Pish Posh (5 page)

Clara sighed. This was not working out as she had planned. Once again she had a vision of Annabelle laughing at her, and she felt her cheeks grow warm.

“I need to find out where one of my old schoolmates lives, Ms. Blurt. ” Clara said, trying to muffle the anger in her voice. “She was a friend of mine. We lost touch when she left the school. ”

“Fizzelli!” Ms. Blurt thrust her coffee mug in the air victoriously, and some of the coffee sloshed out onto the floor.

“No, her name is Annabelle.”

“I mean the article I was reading. Caleb Fizzelli. Yes, that's it! I was reading about Caleb Fizzelli, one of my favorite painters of the nineteenth century. Sadly, he isn't very well known. In fact, I doubt most people have even heard of him, but there was an eensie little article in one of my art magazines that mentioned him. And guess what that article said?”

Clara sighed. “Really, I have no idea. ”

“The article said that he lived in the very same spot where the Pish Posh restaurant now stands, way back in the 1800s. ‘Pish Posh!' I said to myself. ‘Well, that's the restaurant that Clara Frankofile's parents own.' Isn't that marvelous!”

“Ms. Blurt,” Clara tried again. “Do you remember a girl named Annabelle? Tall, thin. Raspy voice.”

“Mmm. Ann-a-belle. Yes, I do remember a girl ... very untalented artist. She did something odd with people's nostrils. Drew them very large and piglike. Don't know why—”

“Do you remember her last name?”

“Oh, my. You know, I can remember the names of artists who have been dead for hundreds of years, but I do have such a difficult time with the names of people who are still alive. The curse of an art teacher, I suppose!”

“She must be listed somewhere in the school records. Can't we look it up?” She nodded toward the locked office. Ms. Blurt suddenly grew serious, clutching her coffee mug to her chest with both hands.

“I'm afraid school records are private, Clara,” she said solemnly. “Regulations, after all. ” Clara examined Ms. Blurt carefully. She had a gift for seeing through people, and now she tried to figure out just
how
strictly Ms. Blurt would follow regulations.

“Of course, I understand.” Clara nodded, equally solemn. “Thanks anyway. ” She started to walk away, then stopped and turned back to Ms. Blurt. “You know, now that I think about it, a busboy at Pish Posh once found a funny little sketch on the wall in the kitchen's linen room. Do you think that artist, Fizz, Fizz—”

“Fizzelli,” Ms. Blurt blinked three times in rapid succession, her face suddenly animated.

“—Fizzelli. Do you think he might have drawn it?”

“Oh, indeed he may have! Oh, indeed! Wouldn't that be remarkable! If I could only see it, I could tell for sure.” Ms. Blurt's coffee spilled all over her hand, but she was so excited, she didn't seem to notice.

“I could arrange for you to come to the restaurant. You could have some dinner, and then look at the drawing. We do have a strict policy about reservations, but I suppose I could break the regulations for you, Ms. Blurt. If you could break them for me ... ”

Ms. Blurt bit at her bottom lip. Clearly, the temptation was very great. She stared down at her coffee, much of which was now on the floor and splattered across her striped pants, as though she'd find the answer to her dilemma in her mug. “To take a peek at the sketch—that would be most educational. ”

“I'm sure the principal would agree,” Clara said.

“He might be upset if I
didn't
do it,” Ms. Blurt muttered to herself. After a moment, she said, “Hold this,” and handed her coffee cup to Clara. She pulled out a ring of keys from her pocket, opened the principal's office, and then shut herself in the room.

Clara could hear the clatter of metal file drawers opening and closing, then the rustle of paperwork. After a while, Ms. Blurt emerged with a scrap of paper and handed it to Clara. On it was written “Annabelle Arbutnot, 55 West 86th Street. ”

Clara smiled. Well, Annabelle was in for a surprise.

She handed the mug back to Ms. Blurt without a word and started to hurry back down the hall.

“When should I come to the restaurant?” Ms. Blurt called after her.

“Tonight is fine, ” Clara called back without stopping.

“But what should I wear?” Ms. Blurt asked.

“Whatever you like, ” Clara called back hastily, then wondered if that was the best advice. But she was in too much of a hurry to worry about it.

C
lara hailed a taxi. The driver eyed her suspiciously as she climbed into the backseat.

“You got money on you, kid?”

“No, I'm going to pay you with crayons. Of course I have money, you boob! Now take me to Fifty-five West Eighty-sixth Street immediately. ”

“Nice mouth!” the driver sniped. But he took her straight up to Eighty-sixth Street in double time, snaking in and out of traffic, and coming so close to ramming into other cars that several times Clara had to shut her eyes and clutch the door handle. The taxi finally came to a halt in front of a brownstone on a quiet, tree-lined street, off Columbus Avenue.

“Fifty-five West Eighty-sixth Street, kid.” Clara paid the man and gave him a large tip, just because he probably thought she wouldn't.

It was a pretty little brownstone, with stone urns filled with flowers lining the front staircase's balustrade. She walked up the steps. To the left of the door was a bronze placard that read DR. JOHN S. ARBUTNOT. Doctor? Annabelle had said he was a thief. Maybe Ms. Blurt had given her the address of the wrong Annabelle.

Clara propped her dark glasses on top of her head-something she always did when she was unsure of herself—and squinted against the brightness of the day, contemplating whether or not to press the doorbell.

“Cripes, how'd you find me?” said a scratchy voice from behind her. “Hold this a minute, will you?” Annabelle had come up the steps, hugging a bag of groceries. She pushed the bag at Clara, which Clara, momentarily caught off guard by Annabelle's sudden appearance, took. Annabelle reached into her shirt and pulled out a chain with keys attached to them.

“You stole my pearl necklace,” Clara said, suddenly remembering why she was there.

“Of course I did,” Annabelle agreed without a trace of guilt as she put the key in the door.

“Well, I want it back,” Clara demanded furiously just as Annabelle pushed open the door.

“Oh, sure. No problem,” Annabelle replied casually, taking the bag of groceries out of Clara's hands. “Fair is fair. Come on in. Have some lunch. ” She clearly was not disturbed by Clara's surprise appearance, which made Clara even angrier.

“And how dare you—”

“Shh. Keep it down. My dad's got a client in his office.” They walked through a short foyer, past a closed door through which muffled voices could be heard, and into the kitchen. Annabelle plopped the bag down on the kitchen counter and began putting its contents—packages of odd and unappetizing-looking food—into the fridge.

“I thought you said your father was a thief.” Clara narrowed her eyes at Annabelle. “The sign outside said
Doctor.”

“Don't believe everything you read,” Annabelle said, putting away a box marked ORGANIC RED-GREEN ALGAE FLAKES. “So... you hungry? You want a sandwich? We've got mungbean salad, some diced wheat gluten... I think there's still some marinated tempeh left—”

“All I want from you is my necklace. ”

Annabelle sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears. “Sheesh, I just thought you might be hungry. Okay, just wait here. I'll go get it.”

Left alone in the kitchen, Clara folded her arms and waited, flabbergasted by how nonchalant Annabelle was. In fact, Annabelle seemed almost glad to see her, like they were old friends. Ha! Like she would ever be friends with a thief! Not likely.

Suddenly, Clara heard the sound of a woman's voice, crying out boldly, “But I
do
hear voices in my head, sir! I hear them as clearly as I hear your own!” It was coming from Annabelle's father's office.

“You are lying,” came the harsh response from a man—Annabelle's father, Clara guessed. “You just want me to
believe
you are insane. Instead, you are simply an evil, no-goodnik, snot-nosed pig of a woman! I can't bear the sight of you! Fleechhh!”

Clara covered her mouth to keep from gasping. This man was horrible. Horrible!! And the woman must be his patient, too. She had come to him for help, and he was treating her so cruelly!

Clara quietly inched closer to the office door and leaned her ear against the wall outside, to hear better. The woman was crying softly now, but her voice still had great strength in it as she declared, “Upon my honor, it doesn't matter what you think of me. ”

Good for you! Clara thought, nodding.

“You are wrong, mademoiselle!” Annabelle's father shouted. “It matters very much what I think of you. And now you will see just
how
much! ” There was a moment of utter silence, and then the woman began to scream in the most bloodcurdling way, so that Clara actually jumped and pressed her hands against her mouth to keep from shrieking.

“Do you feel the flames licking at your toes, mademoiselle? Do you feel the fire creeping up your legs now? Go ahead and struggle against those ropes—it will only make the flames leap higher! You will burn for your lies! You will writhe in eternal torment!” And all the while the woman never stopped screaming, until Clara could stand it no longer and burst into the office.

L
ying on an overstuffed lavender couch was a blonde young woman with an expensive-looking haircut. Her hands, with their tapered, bright pink nails, were folded in her lap, and her eyes, which were shut when Clara first entered, were now open wide and staring at Clara in surprise. Opposite her was a pleasant-looking man with thick, light brown hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

“Pardon me, but I'm afraid you'll have to leave,” the man said kindly. “We're in the middle of a session.”

“I heard a woman screaming,” Clara said.

“Was I screaming?” the woman on the couch asked eagerly.

“Only a little, Amber,” the man said. “Which is perfectly understandable, since you were being set on fire. ”

“Cool!” Amber said as she pulled a pack of gum out of the pocket in her blouse. “And was I brave at the end? ” She peeled a stick of gum and popped it in her mouth.

“Wonderfully brave, Amber. You hardly flinched.” Then he turned to Clara. “Now, if you'll excuse us.” Clara was so confused, it took her a moment to nod in embarrassment and leave.

Just as she closed the door softly behind her, Annabelle came trotting down the hallway, holding a paper bag.

“Ho, there! What were you doing in my father's office?”

“I ... I heard screams. ”

“Oh. ”Annabelle rolled her eyes. “That's Amber, one of Dad's clients. Such a drama queen! She was Joan of Arc in another life, and she insists on repeating the whole burning-at-the-stake thing again and again. You'd think once would be enough, wouldn't you? She says it's helping her to quit smoking.”

“What are you talking about?” Clara said. “Why was your father being so mean to her? ”

“That's his job. He's a hypnotherapist. ” She looked at Clara as if that would explain everything, but when she saw that it clearly didn't, she continued to explain. “He hypnotizes people to help them get rid of their problems. You know, like if someone wants to lose weight or stop smoking or get over their fear of elevators. But he also can get people to remember who they were in their past lives. Oh, they can remember all kinds of weird stuff—like being a soldier in the Civil War or owning a pastry shop in France during the Revolution.”

“But how do you know they're not faking it?”

“Some of them fake it, but my dad has ways to tell if they are. Lately, everybody wants to have lived during medieval times. And then there are all the people who say they were famous in their past lives, like Queen Elizabeth or Cleopatra or something. I mean, what are the chances of that? The ones who are
really
hypnotized usually find out that they had average, boring lives in the past, just like their lives now,”

“So Amber is faking it?” Clara nodded toward the door.

“Oh, no. She really was Joan of Arc. She's one of two ‘dead celebrity' patients he has. The other one is William Shakespeare, but he's a lot more fun than Joan of Arc. At least he knows a few good jokes. ”

“But,” Clara said after a moment, “I thought you said your father was a thief. ”

“Shh!” Annabelle grabbed her roughly by the elbow. She was a good head taller than Clara, and quite strong, and although Clara resisted, she found herself unceremoniously dragged down the hallway and out the front door.

“Well... is he or isn't he?” Clara insisted, once Annabelle had released her on the landing of the front steps. Annabelle crossed her arms against her chest, leaned back against the balustrade, and narrowed her eyes at Clara.

“How did you find us anyway?”

“I persuaded someone at the Huxley Academy to give me your address,” Clara said evasively.

“Persuaded?
”

“I bribed her,” Clara admitted.

“I knew you were a shrewd duck!” Annabelle said approvingly. Clara would have objected, but it secretly pleased her. “Hey, what's your name, by the way?”

“Clara. ”

“Clara? Funny name for a kid. Yeah, Dad is a thief, sure,” Annabelle said. “But how do you think we get invited to rich people's parties? I mean, who's going to invite a thief into their house? So Dad learned how to be a hypnotherapist by reading books. Plus, he's a genius and can do anything he sets his mind to. ”