By daylight the next morning Harleigh had decided on a plan of action. Actually, he’d considered a great number of them during the long, mind-numbing midnight hours, but by the time a foggy morning sun began to sift in through the Aerie’s windows, he’d rejected most of them—including the one in which he would borrow the sword and shield from the entry hall’s suit of armor, lie in wait for Junior just inside the recital hall door, and when Junior appeared he would leap out shouting. . . . Well, maybe not.
The one remaining plan had several advantages, the most important one being that it could be done right away, and until it was accomplished there was not much point in trying to figure out what the next step would be. This plan was simply to find out for sure whether Junior had already stolen the treasure. Until then, he was finally able to convince himself, there was no point in trying to decide what should be done next.
As Harleigh, a bit groggy from lack of sleep, stumbled out of bed and into his usual summer uniform (shorts and a T-shirt), he reminded himself that he had to begin by finding out whether Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were planning to eat lunch in the kitchen or have it delivered to the recital hall, as they often did. If they were planning to eat in the kitchen, there would be plenty of time for him to get a quick look at the stage floor. And he would only have to stay long enough to discover whether it had already been chopped or sawed open. It seemed simple enough.
Once in the kitchen, Harleigh’s method of operation was rather well planned. Instead of just asking Aunt Adelaide and Josephine where they were eating, which might have aroused their suspicions, he had decided to begin by talking to Matilda. He would ask Matilda what they were having for lunch, and then in the general discussion, Aunt Adelaide might mention where she was intending to eat. So as soon as he’d finished his toast and scrambled eggs, Harleigh went over to where Matilda was doing something with a rolling pin. He watched for a while as the rolling pin stretched and flattened a large whitish blob before he said, “That looks . . .” He almost said “disgusting” before he caught himself. “That looks interesting. What is it?”
Matilda’s blank face (a face that usually showed no expressions at all) changed to shocked surprise. Almost as if she didn’t know Harleigh could talk. Or was it just surprise that he was talking to her?
Clearing her throat, she said in a rusty voice, “Crust. Crust for chicken pot pie.”
“Oh yeah? That’s going to be crust? For chicken pot pie?” Everyone, including Harleigh, liked Matilda’s chicken pot pie. “And that’s going to be the crust?” Harleigh watched a few more minutes, getting caught up in observing how the future crisp and tasty crust bulged unappetizingly out from under the rolling pin, first one way and then the other. So caught up that he momentarily forgot what he was doing. Suddenly remembering, he asked, “When is it going to be ready? I mean, will it be for lunch today?”
“Mmm,” Matilda mumbled. “Lunch. Today.”
“Chicken pot pie for lunch today,” Harleigh announced loudly, glancing at Aunt Adelaide, hoping she’d say where she’d have hers. And then, just as he was beginning to wonder if she’d heard, she spoke to Matilda.
“When exactly?” Aunt Adelaide asked. “I do like my pastries to be right out of the oven. Should we be here at twelve or twelve thirty, Matilda?” Then when Matilda said twelve, Aunt Adelaide said, “Good. We’ll be here exactly at twelve.”
So then he knew. Aunt Adelaide and Josephine would be in the kitchen at twelve sharp. And at 12:05 he, Harleigh the Fourth, would be making a quick inspection of the recital hall’s stage.
Harleigh left for the library, determined to finish his Tuesday lessons in record time so he wouldn’t risk being late. But it was then that things stopped going as planned. Every lesson seemed to drag by, either because Uncle Edgar had worked hard at coming up with the sneakiest math problems and most complicated Latin phrases he could possibly find, or just possibly because it was harder than usual for Harleigh to keep his mind on his work. Time practically stood still while Harleigh tried to concentrate, first on geometry and then on Latin verbs, while checking his watch every few minutes to be sure it wasn’t yet twelve o’clock.
At last Uncle Edgar closed his book and, in a concerned tone of voice, said, “What’s on your mind, boy?”
Harleigh made an effort to look as if Uncle Edgar’s question not only bored but also puzzled him, but without much success. His “What do you mean?” was too quick and too defensive.
As Uncle Edgar went on staring at him questioningly, Harleigh couldn’t keep his eyes from sliding away shiftily as he asked, “Can I go now?” And then, without waiting for an answer, he went.
Out in the entry hall, Harleigh stopped to glance once more at his watch and was surprised to find that he had some time to spare. Only eleven forty-five. Not really time enough to get clear up to the tower and back, but more than enough to pick a hideout somewhere along Aunt Adelaide and Josephine’s route to the kitchen.
It needed to be a place close enough to hear them go by, but not so close that he might risk being seen. Darting across the hall, he ran halfway through the drawing room before he stopped to look for the best hiding place. After quickly trying and rejecting spots behind some window drapes (too far away) and behind a French provincial chair (too exposed), he finally settled for flat on the floor behind a bulgy velvet love seat. At five minutes until twelve Harleigh had barely gotten into position when he began to hear the squealing squeak of the wheelchair. Aunt Adelaide, on her way to make sure her chicken pot pie was right out of the oven.
As soon as the last whisper of wheelchair sound had died away into silence, Harleigh stood up and, running on tiptoe, headed for the recital hall. And only seconds later he was quietly pushing open one of the big double doors.
It all seemed to be going well until, just as the door came to a stop, something bounced off Harleigh’s shoulder and landed near his feet. A dime. It was only a dime, but where had it come from? His first thought was that someone had thrown it, but a quick glance around reassured him that there was no one there. He was alone in the huge room, and a small coin had appeared out of nowhere and was now lying at his feet.
Turning slowly in a circle, Harleigh once again surveyed the room. Could someone have thrown the dime and then ducked down behind a piece of furniture? Behind Aunt Adelaide’s massive desk, or the curtains of her canopied bed? A quick trip around the room produced nothing at all. As he looked carefully behind antique furniture, ancient artifacts, and paintings of people in old-fashioned clothing, some of Allegra’s weird ideas about “stories” flicked the edges of his consciousness. Long enough to make him wonder briefly if Weatherby House’s “storytellers” were capable of throwing things.
But he had other things to think about and to do quickly. By making a strong effort he forced himself to forget, at least for the time being, the whole strange event. After all, it was only a dime, and he had to put his mind on what he had come to do: to find out whether there were any openings in the stage floor, and if so, whether it meant that the treasure had already been stolen.
Behind the curtains that closed off the stage it was quite dark, but Harleigh, thinking back to the one time he’d explored the stage, seemed to remember some electric lights. Feeling along the wall near the stairs that led down to the performers’ door, his fingers encountered a panel of switches. He began to flick them on, or try to, but the first two produced no light at all. He was beginning to think that all the old bulbs had burned out when the third switch produced a faint glow. Not a great deal of light, but enough to see that, just as he remembered, the stage was empty except for two old pianos: a big grand and, against the back wall, an ancient upright. It was also easy to see that the varnished planks that made up the stage floor were smooth and unbroken. So the treasure had not yet been stolen.
Switching off the light, Harleigh parted the curtains, jumped down to the recital hall’s floor, and dashed across the room and out into the hall, closing the door firmly behind him. He reached the kitchen only ten minutes after twelve o’clock. Not much later than his usual tardy appearances.
Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were still at the table, as was Uncle Edgar, when Harleigh sat down to a serving of Matilda’s tasty chicken pot pie. Feeling quite pleased with himself, he nodded and smiled to the others, especially Matilda, and started to eat. He had accomplished what he had set out to do. He’d managed to find out that the treasure was safe, and now all that remained was to . . .
That’s when the letdown hit him. All he’d actually done was to prove that he now had to go ahead and take the next step. The hard one. The one in which he would keep Junior from stealing the Weatherby treasure tomorrow morning while Aunt Adelaide and Josephine were in town.