The platform of the clock tower was just like the one below, covered with frozen mouse droppings—and also pigeon poo. Piles and piles of pigeon poo. I knew this because I’d just stepped into one of them.
Grimacing, I scraped my boot on a clean spot on the floor and looked around. It was darker here than in the bell tower below; there were no arched openings in the walls to let in light. Enough leaked in from the open trapdoor in the floor that I could see fairly well, though.
I could hear fairly well too, and what I heard was a shriek. It sounded like Jasmine. The distraction we’d planned was under way.
I examined the back of the clock—nothing. No hidden compartments, nothing taped to it, just a bunch of gears whirring and clicking away. The rafters above were empty too. I checked the walls, the floor, every inch of the clock tower. No envelope.
I stood there, puzzled. It had to be here! I was certain of it. The second hand ticked loudly in the background as I searched again. I felt like Gary Cooper in High Noon. Time was running out. Reverend Quinn was bound to notice my absence soon.
I searched again, but the envelope wasn’t here. And I had been so certain that it would be!
The scavenger hunt was over.
Discouraged, I went back over to the ladder. As I placed my foot onto the top slat, I caught a glimpse of something flapping on top of the thick piece of wood below—the one from which the bell hung. What had Reverend Quinn called it? The headstock?
I climbed down closer for a better look. Sure enough, something was stuck to the headstock’s flat surface, and a corner of whatever it was had come loose and was flapping in the chilly breeze. It looked like a length of duct tape. Peering closer, I could see that it had been painted over with white to match the rest of the wood. It was nearly invisible, except for the telltale flash of silvery gray beneath the paint on the loose piece.
I stretched out an arm to see if I could reach it. No such luck. I climbed all the way down to the bell platform below and stretched up, but I couldn’t reach it from there, either. There was only one option. I’d have to climb back up, scooch my way out onto the rafter directly above the headstock, then see if I could lean down and reach it from there.
It wasn’t easy. The rafter was frosted as thickly as one of Dr. Calhoun’s cupcakes with everything that was icky in the steeple. Dirt, mouse droppings, and probably two hundred years’ worth of pigeon poo.
Pulling off my wool hat, I smacked it against the wood, sending up a cloud of dust and scattering frozen mouse droppings in every direction. Still gross, but better. I hiked my skirt up and straddled the rafter. As I inched forward, I heard something rip. I’d snagged my tights. So much for wearing my Sunday best—I was going to have some explaining to do when I got home.
Using my hat as a makeshift pigeon-poo snowplow, I continued inching my way out until I was directly above the flapping edge of duct tape. Then I leaned forward until I was lying flat on my stomach. Holding tight to the rafter with one arm, I cautiously extended the other. My fingertips grazed the upcurled edge of tape. I strained to grab it, but it was still too far away.
Frustrated, I sat up again. The only way I was going to be able to do this was if I swung my knees over the rafter and lowered myself down backward, the way I used to do on the jungle gym when I was Pippa’s age.
There was no other choice. And if I wasn’t quick, Reverend Quinn would be back up here looking for me. Before I could talk myself out of it, over I went. And suddenly I was really, really glad Scooter wasn’t up here. He’d be singing “I see London” at the top of his lungs, because my skirt had flipped completely over my head. I swatted it away from my face, tucking the front part into the waistband of my tights. A gust of frigid wind found the open gap between my turtleneck sweater and my back as I did so, and I choked back a screech.
I dangled there upside down like a frozen bat, face-to-face with Paul Revere’s bell. I was close enough to touch the inscription with my nose if I’d wanted to. Which I absolutely truly did not.
I also didn’t want to be spotted. People were starting to leave the church, and I was in full view of anyone who might happen to look up at the steeple from the street. I needed to hurry.
I pulled myself halfway up and grabbed hold of the head-stock with one hand, then reached for the loose corner of duct tape with the other. Grasping it, I tugged. And tugged again, harder. R-i-i-i-i-i-p! The duct tape parted ways with the paint and the wood, and sure enough, there was something stuck to the underside. An envelope! Clutching it tightly, I hauled myself back up on top of the rafter.
I lay there for a second or two, panting. Suddenly, the big wooden wheel below me began to move. I scrambled for safety as the bell began to sway back and forth. And a moment later, all I could think about was covering my ears.