The Orphan and the Mouse (22 page)

It would be inaccurate to say that Mary Mouse was fighting for her life. In truth, she felt so miserable she had almost surrendered.

She knew she lay in a bed of fine sawdust and fresh, clean paper shreds in her own nest. She knew her paws had turned blue, but she wasn't sure why. She knew that Andrew had fussed over her incessantly, trying to make her comfortable. The tiny portion of her awareness that felt anything felt gratitude for this.

And where was Andrew now? A rescue mission, was that it? But Mary could not remember who it was that needed rescue.

Doesn't matter
, Mary thought, letting sick misery overcome her, and with it visions like waking dreams. She saw her own dear mama and papa, long dead, and her youngest pups, Millie, Margaret, and Matilda. Were they dead, too? And if they weren't, why didn't they come to see her?

She saw her mate, Zelinsky. He was dead. She was sure of that. She remembered an argument they'd had and felt guilty all over again.

I've lost so much
, she thought.
I guess it's time I join the dead myself
.

Then came a new vision, this one more solid than the others, a gangly shadow that blocked the light from the passageway. This vision—a large and somewhat unkempt male—seemed glad to see her but anxious, too.

Now she recognized him—Andrew Mouse, the legendary art thief, and he began to fuss, as was his way, annoying in his solicitude. Visions were never annoying, were they? Andrew must be real. He smelled real.

“Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Some dinner? At their breakfast, the children had that grain you like—the puffy one that crackles on the tongue. I could bring you some.”

Returning to herself, Mary didn't care about food. “Caro?” she squeaked.

Andrew nodded. “Bit of a story to that, a good one. There I was, my dear, asking myself how to singlehandedly save the day. Then such a ruckus ensued! A giant noisome human! Rioting pups! Gunfire! Fortunately, I had a plan. It required split-second execution and utter disregard for my life and nostrils, but—”

Mary squeaked with the last of her strength. “Caro?”

“Ah,” said Andrew. “Cut to the chase, you're saying. Well, here it is, then: She's been through a lot but no injuries sustained. I think she will be fine.”

Mary felt a flood of relief, and with it new strength. She shifted, and when Andrew tried to prop up her head, she let him.

“Perhaps,” she said, “I will have some dinner after all.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha!”
said Andrew. “I will be right back.”

One good thing about being shot, you got an awful lot of sympathy . . . especially if you bled a lot, and Mr. Donald had. Something else good: You got to lie in bed while people brought you candy and flowers. Finally, once you got settled in at the hospital, you had plenty of time to think.

Mr. Donald had used that time to sort out all that had happened in those few minutes in the foyer at the Cherry Street Home . . . with one exception.

He didn't know what had startled the man who shot him—Bayard Boudreau, his name was. He had learned that later. Why had Bayard Boudreau missed? And why had he had a fit?

Jimmy had lunged at Mr. Boudreau to save Caro. Mr. Boudreau had produced a gun and aimed. Mr. Donald had reached for Jimmy, and Mr. Boudreau had fired.

But before Mr. Boudreau fired, something had caused him to jump and jerk the gun upward so that the bullet went over Jimmy's head and hit Mr. Donald in the shoulder. Down Mr. Donald had fallen, wondering if he was going to die . . . and thinking that would be ironic after he'd fought a war for three years without suffering a scratch.

Then, Mr. Donald remembered from the comfort of clean sheets in a peaceful, orphan-free room, Mr. Kittaning had arrived. Mr. Donald had always liked Mr. Kittaning, and from that moment his confidence had swelled. He was not going to die, and Mr. Boudreau was going to get his just deserts.

The hospital's visiting hours began at seven-thirty p.m. Mrs. Spinelli brought Jimmy by to see him.

“Hello, Donald.” Mrs. Spinelli spoke very softly. “Are they treating you good?”

Donald tried to sit up to say they didn't have to speak in funeral voices, but pain shot through his shoulder and he gasped, convincing his visitors he ought to be treated with the reverence afforded someone who would soon reside with angels.

“I'm okay, yeah,” Donald finally managed. “Is there any news?”

“You mean about the boss? Oh, boy, you'll never believe it,” said Jimmy. “She got arrested! The policeman caught her trying to hotfoot it over the bridge to Camden in her automobile. They recognized the license plates after the description went out on the police radio. Mr. Kittaning explained it all to me.”

“And that Mr. Boudreau fellow, he's been arrested as well,” said Mrs. Spinelli.

“That's not any surprise, of course,” said Jimmy. “He shot you!”

“Yes,” said Mr. Donald.

“But he was trying to shoot me,” said Jimmy.

“Yes,” said Mr. Donald.

“What do you say to Mr. Donald, Jimmy?” Mrs. Spinelli nudged him with her elbow.

“Thank you,” said Jimmy.

“There, that wasn't so hard, was it?”

Jimmy shrugged and twisted his face as if he was embarrassed.

“But what was Mr. Boudreau up to?” Donald asked. “Was he trying to kidnap Caro?”

“In a manner of speaking, he was,” said Mrs. Spinelli. And she explained about Mr. Puttley, who kept kids like prisoners in a horrible place where they couldn't go to school and had to work like slaves. “Apparently, government authorities have tried to shut him down, but he paid off whoever he had to, and till now always stayed one step ahead.”

Jimmy had nodded enthusiastically throughout Mrs. Spinelli's recitation. Now she paused and his words gushed forth. “With Mr. Boudreau trying to shoot me, they'll have enough to get Mr. Puttley, too, Mr. Kittaning says. Gosh, it's awful to think if Caro had ever had to go to a place like that. And Mrs. George was all ready to pack her off. They were in it together—her and Mr. Boudreau.”

“But why did Mrs. George want to send Caro away?” Mr. Donald asked.

“Because Caro knew about the stolen babies!” said Jimmy.
“And so did I, only Mrs. George didn't know I knew. There was that baby Charlie she took for that movie star, and maybe other ones besides. If she'd known I knew, she would've been wanting to send me to work for Mr. Puttley, too!”

Mr. Donald thought Jimmy sounded wistful, as if he wanted some of Caro's drama for himself.

“How do they know she stole that baby?” asked Mr. Donald.

Jimmy and Mrs. Spinelli both tried to explain at once, with the result that the story took twice as long as it should have. In the end, Mr. Donald understood that the police had spoken to the baby's mother, and she had described the lady who took her baby away—a description that fit Mrs. George to a T. The baby himself had been located with Joanna Grahame, and she had agreed to return him to his rightful family.

“She was mostly wanting to make sure she got a full refund—that's the way she said it, according to Mr. Kittaning, ‘a full refund,' and it was a pot of money, too. I never knew there was so much money in selling babies,” said Jimmy.

“It sure was lucky Mr. Kittaning showed up when he did,” said Mr. Donald.

Jimmy guffawed. “Lucky, my eye! That was my doing, mine and Melissa's. She telephoned him, pretending to be Mrs. George. Don't you remember when we left breakfast this morning? You were mad as a wet hen, but you couldn't do anything about it.”

Mr. Donald remembered. “But I have one more question,”
he said. “I doubt you can answer it, though. What happened to Mr. Boudreau? He had you dead to rights, Jimmy, point-blank range . . . and then he missed. I would've asked about it at the time, but I was busy on the ground writhing in agony and bleeding to death.”

Mrs. Spinelli shrugged. She didn't know. As for Jimmy, he had his suspicions, but chose not to speak them out loud.

With Jimmy's help, the police recovered the money, birth certificates, and other records from Mrs. George's hiding place in the freezer. Based on that evidence—and testimony from Judge Mewhinney and Matron Polly—Mrs. George was convicted of kidnapping racketeering and child endangerment and sent to prison for life. In exchange for their testimony, Polly and the judge earned leniency from the court, but Judge Mewhinney would be looking for a new line of work. He had lost his license to practice law.

Initially, the newspapers had been all over the Cherry Street scandal, but with a few well-placed invitations, Mr. and Mrs. Philips-Bodbetter were able to demonstrate to publishers that the orphans themselves had never ceased to thrive, thus preserving the institution's reputation. Soon they also found a new director and a new girls' matron. Mrs. Spinelli, having had nothing to do with selling babies, stayed on. So did Mr. Donald, who at the same time announced his intention of enrolling in college the following fall.

For most of the children, the changes at the home didn't make much difference. The new director had a gentler manner than Mrs. George, and the new matron was stricter than
Matron Polly. But the lessons, comforts, and chores went on as before, and these—along with the friendships among the children—were what mattered day to day.

It was different for Caro. Mrs. George's disgrace had upended her world. She had admired Mrs. George, wanted to be equally elegant, refined, and self-possessed. Now she knew she had admired a monster, and that made her feel like one herself—compromised, low, and unworthy.

And, she told herself as she lay in bed sleepless night after night, she shouldn't have been surprised. She had shown her true self when she abandoned her mother the night of the fire. So of course she hadn't stood up to Mrs. George the way Jimmy had. She had been a selfish coward, protecting her place as Mrs. George's favorite.

One day in late September, the new director asked to see Carolyn in her office. Mrs. Burnett had had the walls repainted. Mrs. George's plaques and testimonials had been replaced with watercolor paintings of children and flowers. But the furniture was the same, and Caro felt uncomfortable sitting where she had sat so many times before.

“Everyone is worried about you, Caro,” said Mrs. Burnett, “and one person in particular.”

“I'm fine, thank you, ma'am,” Caro said. “I can talk to Jimmy myself if you want.”

“It wasn't Jimmy I meant, although he is a fine boy. It's
Mr. Frank Kittaning. You know he has always taken a special interest in you.”

“Mr. Kittaning is very kind,” Caro said without much interest in him or his concern for her. One thing about not eating and not sleeping, you cease to be very interested in anything.

“In fact,” Mrs. Burnett continued, “Mr. Kittaning would like to take you out for ice cream if that's all right with you.”