Finally Stacy shrugged and began to eat some more of the big round gray-green thing. Caroline looked at hers again. She looked away. She took another bite of steak.
"Hey, Caroline," said Stacy, "if you're too full to eat your artichoke, can I have it? I love artichokes."
Caroline smiled politely and passed the disgusting thing across the table to Stacy. Artichoke. So that's what it was called. She hoped her mother never discovered that they existed.
***
Later, after they had done their homework and gotten into their pajamas, Caroline and Stacy were lying on the beds in Stacy's room again. Miraculously, during dinner, a maid had come in and picked up Stacy's sweater, folded it, and put it into a drawer. Her backpack had been placed on her desk.
"Sometimes I really wish I were rich," said Caroline, staring at the ceiling. "But if I were rich, maybe I wouldn't ever have the motivation to be a vertebrate paleontologist. Maybe I would go to Asia Minor, and instead of digging in the desert, I would just want to stay in a Hilton Hotel. I wouldn't want that to happen."
"It wouldn't," Stacy answered. "Because look at me for Living Proof. My family's pretty rich—so I guess that makes me rich—but I still plan to work very hard. I already work hard at being an investigative journalist." She giggled. "Even if I go about it wrong, sometimes. Harrison Ledyard—what a bogus adventure that was! Me down there in his trash cans looking for clues, for heaven's sake, and the whole time he was upstairs practically sending out newsletters!"
"You know," said Caroline, "even if he's a colossal bore, like your folks said, I sort of wish that my mother had met him. There he was, an eligible bachelor, and my mother didn't even meet him. My mother never seems to meet any eligible men."
"Caroline," said Stacy in a solemn voice, "I am very worried about your mother."
"Oh, Stace, you don't need to worry about her. We're not headed for the poorhouse or anything. And she's not even miserably unhappy. It's just that she never gets to go out on dates or anything. Right at this very moment she's sitting at home, probably doing a crossword puzzle."
"That's why I'm worried. She's sitting at home—alone, except for J.P.—"
"Who is useless. He'll be in his bedroom, inventing something. He doesn't even play Scrabble."
"I'm not talking about games and entertainment and conversation, Caroline," said Stacy, who was sitting up now, talking in a low, hushed voice. "I'm talking about what might also be sitting alone, upstairs, above your mother." She paused dramatically.
"The Great Killer." Now Caroline sat up, too. "Frederick Fiske."
"Right. I'm sure he's there in his apartment at this very minute. Friends describe him as a loner, I'm absolutely sure of it."
"Stacy, can I use your phone?"
Caroline dialed the number of her apartment. When her mother answered, she said, "Mom, are you okay?"
"Sure." Her mother laughed. "I'm watching a dumb TV show and painting my fingernails, just for fun. I'll have to take the polish off, because they don't allow it at the bank, but it's kind of fun to try it out. How about you, Caroline? Are you okay? You're not homesick, are you?"
"I'm fine, Mom," Caroline said impatiently. "It's you I'm wondering about. How's the building? Is everyone in the building home tonight?"
"Caroline," her mother said and laughed again, "I haven't made an exhaustive study of that, the way you would. Let me see. Vinnie DeVito's at the Little Hungary, of course, because he never gets home till midnight. But Billy and his mother are home; I saw them coming in from the park about five-thirty."
"I wasn't really thinking of the DeVitos. How about—well, how about the other people in the building, Mom?"
"Nobody home on the second floor. Did I tell you that Miss Edmond is in the hospital? Nothing serious, though; she had some minor surgery, and she'll be home next week. I sent her a card and signed all our names."
Miss Edmond was the retired schoolteacher who lived alone on the second floor.
"Who else, Mom?" asked Caroline tensely.
Her mother said lightly, "The Carrutherses are definitely home. I can hear them. They're chasing each other around the apartment again."
Jason and Nell Carruthers were newlyweds who had recently moved into the fourth floor. Caroline liked them. Nell Carruthers was an actress who sometimes made TV commercials; she was very glamorous on TV, where she used a hair conditioner and then cantered on a horse along a sunny beach. But in real life she wore jeans all the time, and her hair in a long pigtail. Her new husband was lighting director for a theater. They ran around their apartment, laughing and shrieking very noisily in the evenings, playing tag or something.
"And, ah, what about the fifth floor, Mom?" Caroline asked nervously.
"Fred Fiske? I don't know if he's home or not. I haven't seen him this evening. Why on earth are you interested, Caroline?"
"Stacy and I were watching TV," Caroline lied, "and they said that there was a burglar loose in the city. So I was worried."
Her mother hooted with laughter. "Caroline, there are a thousand burglars loose in New York City. You know that as well as I do. Remember J.P. had his lunch money stolen just last week? And by a little old lady? That was the weirdest thing, a little old lady—"
"Mom, be sure to lock all the locks on the door, okay?"
"I always lock all the locks, Caroline. You know that. Relax. Did you do your homework?"
"And the windows, Mom. Be sure to lock the windows."
"Homework, Caroline. Did you do your homework?"
Caroline sighed. "Yes," she said. "Bye, Mom."
She hung up the phone and looked at Stacy. Stacy had unfolded the letter to Frederick Fiske for the hundredth time and was reading it once more, holding it close to the lamp between the beds.
"I think this is typed on a Smith-Corona typewriter," Stacy said, frowning. "What did your mom say?"
Caroline twisted her hair and then wound a strand around one ear. She chewed her lower lip. "It's very bad," she announced.
"What is? What's very bad? What did she say?"
"She called him 'Fred.' Not 'Mr. Fiske.' Not 'the guy on the fifth floor.' But 'Fred.' You realize what this means, Stacy."
"Right. It's bad," muttered Stacy, turning the letter over and over in her hands.
"She's met him. She knows him. She's in danger."
Stacy corrected her. "No, she isn't. You're forgetting what the letter says, Caroline. It doesn't say, 'Eliminate the woman.' It says, 'The woman's terrific.'"
"That's true, too," said Caroline miserably. "She is. My mother's terrific."
"It's the kids he's after. It says so right here. 'Eliminate the kids.' I'm pretty sure it's a Smith-Corona typewriter."
Stacy got into bed and turned off the lamp.
Caroline climbed under the covers and wrapped her arms around the pillow. She wished suddenly that she had brought her Stegosaurus. But not even a Stegosaurus was a match for Tyrannosaurus Rex, the Great Killer. "That's me he's talking about when he says 'the kids,'" she whispered. "I'm sure of it. Me and J.P."
"Slare stoxtox," mumbled Stacy sleepily from the other bed.
"What?" Caroline lifted her head and peered through the dark.
"SLAYER STALKS TOTS," Stacy repeated. "Good night, Caroline."
8
Caroline dreamed. She dreamed the same dream three nights in a row: first when she was sleeping at Stacy's, and then again for two nights in her own bedroom, curled up with her soft Stegosaurus beside her again.