Madhattan Mystery (2 page)

Aunt Roz scooped them into an embarrassing group hug, rocking them back and forth like some strange stationary ballroom dance. “I hope you kids are hungry,” she said as she eventually let them go. She whipped off her sunglasses and dropped them into her giant straw tote with a wink. “I made reservations downstairs at the Oyster Bar and Restaurant. We should vamoose.”

“That was nice of you,” Lexi said, smiling. “Thanks, Aunt Roz.”

“Oh, you can thank the New York Lottery.”

“Awesome!” Kevin gushed. “You won the lottery?”

“From your lips to God's ears. No, I did a commercial for them last year.” She grabbed one handle strap of Kevin's duffel, he grabbed the other, and Lexi followed them into the endless swirl of commuters. “I'm about to blow my last residual check on our fancy-shmancy lunch, so I hope you guys can survive on mac and cheese for the next few weeks.”

Aunt Roz tittered as if that were a joke, but Lexi wondered if she was serious. Kevin probably was wondering too, judging from his twisted face.

“So, kids, how was your train ride in? It's such a lovely trip along the Hudson.”

“Fine,” Kevin told her. “Until somebody bashed into Lexi, like, a minute ago.”

Aunt Roz came to a worried standstill. “Oh, sweetheart! Are you all right?”

“Yeah,” Lexi said, shooting Kevin a why'd-you-have-to-open-your-big-mouth glare. “It was no big deal.”

“Well, I wouldn't be too concerned, dear.” And Aunt Roz took off again. “With eight million-plus people running around this city like chickens with their heads cut off, rumps will be bumped and toes will be stepped on. Right? Right. So why I'm wearing open-toed pumps—well, you tell me.”

The conversation skipped from pumps to bunions to the big gold clock that sprouted from the center of the information kiosk in Grand Central. Aunt Roz said it was supposed to be some rare, priceless treasure but passersby
were hardly giving it a second glance except maybe to double-check the time. Lexi quickly looked it up in her guidebook. It said the gilded clock was literally priceless, that all four faces were made of precious opal.
Opal?
But they were a drab, blah white compared to the iridescent luster of her opal pendant.

“Funny,” Lexi said, still gazing at the clock, “how you could be staring right at a priceless treasure and never know it.”

“Oh, honey, you just said a mouthful.”

Aunt Roz started rattling off a whole list of obscure New York treasures—theaters, monuments, sculptures, herself—as they picked up speed, heading for the split marble staircase that led down to the dining concourse. When they reached the lower level, a burst of delicious aromas greeted them full force, and so did the walking, talking milk carton man.

“C'mon, folks,” he said, “gimme a break. I'm dressed like milk and you won't even take my free samples?”

“I think that guy is stalking us.” Kevin jackknifed his duffel in an effort to steer clear. “No. Really.”

Aunt Roz practically twisted an ankle reaching for a packet of the man's Dairy-Eze Chewables. She probably didn't want to hurt his feelings. Lexi took two samples as well, just to show her brother he was being paranoid, if nothing else. They all took a second to regroup, then journeyed on through an open seating area, which was a symphony of chatting diners, clashing silverware, and
smacking lips. When they rounded a corner where the Oyster Bar was in full view, Aunt Roz dropped her end of the duffel and did a kind of trancelike twirl.

“Oh, kids,” she puffed. “Do you know where we're standing right now?”

“Um, in front of the restaurant?” Kevin answered.

“No, wisenheimer. Well, yes, but that's not what I mean. We're in the Whispering Gallery.”

“The what?” Lexi looked around for signs—or paintings? There were none. Other than the entrance to the restaurant, it was just a darkish bare hallway with a series of large marble archways.

“Savvy New Yorkers know that if someone whispers something facing one of these four corners—say, this one,” Aunt Roz said, gesturing to it like a model from
The Price Is Right
, “another person can hear them in the opposite corner way over there.”

“Photo op!” Kevin blurted and took a snapshot of Aunt Roz in her silly pose.

“Fair warning next time,” Aunt Roz said, blinking. “Now I'll be seeing spots all through lunch. Anyway, it has something to do with the acoustics—how the sound travels. They say this is where sweethearts used to whisper their fond farewells when the young men were leaving their beloveds to serve in World War Two.”

“I don't get it.” Kevin scuttled to one of the corners, gazing up at the herringbone pattern of shiny bricks
covering the low, rounded ceiling. “So, what do I do? Just talk?”

“No.” Lexi dropped her bag in the opposite corner. “
Whisper
.”

“You'll get the hang of it,” Aunt Roz said, and breezed toward the door of the Oyster Bar, leaving a perfume trail. “You two have fun while I check on our reservations.”

Lexi swept her sweaty curls up the back of her neck and leaned into her corner to give the Whispering Gallery a try. “Hell
ooo
,” she sang like a bashful ghost. “How are
yooou
?”

Kevin squealed. “I heard that!” he cried out over his shoulder, then turned back to the wall. “Testing, testing. Do you read me?”

“Totally!” She heard him as clearly as if he were standing right in front of her. “How amazing is this?”

“Okay, listen,” Kevin said, dropping his voice an octave, “I have top-secret information for agent Alexandra McGill. But first you must prove that you're really you—
her
. Over.”

“Huh? Oh. I am p
rrr
epared to answer any and all qvestions,” Lexi replied in her best Russian accent, holding in her laugh. “Please to p
rrr
oceed.”

“Roger. Only the
real
Alexandra McGill would know her home address. Over.”

“Wait, that's not true, but—okay, it's tree-tventy-tree Barrett Pond R
rrr
oad. Cold Spring, New York, von-o-five-von-six.”

“Roger that. Only the
real
Alexandra McGill would know—her favorite color. Over.”

“Pink. Pale, not hot.”

“Only the
real
—”

“Just get on with it already, bonehead!”

“I'm thinking.” Kevin cleared his throat. “Your mission, Miss McGill, should-a you choose-a to accept,” he said in an even goofier accent than Lexi's, “is to carry out the original plan—you know, as planned, but—oh, never mind, there's Aunt Roz! Abort. Abort.”

Lexi spun around to see their aunt waving from the doorway of the Oyster Bar. She turned to grab her bag and heard another weird voice. British this time?

“Wait, let's settle this first. Where're we hiding the bloody jewels?”

She smirked. “How about next to the body we buried?” was waiting on her lips, but a quick glance over her shoulder told her to hush. Kevin and Aunt Roz were already entering the restaurant, and two men dressed in black were huddled together in the very same spot where Kevin had stood. Lexi's heart skipped a beat. She hooked her hair behind one ear and leaned into the corner as casually as possible to eavesdrop on their conversation.

“There's an abandoned train station here in Grand Central,” the other man said, sounding American, “several levels below the East Terminal. Track Sixty-one.”

“So, what're you suggesting, burying them down there? Don't be absurd.”

“Until things die down and they can be stripped and shipped to Cartagena.”

“Are you winding me up, mate? It's too—crazy.”

“Or is it genius?”

Omigod!
Now Lexi's heart was pounding so hard, her entire body was vibrating. In the smoothest of moves she peeked over the top of her guidebook to spy on the possible criminals—just in case she had to pick them out of a lineup.
Please don't make me have to do that!
She should at least get a good description.
Okay, focus
. They were facing each other—tough to see clearly but definitely dressed in black, sipping from steamy cups. Average height and weight.
What's average?
The one with the British accent was bald with orangish glasses and a funky little goatee. The American was wearing a Yankees cap that shadowed his face.

“Listen, man, there's zero time to plot this out!”

“I know … bloody brilliant alternative … right under their noses … never suspect.”

What?
A rush of people were passing by and Lexi was losing every other word.
What alternative they'll never suspect?
She grabbed a pen from her backpack to scrawl random words across her guidebook as she heard them.
Shoot. Needle. Oval disk? Park!
Lexi dotted the exclamation mark with such gusto, the book went flying. She lunged for it and froze in a heap on the ground. They might have seen her face!

“—under Grand Central is the best bet,” the American said. “Of course, we'll have those
mole
people to deal with.”

“You mean, the homeless living in the tunnels? I thought that was just an urban myth.”

“About as mythical as rats and taxicabs.”

“Alexandra!” Aunt Roz called out, gesturing wildly from the restaurant doorway. “Come on, dear, we have our table!”

Even though she loved them, Lexi couldn't stomach her crab cakes at first. Overhearing a possible crime in the making was definitely an appetite buster. She thought about mentioning it to Aunt Roz during lunch, but could barely get a word in. Plus, Kevin was right there. New York City was overwhelming enough and she didn't want to push him over the edge with what she had heard. By the time their leftovers were being wrapped in aluminum-foil swans, Lexi had decided that the men in black were probably just having an innocent conversation that she had blown way out of proportion. Caught up in the moment. Wild imagination. That type of thing. And so while she, Kevin, and Aunt Roz were piling into a taxi, Lexi added the entire experience to her mental list of things that never happened.

The windows in the back of the cab were filthy and would only go down halfway. Still, Lexi and Kevin stared pie-eyed through the layer of muck at the sights of the city
whizzing by. So much concrete and glass. So many weirdos. And to add to the mix, Aunt Roz decided to join Frank Sinatra for a duet when his voice came on the radio singing “New York, New York.”

“My dah-dah-dah blues,” she sang in a sturdy soprano, “are melting away—”

“So's my butt,” Kevin muttered. “Isn't there air-conditioning?”

Everyone laughed. Even Akbar, the driver. Aunt Roz had made it a point to get his name after giving him very specific directions on how to get to her apartment, which he said he really didn't need. Typical Aunt Roz.

Her singing faded to a hum, thank goodness, which eventually petered out altogether. “Okay, I'll shut up. I know I'm embarrassing you guys already.” She fanned the kids with her giant hat—her sleek, silvery bob cut blowing in the breeze. “Better?”

Lexi had almost forgotten what a character her aunt was, but it all came flooding back. She was an actress. Mostly commercials and voice-over work these days, which were difficult jobs to land, Lexi had learned during lunch—especially for a woman of a certain age. Fifty-five? Forty-nine? Thirty-seven? No one knew for sure. According to Aunt Roz, age was just a number—and hers was unlisted. The
Putnam County News and Recorder
did a little piece on her awhile back when she grew the largest Sweet Surrender rose at the county fair, and Lexi had the article pinned to her bulletin board.

R
OSALIND
M
C
G
ILL
began her career back at the age of twenty as a high-kicking Rockette at the famous Radio City Music Hall in New York. She had barely gotten her feet off the ground, so to speak, when she met her husband-to-be, Ed Lantry, who swept her back to Cold Spring. And according to Ms. McGill (yes, she still goes by her maiden name), she's never looked back since. Aside from raising her two sons, Brian and Henry, she enjoys baking pies, organizing potlucks, and tending her award-winning roses.

As it turned out, Aunt Roz had looked back all right. When Brian and Henry grew up and made their moves to the West Coast, Uncle Ed made his moves on the new cashier at the local Walmart. And so Aunt Roz hightailed it back to New York City to pick up where she had left off. That was three years ago. Everyone in the McGill family said she had completely lost her mind, except for Lexi's mom, who had called her “plucky” and “heroic.” Lexi agreed.

The first ten minutes in the cab were like
Mr. Toad's Wild Ride
, and Kevin was red-faced and white-knuckled, clinging to the armrest. Lexi playfully pecked at him with the aluminum-foil swan to get him to loosen up. Didn't happen. He decapitated the poor thing.

“Oh, my goodness gracious, this is it!” Aunt Roz cried out. “I wasn't paying attention. On your right, Akbar.”

The cab screeched to a crooked stop on the corner of West End Avenue and Seventy-Third Street. Akbar unloaded the luggage from the trunk and Aunt Roz gave him a generous tip and an inappropriate hug before he hopped back into the cab and sped off.

“You know, Alexandra, in this light you're the spitting image of your mother.”

Well,
that
came out of nowhere. “Huh. Really? The same hair, I guess, kinda-sorta, but …” She hoisted her bag up the curb and headed toward the brownstone, and when Aunt Roz caught up with her to help, Lexi changed the subject. “So, any new acting jobs on the horizon?”

“Well, I do have a few callbacks coming up. A faded Southern belle in an off-Broadway musical and another commercial—a national.” The glint in Aunt Roz's eye disappeared when they reached the landing and she dropped her end of the bag. “For adult diapers,” she said out of the side of her mouth as if they were illegal. “Hi-ho, the glamorous life.”