“RUTHIE DELGADO is alive.”
I must look like I’ve swallowed a fly or something, because Rose leads me to the clubhouse steps and sits me in the shade. “Breathe, Bird,” she says.
“What did you say?” I ask.
“Breathe.”
“No, about Ruthie.”
“She’s alive,” Rose says. “Ruthie D. is in the land of the living.”
“How do you know?”
“Easy. I looked for her where all old people end up,” she says. “Facebook.”
I gaze up at Rose and feel a little queasy and don’t know why. Ruthie Delgado is alive. That’s good news. That’s what we wanted. So why am I suddenly feeling carsick and no one’s stopping the car?
Ally walks toward us, dripping from the pool. “What are you talking about?”
“You!” Rose says. But I miss the beat. My you comes out as an afterthought.
“What’s wrong?” Ally asks me.
“Nothing.” I look up, squinting against the sun. “Ruthie’s alive.”
“Huh? I thought we weren’t doing that anymore.”
“We weren’t,” Rose says and sits beside me on the stairs. “But then I woke up this morning with this Facebook idea. My mum Facebooks her friends back in England all the time. They’re all on Facebook. And since I’d already decrypted her password, you know, it was easy. I just looked her up.”
“Why didn’t we think of this sooner?” I ask, truly dumbfounded by the oversight.
“I don’t know. We must be idiots. Anyway,” Rose continues, “she lives in Michigan now. Her last name is Bayer.”
“But how do you know it’s really her?” I ask.
“A couple of reasons. One, old people don’t know how to leave their year of birth off Facebook, and Ruthie Delgado Bayer is no exception. Year of birth: 1957. Check. Also, she went to Crestwood High School.”
We stare at her blankly. “So?” Ally asks.
“So,” Rose replies. “I did some research. Crestwood High School opened in 1971. Right in time for Ruthie Delgado to go to school there. And it closed in 1992 to become a middle school. So Crestwood High School became…” She looks at us like we’re supposed to know the answer and then gives up. “Monarch Middle School.”
“The old middle school?” I ask.
“Yep.”
“So I’ll be going to what used to be Ruthie Delgado’s high school?” Ally asks.
“Exactly.”
I lean back on the stairs and take this in. Frankly, I can’t help but feel a little inferior. Why didn’t I think of looking on Facebook? Why didn’t I find out about Crestwood High School? “You’re a regular Sherlock Holmes this morning, Rose,” I say, trying to hide my jealousy. “What’s gotten into you?”
“Don’t know. Maybe cuz of all this extra time not playing violin. And look!” She holds out the fingertips of her left hand. “Hardly any calluses anymore.”
She can believe it if it makes her feel better, but it’s been less than a week, so those calluses aren’t fading yet. What is fading is our summer, which is ticking down like a time bomb.
And now Ruthie is alive.
“Oh, and that’s not everything,” Rose states triumphantly. “I found her number, too. That was easy once I knew where she lived. So what do you say? Let’s give Ruthie a call.”
* * *
“Hello.”
The voice answers on the second ring. We’re in Rose’s bedroom, having threaded our way through unpacked boxes and screeching packing tape.
“Hello,” I say into Rose’s phone, my eyes widening. “Is this Ruthie Delgado?”
“This is Ruth Bayer,” the not-so-friendly voice answers. “Who is this?”
“Um.” I look to Rose and Ally. “Well, I’m calling from Atlanta. My name is Birdie Adams. I think you used to live next door to where I live now.”
“On Gainsborough?”
“Yes, on Gainsborough!” I say excitedly. This is her. This is our Ruthie. “So you’re really alive?”
“What?” she says. It’s only one word but it’s a suspicious one.
“Oh, I mean, well, we found this ticket to the Allman Brothers Band concert and it was yours and the person who buried it thought you were dead. And I mean, we’ve been trying to solve the mystery. To find out if Martin Smith really killed you. Because Girl Detective was really convinced that he did, but if you’re alive then—”
“Who is this again?”
I hold the phone away from my face and look pleadingly at Rose, who mouths, She thinks you’re crazy.
“Oh, I’m not crazy or anything,” I say back into the phone. But as soon as I say it, I realize that makes me sound even crazier.
“Right,” Ruthie says. “Whatever kind of crank call this is, I’m not interested. Especially if you know Martin Smith. Call me again and I’ll call the police.”
“But—”
The phone goes dead in my hand. I hold it out to Rose as if she can give it mouth-to-mouth resuscitation and bring Ruthie back.
“Way to play it cool, Bird,” she says, taking the phone from my hand.
“Yeah, way to scare the crap out of her,” says Ally.
“You think I scared her?”
“Just a little,” Rose answers, and starts to laugh.
“Oh no!” I put my hands over my eyes. What is wrong with me?!
“Yeah, but she’s alive,” Ally says. “That was really her, right?”
“Yeah, it was. She said Gainsborough Drive. And she knew who Martin Smith was. So we were right about him, too.”
“Except for the part about him killing her. But who cares?!” Rose declares and throws her hands up. “Mystery solved! The Case of the Buried Box is finally finished.”
“Well, kind of.”
“Birdie!” they both exclaim.
“Okay, okay. Mystery solved,” I say. Except no matter what they say, it’s not. Because what about Girl Detective? We still don’t know what happened to her.
* * *
After eating sandwiches that Mrs. Ashcroft made us for lunch, we start back outside to go to our island, when Rose’s mom says, “Why don’t you and Ally nip back to the pool, Rose. I’d like to have a word with Birdie.”
Rose and my eyes meet. “Mum!” she says.
“Shan’t be for long. Now, off you pop.” As Rose’s mom shoos them out the front door, I catch one last look at Rose’s pleading eyes before the front door closes.
When Rose’s mom returns, she asks me to sit down again. And I do. I sit at the kitchen table and do my best to act like everything is normal.
Instead of joining me, she glowers over me like Professor McGonagall. “So, Birdie. What do you know about Rose’s violin?”
I force my eyes to meet hers. If I look away, she’ll know I’m hiding something.
“Well,” I start to say, and thankfully, the kettle blows and she walks to the counter to turn it off. She places two tea bags into a teapot and fills the pot with boiling water. I’ve seen her do this hundreds of times.
As the tea brews, she sits down in the chair across from me. There might as well be a single lightbulb strung over my head. I steel for the interrogation.
“I can’t imagine someone coming into our house and stealing Rose’s violin. I’m not buying it.” She watches me closely. “I thought you might have something to add to the story.”
I shrug. I really don’t want to lie to her. How did I get to the point where I feel like I need to lie to so many adults? “Not really,” I say.
“You have nothing to say?”
“I just know what Rose told me.” Yeah, that’s a lie. Could I possibly consider this a lie for the greater good? It’s for my greater good, for sure. Rose would be so upset if I told her mom the truth. But is it for the real greater good? “I really loved listening to Rose play violin,” I tell her. Because that is true. “But maybe it’ll be good for her to have a break. I think she was starting to … I don’t know … resent it.”
“Hmm.” Her eyes are working hard, trying to crack me open, to see what’s inside. “It’s a sin to waste a talent,” she finally says. “Rose needs to play. She needs to practice.”
“Maybe when she gets back to England,” I say and feel my eyes unexpectedly fill. I drop my head and just sit there silently, waiting for more questions, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. Instead, Rose’s mom pats my hand with hers. “You’ve been a good friend, Birdie. Rose is lucky to have you.”