The Empress's Tomb (3 page)

As I prepared myself for a trip down the ivy, I checked the street for passersby. At the end of the block, I spied a thin, dark figure standing by a brick wall, sheltered by the building's eave. Given his posture and lack of umbrella, I assumed he was answering nature's call. My cell phone vibrated, and I fished it out of my pocket, hoping to hear Kiki on the other end of the line. Instead I saw the text message icon. Distorted by raindrops, a sentence flashed on the phone's screen.
“Meeting Tomorrow. 7:00 a.m. Fat Frankie's. Oona.”
Disappointed, I started to inch my way down the side of the building. Only when I landed safely on the sidewalk did I realize I might have been spotted. I hurried toward the figure I'd seen by the wall. The person was gone, but he'd left his mark—a fierce six-foot squirrel with a sign that read YOU'VE BEEN WARNED.

Despite what some books will tell you, you don't need magical powers or friends in the faerie kingdom to enjoy a thrilling adventure from time to
time. What you
do
need is a little common sense—and some practical advice. That's what I'm here to offer. I may not be the world's greatest adventurer, but what I've learned, I've learned from the best. (And I tend to take
very
good notes.)

Let's start with something simple. How would you like to intrigue other people, inspire novels, and possibly become a legend in your own time? You don't need a criminal past, a dangerous secret, or even a trench coat to appear mysterious.

If you're the sort of person who's willing to tell her entire life story to someone she meets on the subway, you may find it hard to cultivate an air of mystery. (Don't worry—you'll probably enjoy a fabulous future as a talk-show host.) Nothing will make you seem less mysterious than a bad case of verbal diarrhea. That doesn't mean you should be sullen or unfriendly. Simply keep your mouth shut and let people do what they enjoy most—talk about
themselves.

Choose a subject to avoid in conversation. It could be your job (or a parent's profession), what happened on your summer vacation, or why there's always a bodyguard following you. Whenever the topic comes up, just smile and change the subject.

Bold colors and exposed flesh don't say
mysterious.
Instead, think black, streamlined, and sophisticated. Also, have at least one curious item that you're never seen without. It doesn't need to be a set of nunchakus—an old locket, a strange Indian armlet, or a well-worn copy of
International Affairs
could work just as well.

Few things are more intriguing than a scar. If you already have one, consider yourself lucky. If you don't, you should be able to find a reasonable alternative at a costume store. Once again, it's best not to discuss it. No story you invent will be as fascinating as the ones people will concoct for themselves.

Take a lock-picking course. Learn how to hot-wire a car. Work toward a black belt in karate. Get to know the stock market. But never brag about your expertise. Instead, wait for the right opportunity to showcase your skills and watch all the jaws drop.

Disappearing is easier than it seems. Always have lunch with your friends in the same spot? Pick one day to eat your tuna fish in a new location. Don't explain your absence. Refuse to answer your phone or respond to e-mails for twenty-four hours. Tell people you were
busy.
When out with a group, wait until no one's watching and ditch them. When asked, say you
had something to do.

Once you've managed to create an aura of mystery, it may be time to pass your knowledge on to a few friends. Find a cause you can all rally around—whether it's saving baby squirrels or world domination—and start your own secret society. Consider creating your own logo, but remember—in order to be a
secret
society, it must always remain a SECRET.

I think it's safe to say that most fourteen-year-old girls with criminal histories would have steered clear of Fat Frankie's diner. Every morning, dozens of police officers crammed the small coffee shop to scarf down breakfast before their morning shifts. But over the summer, Fat Frankie's had become Oona Wong's favorite hangout. However illicit her business might be, she preferred to conduct it in public. She knew she had nothing to fear. Few of her fellow customers could have imagined that the elegant girl with the doll's face had once been one of the most notorious forgers in Chinatown. Oona claimed she enjoyed living on the edge—but I've always suspected she had a fondness for policemen.

As I pushed my way through the crowded coffee shop, I wondered what Oona's latest scheme might be. One year earlier she had opened the Golden Lotus, an upscale nail salon where wealthy women flocked to freshen their pedicures and swap gossip with their friends. Arrogant
and ignorant, they assumed the young Chinese women who worked in the salon could speak no English. But as they silently clipped cuticles and trimmed toenails, Oona's employees carefully recorded their clients' conversations. Oona had made a small fortune trading on socialites' secrets and stock tips, but that never stopped her from searching for new ways to pump up her bank account.

What Oona
did
with her money was a mystery the rest of us had never been able to solve. Painfully blunt, she never hesitated to point out that your lip gloss didn't suit your complexion or a giant pimple was about to emerge on your forehead. But as a matter of principle, she refused to discuss her own personal life. Though we'd known her for years, we had no idea where Oona lived or who cooked her waffles every morning. My single attempt to satisfy my curiosity had ended in a showdown on a Chinatown street when Oona caught me following her home, disguised as an unusually youthful bag lady. In the end, I promised to leave her alone. I knew one day the truth would be revealed, and having a sneak preview wasn't worth losing a friend.

•     •     •

I found the Irregulars clustered around a table at the far end of Fat Frankie's, a few feet from the bathroom. Dressed in a gray mechanic's jumpsuit, Luz Lopez sat with her work boots propped up on the back of a chair. Her head was bent in concentration, and her lips formed silent curses as her fingers fiddled with her latest invention. DeeDee Morlock, the Irregulars' chemistry expert,
was chatting with a bald Hare Krishna who could only be Betty Bent, our master of disguise. While the other girls paid little attention to their surroundings, Oona sat with her back to the wall, her fierce black eyes skipping from person to person. I had the sense she'd been counting the seconds until the meeting could begin. When she spotted me making my way to the table, she cocked her head and crossed her arms, silently demanding an explanation for my tardiness. Oona Wong did not like to be kept waiting.

“Thrilled you could finally make it, Fishbein. Were you abducted by aliens on the way here? Or did you stop off to bore another tourist with that lecture you give on the secret history of Washington Square Park?” Oona loved a confrontation, and on most mornings I might have indulged her. Instead I kept quiet as I pushed Luz's boots off the chair and sat down across from DeeDee.

“Where's Strike?” Oona demanded.

“I don't think Kiki's coming,” I said.

Betty bit her lip and Luz's fingers froze as we all prepared for what would come next.

“What are you talking about?” Oona's pretty face wrinkled with rage. “She's
got
to be here. When one of us calls a meeting, everybody has to show up. That's the
rule.”

“Lower your voice. It's too early for shouting.” Of all of us, DeeDee had the least patience for Oona's outbursts. “Let Ananka finish for once, would you?”

Oona's mouth clamped shut with enough force to bite a fork in half.

“Kiki's missing,” I told them. “She was supposed to
meet me last night to finish the map. She never showed up at the Marble Cemetery.”

“She was probably breaking into another pet store,” said Luz, returning to her tinkering. “Any of you check the papers this morning? I'll bet somebody saw an albino leprechaun releasing more monkeys into the streets last night.”

“Kiki didn't set those animals loose. She'd never be that irresponsible. It's a miracle none of them got squashed by a bus.” Sweet natured and gullible, Betty never believed Kiki capable of anything objectionable. The rest of us knew better.

“Sometimes I wonder if we know the same person,” I told her. “But this time you're right. Kiki didn't have anything to do with the pet store. Have you guys seen the giant squirrels?”

“I saw one on the way here,” said DeeDee.

“What about them?” Luz shrugged.

“I'm pretty sure the same person who's been painting the squirrels set the pet store animals free. I think I saw him last night. He left a squirrel not far from Kiki's house.”

“So you went to Kiki's house?” asked DeeDee. “What did Verushka say? Does she know where Kiki is?”

“Verushka's missing, too. And she didn't take her wheelchair.”

For a moment, the Irregulars sat in silence as the information thumped around in our brains like a bowling ball in a washing machine. Oona sighed and rolled her eyes.

“There goes
my
meeting,” she muttered.

“I'm sorry your latest get-rich-quick scheme has been temporarily put on hold.” The volume of DeeDee's voice rose with each word. “Don't you think this is a
little
more important?”

“It's too early for shouting,” Oona mocked her. “Kiki disappears all the time. That's what she
does.
I don't know why everyone's so worried. None of you would even notice if
I
didn't show up for a meeting.”

“Your family isn't trying to kill you,” Betty tried to explain.

“What would you know, baldy?” Oona said. “Maybe they are.”

“So where is the homicidal royal family of Pokrovia these days?” Luz asked, dragging the conversation back on track. “Still hiding out in Russia?”

“We don't know,” I admitted. “Livia and Sidonia vanished two months ago. Verushka's sources claimed they'd left St. Petersburg, but the other day I got wind of a rumor that made me wonder if the Princess and her mother might still be there.”

“Could they have made it back to New York by now?” Betty wondered. “Have you heard anything at the salon, Oona?”

For a moment, it seemed as if Oona's lips wouldn't budge. Her anger had vanished, and she'd started to sulk. “I haven't been spending much time there lately,” she finally said. “But Livia and Sidonia are top-priority topics. Someone would have called me if there had been any news.”

“Should we check Kiki's house?” asked DeeDee. “If you give us a couple of hours, Luz and I can disable the booby traps.”

“And destroy all that work?” moaned Luz. “Come on, guys. Oona's got a point. This isn't the first time Kiki's disappeared. It isn't even the
fourth
time. Shouldn't we wait a day or two before we start ripping everything apart?”

“Maybe Luz is right,” said Betty. “Our weekly meeting is tomorrow. If Kiki doesn't show up for that one, we can break into her house and search for clues.”

“Okay,” I said, standing up from the table. “If you all want to wait, we'll wait. I just hope we're doing the right thing.”

“Where are you going?” Betty asked.

“I have research to do. If Livia and Sidonia are back in New York, there might be an item in the gossip columns.”

“But Oona called the meeting, and we haven't even let her talk,” Betty protested. Oona said nothing. She just concentrated on the table in front of her as if she were willing it to fly through the window.

“Sorry, Oona,” I said. “What did you want to discuss?”

“Never mind,” Oona mumbled.

“Pleeeeeease,” Betty begged, trying to lure Oona out of her funk.

“I'll wait. It's not that important,” said Oona, and I suddenly suspected it was.

•     •     •

That night, the weather worsened. Even with the windows open, my bedroom was hot enough to roast a goat. I lay on my bed in my nightgown, using the
Daily News
as a fan. Since returning home from the meeting, I'd combed through every New York newspaper. There was no mention
of Livia or Sidonia Galatzina. The giant squirrels were the day's big story.

As if to prove to the city that they couldn't be ignored, the squirrels had invaded the Central Park Zoo in the early hours of the morning and freed hundreds of animals from their cages. At 6:00 a.m., a jogger reported a pack of penguins feasting on fish in the Harlem Meer. An anaconda was seen sunning itself on the steps of a Fifth Avenue mansion, a poodle-shaped bulge in its belly. Jewel-colored tree frogs clung to pine branches like Christmas tree ornaments. Among the only animals left behind at the zoo were several enormous squirrels. The one that made the front cover of the
New York Times
had been painted on a plastic iceberg in the polar bear's habitat. It was a thuggish-looking beast with a sign that said bluntly WHAT ARE YOU LOOKING AT?

According to the papers, security tapes at the zoo had captured a shadowy figure skipping past several sleeping guards, pausing from time to time to moon the cameras. Since the vigilante's face had been cunningly disguised, and his butt lacked distinguishing features, the police were without solid leads. They had begun staking out pet stores and interrogating art students, but the culprit remained at large. Everyone in New York was anxious to see what he'd do next.