“Anjali!
Mr. Stone opened the door wide. “By all means, come in and look around. Bring your friends. You’ll see I’m telling the truth. Your sister’s not here.” He cocked an eyebrow at me and Marc with polite, almost affectionate patience. We all followed Jaya into the apartment.
The smell overwhelmed me for a moment. It was as unmistakable and impossible to pin down as the smell in the Grimm Collection, yet rawer, harsher. It smelled like the false package Mr. Stone had tried to give me instead of the acrobats. Not hyacinths but paint thinner; not loam but wet ash.
Reeling from the smell, I looked around to get my bearings. The apartment was a big loft with a high ceiling. It seemed to be part home, part warehouse. Pedestals, tables, and stands displayed lovely old objects—clocks, paintings, vases, radios—that all looked as if they might be magical. On the computer, some sort of dizzying screen saver whirled and churned sickeningly. It reminded me of the swirling inside the
“Can I get you anything? A soda?” offered Mr. Stone.
“My sister!”
“Excuse me a minute.” Mr. Stone went behind a low wall. We could hear the refrigerator open and shut. Jaya stomped around, looking behind furniture for Anjali.
Mr. Stone came back with drinks and cookies. “Root beer? Sparkling water?”
“My sister!”
He poured a glass of root beer and held it out to me. “No, thanks,” I said. He offered it to Marc, who shook his head. Jaya didn’t even acknowledge the offer—she just glared at him.
Mr. Stone shrugged and sipped the soda himself. “So,” he said. “Perhaps we should introduce ourselves. I’m Wallace Stone, but I imagine you know that already. I think you said you were Jaya Rao?” He held out his hand to Jaya, but she put hers behind her. Mr. Stone seemed to find that funny—at least, his eyes twinkled. “And you?” He offered me his hand. “We’ve met before, of course, but I don’t know your name.”
I didn’t want to shake his hand, but I thought it was probably a good idea to be polite if we wanted to get any information out of him. “Elizabeth Rew,” I said.
“A pleasure.”
He turned to Marc next and held out his hand. “And you’re the great Marc Merritt, aren’t you?”
Marc towered over Mr. Stone and didn’t offer his hand.
“Now, have some gingerbread and tell me why you thought your sister would be here,” said Mr. Stone, holding out the plate of cookies.
“We know she came here this morning, and now she’s missing,” said Marc, accepting one.
I couldn’t resist taking one too and bit off its leg. It was delicious. I tasted ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and some other spice—what was it? Nutmeg? Cardamom? No, something a little more unusual in gingerbread—orange peel, maybe? Not quite: it was a darker flavor somehow, more like, I don’t know, caramelized apples or wood smoke. I took another bite. Sweet and dark, like roast duck or cedar pencils.
“Well, you’re right—Anjali did come to see me,” said Mr. Stone. “But as you can see, she’s not here anymore.”
“She was here? When? What happened to her?” Jaya chomped the head off a gingerbread man furiously, as if it were Mr. Stone himself.
His eyes flared. “Thank you, my dear. You’re about to find out.” He cleared his throat and intoned:
Nothing happened.
Well, Jaya seemed to sort of shudder for a moment, rippling around the edges like a reflection in a pond on a windy day; also, my stomach felt odd. Marc leapt to his feet. But nobody turned into a figurine.
“That’s strange,” said Mr. Stone. He looked annoyed.
Jaya rippled again. “Stop it!” she yelled, shaking herself like a wet dog.
Marc grabbed Mr. Stone by the shoulders. “What are you doing? Did you just try to turn us into figurines?” he growled, his nostrils flaring.
“Yes, of course. What on earth went wrong?
“Mine,” said Jaya, with a touch of smugness mixed into her fury. “Miss Bender taught me. Is my sister a figurine? Where did you hide her?” She began tearing through the closet, flinging coats on the floor and dumping out the contents of hatboxes.
Marc wrenched his arm away from Mr. Stone. He opened his knapsack and reached in. He held up a burlap sack and said,
A stout wooden club with a leather handle flew out of the sack, straight at Mr. Stone. He threw his hand up in front of him. The club paused in mid-flight, beating at the air. Then slowly, thrashing and struggling as if it were being dragged against its will, it turned around and lowered itself, handle first, into his hand.
“Thank you, Marc—what a pleasant surprise. The bag too, please.” Mr. Stone held out his other hand and the bag twisted itself out of Marc’s grasp into his. “Did you really think you could beat your friend’s whereabouts out of me? In my own home? How crude.” He shook his head sadly.
Marc stared at him in horror.
“What
“The Grimm cudgel,” said Marc in a choked voice. “He got the Grimm cudgel!”
“The what?”
“The Grimm cudgel. It beats up anyone you send it after, until you tell it to stop. At least, it’s supposed to.”
“Marc, Marc, Marc. Don’t you know violence is never the answer?” Mr. Stone seemed to be enjoying himself.
“You thieving piece of—”
“Please—you’re addressing a member of the Association of Authenticating Antiquarians, not to mention the Better Business Bureau. I prefer the term ‘art dealer.’”
“You sick little creep! You! You’re the one who stole that stuff from the Grimm Collection—just like you stole Anjali! Where is it?”
“Perfectly safe, I assure you. My clients are very careful with their collections.”
“You’ll tell me! I’ll make you tell me,” roared Marc.
“What about that other page—the one that disappeared? Mona? Did you take her too?” I asked.
“Mona Chen? Slippery little character. No, unfortunately—I don’t know where she is. I thought I could get her to help me in my business, but she not only refused to cooperate, she ran away.”
“Where is Anjali?” yelled Jaya again.
“Sit down, all of you, and please, stop yelling. Let’s settle this like adults,” said Mr. Stone. “I have something you want. You have something I want. I’m sure we can come to an arrangement.”
“What arrangement? You’ll give me my sister back?”
“As I keep telling you, I don’t have your sister. But I do know where she is. I sold . . . that is, I placed her with a very good customer of mine, a distinguished collector, who might be willing to part with her if you can make it worth her while.”
“Who? Who is the collector? Where is she keeping Anjali?”
“Please. Sit. I’m willing to share that information in exchange for . . .” He paused. “Let’s see. You have access to the Grimm Collection, yes?”
“No!” I said. “Do your own dirty work. We’re not stealing anything for you!”
