“Good morning, people of Mary Todd Lincoln.”
The P.A. crackled to life just as the school day began, when Ms. Finkleman’s first-period sixth graders were still filing in, finding their seats, tossing down their backpacks, and scarfing their last bites of Pop-Tart.
“This is your principal. So listen up.”
As she listened to the hard, cold voice of Principal Van Vreeland over the P.A., Bethesda Fielding gritted her teeth and looked at the ceiling.
“It has been two weeks since our trophy was stolen, and the responsible party has yet to come forward. Apparently a further inducement is required.”
Already, the other kids in Ms. Fischler’s class were glancing over at Bethesda, ready to hold her accountable for whatever new punishment their principal had dreamed up.
“I will be instructing every teacher in this school, in every subject, to begin writing questions. Because two weeks from today, all students will be having a test or a quiz, in every subject, every day, for one whole week.”
Bethesda groaned.
The students around her groaned.
Ms. Fischler, frozen at the front of the room with chalk in hand, also groaned.
“Unless, that is,” the principal continued, “the trophy is returned first.” The groaning grew in volume and intensity. “Now. Some of you will have noticed that this Week of a Thousand Quizzes will be taking place the third week in October, the same week our eighth-grade friends would have been on their outdoor education trip. That week, of course, is wide open at present.”
Bethesda closed her eyes, but she could still feel the stares—a classroom full of angry math students, craning their necks, pivoting their chairs to glare at her, everyone thinking the same thing:
All your fault… this is all your fault!
Meanwhile, in the Band and Chorus room, Ms. Finkleman did some quiet, restrained groaning of her own. A week’s worth of quiz questions? For music students? Plus, her fellow teachers would be hounding her to give it another shot, to return to the Main Office to beg Principal Van Vreeland for mercy all over again.
She sighed and tapped her baton for quiet. A nice, normal week…
Chester, in his seat in Dr. Capshaw’s room, exhaled and shook his head. Principal Vreeland had it backward. There was no way whoever stole that stupid trophy would come forward now.
This video better work, he thought. Man oh man, it better work.
Chapter 24
Set You Free
“Skabimple,” murmured Bethesda as she cracked open the door and peeked into the Band and Chorus room. It was lunchtime that Monday, time for her first official interrogation, and here was her first suspect. Kevin McKelvey, the Piano Kid, sat at the beat-up Steinway in his blue blazer and dress pants, as Bethesda had seen him so many times before. Until last year, Kevin McKelvey played only classical music, as he had his entire piano-playing career, which began when he was two and a half years old. But then came the Choral Corral, and the Rock Show, and now Kevin played everything, from pop-punk to boogie-woogie to bebop.
But what on earth was he playing now?
“Once upon a time… there were some kids who had a dream!” Kevin sang in a high, warbling voice, his fingers gently caressing the keys. “A dream sweet and delicious… as a bowl of peach ice cream.”
Bethesda couldn’t bring herself to interrupt. Maintaining the soft vamp with one hand, Kevin reached up with the other and flipped a page of the blue spiral notebook balanced on the top of the piano.
“The dream we had was so unique… to sleep in bunks, climb some trees, and not shower”—Kevin’s voice jumped into a comical falsetto—“for a weeeeeeeek!”
Bethesda yelped with laughter. Kevin jumped in his seat and turned around.
“Sorry, sorry…,” Bethesda said between giggles. “That is awesome.”
“It’s getting there, uh, you know. It’s getting there.” Kevin held up the spiral notebook. “Rory wrote the lyrics. My job is just to, er, to make it sing. Make it sound pretty.”
Bethesda exhaled the last of her laughter, stepped inside, and settled down in Ms. Finkleman’s chair. Principal Van Vreeland’s announcement that morning, galling as it was, had only reinforced her determination. She and Tenny were going to work their way through the suspects and find this thief. No doubt about it.
“So, Kevin,” Bethesda said, keeping her voice nice and light. “You still play in here a lot after school, right?”
“Uh, yeah. Sure. I’d say about, maybe, half the time. When I play rock at home, my father refuses to come out of his room, and my mother makes all these faces.” He demonstrated, screwing up his mouth like he was sucking on a lemon. “So I end up practicing in here a lot. Sometimes Ms. Finkleman is here, grading papers or whatever, and sometimes I’m alone.”
“And you use the key Mr. Ferrars gave you?”
Kevin looked up, alarmed. His fingers hovered uncertainly above the piano. “Um… well…”
“It’s okay,” she said, reassuringly. “You promised you wouldn’t mention it. Forget I asked.”
Bethesda tipped him a wink, plucked a sharpened #2 pencil from her pocket, and opened the Semi-Official Crime-Solving Notebook in her lap. “Now, then,” she began. “Two Mondays ago, on the afternoon of the twentieth. Were you here after school on that day?”
“What?”
Kevin’s entire body grew completely still. He met her searching gaze with eyes wide, his mouth hanging slightly open. She searched his face for a glimmer of guilt, for a telltale flicker of anxiety in his eyes.
But Kevin didn’t look guilty. He just looked hurt. “You, um… you think I stole the trophy?”
Bethesda flushed and reached up to fuss with her glasses.
“Well… I mean…”
“You do! You think I stole the trophy!”
“I didn’t say that. You’re, um, you’re one of a number of possible suspects, that’s all.”
“A number of possible suspects,” Kevin echoed, his wounded expression now hardening into something more like anger. He snapped shut the wooden housing of the keyboard, leaned back stiffly, and crossed his arms over his chest, the sleeves of his blue blazer bunching up at the elbows.
“It’s just… you know,” Bethesda stammered feebly. “Somebody stole it.”
“Undoubtedly,” Kevin said. “But, also, a lot of people didn’t steal it. Why aren’t I on that list?”
The truth was, Bethesda and Tenny had no motive for Kevin, and he definitely didn’t sound guilty. On the other hand, if he was guilty, that’s exactly how he would want to sound! Bethesda rubbed her eyes under her glasses with her index fingers and tried to concentrate. “Let’s take a step back. I just need you to tell me if you saw or heard anything unusual around here after school that day.”
“All right. Hold on.” Shaking his head with annoyance, Kevin hunched over on the bench and dug around in the red-and-black messenger bag, stenciled with the logo of the Sydney Municipal Orchestra, that he lugged around instead of a backpack.
“Where is it?” he asked himself quietly.
Bethesda felt the same rushing sensation in her bloodstream that she had just before Mr. Ferrars told her about the keys. Her foot danced on the crisp mauve rug beneath Ms. Finkleman’s desk. There was a clue in that fancy bag of his. She could just feel it.
“Here we go,” Kevin announced, when at last he resurfaced clutching a small, thin black notebook, its white pages filled with Kevin’s careful handwriting. “My practice diary. I, uh, I know it sounds—whatever—but I write down exactly what I work on every day, and for exactly how long.” As Kevin riffled through the little book, Bethesda felt a keen flash of envy, not only for Kevin’s incredible talent, but for his dedication.