Anybody could cook an omelette, Casey was thinking early the next morning as he took down his mother's well-worn Joy of Cooking and checked the index. He figured he would find out how to cook omelettes and get all the ingredients ready before church. After church he would have plenty of time to cook, phone Sarah at noon, and serve up the brunch of the decade.
As he read the section on omelettes, Casey realized there was a little more to it than he had imagined. He had been right, though, about leaving the ingredients out. Eggs were supposed to be at room temperature. But how many eggs and what kind of omelette? French didn't look too hard, but you had to make little ones and serve them right away. Fluffy? No way, with all that business of dividing the eggs and whipping the yolks and whites separately. He settled on something called firm omelettes — you could make big ones that way with up to ten eggs.
Casey cut a big piece of ham into small squares, diced some green onions, and cleaned and cut up a handful of mushrooms. That ought to do for the filling, he thought, then decided to make a salad. Fruit salad would be good with the omelette and with the bran muffins he had found in the freezer.
By the time the family left for church, Casey had the table set, the coffee ground, the salad made, and the muffins defrosting. All he had to do was make the omelette — no problem.
Would the sermon never end? It was already twenty past eleven. Finally, Casey could leave. He had brought his coat with him so he could make a quick exit. It took only five minutes to run home.
Casey had seen the chefs on television break eggs one-handed into a bowl. With a big glass bowl at the ready, he took an egg in his right hand and gave it a sharp crack on the rim of the bowl. White, yolk, and shell slid slowly down the outside of the bowl to the table, then gradually from the table onto Casey's shoe. It took time to wipe up the mess.
He held the second egg with both hands, made a clean break, gripped the split shell, and let the white and yolk pour into the bowl. Nothing to it once he got the hang of it. The shell of the third egg splintered as Casey cracked it, and pieces fell into the bowl. By the time he had picked all the bits out of the liquid, Casey was getting nervous. There were just a dozen eggs, one had fallen, and he needed ten. He had to be very careful. Casey took down a saucer from a cupboard and cracked each egg into it before he slid it into the big bowl. He beat the eggs until blended and then beat in the water, salt, and paprika he had assembled earlier.
Now he had to melt butter into a skillet. The recipe called for four eggs and one and a half tablespoons of butter. He had used ten eggs, so he needed two times one and a half tablespoons. That was three tablespoons plus half of one and a half, which was three-quarters. So he had to melt three and three-quarter tablespoons of butter in the skillet. He already had a skillet on the stove, so he turned the heat on low under it and put the butter in.
Next he got the fruit salad out of the fridge, put the plates in the oven to warm, placed the bran muffins on top of the plates, poured the orange juice, and was setting up the coffee as the front door opened.
"How are you doing, Casey?" his mom asked from the living room.
"Fine!" Casey shouted. "But stay out of here till I call. About five minutes, okay?"
Casey went back to the stove, turned the gas up under the skillet, watched until the butter was bubbling, and poured the egg mixture into the pan. There it was. In the pan. But what he was supposed to do next? He rushed to where he had left the Joy of Cooking open on the counter and started to read.
"Cook over low heat," the book said. Casey reduced the gas to simmer. "Lift the edge with a pancake turner and tilt the skillet to permit the uncooked custard to run to the bottom, or stick it with a fork in the soft spots to permit the heat to penetrate the bottom crust. When it is all of even consistency, fold the omelette over and serve it."
Frantically, Casey tilted the pan and tried to raise a corner of the paper-thin layer of omelette. The whole thing rushed toward him. He righted the pan and poked the mixture with a fork. Whatever had finally thickened on the bottom ripped. Maybe he had turned the heat down too much. He put the heat on high, and in seconds smelled something burning. At medium high it still appeared to be burning. Finally, at low again, the omelette seemed to be cooking right. But what about the filling? And how to turn the darn thing over?
Casey shook the filling mixture over the mountains and valleys of omelette, slid the pancake turner under one side, and began easing it over. The part he was flipping split from the rest, but he had gotten a good-sized piece turned. To his horror he saw that the whole bottom side of what he had folded over was black. Casey grabbed a paring knife out of the dish rack, carefully cut off the burned part, turned it over, sliced off the other burned surface, divided what he had flipped into two portions, placed them on hot plates, and called, "Ready!" As his family sat down in the dining room, Casey brought in two plates. "Mom and Dad, please start. I'll have yours ready in a couple of minutes, Hank."
"Smells good," Casey's dad said, smacking his lips.
"Sure does," his mom agreed, taking a taste and reaching for the ketchup.
"Why don't you start on your salad, Hank?" Casey suggested.
Back in the kitchen, Casey looked at the mess in the pan. He pulled out what he could of the burned bits, picked up the rest, formed it into a pie section, put it on a plate, took it into the dining room, covered it with ketchup, and set it before Hank. His brother had a computer magazine in front of him and didn't seem to notice anything wrong.
"Not bad, Casey," Hank said. "A little dry here and there, but not bad."
"Not having any, Casey?" his mother asked.
Casey sighed. "No. I've had enough of omelettes for a long time." Time! He glanced at the clock. Twelve-fifteen! He had forgotten to call Sarah. Now it was too late. She would think he didn't care enough to phone. Casey helped himself to a bowl of fruit salad and took a bran muffin. All that work for nothing!
"Well?" Kevin asked the next day as he, Terry, and Casey were getting into their basketball workout clothes. "Did you hear from what's-her-name?"
"I heard part of what she found out," Casey said. "She does have the number and some other stuff to tell me, but …"
"But what?" Terry pressed.
Casey told them about the brunch fiasco. "I was just too smart for my own good, and now I'm afraid Sarah's mad and maybe won't give me the number. If she doesn't, that's it."
"Can't you leave her a voice mail message and explain?" Kevin asked. "She probably checks her messages."
"I did phone last night and left a message, but she didn't call back. I'll let you know if I do hear from her. Oh, and I should tell you that you don't have to worry about Sanford's."
"Why not?" Terry asked.
"Well, by a fluke I got this." He took a poster out of his backpack. "This is a woman who's involved with the whole Hate Cell business. My dad said I could show her picture around at school and take another one for Mrs. Phipps to put up in the library. Well, I had it with me Saturday afternoon and I took it into Sanford's in case someone there remembered selling those long brass screws to her."
"And?" Terry asked.
Casey told them about his conversation with Mr. Sanford and that no one recalled selling the screws. "But someone did mention that Millie Anne Brighton was working there at the time but had moved to White Rock, British Columbia."
"That's the aunt I told you about," Kevin said.
"I wondered if it was," Casey said. "Do you know her phone number?"
"I can get it easy," Kevin said. "I'll call you later."
"Have you thought of any other things we could investigate?" Terry asked as they walked to the gym.
"Not really," Casey said, "except how Mr. D. got involved. Ask your folks, casually like, what they know about him. He sure didn't seem the kind of guy to go messing about in that kind of operation."
"Will you three hurry up, please?" Mr. Tate, the basketball coach, shouted. "We've only got the gym for an hour today, and there's just a week till the county tournament!"
"I'll let you know if I do hear from Sarah," Casey said as the three sprinted toward the court.
Hank turned around in his chair. "There's a letter for you, Casey. You never get letters except from Grandma. It doesn't have a return address, but it was postmarked in Edmonton. Who's it from?"
"How do I know till I open it? Where is it?"
"Mom put it on the kitchen table, I think."
"So Mom knows about it?" Casey asked.
"Sure, and Dad saw it, too. We're all dying to know who it's from. I'm betting on that voice on the phone. If it's her, you better watch it. Like I said, she sounds too old for you."
"Will you please go back up to your computer, Hank? It's my business, not yours, so stuff it."
"Is that you, Casey?" his mom called from the kitchen. "There's a letter for you from Edmonton."
Casey ambled into the kitchen, put his backpack on the table, and sat down. "May I have some of those?" He pointed at a plate heaped with small cream-covered crescents. "Whatever they are."
"Help yourself. They're for the school bake sale, but I can spare a couple. Aren't you going to open your letter?"
"No," Casey said. His hand itched to reach out and tear the letter open. It had to be from Sarah.
"Hank thinks it's from the girl who called you on Friday and Saturday. He seems very interested in Sarah."
Casey smiled with satisfaction. "Good. If the letter's from Sarah, it'll be about her sociology project." He picked up the letter and his backpack and climbed the stairs to his room. Sprawling on his bed, he opened the envelope and took out a single page. The message was from Sarah:
I gather you couldn't call me. Here's the phone number Vance's called when the drapes were ready, and here are the dimensions of the drapes Vance's made for that order. You'd better check that they're an exact fit for the window in question before you take matters any further. Good luck, and keep me posted.
Sarah's university residence address, the phone number, and the dimensions of the drapes were included on the single page.
"Wow!" Casey said to himself. He had his second clue — something none of the other investigators had. All he had to do was check the size of the window at the Old Willson Place, and if it matched the measurements Sarah had sent him, he would get Kevin's brother to take them out to the address of the person who had ordered the drapes once they had it. He was pretty sure it was a regional phone number. On Friday, instead of going to the Rec Hall, he, Terry, and Kevin could track down who the number belonged to in the area telephone books at the C.W. Willson Public Library. On Saturday Jeff could drive them to the address of the place whose phone number Sarah had sent.
Casey gazed out his window. He had almost lied to his mother. Well, if he solved things it would be a wonderful surprise for everyone, so maybe that covered his secrecy about the letter from Sarah. He could give the phone number to his father. In fact, he should give it his dad. His father and the Mounties could find out whose number it was in a matter of minutes. Hank could probably come up with it, too. But if the name was one they had already come across in the case, Hank would pass it on to Casey's father. His brother would have to, since he was getting paid to help out. But then Casey would be out of the loop. No, he, Terry, and Kevin would find the number and follow through. But he was going to need some help when he got the number of Millie Anne Brighton in White Rock. He would have to ask Hank for assistance. Casey couldn't make the call because there was no way he could sound like a man, particularly since his voice kept squeaking. But first there was the phone number from Sarah to work on. The talk with Kevin's Aunt Millie would come later.