Harriet the Spy, Double Agent (3 page)

Annie was good as her word. All day long she refused to respond when anyone, even the gym teacher, addressed her as anything but Cassandra. At lunch, she unwrapped her sandwich—an onion bialy spread with chopped liver—and ate it in silence, while Harriet sat with Beth Ellen and Janie.

“
What’s
in that sandwich?” asked Marion Hawthorne, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. “It
smells
.”

Annie didn’t respond, although Harriet noticed the tips of her ears turning pinker.

I should come to her rescue, she thought, but she didn’t say anything.

Marion nudged her friends Carrie and Rachel and stared at Annie’s chopped-liver bialy. “I bet someone’s hamster is missing this morning.” Carrie and Rachel broke into giggles and Marion smirked.

“Don’t pick on Cassandra,” said Harriet. Annie looked up at her, startled, and then, for the first time, flashed her a genuine smile.

The girls walked away from school with their backpacks and lunch boxes. “Too much geometry,” Harriet groaned. She hated math homework.

“It’s nothing,” said Annie. “I’ll show you some shortcuts. We covered most of it last year at my school in Boston.”

“Boston?” said Harriet, suddenly beady-eyed.

Annie took out the cracked piece of red taillight and squinted through it, closing her other eye. “So what is this spy route about?”

“I watch people,” Harriet said, disappointed that Annie had bounced off the subject so quickly. Boston, she thought. Must remember to write that down.

“Who?”

“People with secrets. You know the Dei Santis?”

“The grocery store family?”

Harriet nodded. “They’ve been on my spy route for over three years. You wouldn’t believe all the things I’ve heard. And Agatha Plumber, the rich one who lives in the mansion right next to the park? I hid in her dumbwaiter once.”

“While she was home?” In spite of her mask of disinterest, Annie seemed impressed.

“What would I have to spy on if she wasn’t there?” Harriet sounded severe, and reminded herself that her task was to lure Annie into the pleasures of spying. “I’ve cracked several significant cases,” she said, angling her chin for effect.

Annie shrugged. “Okay. Where do we start?”

Victory! thought Harriet, struggling to hide her satisfaction. “Let’s go to my house first for cake and milk.”

“We did that yesterday.”

“I
always
have cake and milk after school.”

“Always?”

Harriet nodded, annoyed.

“And you always eat tomato sandwiches?”

“So?”

“You need some variety, Spy Girl.” Annie turned to the right.

“My house is that way.”

“So?” Annie was mocking her. I do not care for this, Harriet thought as her friend went on. “Let’s go around the block. Do something different for once.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it? I thought you said writers need to experience everything. What’s wrong with East Eighty-eighth Street?” It did sound a little absurd, when you looked at it that way. Harriet hesitated, thinking of Cook and her glass of cold milk.

Annie took three more steps and turned back, impatient. “Come on, H’spy, your cake’s not going to rot. And who knows, we might find someone awesome to spy on.

When my aunt took me to the Koreans’ last night, I noticed they’ve cleared out that vacant lot where the brownstone was knocked down last month. They had shovels and everything. Maybe they’re hiding a body.”

That did it. Harriet hefted her backpack and set off for East Eighty-eighth Street with Annie, her new-minted partner in spying.

“There.” Annie lifted her arm.

“Don’t point, it’s too obvious. What am I looking at?”

“Nothing. They’ve emptied the whole place out. Barrels of garbage. And look.” 

This time she jerked her head to one side without pointing. “What is that truck doing there?”

Inside the chain-link fence was a large, battered box truck, with a couple of planks slanting down to the ground. Harriet narrowed her eyes as a tall, burly man walked out backward, holding one end of a big stack of plywood. He had a few days’ growth of beard and his face was unusually red, as if he had scrubbed it with sandpaper. He wore a strange faded hat with long flaps that hung over his ears, giving him the mournful aspect of a basset hound.

As the girls watched, a second man, younger, emerged with the opposite end of the plywood stack, shifting his grip as the older man backed down the planks. “Easy,” he said, and the younger man nodded.

“They’re building a coffin,” whispered Annie.

“Let’s stake them out,” Harriet said. “Inconspicuously. Have you got any money?”

“I might have some quarters.” Annie reached into her pocket and came up with three. Harriet opened the small zippered pouch on the side of her backpack and took out a dollar bill.

“Excellent. Browse.” They strolled to the all-night greengrocers, Happy Fruit Farm, which everyone in the neighborhood called the Koreans’. A clear plastic jacket hung down from the awning, protecting the Granny Smith apples and clementines stacked in neat pyramids outside the shop. The girls situated themselves by a bin of mixed nuts in the shell, which gave them a clear view of the vacant lot and its activities.

“They’re father and son,” murmured Harriet. “Look at those chins.” Annie nodded. On closer inspection, the man at the back looked no more than sixteen. He had his father’s broad shoulders but hadn’t grown into his height yet; when he set down the wood, his arms dangled awkwardly. He wore a dull brown quilted vest with an inside-out sweatshirt and threadbare jeans, and his pac boots, which looked way too large, were unlaced. He turned and walked back up the makeshift ramp. So did his father, pausing to hoist up the back of his trousers. Harriet was startled to catch a glimpse of red long Johns.

“Where do you think they’re from?” she whispered.

Annie whispered back, “Chicago. Gangsters posing as farmers.” I bet they
are
farmers, thought Harriet. She noticed the grocer’s wife staring at her, and made a great show of hand-picking just the right mixture of pecans, almonds, walnuts, and hazelnuts. Annie followed her lead without being told. She has an instinct for spying, thought Harriet, pleased to observe that Annie too picked out and threw back the Brazil nuts. “Look at the truck,” she said.

Annie turned to weigh her collection of nuts in the hanging scale, giving herself a clearer line of sight. The two men were coming back out with a fresh load of wood.

“What about it?” she muttered.

“Those aren’t New York license plates,” Harriet said, feeling smug that she’d noticed this clue from a distance. “Let’s go closer and see where they’re from.”

“New Hampshire,” said Annie, dropping the word’s final
r
sound and stretching the vowel in a rather convincing New England accent. Harriet looked at her. Annie shrugged. “State motto ‘Live Free or Die.’ See ’em all the time.”

“In Boston?” Harriet watched closely to see her response.

“There are more in New Hampshire,” said Annie. “How about we pay for these nuts and go back home and crack them? My fingers are cold.”

“Fine,” said Harriet, giving the word a significant tone. I know why you’re changing the subject, she thought. I can wait.

She added her nuts to Annie’s and went to the cash register, where Myong-Hee, the languid Korean beauty she often wondered about—was she a relative of the sour owners? An immigrant cousin, perhaps?— was reading a magazine.

“One dollar forty,” Myong-Hee said. Harriet paid and went back to give Annie her change. Annie was watching the father and son in the vacant lot. Her eyes lingered on the son as he rolled back a cuff that was missing its button.

“Big hands,” she commented. “Both of them. Murderers’ hands.” Harriet wished Annie would rein in her imagination and stick to the facts. Spying was not the same thing as fiction. But before she could raise an objection, Annie had grabbed her arm, her voice low and urgent. “We’ve got to come back here. Tonight.”

“My parents won’t let me.”

“Work out an excuse. You need help with geometry homework, you’re coming to my place. It’s settled. Meet me right here at eight.”

“What if I can’t—”

“But you can, H’spy.” Annie wheeled on one foot and set off down the block, leaving Harriet speechless.

Chapter 3

Harriet looked at the grandfather clock in the library. Fifteen minutes till she was supposed to meet Annie. She’d spread her geometry papers all over the table, letting out such a string of frustrated sighs that her father looked up from his newspaper. “What in the world is the matter?”

“I hate parallelograms,” Harriet said. “I can’t get them to follow the rules.”

“If it makes you feel any better,” said Harry Welsch, who worked as a television producer, “I can’t even remember the last time I heard the word
parallelogram
.

Geometry doesn’t come up much in most lines of work.” Harriet’s mother was passing along the hall. “I loved geometry,” she said brightly, sticking her head through the door. “Would you like some help?” That’s all I need, Harriet thought. There goes my excuse. Thinking fast, she said,

“I’m almost done with my math, but Mrs. LaGoy gave us a biology work sheet that I must have left in my locker. I better call Annie.”

“Annie?” said Mrs. Welsch, momentarily puzzled. “Oh, yes, the Feigenbaums’ niece. The dramatic one.”

“She lives right across the street. I bet I could copy hers.”

“Good idea,” said Mrs. Welsch. “Ask her to come have some cocoa.” Harriet swallowed hard and said, “Sure.” She went to the phone. “Hello, may I speak to Annie?” she said politely.

“Hey, H’spy, who did you think I was?”

“I forgot my biology work sheet,” said Harriet, clearing her throat. “And my
mother
thought you could … come over with yours?” I hope you can read between the lines, she thought.

“Does that mean you can’t make it?” said Annie.

Harriet gulped. Her mother was waiting expectantly. Suddenly inspiration struck.

“Oh,” she said into the phone, as if Annie had said something entirely different. “So your hair is still wet?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I guess I could go out to
your
house, then.” She stole a peek up at her mother, who nodded.

Now Annie caught on. “Good work, H’spy,” she said, chuckling. “Meet me at the corner of Second Avenue.”

The air had grown cold and their breath came in clouds. “I can’t believe we’re doing this,” Harriet said. She had smuggled her spy belt and flashlight into her backpack along with her biology book—and, of course, her green notebook.

“You’re the one who snuck into some rich lady’s dumbwaiter.” Harriet chose not to tell Annie that she’d gotten caught. Of all the misfortunes that might befall spies, being caught in action was the most disgraceful. Getting caught in a lie to one’s parents was no picnic either.

They rounded the corner of East Eighty-eighth. “Holy Toledo,” said Annie. They stared at the vacant lot. In the past several hours, a plywood shack had been erected, just inside the chain-link fence. It was an odd-looking structure—wide and squat, with no windows at all, and a twin row of spikes on the front-facing wall. There were long racks, constructed of two-by-fours, stretching in both directions. The truck with the New Hampshire plates was parked at the back of the lot. Halfway between it and the shack, a small campfire was blazing, with no one in sight.

Annie and Harriet looked at each other. This was far stranger than anything they had imagined. “What is it
for
?” Harriet wondered aloud. “It looks like the jail in some really cheap western.”

“I bet they’re burning a witch at the stake.”

“What stake?”

“They’re probably in Central Park, chopping one down.”

“Excuse me,” drawled someone behind them. They turned at the same time, realizing that they had been blocking the small strip of sidewalk between the parked cars and the brightly lit stacks of fruit, and were shocked to recognize the younger of the two men from New Hampshire. Harriet stared. There were pale flecks of sawdust in his bushy hair. He had wide green eyes and a prominent chin, and he was gripping a pizza box.

“Sure,” squeaked Annie, turning scarlet. She scampered between two parked cars, leaving Harriet to draw back against the plastic shield as he carried his pizza box past them and loped toward the campfire.

The door of the shed swung open, and the older man walked out to meet him, holding a plastic bag with a Happy Fruit Farm logo in one hand and some kind of oddly shaped frame in the other. The girls stood and stared as he set down the bag and unfolded the frame, which turned out to be two canvas camp stools. He sat down on one, reached into the bag, and pulled out two large bottles of root beer. His son sat on the second, opened the pizza box, and handed his father a slice. A few sparks spiraled up from the fire as they sat there and chewed.

“Do you think it’s some kind of Satanic ritual?” Annie asked.

“I think it’s dinner,” said Harriet.

Annie sniffed. “Devil worshippers eat dinner too,” she said darkly.