Part 4 (1/2)
Kristy just nodded, looking mysterious.
”What 1” asked Stacey. ”Did you just figure something out?”
”I sure did,” said Kristy. ”I figured out where that delicious pizza smell is coming from.” She pointed down the block, to Pizza Express. ”I'm starving,” she said.
”Me, too,” I said. ”Maybe we should go get Shannon and find something to eat.”
”Hey, look,” said Stacey, nudging me. ”Isn't that the woman from the pictures? The one with the baby carriage?”
I turned to see. The woman was on the other side of the street, just down the block from the bank's main doors. ”It sure is,” I said. ”And if we're going to pick up Shannon anyway, maybe we can take a closer look at her.”
We crossed the street, keeping the baby carriage in sight. The woman pus.h.i.+ng it was a young mother, with curly red hair and tons of freckles. She rolled the carriage along, leaning down once in a while to coo to the baby and rearrange its blankets.
I smiled at her as we approached the carriage. ”Nice day for a walk,” I said, trying to lean toward the carriage in order to see the baby.
”Isn't it?” she asked, turning the carriage to the right so that I couldn't see a thing.
”How old is your baby?” asked Stacey, trying to peek over the front of the carriage.
”Just two months,” said the woman, turning the carriage to the left.
”Girl or boy?” asked Kristy.
”Girl,” said the woman. Then she wheeled the carriage away at a pretty steady clip.
”Hmmm,” said Kristy, as we watched her walk away. ”That was suspicious. I wonder why she didn't want us to see the baby.”
”Maybe there isn't a baby,” I said thoughtfully. ”Maybe the carriage is actually full of moneybags.”
”That's kind of farfetched,” said Stacey.
”But who knows? Stranger things have happened.” We all watched as the woman disappeared around a corner. Just as we lost sight of her, Shannon flew out of the bank's front door.
”VP!” she said. ”He's the vice-president!”
”Who? What?” I asked.
”That man in the pictures,” she said. ”The one in the suit. I've been watching him. He's vice-president of the bank.”
”He is?” I asked. ”Hmm . . .”
”I found out his name, too,” she said, ”but come on. He's going to lunch, and we have to follow him.” She pulled us behind the pillar, and we all watched as the man in the suit walked out of the bank and down the street.
”It looks like he's wearing the same suit,” said Stacey under her breath, as we followed him down the sidewalk. ”And he's definitely wearing that watch, again, too.”
”His name's Mr. Zibreski,” whispered Shannon. ”I saw his name tag.”
”And right now,” I said, ”Mr. Zibreski's going into that coffee shop.” I watched as he disappeared into Thelma's Cafe.
”Well, what are we waiting for?” asked Kristy, as we paused outside. ”Let's go in. I mean, we're hungry too, right?”
We looked at each other, shrugged, and went in. I'd never been to Thelma's before, but it seemed like a nice enough place, with turquoise leather booths and waiters and waitresses who wore turquoise-and-white uniforms. Kristy headed straight for the booth behind the one Mr. Zibreski chose. Stacey and I exchanged a panicked glance, but we followed her, and so did Shannon. Just as we sat down, a man in a navy-blue suit approached Mr. Zibreski's booth and Mr. Zibreski stood up. ”Frank!” he said, sticking out his hand for a shake. ”Good to see you. How's Lillian?”
”She's fine. Says to send her regards to Gretchen,” said the man. ”Been waiting long, Jim?”
Jim! His first name was Jim. Already we were learning things.
”No, no, just arrived,” said Mr. Zibreski. ”Sit down, sit down.”
The two men sat down and started to look at menus. We were looking at our menus, too. ”Mmm,” said Kristy. ”Cheeseburger deluxe. That's for me.”
I tried to look at the menu and listen to the men's conversation at the same time, but it was hard. Finally I gave up and concentrated on the menu until I found the perfect thing: a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon and tomato. I put my menu aside and looked over at Mr. Zibreski's booth, which Kristy and I were facing. Shannon and Stacey had their backs to Frank and Mr. Zibreski, but I could see that they were straining to hear everything the men said.
The waitress stopped at their booth first, and Mr. Zibreski ordered a steak sandwich. Frank asked for the diet plate: a hamburger patty and cottage cheese. (Ew.) Then she came to our booth, and we ordered. After that, we started listening hard. We must have looked pretty strange: a booth full of people who weren't speaking to each other. But Mr. Zibreski and Frank didn't seem to notice.
”Bad news about that robbery,” said Frank. I saw Shannon's eyebrows shoot up.
Mr. Zibreski waved a hand carelessly. ”The police are on the case,” he said. ”If 11 be taken care of.”
I thought that was interesting. He was either pretending not to be upset about it, or he really wasn't upset. Either way, it could mean something. We listened for more talk about the robbery, but unfortunately there was none.
The four of us sat quietly, munching our food (Stacey had a tuna-melt and Shannon was eating a BUT) and listening to every word Frank and Mr. Zibreski exchanged. And let me tell you something: it was about the most boring conversation I have ever heard. First they talked about mortgage rates. Then they talked about golf. After that they discussed the new sewer tax. Pretty soon I noticed that Kristy was yawning and Stacey was checking her nail polish. I finished my sandwich and asked the waitress for our check.
”I thought detective work was supposed to be exciting,” I said, as we left the diner. ”Nancy Drew always overhears good stuff when she tails suspects.” The others cracked up.
”At least we got a good lunch out of it,” said Kristy. ”But next time, I hope he goes to Pizza Express. I still have a craving for pizza.”
We all headed home after that, feeling a little let down. We'd spent the whole afternoon playing detective, and the mystery at the bank was no closer to being solved. I was definitely going to keep an eye on the woman with the baby and Mr. Zibreski. But if we didn't come up with a few more dues - soon - we were never going to crack the case.
Chapter 9.
On Tuesday, I spent the whole day thinking about the bank robbery case. But on Wednesday, by the time I was walking home from summer school, I had forgotten all about it. Instead, I was thinking about my photography cla.s.s, and about Mr. Geist.
Let me say right now that I don't have a crush on Mr. Geist. Well, okay, maybe I do have a little one. I admit that he's kind of cute, for an old guy. He has black curly hair and these cool-looking wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and he's tall and lanky. He has a great smile, too.
But my feelings about him were more complicated than just a crush. Have you ever had a teacher who really inspired you? A teacher who*seemed to believe you were capable of doing anything you put your mind to? A teacher who encouraged you, and made you want to prove that you could do awesome things? Well, I had never had a teacher like that before, but now I did! Mr. Geist was definitely the best teacher I'd ever had, and more than anything, I wanted to please him. That day in cla.s.s he had explained some more about portrait photography, and he had said some really inspiring things. Plus, he showed us some really cool printing techniques that could help make good pictures great.
During cla.s.s, I realized that I had been so caught up in the bank mystery - and with our Day in the Life of Stoneybrook project - that I had put my portrait a.s.signment on hold. But I had the feeling those quick shots I'd taken of my friends might really be the beginning of a terrific project. One that would bring that great smile to Mr. Geist's face. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to close my darkroom door behind me and pick up where I'd left off with those pictures. The negatives had looked good, I remembered, but I wanted to work hard on making perfect prints from them. And after that day's cla.s.s, I had some new ideas about special techniques I could use.
The house was empty when I arrived. Janine was at her work-study job, and she'd said at breakfast that she wasn't planning to be home until dinnertime. And my parents were at work, of course. I had a quick lunch (a microwave burrito - the closest thing to junk food I could find in the kitchen) and headed upstairs to change.
That day I'd worn one of my favorite outfits to school: a lacy white s.h.i.+rt with big ruffled sleeves over a deep green leotard, with a short blue-jeans skirt and my favorite shoes (at least my favorites that summer): big black clunky boots.
Since I knew I was going to be in the darkroom, I threw off all my good clothes and pulled on an old pair of shorts and my ancient green Sea City T-s.h.i.+rt. I piled my school clothes on a chair, promising myself that I'd hang them up later. Then I sat down at my desk and pulled my negative file out of the drawer.