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  Before I could speak, Sherry turned to Dieter. The smile disappeared. She clamped her jeweled fingers on Dieter’s shoulders.

  She snarled, “You have trespassed once too often.”

  Not a good start. But once I explained—

  “We’re looking for a sausage,” Dieter blurted. “I mean, a blond sausage. A missing one. I mean…”

  He was babbling. He was terrified, in shock.

  Through her thick red lipstick, Sherry hissed, “There is no missing child. There never was.”

  I gave Dieter’s ear a sharp twist.

  “Yeowch!” He twisted out of Sherry’s grip to glare at me. He wasn’t in shock now. He was mad.

  I gave him a shove. As in, This is your chance. Go.

  His eyes widened. He got it. Sherry was reaching for him again. But, bending low, he burrowed through the crowd.

  Seconds—and a few startled screams—later, the Deet emerged at the edge of the crowd. He dashed down the passage, toward the entrance, a natural escape artist. Persephone could have used his skills.

  Under her heavy face powder, Sherry was red with fury. She whipped around to me.

  No way I could slip away like Dieter. I was too tall.

  There was one thing I could do anyway.

  “Ma’am, this is my fault, not that boy’s,” I said.

  Sherry said tersely, “Don’t blame yourself, Edwin. You tried to stop him. You did your best.”

  The hood—I’d forgotten I was wearing it!

  My idea had worked. Sherry thought I was the elevator guy.

  Sherry snapped, “Well, don’t just stand there. Get back to your post!”

  I didn’t need convincing. I shoved through the crowd and up the passage. As I recalled, the real Edwin wasn’t as tall as I was. I didn’t want to give Sherry a chance to notice that.

  Around the next curve, I ran into the fake pomegranates. In the video playing on the wall, Persephone was sobbing her heart out.

  People were glancing at me. It was the hood. They were expecting theatrics. An evil laugh or something.

  I pulled the hood off. I wanted to blend in.

  In the video, a demonic figure loomed over Persephone.

  I’d seen it, heard it all before.

  But had I?

  Last time I was here, Edwin had run down the passage with his hokey evil laugh. It looked like he’d come from around the next turn.

  But the Persephone portrait was around the next turn. Gawkers crammed that part of the passage. There was no way Edwin could have run through such a tightly packed crowd.

  He must have come from somewhere else. Somewhere with the space to work up a good sprint.

  I looked around. And got another face full of fake pomegranates.

  Last time, I’d passed the pomegranates. The video was the attraction. The video got people’s attention.

  Now, I waded right into the pomegranates.

  So many pomegranates.

  Such great camouflage.

  I stuck my hands out in front of me. Blinded by the masses of plastic fruit, I didn’t want to smash into a wall.

  The pomegranates ended. Now I was on a slim stretch of floor behind them. This was where Edwin had got his running start.

  I started walking. I came to black curtains. On the other side hung Rossetti’s portrait.

  I heard people’s whispers. “Wow… So beautiful…So sad…”

  “Move along,” called the security guard, in the same bored voice.

  For me, there wasn’t room to move. I’d come to a wall. A dark dead end.

  Wait. It wasn’t totally dark. A thread of light ran along the base of the wall.

  It was a door!

  I felt for a handle. Found it. Turned it.

  I saw a small round room.

  Under a lamp, in a big stuffed chair, sat Blondie.

  She frowned at me over the book of fairy tales she was reading. “Where have you been?”

  Chapter Nine

  “Where have I been? You’re the one who vanished!”

  Blondie shrugged. The sausage curls bounced. “Smythe brought me here. Aunt Sherry’s orders.”

  My overworked brain struggled with this. Sherry Moore, manager of Death Drop. The kid’s aunt.

  Sherry had wealthy relatives in England. Blondie must be from that branch of the family.

  I also remembered, in the office, Smythe swooping down on Blondie. He’d known who she was.

  I shook my head at Blondie. Amazing how a kid could be so cute and so exasperating. “You didn’t tell me your aunt was the manager.”

  She pushed out her lower lip. “You didn’t ask me.”

  I looked around. There was a small refrigerator, and a coffeemaker with a box of cookies on top. Beside a narrow cupboard door, rolled-up posters and plastic bags of metal mailing tubes were piled up. There was also a box labeled Persephone dolls.

  Blondie said, “It was all Aunt Sherry’s fault. She left me to play in here. I got bored, Angel! I searched for her. I went outside. But she was gone.”

  Blondie frowned. “When Aunt Sherry invited me from London for a visit, she told my parents there was a lot to see in Vancouver. It would be good for me, she said. But I haven’t seen anything.”

  Her mouth was trembling. I felt bad for her. I said, “Maybe some day you’ll come back with someone who…”

  Who actually notices you, I was about to say. I changed it to “Who has time to see the sights with you.”

  The kid pointed at a large brass trunk by the wall. “Aunt Sherry packed my things. She’s taking me home to England. We leave soon.”

  A metal mailing tube lay on top of the trunk. Lifting it, I sank down on the trunk. I thought of the trouble Blondie had caused me. The hefty chance I’d be tossed off the team.

  Not that it was Blondie’s fault. It was Sherry’s, for neglecting the kid. And Smythe’s fault, too, for pretending Blondie didn’t exist. What was that about?

  Why bother bringing the kid to Vancouver in the first place?

  I wished I had my baseball to toss up and down. But the ball was in my backpack. So instead I balanced one end of the tube on my palm. It’s always good to develop new skills.

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Gracie Moore.” She brightened. “And you are my angel.”

  I remembered Coach’s text, demanding that I meet him at six. With an explanation that better be STELLAR.

  “Not an angel to everyone,” I said. I’d been holding the mailing tube in my right hand. I shifted the tube to my left hand and held out my right. “Zeke Sheldon.”

  She shook my hand solemnly. “Zeke? I’m hungry.”

  I felt in a side pocket. I had a crushed, half-eaten chocolate bar. I handed it to her. She crammed it into her mouth. I got a chocolaty-toothed smile.

  I stood up. She was okay. I should go. I needed to find Coach. Make a groveling apology. Offer to wash his SUV for the next ten years.

  But Sherry and Smythe were stuck in my mind like a mental chicken bone.

  Why had they pretended Gracie didn’t exist?

  I was still holding the tube. Gracie pointed to it. “There’s a Death Drop poster inside that,” she said, mouth full of chocolate. “It’s a souvenir for me. From Aunt Sherry.”

  I recalled the poster on display in the shop. The people on the elevator, screaming as they plunged into flames.

  Bizarre gift for a little girl.

  Then, on the other side of the door, we heard voices.

  Gracie gaped at me in blue-eyed dismay. “It’s Aunt Sherry and Smythe!”

  I’d sneaked back in to find the manager. To show her the sketch of Gracie and me.

  But that was before I knew what had happened to Gracie. Now I knew she was fine. I had no excuse for trespassing.

  Sherry would be on the phone to the police faster than you could say reform school.

  The door handle was turning. I had to hide. Where? I did a rapid three-sixty. Brassbound trunk. Piled-up tu
bes, posters, dolls.

  Cupboard door.

  I wrenched the handle, pulled the door open, jumped into—

  Not a cupboard. A narrow spiral staircase.

  Missing the first steps, my feet met air. I crashed onto my side. I slid down the endless stairs.

  Chapter Ten

  As I slid, the step edges crunched into my ribs. It was like having my rib cage played by a harpist. One with killer fingernails.

  I jammed the soles of my runners against the wall. I stopped my fall.

  I sat up, stretched out my legs. I breathed in deeply. I felt a jabbing pain in my ribs on the side I’d fallen on.

  I wondered if I’d broken those ribs. I didn’t think so. I’d broken my ribs a couple of years before. I’d been diving for third base in a steal.

  This was painful, but not as bad as I remembered from that time.

  I stood. These must be the employee stairs, with exits on each level.

  I started down them.

  Then—

  Light poured through the winding shaft. Sherry called sharply, “Who’s there?”

  Sherry had heard me falling.

  I stayed still. A few steps up, the light gleamed on something silver.

  The metal mailing tube! I’d dropped it in my ungraceful downward skid.

  If Sherry stepped into the stairwell and saw the tube, she might come to get it. I’d have to run. The way my ribs ached, I didn’t feel like a sprint right now.

  I caught her words—“Thought I heard something.”

  I heard the door shut.

  I couldn’t leave the tube there. Someone might trip over it. I climbed back up, grabbed it.

  Sherry had left the tube on top of the trunk. All ready for when they left to catch their plane.

  Except that I’d taken it.

  Would Sherry notice it was missing?

  No. A cheapo gift like that?

  She might not notice.

  But if she did notice…

  If she was the eagle-eyed type…

  I punched the end of the tube into my palm. I heard the poster thunk inside. I didn’t like what I was thinking. Sherry might grill Gracie about the missing tube. Force her to admit someone had been up there.

  Me.

  Poor kid. I didn’t want to get her in trouble.

  I had to get the tube back on top of the trunk.

  As I climbed back up the stairs, I heard Sherry’s calm, voice through the door.

  “I don’t know why you’re panicking, Smythe. So a couple of boys sneaked into Death Drop. One of them saw Gracie. The guard handled it.”

  I was by the door now. Smythe’s whiny tones floated through. “The kid with glasses got away.”

  Dieter had escaped! Yes! I gave an air punch.

  Sherry said, “Forget it, Smythe. We’re almost done. So stop worrying and admire the view!”

  Slowly, cautiously, I opened the door a crack and peeked through.

  Sherry was looking out toward Lions Gate Bridge. “I’ll miss Vancouver. So lovely. So profitable!” Her rather shrill laugh rang out.

  Smythe ran his tongue over his teeth. “You won’t forget me, Sherry? I mean, I was the one who—”

  “Smythe!” Sherry said sharply. Whatever he’d been about to say, Sherry did not want the kid to hear it.

  Sherry glanced at her niece. But Gracie was deep into her book.

  What had Smythe been going to say? He was the one who…what?

  Sherry spoke again. “Of course I won’t forget you, Smythe. You will be well taken care of.”

  Smythe nodded. He relaxed. He looked out the window.

  And for that instant, Sherry allowed herself a smile. Not a friendly one. A mean gotcha! one. Cold enough to chip ice from.

  Gracie glanced up from her book. She saw me. Her mouth made an O.

  I winked at her. I lifted the metal mailing tube.

  The kid glanced at the brassbound trunk. She saw the tube was missing.

  I raised the tube like a spear. I could throw it to Gracie.

  No! she mouthed. She pointed at the tube.

  I looked at the tube in proper light for the first time since I—and it—had taken our little tumble down the stairs.

  One end was dented.

  Sherry would want to know why. I couldn’t risk that. Somehow I had to get another mailing tube on top of that trunk.

  “Think of all the things you will be able to buy,” Sherry was telling Smythe. She studied his pale complexion. “You could go to a tanning salon.”

  Smythe winced. I almost felt sorry for him. It wasn’t like he could help being pale.

  My gaze fell on the tubes stacked against the wall. I reached out, picked one up. That was easy enough.

  It felt lighter than the one I’d dropped. It must not have a poster inside. I wondered if Sherry would notice when she picked it up.

  And suppose she opened it? She might want to make sure it was the right tube. One with a poster inside, not an empty tube.

  I had to put one of those posters in the tube.

  But I had a problem. The posters were bundled in bags of plastic. If I tried to pull one out, the plastic would make noise.

  Gracie was staring at me. Expecting me to fix things. It was the stare the artist had captured in the sketch.

  The sketch! I had an idea. Quietly I withdrew into the stairwell. I shut the door.

  Removing the rolled-up sketch from my backpack, I put it inside the new tube. Now the tube felt about the same weight as the dented one.

  I opened the door again.

  Sherry was checking her diamond-studded watch.

  “Soon I’ll call a cab,” she informed Smythe. “Would you carry our trunk down?”

  Smythe looked unhappily at the four-foot-high, five-foot-wide trunk. “It’s kind of big for one person. Plus, I should get downstairs to let the next group in.”

  Sherry ignored him. She was busy patting her black hair with her flashy-ringed hands. “I’ll carry the mailing tube.”

  She swiveled to face the trunk.

  Chapter Eleven

  Gracie screamed.

  Her aunt knelt beside her. “What is it, sweetie?” Her voice held a note of impatience. Sherry was not the maternal type.

  “The bridge—someone’s jumping off!” Gracie ran to the window.

  Sherry followed. She, Gracie and Smythe all stared out.

  “Over there!” Gracie exclaimed.

  I tiptoed to the trunk. I placed on top the new, unbent tube containing the sketch. I tiptoed back into the stairwell and pulled the door almost shut.

  Smythe said, “That’s just somebody looking at the scenery. Nobody’s jumping.”

  Sherry shrugged. “My niece is imaginative.”

  She stepped to the trunk. She picked up the tube. She shook it, and she smiled.

  I shut the door. Holding the dented tube, I hurried down the stairs. I could hear the poster moving inside the tube, ssshhh-ah, ssshhh-ah, like a castanet.

  I thought of Gracie opening her tube when she got home. Instead of the scary Death Drop poster, she’d find the sketch of her and me. A way nicer souvenir.

  I passed another door. Then I heard footsteps above and behind me. And every few seconds a thunk!

  It was Smythe, lugging that heavy trunk down the stairs. And the trunk crashing into the wall every few seconds.

  The thunks grew louder. He was getting closer.

  My ribs were too sore to run down the rest of the stairs. I went back to the door I’d just passed. I opened it, stepped through.

  I was behind a screen. Sherry’s welcome video was playing on the other side of it.

  Somebody called, “Hey! Who’s behind the screen?”

  I was casting a shadow. I hurried around the screen and mixed in with the crowd.

  I changed my plan. I didn’t want Smythe to spot me at the entrance. I’d follow everyone to the top. I’d ride down the Death Drop with them. Then I’d exit through the gift shop.

  T
hat made sense. Go with the flow.

  The crowd shuffled around the corner to the portrait. I paused with them. Persephone had put her spell on me. I wanted to see her sad face, her haunting blue eyes.

  I looked at the portrait.

  And—

  No spell.

  I squinted. Persephone had the same beautiful face. The same thick dark hair, satiny dress, pomegranate in her hand.

  The difference was, I couldn’t feel her sadness. The first time I’d seen the portrait, she’d sent her feelings right out to me.

  Maybe the first impression was always the strong one. Maybe after that the portrait lost its power.

  Dieter had felt the same. Seeing it a second time was kind of a letdown.

  I trudged around the next corner. I thought of the painter, Dante Rossetti. Obsessed with his model, he’d painted portrait after portrait of her. He’d put everything he had into them. The effort had ended up killing him—but not before he’d created a whole series of real, living Persephones on canvas.

  At least, she’d seemed real the first time I saw the portrait. As opposed to the second time, when she looked beautiful but boring. Not lifelike at all.

  My steps slowed. Not lifelike was how Persephone looked in the portrait in the elevator. Correction. In the copy of the portrait.

  I stopped. In my mind I placed the portrait in the elevator beside the portrait I’d just seen. The two weren’t that different.

  In fact, they weren’t different at all.

  Which might mean—

  The portrait on display wasn’t the original.

  Images flashed through my brain. The old woman fainting. Smythe, then the guard, rushing to the scene. The rest of the visitors gawking.

  For those moments, the portrait had been left alone. Someone could have removed it and left a copy in its place.

  I had to be sure. I needed to examine the portrait up close. If I still thought it was a fake, I’d let the cops know.

  They might just laugh. Me, a kid. A baseball pitcher. What did I know?

  But Dieter would back me up. On second view, he’d found the portrait a letdown. And he was a brainiac, a scholar.

  The cops couldn’t ignore both of us. They’d have to check into it.

  I needed to wait until closing time, when no one was around. Till then, I knew just the place to hide.