The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline (6 page)

"Come on," said Stacy furiously. She stood up and began walking out of the park. "I'm going to get to the bottom of this."

"Bottom of what?" asked Caroline, running to catch up. "He got married, that's all. And his wife threw away an old bra. Bottom of
what?
"

Stacy slapped the magazine back and forth between her hands as she walked. "I'm going to find out how
People
magazine scooped me on a blockbusting story I've been investigating for weeks!"

"What are you going to do?"

Stacy sighed. "I
could
hang around the Time-Life Building, I suppose, and search their trash for clues. But that might take weeks. Anyway, they probably shred their evidence. I think this particular problem calls for a direct, aggressive approach." She groaned. "I
hate
the direct, aggressive approach. You don't get to wear a disguise or anything. But at least I can use one of my fake voices."

"How?" They were approaching Stacy's apartment building. "How are you going to use a fake voice?"
Caroline asked, hurrying to catch up with Stacy at the front door.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Santos," said Stacy, tossing her hair back and speaking in a cool, poised voice to the doorman. "Isn't this spring weather lovely?"

In the elevator, she turned to Caroline and asked, "What did you think of my voice to Mr. Santos?"

Caroline shrugged. "It was okay, I guess. But you sounded about forty years old."

"Right. Good. That's the effect I want. I'm going to use that voice when I call
People
magazine and inquire about their investigative methods."

Caroline sprawled on one of the beds in Stacy's room and looked around. Sometimes she really wished her family were rich. Stacy had her own TV. She had her own typewriter, which sat on a polished desk with a matching chair. Everything in the room matched. The wallpaper, pale yellow with pink and green flowers, matched the dust ruffles on the two beds, which matched the draperies and even the lampshades. The only jarring notes were Stacy's backpack, which she had dropped on the floor in the middle of the green carpeting, and her sweater, which she had draped over a lamp.

Even her telephone, on the table between the two beds, was pale yellow. Stacy was sitting cross-legged
on her own bed, writing down the number she had found in the telephone directory. Finally she looked up, took a few deep breaths, and dialed.

"Good afternoon," she said in her fake mature voice. "This is Ms. Baurichter. I'm with Bentley, Baurichter, and Bernstein, Attorneys? I would like to inquire as to whom—ah, what I mean is, I want to know who wrote the article about Harrison Ledyard in this week's issue."

She pressed her hand over the receiver and whispered to Caroline, "They're checking."

"Thank you so much," she said, returning to the telephone. "Is he in, by any chance?"

"They're transferring my call," she whispered. "Michael Small. That's his name. What an
ordinary
name. Boy, when
I'm
doing investigative reporting for a national magazine, I'm going to change my—Hello? Mr. Small?

"Mr. Small, I'm calling you to inquire about your methods for obtaining the material for an article such as the one on Harrison Ledyard. It's a
brilliant
piece of reporting, by the way."

She covered the receiver and grinned at Caroline. "Flattery is a very effective way of getting information," she whispered.

Caroline could hear a man's voice on the telephone. She couldn't hear what he was saying, but Stacy was listening intently.

"Yes," said Stacy. "Oh, I see. Yes. Of course. Mr. Small, didn't you have to do any undercover-type work? I mean, you didn't consider looking through his trash cans or anything?"

Caroline could hear the man laugh. He went on talking.

"Oh," said Stacy, when he had finished. "I would certainly like to congratulate you on a fine job, Mr. Small."

"What?" Caroline could hear that the man was asking a question. "Mr. Small," said Stacy angrily, in her own voice, forgetting to use the fake one, "I wasn't rude enough to ask you how old
you
are. It's none of your business how old I am."

She listened as the man said something else. "Well," she said finally, "thank you for your interest. And for the information. Goodbye."

She hung up. She sat there glumly for a minute as Caroline watched; then she threw the telephone book across the room. It landed on the floor next to her backpack.

"Shoot," she said.

"What's the matter?" asked Caroline. "What did he say?"

"He
said,
" said Stacy in an irritated voice, "that I should work on my school newspaper; that it's a good way to start to get experience in journalism. How did he know I was still in school? Didn't I sound mature?"

"I thought you did," acknowledged Caroline. "What else did he say? About Harrison Ledyard?"

Stacy groaned and flopped back on her pillow with her hands behind her head.

"He simply called up Harrison Ledyard and arranged an interview. Of all the dumb ways to go about investigative reporting. He went there for a day. He even took a photographer with him. What if the man had been a crazed murderer?" She sat back up and looked at Caroline. "What was his name—Michael Small? What a
dope.
He could have found himself, unarmed, right in the apartment of a brutal killer. Now if he had gone about it the way he should have, sifting through trash, doing surveillance work—"

"Stacy," suggested Caroline tentatively, "I think you're mixing up detective work and magazine work. I mean,
maybe
you are."

"Well," sighed Stacy. "The heck with Harrison Ledyard. Let him stay up there and vacuum with his hometown sweetheart. At least we have another case to work on. At least we know that other guy's a crazed killer. What was his name?"

"Frederick Fiske."

"And now at least we have some new ideas for methods, from Michael Small. We might consider calling for an interview and taking a photographer."

Caroline shuddered. "I don't think so, Stace. This guy isn't just a killer. He's a
child
killer. And you and me, Stacy, after all, we're—"

"Oh, Caroline," groaned Stacy. "I know. We're children. Don't remind me, please. Michael Small already brought it to my attention in a very tactless way."

There was a knock on the bedroom door. Caroline and Stacy both jumped. "Stand over there, Caroline," hissed Stacy under her breath, "by the closet door. I'll be here behind this chair. If they have weapons—"

The door opened. "Girls," said Mrs. Baurichter, looking in, "dinner's almost ready."

Caroline loved having dinner at the Baurichters'. She had eaten there before, and it was always wonderful—not just the food, although the food was always wonderful, but the whole atmosphere. The huge dining room, with deep gray walls and draperies; the crystal chandelier sparkling above the table; the tablecloth—tonight it was pale blue—and the silver candlesticks, with blue candles glowing and dripping wax slowly down their slender sides. At the ends of the table, at Stacy's parents' places, white wine stood in half-filled stemmed glasses. Once Caroline had asked Stacy why the wine glasses were always only half full, and Stacy had explained that that was the correct way to serve wine. Caroline planned to remember that the entire rest of her life so that she would never do it wrong.

At her own place, as well as Stacy's, across the table, there was a tall glass of ice-cold milk.

It was so different, Caroline thought, from her own house, where they ate dinner at the kitchen table because they had no dining room. J.P. always bolted his food with disgusting manners, because he was always in a hurry to get back to some project in his room. And Joanna Tate, Caroline's mother, was always tired and apologetic. Tired from work. Apologetic for the food.

"What's this?" Caroline had asked one night, poking suspiciously at a casserole.

"It's called Seafood Surprise," said her mother.

That sounded okay. Caroline spooned a big helping onto her plate. "What's the surprise?" she asked. "Why is it called Seafood Surprise?"

"Well, ah," her mother answered, beginning to sound apologetic, "it's because when you think 'seafood' you probably think of shrimp, lobster, scallops, right?"

"Right," said Caroline, with a forkful halfway to her mouth.

"Well, surprise!" said Joanna Tate. "It's all tuna fish!"'

"Oh," said Caroline sadly. By then she could tell it was all tuna fish. It was in her mouth.

"I'm sorry," said her mother.

"It's okay," Caroline had said. "Tuna fish isn't that bad."

At the Baurichters', nothing would ever be called
"Surprise." From the kitchen door, the maid appeared with a tray, and carefully she placed a shrimp cocktail at each place.

I have died, thought Caroline, and gone to heaven. Shrimp cocktail. Even when her family went to dinner in a restaurant, which they did now and then for a special occasion, she could never order shrimp cocktail, because it always cost something like $6.00. She was allowed to order it only if she didn't have a main course.

Happily she speared her first shrimp, after waiting to be certain that Mrs. Baurichter had picked up her fork. Heaven.

"Tate," said Mr. Baurichter suddenly.

"What?" said Caroline with her mouth full. It was startling, to be called "Tate" by Stacy's father, who was wearing a three-piece suit and looked very distinguished. Sometimes Stacy called her "Tate," or some of her other friends, yelling across the school grounds: "Hey, Tate! Wait up!"

"Tate," he said again. Apparently he was only thinking about the name. "I don't think we know any Tates, do we, Helen?"

"I can't recall any," murmured Mrs. Baurichter.

"Of course there's the Tate Gallery," Mr. Baurichter said, wiping his mouth with the pale blue napkin. "Does your family have any connection with the Tate Gallery, in London, Caroline?"

"I don't think so," said Caroline.

"Did Stacy tell me you live on the West Side?"

"Yes. I take the crosstown bus to school," said Caroline politely.

Mrs. Baurichter wiped her mouth and placed her knife and fork on her plate. Caroline couldn't believe it. She had eaten only two shrimp. She was
leaving
shrimp uneaten. "You're fortunate to live on the West Side," said Mrs. Baurichter. "Many creative people live over there. Musicians, writers; I imagine you have many fascinating neighbors."

"A violin player lives in my building," Caroline told her.

"Really?" asked Mrs. Baurichter with interest. "Whom does he play with?"

Panic. Caroline thought as hard as she could about Mr. DeVito. As far as she knew, he was the only violin player at the Little Hungary Cafe.

"He's a soloist," she said finally.

"No one will ever measure up to Oistrakh," said Mr. Baurichter firmly. "At least not in the Sibelius Concerto."

"Well, it's all a matter of preference," said Mrs. Baurichter. "What does your father do, Caroline?"

"Well, ah, he's in sporting goods," Caroline said, and ate another shrimp.

"That's interesting," said Stacy's father. "I play a lot of squash, myself. Does your father—"

"He lives in Des Moines," Caroline explained hastily. "My parents are divorced, and I live with my mother. My mother works in a bank."

The maid came in and took away the shrimp plates. Caroline was the only one who had eaten all of her shrimp. Sadly she watched the uneaten shrimp disappear, heading for the kitchen. She hoped the maid would get to eat them.

Mr. Baurichter stood up, picked up the wine bottle, and added wine to his wife's glass and then his own. He made them just half full again.

"I find it remarkable," he said, "how many women are entering banking these days. It used to be a male-dominated profession, like law and medicine. Now the vice-president of my bank is a woman, and—"

"Mr. Baurichter," interrupted Caroline. Even though she knew it was rude to interrupt, she wanted to set the record straight. "My mother's only a bank teller. She's not really what you would call a
banker.
"

"Caroline's family doesn't have much money," Stacy explained matter-of-factly. "She and her brother both have full scholarships at school. And they're practically the smartest kids in the whole school, even though Caroline's lousy at math."

"Well, good for you, Caroline!" said Mr. Baurichter. "Tell me, do you have any idea what you want to be when you grow up?"

Most kids hated it when grownups asked that. But
Caroline didn't mind. It sounded as if Mr. Baurichter was really interested.

"Yes," she said proudly. "I'm going to be a vertebrate paleontologist."

"
KID DIGS PALEOLITHIC AGE
," headlined Stacy.

"Actually," explained Caroline politely, "it's the Mesozoic Era that interests me most."

The maid brought in plates of steak. Sizzling, juicy, thick. Paradise, thought Caroline.

"Goodness," said Mrs. Baurichter, "you certainly live in the perfect place, then, over near the Museum of Natural History."

"Yes." Caroline grinned and picked up her steak knife. "I spend a lot of time there."

"You know," said Stacy suddenly, "even though you said all those creative people live on the West Side, we have a writer here in our own building. Harrison Ledyard."

Mrs. Baurichter groaned; a tasteful, quiet sort of groan.

"That man," she said, "is a complete bore."

The maid had appeared again and was coming around to each place. She was putting something down in front of each person. It was something weird. Caroline watched. Maybe it was some strange sort of decoration. Each one was a huge, fat, gray-green
thing
with what looked like leaves all over it. Looking out of the corner of her eye, Caroline saw that each of
them—Mr. Baurichter, Mrs. Baurichter, and Stacy—was reaching for the thing. With their
fingers.

"What do you mean, a bore?" asked Stacy. "I didn't even know you knew him."

"We went to a cocktail party at his apartment last week," her mother explained. Caroline watched in amazement as she removed a piece of the giant gray-green object, dipped it into a sauce, and then—yes—actually put it into her mouth. Stacy was doing the same thing. She was doing it as if it were no big deal; as if it were a casual, everyday event to
eat
a huge, gross, leafy
thing.