I dug a couple pairs of sunglasses out of a box marked “Beachwear.”
“That is your disguise?” Yuri said.
“I’ve got this awesome straw fedora, too. Tourists love hats.”
Yuri made a doubtful noise.
“No one really looks at anyone else too hard unless they’re cruising,” I told him. “And even then, they’re mostly looking at your package. Anyway, I’m sure that to a Boardwalker, a tourist is a tourist—and the tourists themselves turn over like crowds in a restaurant.”
Yuri gave me the look—the one that only makes me that much more eager to prove I’m right—but he took a pair of shades from me and put them on. He looked like he was ready to rappel off a helicopter in an action movie and beat up some bad guys. Or maybe good guys. Or whoever the director pointed him at.
We headed over to the Boardwalk and took in the expanse of it. Not exactly the world’s biggest boardwalk, but we’d cover more ground if we split up. It was still early by Boardwalk standards, but the vendors were all prepping for the day’s crowd with purpose and focus. “I’ll take the right side and you take the left,” I said, since these were obviously our lucky sides. Yuri, who was facing me at the time, seemed to know exactly which left I meant and headed off toward the food vendors to see what he could find out.
I love a good gossip session, but hearing stories about what people in the distant past have said and done was not my idea of fun—which means history’s not exactly my best subject. My memory is fine, but I tend to learn by experience. I can tell you all about the places I’ve traveled and the folks I’ve met along the way. I wasn’t so sure of the Boardwalk, though, since I hadn’t seen much of it since I was a teenager. Hopefully immersing myself in the South Dock Boardwalk as a full-fledged adult would yield a clue as to why someone was scarfing up the waterfront.
The centerpiece of the Boardwalk is a big bronze bell called the Wishing Bell. Kind of like the Liberty Bell…but without the crack. But with wishes! It stood at the nexus of the Historical Society, the piers, and the Ferris wheel, under the watchful eye of the living statue. They say the Wishing Bell has never chimed—not for any particularly ominous reason, but because the clapper was stolen before anyone got a chance to ring it. As to why Pinyin Bay’s founders then mounted it at the center of the Boardwalk instead of just buying a new clapper? That reason is lost to history. But whatever it might’ve been, the city’s population ran with it. Wishes made on the Bell were said to have a better-than-average chance of coming true, so long as you weren’t too greedy about it. There was a slot in the tall base. Once you wrote down your wish and slipped it inside, you’d get up on your tippytoes and pat the Bell three times while chanting, “The Bell brings great things.” The old-timers of Pinyin Bay would then turn their heads, hawk and spit.
Thankfully, that part of the ritual has mostly fallen out of favor.
Once I determined I wasn’t standing in anyone’s loogies, I rubbed the Bell for luck, then took stock of the Boardwalk. I was pondering exactly which pier Rufus might have lost his virginity under when someone accosted me and dragged me toward The Fence—the tall, mysterious fence that was purportedly not protection from wolverines, though the jury was still out on that. I never saw the guy coming. But in my defense, it was an overcast day and my sunglasses were really dark.
I slipped off my shades, and my attacker gesticulated at me urgently.
“Crouch?”
He scrunched his eyebrows and shook his head vigorously, made an exasperated “forget it” gesture…and then began to pantomime something.
“You’re singing karaoke. You’re lighting a cigar. Hold on—you’re not propositioning me, are you?”
He looked alarmed and shook his head.
“Good—because if I re-lose my virginity under the Boardwalk, it won’t be with anyone but Yuri.”
Crouch sketched an hourglass shape in the air and then repeated the gesture, now eating the microphone. Or cigar. Or…you know. “That’s way too kinky for me,” I said firmly. “And I’m incredibly open-minded.”
The mime crossed his arms and glared.
“Wait, I know. You’re annoyed.”
He rolled his eyes.
“Anyway,” I said, “there’s no time for guessing games. We spent all day out here yesterday and came up with a big, fat nothing. Where was it exactly that you found the Crafting?”
Crouch pointed across the Boardwalk at the Pinyin Bay Historical Society. Ugh, polyester. I shuddered. He spun out something that I’m sure would be an absolutely fascinating story—if he’d used actual words. As it was, I didn’t understand a single thing he was trying to convey. Mostly it looked like him waving his arms around. I could see now why my cousin acted like she understood him just to make the flailing stop.
The wind was up, the gulls were screaming, and the water made the watery sounds it makes when it laps against the beach. It reminded me of Yuri’s cabin—which now starred in my favorite memories of the beach. Ones that made me especially sad to see all that machinery rolling in.
I was gazing off down the shore when I heard Yuri say, “I am not here to draw,” from somewhere behind the wolverine fencing. It was soft and semi-disguised by the ambient shoreline sounds, but I’d know his voice and his accent anywhere. I figured he must have come to get me and ended up talking to Crouch. But when I peeked through the slats of The Fence, there was no one on the other side. Just a big hole with a metal gate set into it and a bunch of caution signs. And the mime was still behind me, alone, pretending to sit and think. Which must have been really hard on his thigh muscles.
“Did you just throw your voice?” I demanded. “That’s the best Yuri imitation I ever heard.” Seriously, Crouch should have been a ventriloquist, not a mime. He didn’t even realize that the crazy head-shaking he was now doing looked more like a denial than a gracious acceptance of my compliment.
He cupped his ear, gestured at The Fence, then pointed at the opposite end of the Boardwalk, and back at The Fence again. I said, “I’ve already looked behind it. Honestly, you’ve really gotta learn to get a feel for when a joke has run its course.”
If there was nothing to learn from the buskers, maybe I could find some historical clues to point me in the right direction. Although Crouch was still gesticulating, I decided that with my awesome tourist disguise, I could get away with scoping out the Historical Society without anyone being any the wiser, and headed off toward the building.
The new living statue was set up right in front, shielding his eyes and gazing off into the distance like he was keeping an eye out for seagulls with overzealous digestive systems. As makeup went, I realized, this getup was actually nowhere near as time-consuming as I’d originally thought. Yes, he was painted metallic from head to toe, but most of that was clothing. His hair was a wig, and the amount of actual skin he’d need to paint was minimal. Since I was the only one around, I couldn’t exactly scrutinize him too hard without being obvious. I’d have to sneak a better look at him later to see exactly how he’d put his costume together. Not that I actually wanted to be a living statue—keeping still and quiet wasn’t really in my repertoire of skills. But if Yuri and I did decide to tryst under the pier, a little role-play could really spice things up.
I circled the statue as slowly as I could without looking suspicious, took in what details I could about his costume, then slipped through the Historical Society doors. The air inside was cool and slightly stale. Once my eyes adjusted, I noted the interior was the height of fashion—fifty years ago. Dark wood predominated, with parquet floors, chunky shelving, and informational posters featuring models who looked like they’d stepped off the set of the Mod Squad. It was such a time capsule it was practically retro. I surmised the right person would pay a lot of money to reproduce the look—until I saw that everything was subtly worn, as if it had been cleaned so many times, the finish was coming off. And then it pretty much looked old.
“Dixon?” someone whispered—surprisingly loudly. “What are you doing here?” I spun around and found Pearl, the manager, standing in the doorway of a section marked Reading Room—Quiet, Please. Her graying hair was slicked back in a severe updo, and her polyester blazer was cinched tight with a gold lamé belt that matched her epaulets.
I’d had no idea how intimidating epaulets could be.
Before I could demand to know how she’d recognized me not only in sunglasses, but with a hat, she hissed, “Why aren’t you outside helping Charlotte?”
“I wasn’t sure I was on duty today. Because I never got a schedule. Or a timecard. Or an official Pinyin Bay ballpoint pen.”
Was a reading room the same thing as a library? I’ve never been welcome at my neighborhood branch—the head librarian referred to me as “motormouth,” imagine that. Hopefully my chatterbox reputation hadn’t preceded me all the way to the Boardwalk.
Pearl didn’t shush me, but she did whip out a stack of index cards and rap them against her palm. In the quiet of the building, the sound was like a miniature paper spanking. I flinched. She whispered, “These are comment cards from the Barge of the Bay. And I’ll have you know, I take customer feedback very seriously.”
Uh oh.
“Say, is that Charlotte calling me, off in the distance? Pretty sure it is. I’d better go see what she wants.”
“Just a moment, Dixon,” Pearl said sternly. I’ve always had a thing about pleasing authority figures, even though I’m not particularly good at it. She whapped the index cards against her palm a few times, then said, “The Back to Nature group must have really enjoyed their historical cruise yesterday. They gave you a very high rating. Not perfect, mind you. But, still, surprisingly good, especially for your first day.”
“Really? Wow.” I was actually starting to warm up to Pearl. Did I mention how fond I am of praise? “Say, listen, as someone with unfettered access to the Historical Society, I’ll bet you know a lot about Pinyin Bay.”
Pearl preened at the generous words. “I suppose I am quite the authority.”
There were so many things I wanted to know. What was The Fence all about? Was it entirely impossible wolverines might be involved? But most importantly—who the heck was buying up the shoreline? But before I could ask, the Historical Society door swished open on silent hinges. It was opened with some urgency, but it made only a gentle sigh—though the pages of a few open books nearby fluttered. “There you are,” Charlotte whispered to me—very loudly. She snagged me by the sleeve and said, “Hurry up—the barge is waiting.”