't toying with you . Bu—”

Exasperated sigh.

“It's just that we programmed the triple bi—” Comic, exaggerated eye-roll . “Uh .
how
many?”

Finger-twirl at temple, indicating kookiness.

“How
much?”

Sudden jaw drop.

“Okay, okay!” she blurted. “Done. Deal. We'll do it!”

There was an audible click and Cheryl held the phone in front of her, a funny expression on her face. Tweed raised an eyebrow at her cousin.

“There's
definitely
gotta be a full moon rising.” Cheryl shook her head and hung up the phone. “This much crazy just doesn't happen by coincidence .”

“Sitch?” asked Tweed.

“I said she'd call, partner. And she called.”

“Who called?” Pilot asked, uncharacteristically fidgety. He kept glancing over his shoulder, almost as if he expected to find Artie standing there.

“That was Miz Parks. Apparently our offer of expertitious services struck a chord with her the other
day.” Cheryl shrugged. “She went and booked herself a Last Minute Club three-day Caribbean Singles cruise. She's got a whole herd of cats—”

“Herd?”
Tweed interrupted.

Cheryl nodded. “Fifteen of ‘em.”

“Eep!” Tweed exclaimed, startled from her usual goth cool.

Cheryl nodded again. “And she'll pay
double
our rate to keep an eye on ‘em while she's gone.”

Double?
Tweed's eyes went a bit wide. Fifteen cats at double their rate for three whole days? Was
this
the beginning of the upswing in the sitter biz they'd been waiting for? Were …
cats
the key?

“Miss Parks, the school librarian?” Pilot asked, confused.

“When does she leave?” Tweed asked, regaining her composure.

“She's catching a red-eye flight out,” Cheryl said. And her mouth disappeared in a tight line. “Tonight.”

“Gah!” Tweed exclaimed, her goth cool hitting the road for the second time in mere seconds. “WAH! Tonight?! But … but …” She waved her arms in the vague directions of the carnival and the drive-in screens. Really, to be fair, the night
was
already pretty heavily booked for the dynamic duo.

“Stay cool, partner.” Cheryl gripped her cousin by the shoulder. “We can do this. We can multi-task.

While-O-Wait.”

Tweed mumbled something that sounded unconvinced.

“C'mon!” Cheryl urged. “Say it with me! While-O-Wait!”

“While … O … Wait …” Tweed repeated, slowly getting hold of herself again. “While. O.
Wait.”

Pilot stuck one finger up in the air to ask a question.

“But—”

“While-O-Wait!” The girls turned on him in tandem, their eyes glittering with fierce determination.

“Right.” He lowered his questioning digit and shrugged. “Sure ‘nuff. Okay, little ladies, what's first on the W-O-W agenda?”

Cheryl cast a squinting eye at the sky and pointed heavenward. “Sun's going down,” she said. “We all know what
that
means.”

Pilot frowned. “Uh …”

“Showtime.” She pointed at the drive-in screen.

“Right.”

“The minute twilight falls, boatloads—er, carloads—of eager monster-lovin' movie-goers will pour through the drive-in gates.” She pointed at the road leading into the Starlight's lot. “And, roundabout the same time, Miz Marjorie Parks's minivan, stacked with fifteen kitty kennel-cages stuffed full of shaggy little shnookumses, is gonna pull up in front of the barn!” She pointed at the barn.

“And then there's nefarious carnival doings that need
our investigating. And there's a Shrimpcake on the lam that needs … well … heck. He probably just needs us.”

When the maroon minivan rumbled to a stop in front of the barn less than twenty minutes later, the trio was ready. Tweed, Cheryl and Pilot formed a sort of volunteer-fire-brigade-bucket-line to off-load the kitty-carriers, each one conveniently labelled with sparkly puffy-painted letters identifying its occupant. Into the barn went Boober and Flapjack, Pigwidgeon, Bubble and Squeak, Calico Pete, Montgomery J. Butterball, Mr. Sniffers, Kittums Fat Fat, Lady Sneezy-Buttons, Didgeridoo, Sir Chubbypuddles, Wrinkly, Binkly and Frank.

The trio stacked the cages neatly and carefully in the barn, as Miss Parks flapped about excitedly, bidding the precious furballs goodbye, clearly anxious to be on her way. The girls assured her that they'd give her kitty-cats the best care while they shooed her back toward the driver's seat of the van. Pilot smiled and gave her a reassuring Flyboy wave as she climbed back behind the wheel, and as the minivan rumbled down the road, the three of them breathed a brief sigh of relief.