

### Deceiving Mr. Bevison

Copyright 2014 Nanette Fynan

Published by Nanette Fynan at Smashwords

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Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

About the Author

Acknowledgements

I feel the deepest gratitude to all the people listed here. Without each and every one of them, I wouldn't have begun or completed this book. I wouldn't have learned about writing and editing, and I certainly wouldn't have gotten to the point of publishing. I wouldn't have laughed and cried, and I wouldn't have become the person I am today.

My mother's voice came to me many times as I flogged the prose. My kids helped me hone my skills by demanding engaging reading. My husband held it all together by writing checks and cooking brunch and washing the ever-present dishes. Thank you.

All the people in Leslie Keenan's ongoing writing class, You Can Complete This Book: Leslie, our awesome teacher; Evlaleah, Janis, Michael, Christine, and all the rest. Thank you.

My editors: Phyllis DeBlanche, Alan Jones, and Christine Mann, who helped me with editing and formatting these pages. Thank you.

My cover artist: Sharon Eisley. Thank you.
Chapter 1

Bold. Outrageous. Cool. That's what bagpipes are. Hey! You aren't totally sure you like bagpipes? Get over it! I play in the St. Rupert's Academy bagpipe band and I'm proud of it and seriously biased. Besides, it's the people in this story who matter, not my so-called musical tastes.

Story? What story, you say? What story! Why, just the best caper that ever went down in the history of St. Rupert's Academy for Boys, that's all. Basically, the new school year found me, Charlie MacDonough, and friends plotting to keep our favorite teacher's ex-husband, Harley Bevison, away from a . . . well, I don't want to give away the whole story here. You could get the wrong idea about some people I really like if I don't explain it all carefully from the start. So stay with me here, while I start at the very beginning, like my first day of school at St. Rupert's Academy for Boys.

****

There I was, standing in the damp grass at the edge of the athletic field in the midst of a bunch of rumpled and silent guys. I mean, how uncomfortable can you get on the first day of school? My new-school nerves were about ready to redline, and my speech centers were frozen, so I just kept to myself, not doing much talking to the guys around me. But neither were they talking to me.

I mean, think about it. It was seven a.m., the crack of dawn, and we were having trouble just breathing in and out that early in the morning. Starting conversation was out of the question, don't you think? Yes, we were waiting for the start of the first band practice of the year. I was straddling my good old bagpipe case, my arms wrapped across my chest, rocking on my heels to boost my confidence and to keep off the chill in the morning air.

My gaze wandered across the field to the row of trees on the opposite side. Through my bleary eyes, I could vaguely see a height-challenged female type straining on tiptoe to talk to a husky, balding dude all dressed up pretty flash in a suit and tie. She, however, was clad in plain jeans and a bulky sweater, and she was acting mega-incensed, like he was trying to sell her something she didn't want.

I scented something very interesting going on there, so I perked up and watched the woman closely. The person in question was very animated, shaking her head and pointing, making little chopping motions with her hands. The guy was red in the face. Anybody watching the pair could see she wasn't buying it, whatever he was selling. In fact, I would call it a very heated argument. Whatever was going down, it was serious.

My curiosity did an override on my good sense, and without thinking I turned and blurted my question out into the awkward void of silence that was echoing around me.

"Who's the guy in the suit?" I croaked in my morning voice, wagging my finger in the general direction of the duo arguing by the trees.

The hip-looking blond dude next to me glanced languidly at the couple then paused a moment to stare back at me. He shrugged.

"No idea." He studied me sideways in a way that didn't set off my dread sensors too badly. Then he totally surprised me by shooting his hand out in my direction and giving me the full introduction.

"Ian here. Welcome to St. Rupert's. How'd you get incarcerated?"

"Charlie MacDonough." I reached across the gap between us and shook his hand. I even attempted a response. "I'm an employment orphan, Ian. That's how I ended up here. My dad just took a job with a construction firm in the Middle East last week."

"That's rough, man." He paused, either to ponder the data or just to go back to sleep for a minute. But now I'd started, he was just going to have to wake up and listen to the end. I had been so wound up before that my talk was all coming out of me at once, like hot steam out of a geyser.

"My mom decided she'd rather stay in the Mediterranean with Dad, so they could spend his time off together, instead of hanging here with me in the States."

"Yeah," he mumbled, picking up his bagpipe case.

"Could be worse," I blithered on. "It was a no-brainer that I had to finish high school in the States." I paused a moment for breath as we walked onto the athletic field lugging our bagpipe cases. I set my case down and opened it.

Squatting down, I began to assemble my bagpipes. The polished wood shone in the early morning light. I slid the parts together, giving them a twist to make sure they were snug. I got a feeling of confidence from just handling my well-worn, much-used instrument. I stood up and occupied myself with fiddling with the mouthpiece so that my new-school nerves could have a chance to chill. That moment of repose didn't help. I felt another burst of talk coming on.

"By the way, does St. Rupert's band compete?" I asked.

"Yeah, we try." Ian's blue eyes lit up in an eager way. Competition might be the love of his life from the way he acted. "We're not hot, but Ms. Kent gives us something of a competitive edge."

"Ms. Kent?"

"Yeah, our pipe major, Amanda Kent. What year are you?" he asked.

"I'm a sophomore. I'm lucky my mom cared enough to scare up a school with a pipe band for me."

"Yes, you are. Okay then, so St. Rupert's it is. We are 'it' when it comes to boarding schools with bagpipe bands. We're lucky to have you." Ian smiled a friendly smile, and we subsided back to our awkward silence. He finally nodded at me before drifting off to talk to someone else.

So there I stood alone, fidgeting awkwardly, my bagpipes on my arm, waiting for band practice to start. To ease my edgy nerves I did a panoramic scan of my surroundings. Ahhh, picturesque St. Rupert's Academy with its decrepit, medieval-style buildings covered with untidy ivy. Yup, a boarding school run by Episcopal brothers is what St. Rupert's Academy looked like, and that's exactly what it was.

Just like in the brochures, there were lots and lots of trees scattered across the hushed green lawns, pines, maples, and a few oaks. There was a peaceful air to the place, with plush green moss nosing between the cracks of the crumbling old stone of the dormitories. The classroom buildings slumbering in the morning sun had yet more ivy clinging around the arched windows and doors. All in all, the buildings pictured in the brochure had seemed fresher somehow. I guess for the benefit of the parents, the brochure's artist had airbrushed out a lot of embarrassing details, like the peeling paint on those old window frames and the loose gutters dangling from those ivy-choked eaves.

I felt my uneasiness leaching away from me as a couple more guys arrived. Here be pipers, spare and stout, tall and squat, meandering onto the mist-covered athletic field. There was one consolation. If nothing else, we had one thing in common: bagpipes.

The guys and I were kind of clustered in a mob at the center of the field, kind of like we were all trying to stand on a small iceberg together, when I heard a voice of thunder erupt from the edge of the throng.

"You, MacDonough! You know who I'm talking to. Come on over." I remember to this day how I cringed as that hearty voice shattered the morning calm. My name echoed raucously off the nearby buildings, and I felt utterly exposed. Admittedly, the voice sounded friendly, just loud, especially to those of us suffering from early-morning-fragile-nerves syndrome. And the boys, all turning to stare interestedly at me, parted their cluster to reveal our new pipe major, the same height-challenged female I had seen talking to the suit by the trees. She strode through the boys' midst, showing a lopsided grin on a very humor-filled face. She looked up at me—way up. I am kind of above average height. This new teacher took in my flabbergasted look and extended her hand like I was supposed to shake it. I stumbled forward and stuck my hand in her direction. She grabbed it and shook it so emphatically that her head with its glossy brown hair bobbed along in time. I summoned the vigor to return the handshake as it dawned on me that maybe, just maybe, this first day of school wasn't going to be so bad after all.

"Pipe Major Amanda Kent here. Welcome to St. Rupert's Pipe Band. Charlie MacDonough, right?" I could feel her grilling me with her friendly green eyes, sizing up my character. I guess I passed judgment; she was still smiling. I gave a feeble grin in return.

"Band! Circle up to receive order of practice." My new pipe major turned smartly on her heel to face the band.

There were seven guys, besides myself, in gray sweatshirts and navy pants. One and all were "Hey, dude"ing me, nodding and smiling, milling around as we formed a circle around tiny Ms. Kent.

"C'mon, boys, the morning is wearing on. If you haven't got your pipes out, get them out, circle up at the goal line, and get those bagpipes tuned."

Ms. Kent turned to me. "Your place is next to that bedhead on the end, MacDonough," she said, pointing to a brown-haired, bleary-eyed boy with his mussy sweatshirt half out of his school uniform pants. "This is Mort, himself." Apparently Mort wasn't awake enough to make a snappy comeback; he just gave me a weary half-nod and half-wave as he fumbled his instrument out of its case.

Then a sharp squealing and squeaking of pipes began. An unpleasant sound, to be sure, but it was the welcome clamor of pipers testing out their reeds and readying their pipes for action. A sense of excitement filled me as I slung my bagpipe's drones over my shoulder, clutched the bag, positioned it under my elbow, and, giving it a squeeze, joined in the cacophony.

"Time to wake the dead, laddie, or at least the sleeping peeps over there in the dorms." The kid on my other side was more verbal than Mort. "Prakash here," he said, extending his hand and giving mine a brisk shake. Prakash was a slender dark kid with Indian-subcontinent-kind-of features and glossy black hair.

"Look at that. We've already woken up that flock of crows," he said with glee. True enough, the flock was headed in an arcing swath for a stand of pines and maples on the other side of the athletic field. But as soon as my attention drifted to their flight, Prakash caught me up with a quick "Chin up, laddie. Suck that gut in. No ogling the birds." He snickered at his own trick as he went back to noodling on his pipes.

I rolled my eyes as I wondered how I was going to deal with this one. I'd take my cues from the other guys, like Ian, the dude I had been talking to earlier. He had some serious self-confidence written on his face as he walked up, saying, "Prakash, move it over so I can get in line." Prakash shifted over ever so slightly. Ian just gave him a don't-mess-with-me look as he worked his broad shoulders deftly into line.

"This, young Mac, is our student officer, Pipe Sergeant Ian. He's a regular bo," Prakash confided to me by yelling in my ear. Ian, I had met, but I couldn't say so since the tuning noise was so loud.

Bagpipes are rumored to be loud enough to be heard three miles away. That's why they were played during battles in ancient Scotland. That's why we play with earplugs. It is better to kill conversation than to lose hearing.

"Less of it, Prakash," Ian mouthed. He lazily threw his drones over his shoulder and began playing with impressive ease. Tall guys, like me, are supposed to be gangly and uncoordinated, but Ian was all coordination.

Ms. Kent caught our attention as we formed a ragged circle. She stood resolute, clipboard in hand, surrounded by boys at least a head taller than herself. "Firstly, welcome back, band. It's great seeing you all again. Secondly, order of practice: 'Scotland the Brave' and 'Highland Laddie.' Thirdly, roll call. Answer 'present' when your name is called," bellowed Ms. Kent warmly—if you can shout warmly—"and that will help us identify ourselves for MacDonough here, since I already know everybody here."

As they called out "present," I tried to put their names to their faces. Prakash, Ian, and Mort I had met. Pete was memorably square with a stocky build like a truck with a crew cut. Jerrod was memorably not memorable except that he had dark curly hair and a hawk nose like me. Arthur Brookstone, aka Brookie, was easy to remember if you didn't get dizzy trying to follow the hyper kid with your eyes. He was red-headed, very red-headed. Eric was the runt of the litter and apologetic about it, as though he could help being so small. I nodded at each one even as the names turned to a muddle in my mind.

"Right. Now let's form up in two rows of four and march down the field to the tune of 'Scotland the Brave.'" Ms. Kent counted us in for the beginning of the tune, and we struck in the first note.

We then got put through our paces in a drill I'll never forget. Ms. Kent had a style all her own, not at all like anybody I'd ever played with before. She didn't just stand in one corner and yell insults. Don't get me wrong. She was very tough on our playing, but not on us, if you get my drift. She still had plenty of wind left to talk to me after traipsing down the field, trying to keep up with us on her short legs. She caught up to me and marched right alongside as I played. She looked up at me with an encouraging grin as I tried to play my best and keep my marching in step. You try it, if you don't believe it's hard.

We paused to turn at the bottom of the field, and she nodded in approval. "You're doing fine. Really, Mac, save some air for yourself. You're breathing so fast you'll keel over from hyperventilation soon. We can't have that."

She swiveled around with the group as it made the turn. Walking backward in front of us, she raised her hands to call a halt halfway down the athletic field. "Not bad. Not bad at all for first practice. I think we were all playing the same tune. And if we'd all been playing together, we'd have sounded really grand. Soon we will, soon we will," she said, rubbing her hands together like a mad scientist with a potion on the boil. It sounded encouraging, maybe a little ominous.

"You know, band . . ." Ms. Kent paused, putting her hands on her hips and stretching her back. "I want to let you know, as tactfully as always, please have the notes, and I mean all the notes, for 'Mairi's Wedding' memorized by tomorrow." She quickly bent down to put her pipes in their case.

Ms. Kent opened her mouth to say more, but she was interrupted by the hollow clanging of the breakfast bell. Food called.

"Band, dissss . . . missed. Break ranks for breakfast," she bawled. The bagpipes were all back in their cases, and the guys were moving toward the smell of food, almost before the words were out of her mouth.

"What a practice," muttered Ian softly, pulling off his soaked sweatshirt as he walked beside me. He doused his blond head in the water fountain as we paused near the rickety-looking stands by the field house. Bagpipe playing was hot work, even in September.

"That is one amazing pipe major, Ian," I said, gazing raptly at my new teacher. It was okay to be pretty. But as far as I was concerned her good looks dimmed next to what really mattered to me: her bagpipe ability. Ms. Kent was a dream come true, the best pipe major I'd ever had a chance to play with.

My attention was drawn away from Ms. Kent by Ian. He lingered a little behind the others, strolling loose-jointedly along with his sweatshirt draped around his neck.

"Great playing, man." He turned toward me, and we halted briefly.

It felt great having an upperclassman give me a compliment.

"So what is our gig schedule like, then?"

"Let's see—we do football season for home games, unless our team gets into the playoffs, which we never do." He was keeping track on his fingers. "We do Parents' Weekend, fund-raisers, holidays, and then around April, we start the Highland Games band competitions and what-have-you." Ian took a sudden sniff of the air.

"God, I love the smell of bacon. Shall we go in?" he said in a startlingly wolfish way and strode toward the Refectory.

It was quickly being surrounded by students lining up to go in for their meal. The old iron bell under the eaves on the porch was still tolling away with a persistent clang-clang, clang-clang.

The line at the door had formed a circle around one of the brothers of St. Rupert's and began singing the doxology as we came up and joined in.

"Praise God from whom all blessings flow." Morning voices croaked out the words and gained strength as they continued. "Praise him, all creatures here below. Praise God above, ye heavenly host. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost. Aaaa-me—"

The end got kind of cut off in the stampede for food. We were way thankful for the meal, of course, but we wanted to get on with the eating of it. Ian and I followed the line through the door to the hot tables. I was enveloped in the warm smell of school cafeteria the moment I entered.

"Ham, bacon, and eggs, thanks," Ian answered as the server prepared to dish out his food. "How about you, Mac?"

Early morning exercise gave me a hunger as keen as a knife's edge. "Same for me, ma'am." I reached over to the toaster table to snag an English muffin from the top of a huge stack of freshly baked muffins. Looking around, I saw the pipe band members localized at a battered oak table near a diamond-paned window that looked out on the Refectory's mossy stone porch. As we joined the guys, I spotted Ms. Kent on the porch. She was speaking vigorously to her cell phone.

I grimaced. "Is she always like that?" I shrugged my shoulder in her direction as I put my tray down next to Prakash's.

Ian threw his leg across his chair and sat down. "Nope, usually pretty calm, but with the . . ." His words were lost when he began stuffing his mouth with breakfast foods.

"Say what?" I asked, confused.

"Sorry," he said, swallowing. "Instincts of a born killer, our Ms. Kent."

I got it. "Oh, just your normal high school teacher, then."

Ian nodded, chewing.

"I mean—we saw her talking earlier to a dude on the field, before practice."

Taking a swallow of juice, Ian started to respond, but Prakash interrupted. "That was her ex. I think he bugs her sometimes. She's teaching here—just the one class, bagpipe—and going to college . . . so she doesn't have to keep teaching here." He broke off to laugh at his own humor. Then his brown eyes took on a mischievous glint. "What species is this?" Prakash picked a sausage off his plate, eying it from several angles.

"Hey, it's not bad for monastery chow. I thought we might get gruel or something this morning," I said in appreciation of the meal.

"Don't ruin my breakfast with your carnivorous banter, laddie," said Brookie, giving Prakash an ingenuous look. His face was fully freckled with burnt umber patches.

Prakash chomped the sausage savagely with very white teeth while looking sideways at Brookie. "What, not going to give us another lecture on vegetarianism, Brookie?"

I frowned at Prakash for a moment, not wanting to ask the obvious yet politically incorrect question: why an Indian wasn't a vegetarian.

"Yeah, Prakash rebels against his Indian heritage by being true-blue Episcopalian, which includes roast beef dinners on Sundays. Me, I rebel against my Canadian cowboy heritage. Must be off. See ya, Prakash." Brookie stood up, expertly flipping and spinning a bagel in the air and catching it backhand while shoving his chair in with one foot, all in a single motion. He draped himself along the back of my chair. "I'm also the band's only real jester and juggler," he whispered, nodding at Prakash. "I don't have to make cracks about other people's food choices for a laugh."

Brookie straightened up and slapped me on the back. I gulped and choked on my toast. He smiled and said, "Pleased to have you aboard, MacDonough. You have now met all of your roommates."

There was major laughter. The rest of the guys—Mort, Eric, Peter, and Jerrod—thought my look of alarm was charming, I'm sure. "You could have been initiated by us, you know," said Jerrod, "instead of having Brookie for a roommate."

"That's . . . okay . . ." I wiped my eyes and coughed to clear the toast from my throat. Last night was a little rough, being in the Newby Dormitory, not knowing anybody or what to expect. They'd said I'd move to my real dorm today. Now I knew the people, and it was okay.

"I've never been away to school before, so I'm sure you guys will take real good care of me." I spoke cautiously, having just experienced one of Brookie's caring gestures.

Suddenly looking guiltily at someone behind us, Brookie straightened up hurriedly, saying, "Later, guys" over his shoulder as he sprinted for the door of the Refectory.

"Okay, what did I miss?" growled a suspicious female voice at my back. Ms. Kent had come up behind my chair with her breakfast tray balanced in one hand. She was staring hard after Brookie. The dangerously ancient orange plastic chair Ian pulled out for her gave an agonized squawk as she sat down, cautiously.

"Believe it or not . . . nothing, this time," Ian replied blandly.

"Well, I'd rather have been here, Brookie and all," she said, settling her tray and reaching for the salt. "Whew, that was rough."

"Is your ex bothering you again?" asked Prakash.

"Hey, Prakash. Too much information in front of the guys, okay?" She stared at him with an offended look. "Too much of my personal information, I might add. But since you are kind enough to ask, yeah, he is getting persistent again." She stabbed at her bacon like she thought it was her ex. "You guys let me know if you see him hanging around here."

"Wow, what's he doing here?" I couldn't help asking, curiosity being my main flaw.

Ms. Kent slathered butter on her toast and rested her elbow on the table. She paused with her mouth ready to bite the bread. She answered us instead.

"I'm perplexed. I have no idea why a grown man would want to hang around here—no offense, guys." She paused to chew. "MacDonough and the rest of you," she said, turning to me, "let's get this straight. I am not gossiping. Nobody—not my ex, not your uncle—nobody for any reason is supposed to be on school grounds without permission, which is why I'm telling you any of this. Because we have a major school rule broken here." She eyed each of us fiercely, and we prudently looked down at our plates as though we weren't really drooling with interest. After chomping on her toast a bit viciously, chewing, and thinking for a minute, she startled us all by slamming her hand on the table.

"What was he thinking, coming to the school like this? Somebody's going to think I was stupid enough to invite the basta . . . ah . . . I mean, man." She looked a little embarrassed at her own outburst. I was agog. Mort, Jerrod, Eric, and Peter had shoved aside their trays and were leaning in closer so they wouldn't miss anything. Their faces were a study in their clashing interests. Sympathy for Ms. Kent was warring with their curiosity over the lurid details.

Shaking her head as though she could shift the problem out of her mind, she went on: "Anyway, nothing worse than trespassing has happened, guys. We can be thankful for that. Call my cell if you see him lurking on school grounds again." She handed around her phone so we could all enter the number.

"Some of us don't know what he looks like, you know," Ian pointed out.

She took a big sip of coffee, giving us a solemn look over the brim of her mug. "I'll see that you all get pictures. I can dig up some from our past life together and send those." Her green eyes were a little sad, but she brightened, pointing to the clock. "Assembly, dudes."

As we leaped from our chairs and charged out, I could see her smiling, looking more encouraged now. It seemed to cheer her up to see us scrambling frantically not to be late.
Chapter 2

"So, Mac. How do you like the school so far?" Mort lumbered breathlessly beside me as we headed toward the assembly building, an old quarry-stone colossus with the word AUDITORIUM chiseled into the stone lintel above the door.

I was enthusiastic. "This school is great, a pipe band with great band members, an amazing pipe major."

Jerrod caught up with us, speaking as he opened the old oak door. "Such gusto, Mac. So you think you'll enjoy this?"

"Possibly, possibly. Does it get any better than this?" I cornered the hall and joined the line of Dockers-and-sweatshirt-clad students entering the assembly hall.

"Hey, Jerrod, what can you not love about this school, aside from the leaky roof?" asked Prakash as he arrived, pushing his way into the line.

Pete snickered. "He'll find out what there is not to love about St. Rupert's soon enough, starting with good old-fashioned assembly."

I looked up as we gathered in the big white room that resembled a colonial church from the American Revolution, rows of brown benches lined up to face a podium at the front. The morning sun was fully risen now and shining piercingly through a remarkably clean set of windows. I felt that hopeful beginning-of-term feeling in spite of Pete's rather cynical warning.

"Welcome, all students. Please be seated." The gusty trilling of an elderly gnome of a woman on the platform sent an ominous shiver down my spine. I'd heard voices like that before.

"I'm Miss Apples, from the Art Department." There was a big smile on her homely face as she scanned the crowd. Obviously, she hadn't gotten jaded enough with the troublemakers to really make negative eye contact yet.

Pete, the cynic, leaned over to whisper, "Teachers always look so friendly and relaxed on the first day. Funny how fast that changes." He sat back up straight as he caught a sharp glance from Miss Apples. "The roll call begins." He shoved his glasses up his nose, folded his arms across his chest, and leaned back in his chair, prepared for a long wait: His last name was Zekind.

My name came up pretty quick, considering.

"MacDonough, Charles." Miss Apples peered around the room over her granny glasses on a leash with an inquiring look.

"Present," I answered as I stumbled up the aisle. She smiled primly at me, perhaps even warmly, as she handed me my class schedule. I sank back onto my slippery seat and listened numbly with half an ear, oblivious to the rest of the roll call as I read with shock and awe the schedule in front of me. It wasn't too soon for me when she was finally finished and we were dismissed.

Bursting out the door, I waved the sheet of paper in front of me as the band members massed around the broad doors. I heard myself groan like a tortured beast, "Tell me this isn't true, man? Pipe band practice every day—tell me it isn't true?" I turned pathetically to Ian.

"Duh . . . yeah. But we get to eat before and after practice; it's one of our perks," said Ian, giving me a disgusted look. "You wanted a pipe band, remember?"

It looked like I wasn't getting any sympathy there. I tried again. "Any other perks I should know about?" I asked in a bleak voice.

"Yup, we are automatically signed up to run track and field in the spring, since we play bagpipe for all the other sports in season."

I looked up at him, shocked. At public schools, sports were always an elective, not a requirement. Once I recovered from that shock, I paused to read some more. "Chapel . . . ," I gasped. Chapel! My mom had not warned me about this. Or maybe she had but I wasn't listening. "Algebra, rhetoric, Latin, biology, history . . ." I felt faint.

Prakash came up. "Buck up, MacDonough. Are we not the privileged?" He smirked as I blushed and looked around at everybody facing me.

"Am I getting a reputation as a whiner on my first day?"

Prakash was nothing if not blunt. "You bet." He nodded grimly. "But we'll work it out of you, after a few good band practices." He smiled at me wickedly and headed off, leaving me to suffer agonies over my schedule alone and in silence.

Ian paused before he left, leaning on the old stone wall with a big grin on his face. "One more perk, Mac. Meet us pipers after study hall in the band common room. That's across from our rooms in the dormitory." He slapped me on the back, obviously relieved I'd changed my attitude.

I smiled, big-time, and headed off to find my classes for the day, knowing I had a band of brothers to look forward to meeting that afternoon.
Chapter 3

So how many boarding school teachers does it take to screw in a lightbulb? If they are Episcopalian monks, none—they just hold the bulb steady while God turns the world. In other words, they have all the time in the world to assign all the homework in the world. And I'd gotten it all. I couldn't wait to get done with class and study hall, and I thought I never would.

After the entire morning of classes, we were actually required to finish all our homework during study hall. Oh, please. And study hall dragged on and on for me, as it was way hard to concentrate. My mind was full of questions—questions about band, questions about St. Rupert's, but most of all, questions about Ms. Kent's ex. I hoped the guys could answer them before I detonated. For instance, what was Ms. Kent's ex-husband doing hanging around the school?

After the afternoon of study hall, we were allotted a little free time before dinner. I ran quickly across campus with the other new students and grabbed my gear from the Newby Dorm. After dragging my weary carcass back across campus, up two flights of stairs, and over to my new room, I slung my luggage on an empty bunk. Remembering what Ian had said, I stopped in the common room, hoping to catch a few of the guys. I pushed open the much-scarred door from the dark hall, into the light and warmth of the band common room. The whole motley crew was collectively dispersed around assorted furniture. Mort and Jerrod were checking out each other's pipeware, which was spread out under the lamp on the large table at the far end. Brookie, with intense concentration, was quietly juggling in a corner, his head bobbing in time to the beat on his iPod, feet tap-tapping in rhythm to the beat only he could hear.

Without missing a single catch, Brookie looked up. "Whadaya know. Here he is at last. Hey, Ian, he didn't run for the hills after all."

Ian slewed one eye my way and nodded to me briefly, barely lifted a hand, and subsided back into the comfort of the old sofa. "Time for the meeting about the new kid to come to order," he said in a languid voice. "Four p.m. at the Piper Hatchery of St. Rupert's. Jerrod, take notes."

About the new kid? Panic started to creep up my throat. Hazing? Painful initiations? What had Mom gotten me involved in?

"Chill. Don't look so worried, MacDonough. He always talks like that." Prakash had spared me a glance and then returned to using his computer. With a laptop balanced on his skinny knees, he was hunched with his long body folded into one of those rose chintz corner chairs that everybody's grandma has. The ancient brass lamp behind him was tilted to keep the light from reflecting off his computer screen. Pete and Eric were poised awkwardly, looking over Prakash's shoulder to watch the game he was running.

Ian rolled off the overstuffed sofa. He straightened and stretched, coming awake, and snatched one of the juggling balls out of the air mid-toss, letting Brookie know the meeting really had come to order. Brookie snatched it back with a scowl, but he did start paying attention.

"If this is a hatchery, I guess we must all be cracked to be here?" I said when I could control my voice again. My comment was met by a burst of raucous laughter.

"Ooh . . . touché." Prakash put his laptop to one side. "He's up to your standard, O Great-Witted One." I couldn't quite tell if Prakash was needling me or Ian.

Ian bowed toward Prakash. He turned to me and nodded in approval.

"Well answered, youngling. But it's more like you can't make a decent omelet, I mean a bagpiper, without breaking a few eggs." He consulted a list, probably typed by Ms. Kent. "First order of business. Welcome to the Piper Hatchery, where we hatch quality pipers." He spread his hands to indicate the room that was obviously much lived in, ancient furniture and all. "Here are your fellow hatchlings." He drew back his head and raised his voice to address everyone.

"New person, Charlie McDonough, and all pipers of the St. Rupert's Pipe Band," Ian intoned, pointing at me. "Let it be known . . . that Ms. Kent has a rigid practice schedule. Gentlemen, to remind you, here is what it looks like. Five hours a week marching band practice, seven a.m.; daily chanter practice for twenty minutes before dinner; individual tutoring once a week, schedule to be announced. And of course, you need to practice on your own." He turned to smile smugly at me. Was he serious?

"You guys are so young to be so twisted," I said, shaking my head sadly.

"And no more twisted than we ought to be, MacDonough," Ian responded sternly. He looked apologetic for a moment. "This is my last year to compete. I'd kind of like St. Rupert's to win Area Championships this year."

Ian turned his back to us as he looked out the large bay window, over the treetops silhouetted by the setting sun. He busied himself with the window. The cool evening air was begging to invade our warm den. I walked over and stood beside him.

"It must feel good to be about to finish school and break out of the big house," I said, trying to make up for my crack about twisted pipers. Ian turned and smiled at me.

"All prison references aside, MacDonough, I really like this place. Senior year has opened endless opportunities for me. I get to fill out college applications, and no guarantees for the future." We all pondered this for a bit, to the soothing sound of the game Prakash was running on his laptop. Ian gave a sigh and turned back to us before we had a chance to doze off.

"Business meeting over. Now I want to discuss Ms. Kent and her ex." That made us all wake up, I can tell you. You could see everybody snap to attention like they were hooked to Ian with a rubber band. Nobody was going to miss anything.

"She'd kill us if she knew we were talking like this, instead of practicing," said Eric, with a worried frown. Brookie pushed off the wall and put down his iPod and juggling balls, coming over to sit down on the floor. Pete moved over to make room for him.

"I don't think so, Eric," Prakash responded, using his long fingers to tap the keys on his laptop. "I think she's worried about this business of her ex hanging around the student body, when the grounds are off limits to strangers, worried enough to let us know about it."

Ian rolled his eyes at Prakash in disgust. "We wouldn't have known about the ex at all if you hadn't brought him up at breakfast, twit. Why would she want us to discuss her business instead of practicing?"

Prakash moved his laptop to the table and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, brown hands dangling. "The problem she didn't mention at breakfast is that her ex is putting her at risk by being here. She wants to keep it quiet, deal with it herself. What are we going to do if she's the one who gets in trouble and loses her job over it?"

"But wait a minute, Prakash. How would she get in trouble?" I asked. "I don't understand. She's not at fault."

"If parents complain enough, about anything, teachers are in trouble, period. If their darlings are being exposed to uninvited strangers, they do what any concerned parent would do in this day and age. They sue or pull their kid out of the school or demand the headmaster fire anybody in their line of sight. The Head gave her this job as a favor, so she could have a place to live and still afford to finish her college degree. He might have to give in to parental pressure, if they were obnoxious enough."

"We're more likely to see this guy on campus and give her a heads-up, right, Prakash?" asked Eric excitedly. The other guys still looked a little doubtful about Prakash's logic.

"How do you know all this, Prakash?" shot back Jerrod.

"Superior genetics and clean living, man," said Prakash, giving Jerrod a withering glance. "Actually, I was in Ms. Kent's band before she came to work at this school. So you could call her a family friend. I knew her ex while she was still married to him. He runs an art dealership, and I think she divorced him because he was a bad-un, you know, always on the edge of being legal. He may be hoping that she'll help him with one of his shady art deals or something."

Ian wiped the dust off his hands from handling the old window frame and turned to stare at Prakash.

Ian cleared his throat a little uncomfortably in the morose silence. "Not good. I guess we'd better get organized and make sure this ex-husband dude gets stopped before he creates real trouble for us. We'll circulate that picture." He handed Brookie his cell phone. We all crowded around to see the photo. It was the same baldy we had seen from the athletic field. Ian took command.

"You, Brookie. Work with this picture Ms. Kent sent me and put it up on Rupertband.net for us."

Brookie's head bobbed up and down. "You mean like a 'Wanted' poster, right, yeah?" He held the iPhone and looked at it. "Wanted. One bald dude with an interest in expensive artwork."

Ian gave Brookie a pained look and then looked around at Prakash. "You know what this guy looks like, too, right?"

"Yeah."

"Well, point him out to us if you see him lurking. Having a student report him trespassing, independent of Ms. Kent, especially somebody who knows him, should convince school security and St. Rupert's Board that Ms. Kent is not responsible for his being here. Hey, what's his name, anyway?"

"Harley Bevison," said Prakash, idly.

Ian started to choke with laughter. "For real, right? Ms. Kent actually married somebody named Harley Bevison?" This caused mirth. Ms. Kent was cool. Harley Bevison was not a cool name. Ian finally stopped laughing and thought for a minute.

"You're my Man, Brookie. Why don't you be in charge of collecting photos? See if you can get proof he is lurking. You know, pictures, video. Give anything you find to Brookie, guys." There was a meditative pause. I figured I'd get my questions in while I had a chance.

"What would an art dealer want with a monastery, anyway?" I was hoping nobody would notice that, new as I was, I was jumping in with both clumsy feet. All eyes did turn to me, but in a friendly, curious way.

Prakash made a sound that was a refined kind of snort. "St. Rupert's has a kind of famous museum, Mac." He shifted in his chair to stare at me, faux-scandalized that I didn't already know about it.

"I never heard about any museum. What would a monastery have a museum for?" I asked in self-defense.

"Call it St. Rupert's or call it St. Tax Shelter Academy, if you like. Either name works." There was a burst of laughter.

"If you aren't as cynical as young Prakash here, we say that people like to donate to an institution that appreciates culture," said Ian, after he recovered from guffawing.

"Especially when the headmaster is a collector of everything," noted Pete.

Ian turned and got a book from the shelf behind him. "Here's a history of the school," he said, waving the book at me. "And from what I've learned, a lot of people gave art during hard times just to give it a safe home."

". . . from their creditors, when dodging personal and corporate bankruptcy," murmured Prakash.

This gave me a lot to think about. St. Rupert's was giving me a real education. Practical things, like how to dodge your creditors in case of bankruptcy. If Mom only knew.

"Uh, aren't you making kind of a leap, from trespassing to getting into the monastery museum?" I asked, stepping out on a limb again, now that I felt safe enough to try.

"I know the man, Mac." Prakash grinned that annoying know-it-all grin. "If he so much as senses a profit, he'll be knocking down doors to get to it. He isn't trespassing to share light conversation with Ms. Kent, not if he thinks he can con the brotherhood into selling him something valuable for a low price. He probably wants Ms. Kent to get him into the museum, now that she works here, so he can appraise the art."

Prakash's information seemed to send Brookie way over the top. Sitting obviously didn't agree with him, even on a good day. But now he was bounding off the wall, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "I can see the headline: 'Corporate Thieves Hiding Their Ill-Gotten Gains in Secluded Monastery.' Way cool!" he shouted, pumping the air with his fist. "Mac and I need to check this place out!"

From the irritated looks I saw, Brookie was clearly getting on everybody's nerves, not just mine. Ian took care of that by putting out a hand, and Brookie was on his back on the floor in a single gentle movement. Leadership skills. Ian held him down while he finished speaking. Brookie's pink complexion turned pinker as he struggled to get up.

"Chill, Brook. The Welcome Week tour will happen on Friday. Mac and anybody else here can see the museum and everything in it then."

Ian let him up, and Brookie dusted off his clothes to give himself time to recover his dignity.

"Why doesn't The Bevison just ask Father Dell to let him see the museum—I mean, if appraising it is what he's after?" asked Eric.

Prakash answered, "Maybe he did and Father Dell wasn't interested. Maybe Bevison offered to buy something and ticked the Head off. Knowing Our Dear Headmaster as well as we do, maybe the offer of money is not enough to pry anything loose, whatever it is. If Father Dell believes the art was given in good faith as a gift, and he likes it a whole lot, he won't part with it." He turned to Ian. "Do you think 'rabid collector' describes him pretty well?" Ian nodded. "Well, Bevison isn't giving up, then, even if he did get no for an answer. That's for sure."

I scratched my head as it swirled with so much speculation and added, "Well, I'd like to check it out at the tour, if Brookie doesn't mind having me along. Help him with the questions and stuff?" I looked at Brookie, and he gave me a conspirator's nod.

It was getting dark outside the windows as night settled in around the old buildings, and I was getting hungry, never a good time to think. So I asked the dumb question. Duh, yeah! "Harley must suspect something pretty valuable is in that museum,if he's willing to go to so much trouble just to get through the door."

"It's always about the money, sonny," said Prakash and gave us his man-of-the-world look.

"Sorry, but in this case it's not, Prakash," Ian said, bluntly. "I sure hate seeing Ms. Kent being harassed by her ex, and I'd hate to see her lose her job as our band coach."

"And we don't want her fired for helping the jerk just because she wanted him out of her hair," chimed Pete.

"Or because some parent doesn't like having some weirdo hanging around St. Rupert's because of her," added Eric.

"So, band, I assume we are in this together, find some clues so we can help stop the jerk?" asked Ian. He looked pleased when everyone started table drumming. "Right."

"Rupert Band Rescues Small, Defenseless Pipe Major," shouted Brookie, and we all cracked up because Ms. Kent was soooo not defenseless. Then with startling abruptness, the seven guys stopped and listened raptly as the distant clang-clang of the Refectory's dinner bell reached their ears. Grabbing their jackets, they started out of the room.

Ian pulled me out of the way as everyone else stampeded for the door. "MacDonough, I'm supposed to talk to you." I slowed down, a little cautious in case I'd done something wrong, maybe overstepped the bounds of newcomership. "As a band we get a lot of our classes together. So if you need any help because of our wicked schedule, let me or anybody else know. We'll help you keep on top of the academics so that you'll have plenty of time to focus on what really counts around here, if you know what I mean." He looked up at a magnificent posed photo of the St. Rupert's Pipe Band in full-dress uniform hanging on the wall over our heads. I got his meaning.

Then, at the urging of hunger, our fearless leader and fierce taskmaster Ian and I went to get something to eat.
Chapter 4

After supper, thanks to Mom, I was expected to go to compulsory chapel. Compulsory meaning I didn't have a choice and would be in trouble if I skipped it. So there I was, back in the assembly hall right after dinner, my stomach comfortably full. Rights had it that I would sleep peacefully through the boring parts of the "Welcome to St. Rupert's Evening Prayer Service." I was starting to hunch down in my seat and curl up in a comfortable ball when Father Dell, our headmaster, started the service.

I would be getting a good look at this headmaster I kept hearing about. Well, I guess I'd met him on the day my mom had dragged me to my interview, but not to remember. I had plenty of interest now, and opportunity. He came swishing out to read the evensong service with his monk's robes billowing around him. His forehead was shining like a mirror under the spotlight above the lectern, his woolly yellow hair surrounding his bald spot like a halo, his watery blue eyes staring at us in surprise, as if he'd never seen a roomful of boys before. As if his appearance weren't weird enough, he had a weird squeaky voice that was making me really peevish. It kept shaking me awake every two seconds.

"And God" . . . pause . . . wait . . . wait . . . "so loved the world, he" . . . pause . . . "gave his only Son . . ." It would be really quiet and peaceful and then, squeak squeak. He would pause and start back up. Each pause was so suspenseful it kept me awake, kind of like standing on the very edge of a cliff waiting for it to collapse under me. And then he'd change vocal register and be at it again, blasting us with a blaring baritone. He must have had lots of experience keeping kids awake when he was speaking, because it sure worked on me.

I looked around the auditorium. Some of the band members were there, some not. They seemed to be paying more or less attention, so instead of sleeping, I used the drowsy times to speculate on why the Head would refuse to let this Harley Bevison dude visit the St. Rupert's Museum. From my seat in the balcony I looked down at him struggling away with the service. He didn't seem like the type to keep somebody away from anything. How could he, when he looked like a harmless, slightly cross-eyed piece of dough? Watching him as he finished delivering the prayers, things just didn't feel right. I shifted in my seat.

As things came to a close with an "amen," they switched to the "Welcome" part of the evening. Some monks and others were walking up on the stage to sit down in a row of chairs behind the lectern.

"New boys, I . . . welcome . . . you to St. Rupert's. I hope you will be very happy here," Father Dell gasped in his weird intonation, ending in an embarrassed laugh. "I would like to introduce you to the . . . faculty," he said turning and gesturing at the monks behind him. The kids gave a smattering of applause. Father Dell clapped with us and then motioned, asking the teachers to stand. They stood, and I inspected them. There were several lay teachers in ordinary civilian clothes, and the rest were monks, in gray, featureless robes, bell-pull belts, and sandals. The monks all tended to look alike because of their clothes, so it would be harder to remember which one belonged to what name. The teachers were familiar with Father Dell's speech impediment, apparently, for they seemed anxious to introduce themselves, perhaps to save him some trouble and themselves some time and agony.

A tall, quiet-looking, dark-haired monk stepped forward to the podium, adjusted the microphone, and looked around at us, making sure he had everyone's attention. Folding his hands under the front of his robes, he began.

"I am Brother Matthew. Father Dell, our headmaster, will be going on a brief sabbatical for a few days this year." He got an instructional look on his face. "A sabbatical, boys, is a leave of absence from regular work in order to study and do research."

Father Dell nodded benignly. "Feel free to go to Brother Matthew for anything you would come to me for during this time."

"I am the assistant headmaster, as well as your history teacher." Brother Matthew continued to introduce the rest of the teachers to us one by one. After having a good, hard look around at us when one student started making noise one aisle over from mine, he nodded briskly to the monk next to himself. A burlier version of Brother Matthew swaggered forward. His robe was a bit on the shorter side, and we could see his hairy, muscular legs above his sandals.

"This is our coach, Brother Roger," said Brother Mathew. Even before he spoke, I knew we had a classic gym teacher here. Brother Roger's gruff bark confirmed my suspicions. He snatched the microphone impatiently from Brother Matthew.

"St. Rupert's Athletics is MY department and an important part of this community," he growled, glaring at each of us. "Participation in at least one team is required by all you men, and attendance at athletic events is highly recommended, if you want a passing grade from me in PE. Do I make myself clear?" I almost expected him to say "I didn't hear you" as we nodded. But he stepped back and nodded abruptly to the next teacher, confident that he had sent us his beginning-of-year challenge. "Defy me and die of about a million push-ups" came through as loud as a bugle.

As the rest of the faculty introduced themselves, my mind wandered back to my first visit to St. Rupert's. Father Dell and my mom had hit it off right away, but I had mostly been staring at the book titles on his bookshelf and the design on the carpet. My mom was all excited about the atmosphere and culture of the place and went off for a tour of the school while I went back to our car to take a nap. Now I wished I'd taken the tour, to at least see the museum.

The thought of Father Dell's books put me in mind that maybe the thing to do was find out about some things, about the school, art collecting, and other stuff. As soon as the service ended, I shook fully awake and jogged over to the building marked LIBRARY. I walked in and plopped my backpack down at a computer. The monk at the front desk looked up with raised eyebrows.

"Can I help you . . . ?"

"I'm Charlie MacDonough."

"Brother Edward here. What can I do for you?"

"Yes, Brother. I'm interested in finding out about museum art," I said awkwardly.

"Why don't you try googling 'arts and antiquities.' That would cover the most territory. Let me know if you need any more help," he said as he went back to his work.

"Thanks."

So I googled "arts and antiquities," and up popped lots of hits about art collecting. What I found, on a very cool site, was that the art-collecting world was a ruthless place. Not your grandma's. Ancient, museum-quality artworks were hijacked, stolen, or forged and sold, in such huge numbers that it dwarfed your plain old criminal front selling hot TVs from the back of a van. These crooks did it with a whole lot more panache, and a whole lot more money was changing hands.

The criminals included tomb robbers and thieves, as well as museum curators and art experts. What a bunch! Criminy, they seemed to have no scruples about the fact that millions of dollars' worth of works were passing in and out of their hands, between people who had no legal right to any of the stuff. True, Interpol and such organizations were chasing after them. They had special Arts and Antiquities Theft Squads in a lot of countries, but the thievery rate was so bad it was burying them in overwork. There was even a place that had gotten busted recently, which had a warehouse and a sort of catalog where you could order your stolen goods and go view your order in this facility—like Best Brands for really, really expensive artwork such as ancient Roman artifacts.

A voice behind me startled me. "Time to go," said the librarian monk briskly. He was bustling around, tidying up the front desk before leaving for the night. I stretched my neck and looked to see how late it had gotten. Whew, I'd put in a lot of hours.

"You've just got time to get back to the dorm before curfew, if you leave now," he said, giving me a quizzical look. No wonder—nobody else was in the building but the two of us.

"I'll just save my research onto my thumb drive," I said, nodding. I'd have to show this mother lode of information to the guys. I flipped the thumb drive into my pocket and got up to leave. The brother smiled as I left, shutting and locking the door behind me, giving me a friendly wave.

As I left the library, I remembered how I had felt a little lost, late last night, when my folks had left me in the school office with my things before they departed to start their great adventure. Last night, the first one at school, all the newbies had stayed together in a dark, barracks-style dorm. I wasn't told much besides not to unpack my gear and where and when to meet Ms. Kent the next morning for practice. All that uncertainty was gone now. It was so good to feel like I had a home and bed, with my fellow band members near me tonight.

I went back to my room and found that my good friends and bandmates had made sure I felt welcome on my first night with them. The lights were off except for the one next to Ian, who was reading with his bed lamp.

"You only just got back in time, man," commented Ian, looking over from his bunk. He sounded concerned. I got undressed and headed for bed, where I found that all the sheets on my utilitarian bunk were tied in knots. I heard Brookie sniggering in the dark from the tiers of bunks on the other side of the room.

"Thanks, guys, I needed that," I said, and I meant it. As I got into an unmade bed, I realized I was taking myself way too seriously if I spent the very first day of school at the library. The other thing I realized, with a warm feeling in my heart, was that knotting my sheets was Brookie's way of welcoming me home.
Chapter 5

Band practice was the best. Getting up for that seven a.m. practice was horrible, but I could stagger out of bed and usually show up on time and be functional. The effort was way worth it. Ms. Kent proved to be just the piper major to the max deluxe, best I'd ever worked with. And did I mention, she was also way better to look at than any pipe major I'd had before.

It seemed that Ian had been really modest about the band's competitive career. Like, total understatement. I could tell we had a very good chance of winning, not just local competitions but certainly qualifying for Area Championships. By winning those, we could then qualify to go to the nationals. How cool was that? But there was this fly in the ointment called Harley Bevison.

We found out how bad it was at Thursday morning practice, while we were working on our long drill. Ms. Kent said that the long drill would be a chance for us to practice our marching without playing our instruments. We'd march along, practicing our different formations. Ian told me we got a break at the halfway point for a good cup of coffee at the Carafe Café Coffee Shop. It felt good to get away from the school for the first time that week. Any comment I might make about school coffee is unprintable.

So, we were not piping but humming as we marched along. It would have been too loud for the natives, if we'd played. We were practicing our parade formation, getting into straight lines and rows, keeping our distances, making good turns, swinging our arms in time. However, many of us were ignoring our marching as we craned our necks, staring at the tree-lined street and quiet residential homes around us.

"Hey, guys, didn't you hear what I just said?" Ms. Kent's stressed-out voice pierced our vertical slumber. She rubbed her face as though thoroughly exhausted. "I'm sorry. I'm not myself." There were tears running down her face. "Forgive me this time for yelling. Next time I yell, you can get even."

She started briskly down the road by herself toward the coffee shop. We paused a moment, in shock. Then we broke ranks and hurried, without speaking, to the outdoor seating.

"We'll buy you a latte, Mandy." Ian shocked us all by calling Ms. Kent by her first name. We grabbed all the tables and moved them together, in front of where she was sitting. Ms. Kent laughed weakly.

"You guys are the greatest . . . but I really shouldn't be going to pieces. I just haven't had a good night's sleep in ages." She was still making little gulping sounds, as she tried to control her tears. Prakash looked at her with concern.

Ian went to the window and ordered a carafe of coffee and a special latte with extra whipped cream for Ms. Kent. Bringing it over to the table, he asked, "So what can we do for you besides buying you coffee?"

Ms. Kent smiled gratefully and carefully sipped her hot drink through the mountain of cream.

"We know why you aren't sleeping. I told the guys about Harley being an art dealer and not the most honest person on the planet," said Prakash, filling his own cup from the carafe.

"You shouldn't have, Prakash. It's not school business."

"It's our business if it affects our chances of winning the Area Championships because you can't sleep," reasoned Ian.

"If you don't tell people what's going on, how can they help you?" Pete pleaded.

"What you say makes sense, but I am your teacher." She seemed to suddenly make up her mind. "But you are right. Trespassing is one thing, but Harley is hanging around, getting really persistent about me getting him quietly into the monastery museum, and I don't know why . . . I honestly don't know why I married that jerk." She looked at her palms on the table a moment and said quietly, "To think he looked so Sunday school when I met him." She broke into a giant stress yawn. "And just when I was going to talk to the headmaster, Father Dell up and left on sabbatical this week."

"Is Harley pressuring you with threats, or anything?" Prakash asked.

She clattered the latte mug, smacking it back on the saucer as she looked up in startlement at Prakash.

"I think I've said too much already, guys. Just leave it."

"But if he has something unethical in mind, he could name you as an accomplice." Prakash was really putting the pressure on.

"Don't you think I know that? I thought I was handling it okay until today, Prakash." She drained her cup, apparently finding courage in the caffeine. "He actually has a particular work of art that he's interested in. He just won't tell me which one. I figure that if he's up to something unethical, he'll let it slip sooner or later. And I'll have more information about it if he keeps communicating. I'm documenting all his calls and emails." She was starting to look better, though her eyes were still red. In my opinion, she had guts.

Ms. Kent tapped the edge of her cup with the spoon and glanced quickly up at us.

"In fact, he already dropped one huge clue, guys. He was telling me a little about what he was looking for. The art object he's interested in was probably donated in 1929. He wanted to know if the museum had any files or anything, you know, to identify artworks that were donated in that year. Hmmm...1929. That was the year of the great depression."

"So are you actually leading him on, trying to get more information out of him?" Brookie asked with major amazement on his face.

"Well . . . yeah. I guess I am. However, I did make it clear to Harley that Father Dell is the one to call; he shouldn't be asking me how to get in the museum. And that he'd better stay off school property unless he has permission, or I will tell the police."

"Why not tell Brother Matthew?" Eric asked.

"I'm not your conventional high school teacher, Eric. I'm just here to teach band, so I'm not sure how Brother Matthew will feel about this when I tell him that my ex-husband is hanging around, probably trying to fleece the school."

We stared at her.

"I mean, it's my word against his that he's trespassing, isn't it? Somebody might believe I'd been fool enough to invite him." She heaved a sigh. "Unless I have some kind of evidence, I'm a sitting duck for an accomplished liar like Harley."

"Let us help." Sixteen eyes stared at her intently.

She put both elbows on the table and stared back earnestly in our direction. "Only research, boys, understand? I need to know what Harley wants from that museum. Then I can take that information to Father Dell when he gets back. He will know what to do. But you've got to stay safe." She gave us a pleading look. "I'm going too far to ask this of you, but what choice have I got, with my job on the line and my sanity at stake?"

It felt like it was the right time to put in my two cents' worth. Time to quit being shy about giving them the information I'd been sitting on all week. I pulled out my thumb drive to show her and everybody.

"I looked up a bunch of art and antiquities stuff after Prakash told us about Mr. Bevison. You guys might want to look at it."

Ms. Kent looked surprised and interested. "Hey, thanks, Mac. Maybe this will help. I'll get it back to you, after I copy it." She reached across the table, taking the drive from me with a huge grin. It seemed to cheer her up a lot. She shoved her chair back and stood up with new resolve.

"We're visiting the museum tomorrow, Ms. Kent. Maybe we can spot something valuable—you know, ask some questions," inserted Brookie, fishing for a good word. "Then I, as chief-collector-of-evidence, can take photos, when we spot it," he said pompously. "It sounds like what we have here is a treasure map with an X on it, but nobody knows what the treasure is."

If praise was being handed around, he wanted his share. He was visibly puffed up already.

Ms. Kent patted him on the back, which deflated him quite a bit. "That should be safe enough, Brookie. Just keep it that way.

"Spend some time researching on your own, but after you've finished your schoolwork and practice, okay? I've got to study . . . and sleep."

Glancing at her watch, she spun around with a look of alarm. "We spent too much time here, guys. Double-time, march, if you want to get back to St. Rupert's in time for a real breakfast."

We had no trouble hearing and obeying. This time we marched, tall and straight, with lots of snap in our steps. Why not? We were a bunch of pipers with a mission..
Chapter 6

Friday rolled around bright and early. Brookie was up first. He bounced a rather hard Super Ball off my forehead to wake me.

"Mac, we go into action today. Operation Museum Tour. Is this a time to be sleeping? Just when your fearless pipe major requires you to ferret out the mysterious object that interests Bevison so much, you choose to snore?" His tone changed to the practical. "By the way, I've got our gear ready." He opened my backpack, which he'd already packed for me, and pulled out a cell phone, a notebook, black gloves, and ski mask.

I groaned. "Brookie, chill. The monastery tour doesn't start till after breakfast, man." I rubbed my eyes and rolled over in my bunk and fell through the flimsy mattress, onto the floor with a thump. Someone had thoughtfully removed a couple of bed slats. I was up now. Brookie was not paying me much attention all of a sudden. He was busy with his laptop, with a smirk on his face.

"Thanks for getting all that great data off the Internet for us, Mac. I didn't realize there was so much drama in the art world." Drama was something Brookie understood, for sure. Apparently he was enjoying his new role, morphing from our master juggler to a kind of James Bond with frightening ease. He was now defender of the St. Rupert's Museum and was going to catch the evil art dealer. The problem was, he kept expending energy in waves. I was having trouble just finding enough energy to put my feet in my pants, it was so early.

Fridays at St. Rupert's were normally devoted to nonacademic study, such as the arts and culture that had excited my mom so much. We could choose one subject for three Fridays and then switch to another subject, like watercolor painting switched to media studies or fencing switched to sculpture. This was supposed to keep us Well-Rounded. We, however, had other activities today to keep us Well-Rounded, like finding unspecified art objects in the monastery's museum.

The Monastery of St. Rupert was where the brothers and monks lived and had their offices, chapel, and museum. That's where we headed for the tour, right after breakfast. Striding across campus toward the monastery woke me up fully and got me in the spirit of adventure. I took deep breaths of the crisp, cool fall air. It was the kind of Indian summer day that just sparkled with clean sunlight. No wonder Brookie felt so good.

As I entered the courtyard of the monastery complex, I saw other students milling around. Brother Matthew stood tall and calm in front of the original monastery building. He beamed a bland but kind of impersonal smile at Brookie and me as we waited for all the students to show up and to get settled. Once the rest had straggled up, Brother Matthew cleared his throat and raised his voice so that he could be heard by the throng.

"You will stay within visual distance of me at all times, students, during this tour," he said in that decisive yet mild voice. The steely glint in his eye said loud and clear that we should watch our step or he'd make sure things got very hot for us. He walked over to the granite arched alcove of the old brick building, stood on the steps above us, and began his droning lecture, pointing to the building behind him.

"This was the original monastery building for the Order of St. Rupert, built in 1830. The brothers of the order now have more modern quarters. Those were added on as a wing in the 1890s."

"Not all that modern, huh? Flush toilets, maybe?" Brookie was getting restless already. I poked him with my elbow to get him to shut up so he wouldn't draw a target on us for Brother Matthew to take aim at.

Brother Matthew opened the huge, stained oak door. There was a groan from the antique iron hinges. Before we followed the group in, Brookie stopped me and requested, "Mac, you ask the questions, okay? It might raise, um, issues if I do."

"What?" I asked, not getting it. I was too busy looking around.

"Well, they know me, you see." He looked slightly—but only slightly—bashful.

I looked at Brookie standing there with his red hair on end and his shoes untied, and I saw. He was probably in trouble most of the school year.

The boys next to us pushed into the vestibule, which was tiled black and white like a checkerboard. The swooshing of our footsteps echoed eerily back at us as the group shuffled into the rotunda. I dropped my jaw as I tilted my head back to look up at the poorly lit, dark-beamed ceilings. Even the air smelled old, like incense and beeswax candles. Brother Matthew moved around in front of us and continued his talk.

"The monks, the contemplatives of the order who you haven't met, live back here too, and their lives are none of your business." We nodded. I'd heard about those guys living in silence. "We won't be looking in the kitchens and private living areas of the brothers - that includes me and the rest of your teachers - because you probably wouldn't be interested, right?" he said, nodding at us for agreement. We rolled our eyes. Of course we were interested. What kid wouldn't want to see how his teachers lived?

"So, follow me, boys, to the chapel and museum." The whole place looked like a museum to me, as I made the long hike down the corridor. It seemed like there were doors every twenty feet down the long hall that went on and on forever into the dim distance. The faded walls were lined with framed old-world-style documents, photos, prints, and oil paintings, hanging freestyle. In fact, there seemed to be very little order to any of the exhibits in the hall. Brother Matthew beckoned us onward. We turned a corner and entered an unmarked door.

"We are entering the monastery's private collection area now," he said in a hushed voice. I elbowed my way to the front so I could hear Brother Matthew better and see what he was pointing to. The long, narrow room opened into a tiled atrium with oak-framed, glass-topped cases in neat rows. The age-stained walls were lined with shelves, all filled with books to the ceiling. Although there was enough natural light to see, coming from the skylight, there was dim artificial lighting on each of the exhibits. I also noticed a tiny glass window high up near the apex of the eaves. They weren't wasting any energy heating the exhibits, and I gave a shiver in my light shirt.

Brother Matthew's voice echoed hollowly from the high ceiling: "Originally the brothers of St. Rupert were a healing order. You'll see our Heritage Medicinal Herb Garden after the building tour. Then, over the centuries, our order evolved into strictly a teaching order."

There was restlessness behind me, and somebody snickered, whispering, "Yeah, and all our trouble started." Brother Matthew shot him "the look" without breaking stride in his monologue.

"Throughout the history of the Order of St. Rupert, people have given gifts of money and art to assist the brothers in their good works, helping to support both the school and the order."

"I thought the brothers weren't allowed to keep anything they got as a gift?" someone asked.

"That's true. We aren't supposed to have worldly goods—but these were not gifts to individuals but to the order as a whole. Many monasteries would have sold these objects for the money, but since St. Rupert's has a strong interest in scholarship, many were kept for study purposes." He pointed to bookshelves full of what looked like old manuscripts. "Scholars from around the world visit our museum, which is a real honor for our little academy." He seemed as proud as if he owned it himself.

I began my questions before he had a chance to take another breath. "What are the most recent art acquisitions?" I thought I would work back from the present day to the Depression.

Brother Matthew walked over to a case before turning to us, his hand patting the glass behind him. "We received money, primarily, in the latter half of the twentieth century. However, in the early part of the century, we did get quite a few donations of art or antiques."

He gestured, and I peered into the case he was standing near. There were small military buttons lined up with labels near them. I almost squawked out loud with disappointment.

"Not terribly valuable, but of historic interest," commented Brother Matthew, seeing my face as I glanced at this collection of twentieth-century bric-a-brac.

"Is this all?" I asked, incredulously. Suddenly realizing I needed to sound more interested and not so disappointed, I amended, "I mean, were there other kinds of donations, like books or . . . pictures?" Brother Matthew turned and waved his hand at the walls.

"It is a very diverse collection, MacDonough. There are the ancient manuscripts from the Middle Ages," he said, pointing to some decrepit-looking books, "to the present modern editions of contemporary writers."

He indicated some paintings hanging from a molding on the wall. "And there are other paintings displayed around and about, here and there throughout the monastery, where they can be enjoyed to the best advantage." I had seen some of those paintings spread around and about when we had walked down the hall to get here from the front door.

"The rest is incorporated in these cases according to category—china, silver, ceramics." I leaned over the case of historically significant buttons. Buttons? I thought furiously. How was I going to find out what Harley Bevison was after? I was pretty sure it wasn't buttons.

"If everything is spread around the monastery, how do you find stuff for the scholars, or, say . . . let them know who donated it?" Was I getting too specific? Was I getting too close to letting the cat out of the bag, and would Brother Matthew wonder why a kid would want to know such things? Apparently not. He looked brightly at me and nodded in approval as he walked over to a book on a stand.

"I'm glad to see you have an interest in how we organize our little museum, MacDonough. It is all catalogued here," he said, opening a huge book on a dark oak book stand. He turned on a strong light in the corner and gently smoothed the pages like he was petting his favorite cat.

Pay dirt! Now if I could just get a close enough look. Brother Matthew shepherded us out right past the book. Brookie and I looked at each other with glee as we stepped into line. Let's see what we could see.

Brother Matthew stopped me as we all filed by that Object of Extreme Interest on our way out the door. "Now, if all your questions are answered, MacDonough, we'll head over to the chapel?" He was looking at me a little quizzically, probably trying to figure out what I was up to. I didn't want to stir up suspicion, but I didn't care much, because I knew our research had finally paid off. I even held up the line to get a better look at the book when Brother Matthew hurried me on. I strained to get as much of a view as I could as I walked past, but all I saw on the open pages were columns and lists written in cramped writing with faded ink.

Brookie and I looked at each other. We didn't need to talk to know what the other was thinking. We'd definitely found it. We dropped to the back of the group so we could talk.

"How are we going to get at that book for a better look?" I whispered.

Brookie hissed, "No problem; we'll slip back after the tour somehow. That desk has good light."

"So you can photograph it?" I wrinkled my forehead.

"Yeah, I just hope we can find the right entry for this mysterious art object of Harley's. 1929, huh? Think they'll have dates?"

"Here's to luck," I said, high-fiving him. But even hopefully, how good were our chances of getting back to that book? Only Brookie knew for sure.

We'd followed the crowd into another area.

"Around this corner here is the chapel that is used daily by the brothers and monks or for special school occasions. We use the assembly hall for our school-wide services." Brother Matthew waved us into a lovely old chapel, paneled in dark wood. I caught the whiff of old beeswax and incense in the air. "These wood carvings were brought over from Europe by members of our order shortly after their arrival in America. Go ahead and get closer so that you can look at the detail of the Holy Family on the altar carvings."

We stayed in the back of the group as we moved slowly around the chapel and tried to blend. Brookie was not a good candidate for blending, however. His energy was higher than ever from our latest find. He was bouncing on the balls of his feet, which does not make you invisible in most crowds.

"Keep your eyes open for a break in the tour, man," said Brookie, glancing around, "so we can slip out." We got at the end of the line to go see the carvings.

"Camouflage, man. Please try to look like a statue or something," I begged.

"How about a diversion instead?" he said and sniggered. There was a wild gleam in his eyes that I didn't like.

I didn't have a chance to comment before someone in the front of the group yelled in fury at the boy next to him, "Hey, dude! What was that for? You pinched me!" Brookie looked so innocent, I knew he had something to do with it.

"Gentlemen, what's going on here?" barked Brother Matthew as he started pulling back the boy who was trying to take a swing at the wrongly accused kid.

"Slick," I whispered as we slid out the door of the chapel while Brother Matthew was occupied with the shouting students. Brookie pocketed his slingshot. "Explain it to me sometime when we have more time."

Sliding through the half-open chapel doors was not a problem. The problem for me, as we headed back in the general direction of the museum, was that all the doors in the hall were unmarked. Brookie sensed my uncertainty.

"I've got it in my head," he said, tapping his skull. "Museum. It's right next to a photo of the Class of '55." We buzzed down the hall, turning sharp and braking to a stop as we both recognized none other than Harley Bevison in the flesh. And he was dressed as a St. Rupert's monk. Bald and slightly overweight, he looked the part. Brookie went into action immediately, as though he'd been rehearsing for a week. Shoving the cell phone at me, he went up to the bogus monk.

"Excuse me, Brother, we're here on the tour for new students. Can you tell us the way to the restrooms?" Brookie stepped to one side of Harley, so that in order to answer him, Harley was forced to turn his face toward me—and I could get a good photo without him seeing me. I got the phone up and whipped off two profile shots, which looked pretty good at a quick glance. The trouble was, he did see me, especially since the auto-flash went off in the dim light.

"Hey! What the hell's going on?" Harley snatched at the phone. I dodged by him to the right after taking a feint to the left.

"Thanks anyways, Brother," said Brookie, hoofing it quickly away from the angry man. He nodded at me for confirmation that the photos were okay as we headed off at a dead run in the direction of the chapel. I resisted the urge to see if Harley was following, but I could hear his shoes clattering on the marble floors.

"Was he warm?" I asked, panting and handing over the phone.

"He was way hot. He was right on top of the museum, if he knew what he was looking for. We were right next to the photo of the Class of '55." He speed-dialed Ms. Kent as he skidded around the corner and ducked into an alcove behind a huge piece of furniture. I craned my neck around the corner to see if Harley was still on our trail, but he must have stopped somewhere, for some reason.

"Your ex is in the monastery, dressed as a monk. We got photographic evidence. I'm sending the photos from my phone." Brookie's whisper trailed off as he punched the button that sent the pictures. I was shaking with anxiety that we were going to get caught and perhaps die in a creepy, Episcopalian dungeon. Not Brookie. He was as cool as a cucumber.

"Are you going to call the police, Brookie?" I whispered urgently.

"I'll let Ms. Kent do that. If Harley's after the art object today, we need to derail him and expose him, before he finds it. We need to locate it before he does, so we can protect it." Brookie crouched down and started edging around the back of the mahogany chest that was concealing us from the hall.

"Hey, man, you're way too memorable," I said, pointing to his red, Brillo Pad–style hair. I pulled a watch cap from my pocket, handed it to him, and he pulled it on. I guess he'd decided that his ski mask was overkill and left it at the dorm. I was still suffering major fear of being caught.

"Let's head back, Brookie," I pleaded. "Harley's got to be out there waiting for us somewhere."

Unfortunately, it was too late. We found out who had slowed Harley down and kept him from catching up with us: a real brother. He spotted us as we crept out from behind the chest.

"Looking for something, boys?" Brother Roger's voice was dripping with sarcasm. Burned out, that's the term. Some teachers just needed to get rid of their cynical attitude about students. I mean, we were just students, after all, left all alone in the monastery with a crazy criminal hunting us . . .

Never mind. I didn't say it out loud. I got a look at Brother Roger's face. He'd seen Brookie's watch cap. And obviously he knew we were not where we were supposed to be, just by the looks on our faces.

"Would you believe we were looking for a restroom?" Even Brookie quailed a little under his glare. Brother Roger's sleeves were rolled up, showing his hairy muscular arms.

"No, I wouldn't. Not back there behind that chest of drawers. Get back with your group, Brookstone," Brother Roger growled. The monk stood with his feet spread wide and his arms folded across his chest, staring at us hostilely as we got up and hurried down the hall, back toward the chapel.

"Hey, he saved our lives. Why didn't you warn him about Harley?"

"If he sees him, he'll know he doesn't belong." Brookie looked sheepish. "Besides, I've had a few run-ins with Brother Roger before. I doubt he would have believed me if I'd told him an angry art dealer dressed as a monk was chasing us."

"You have a point there, Brookie." I looked at him with a speculative smile. Yeah, Brookie wasn't kidding when he'd said he was always in trouble.

We found the rest of the group waiting for us in the vestibule of the chapel, Brother Matthew looking distinctly displeased.

"Boys . . . ," he started, but Brookie interrupted before the next word was even out of his mouth.

"We needed the restroom," Brookie explained with a buddy-to-buddy swagger. We slid into our places.

Brother Matthew wasn't having any. "We'll stick together from here on, you two," he remarked in a dry voice. "It's a real warren of buildings, and I wouldn't want any of the new boys getting lost." Perhaps he felt differently about losing Brookie—maybe forever. We set out together for the other parts of the monastery complex, this time with Brother Matthew behind us, so he could roast Brookie with a dirty look from time to time.

"Boy, am I glad you phoned Ms. Kent when you did," I said softly as we walked toward the building containing the natural history museum. I would feel so much better if an adult were handling all this. I was a new kid at this place, and I really didn't want to start my first week of school with a reputation for causing trouble—or for Mom to hear about it, for heaven's sake.

****

Once I stopped worrying about Harley chasing us, the tour was really neat. It was an interesting place. The buildings were ancient and decrepit, but the collections inside were the kind of wonderful old things that most museums replace with glitz and bling in an attempt to lure young people. Faded seaweed collections were parked next to musty stuffed birds from when taxidermy was king. Inside glass cases were hand-lettered yellowed cards, usually written in Latin, which identified the rocks, butterflies, and skulls of dead animals. I could have spent a year in there. Brother Matthew countered that thought right away, as though he were reading my mind, saying, "This area is off limits to the regular student body, unless a student has a special project to be researched."

I could see why he might worry that rowdy boys could do serious damage. The windows of the natural history building were so old they were wavy with age. You could do damage to those old windows with a strong wind, not to mention with a careless elbow.

Each building was separated by a brick courtyard that was overgrown with what I thought were messy borders of small plants, and hedged with shrubbery and creepers and vines. Brother Matthew must have seen us eying what looked like weeds. He explained, "This is, in fact, a vast collection of plants that provides seeds to programs for heirloom herbs and antique garden restoration and historical landscaping projects."

He pointed to one particularly untidy plot. "Here is the Heritage Medicinal Herb Garden I was talking about earlier." I squatted to look at the plant tags. It was like reading an old herbal manual from the Middle Ages: aconite, digitalis, comfrey.

Brookie stood up and turned around, gazing at the towering sides of the building. There were a few windows along the eaves that he was paying particularly close attention to. He didn't miss much with those pale blue eyes of his. What was he thinking? Another look at that book? No way!

We walked farther down the path until we came out of the shelter of the older building. In the distance there were long rows of plants growing in a cultivated field bordered by trees. Brother Matthew pointed to a newer brick building in the foreground. That is, the small brick building he was pointing to was newer than the others by a century or so.

"This is St. Rupert's production facility, where our brotherhood makes our Monastery Nostalgic Foods products: St. Rupert's Best Dandelion Wine and Abbot's Choice Gooseberry Jelly."

There was sniggering in the back of the group. I already knew that everybody's mom and dad would be bullied into buying as much of that stuff as they could carry home during Parents' Weekend. It was a major fund-raiser for the Order of St. Rupert, which even had a mail-order catalogue to sell the stuff. We walked back toward the Head's office to finish the tour.

"Father Dell, our abbot, is out of town this week, but I want you to see the admin offices. I will be available to all students in his absence." He walked us over to a cluster of suites.

"This is my office, right next to Father Dell's. Here are my regular office hours." He pointed to a notice on the door. "I'm available at other hours, if it's important." He kind of glanced at Brookie. Discipline for the troublemaker, uh-huh. Brother Matthew cleared his throat.

"Ahem, the tour is over, and thank you for coming and showing so much interest in your school. St. Rupert's is an institution to be proud of. Take the time to learn as much as you can about it while you are here, boys. You'll never be sorry you did."

Oh, yeah. He might be sorry, though. I'm afraid Brookie was already learning a lot more than Brother Matthew expected us to, about how to sneak in and photograph that book.

As the crowd broke up and headed back to their dorms, Brookie turned to zoom off with his usual just-shot-out-of-the-rocket speed. I was feeling pretty worried, so I ran after him. I grabbed him by the sleeve to stop him as I caught up with him.

"Brookie, I've just thought of something." I paused, uncertain whether to go on.

"Don't strain anything, man." He was impatient and ready to leave.

I turned and faced him with both feet planted squarely to keep him from haring off.

"No, listen." My voice felt strained, like I was going to choke. "If Harley is so persistent, if he is willing to risk getting caught like that, dressed up in a monk's robe, if he is so touchy about getting his picture taken by a couple of kids . . . there's no client buying any art object." I paused to swallow.

Brookie stared at me hard as he waited for me to get to the point.

"Harley's got to be trying to steal the thing for himself, Brookie."
Chapter 7

Brookie and I dashed back to the dorm. I was edgy from it all, and it didn't help when I saw the other band members awkwardly standing around among the sports equipment and smelly gym shoes by the back door where the porch led into the building. Prakash wouldn't meet our eyes as he silently slid sideways to let us in.

Brookie blinked his pale eyelashes in surprise. I stared back. This was not the "hail to the conquering heroes" welcome that I was expecting either. Everyone appeared to be listening with extreme care to Ms. Kent as she was talking to a police officer. Ms. Kent smiled a relieved smile and waved as she caught sight of us.

"Mac, I'm glad you're here. Brookie and Mac, this is Officer Landers." Ms. Kent gave me a quick thumbs-up before turning back to face Landers. The cop's appraising gaze took a tour of me from head to toe. I returned the favor. He was a big guy with a salt-and-pepper buzz cut. His square, bland face didn't look bright enough to find himself in the dark, much less find an enterprising art thief.

"Hey, sonny. So, you're the one who phoned Ms. Kent?" he said to me, the tone of his voice skating on the edge of ridicule. "Who do you think you saw, this morning at the monastery?" He spoke with such a patronizing air that I could feel my hackles start to rise.

Ms. Kent took one look at my reddening face and interrupted my sputtering by putting a hand on my arm to give me time to calm down. Although I could see she was fuming mad at the cop for giving me short shrift, she remarked calmly, "Officer Landers, I gave these boys some old photos, so they could let me know if my ex-husband was still hanging around the campus. I'm sure they were able to recognize him when they saw him." I don't know how long she'd been talking to him, but Ms. Kent was obviously getting a little impatient with his attitude, too. But she was very polite. I was glad she was on our side.

"Ma'am, I'm sorry—without evidence, I can't act against Mr. Bevison. Anyway, I really think this is a domestic dispute, not really a case of what I'd call trespassing."

"I have two pictures. Is that good enough evidence?" I forgot my ire and eagerly grabbed Brookie's cell phone out of his hand and browsed to the photos. "Here, see?" I handed Officer Landers the phone. He handed it right back with hardly a glance.

"It just looks like one of the monks to me." He shrugged. "I know he is bothering you, ma'am, but you have to admit it sounds pretty ridiculous—your ex-husband in the monastery, dressed up as a monk? Sounds like an adolescent prank to me. That picture is of the side of his head and doesn't even provide a good full-face shot of him. There is nothing I can do with this."

My photo wasn't good enough for him? I'd risked my neck for that picture. Now I felt myself starting to get really hot under the collar.

"We were . . . ," I started to shout, when Brookie grabbed my arm. I struggled to get my elbow out of his grasp so I could take a swing at that policeman.

"Chill, man," Brookie said very quietly in my ear, glancing up meaningfully at the officer. I looked at the smirking, moonlike face. Yeah, Brookie was right. The guy was smiling more and more as Ms. Kent and I got more aggravated. He wasn't just dumb; he was enjoying the spectacle of me and Ms. Kent losing our cool. My sudden calm sent Ms. Kent looking around at our faces, too. Brookie and I must have been communicating a lot with our eyebrows, because she gave her head a quick nod, and a slight smile crossed her face as the light of understanding dawned.

Moving away from Officer Landers with a quirky smile on her face, she began briskly shutting the windows around the room, each slam seeming to give her a little more satisfaction. "Well, indeed, Officer Landers. How could two boys possibly have recognized a trespasser from my old photo? But I don't think the boys were just having some fun with us, nor am I in the midst of delusions about a domestic dispute. We'll get back with you when we've got more evidence." She turned to Landers. "Of trespassing, of course," she stressed, in a sarcastic tone, folding her arms across her chest. "And I will certainly let the Order of St. Rupert know about the impostor, in case it wasn't a figment of someone's imagination."

He nodded, flipped his notebook shut, and walked out without even saying good-bye. How could he know he'd just dug his own grave? Ms. Kent was not going to let him get away with his arrogance.

"And I'll be sure and let his superior know how very helpful he was." She purred the last words in a dangerous voice. Why should he be suspicious of someone not even five feet tall? That was his mistake.

Ms. Kent waited just long enough for the door to slam shut behind him before exploding in a flurry of words.

"Okay, band. Officer Landers wouldn't listen to us. We need some more action, guys. I happen to have something to lose here." Her voice broke a little as she said that, but she was all business. Suddenly doing an about-face, she turned to Brookie and me. "You know what? I changed my mind. Go for it, you guys," she said in a choked voice. "It's not just about library research anymore. Get those full-face shots of Harley, if you see him again, and get my ex nailed so I can wipe that smirk off that jerk Landers' face. That officer of the law needs to know that people really count around here at St. Rupert's, including students." She paused a moment, as if suddenly exhausted by the whole situation.

"And I need some peace of mind." She took a deep breath and pulled herself up to her full four-feet-eight height. "See you later, guys, and thanks for everything, Brookie and Mac. I'll be taking these photos to Father Dell's offices, so that at least the administration knows that I'm not making up the trespassing. We'll talk about this later when I get back."

Ms. Kent pushed the screen door open and headed toward the faculty offices, striding away across the campus lawn on her short legs, swinging her arms hard, like she needed to work off her anger. We just eyed one another until she was out of earshot.

"Yes!" shouted Brookie, leaping into the air. There was amazement on everyone's face. Brookie was grinning like an idiot. He was ready to take that bit in his teeth and run with it.

****

There was a restless horde in the Hatchery when I got there after study hall. Every band member had a theory of why Harley had gone into the monastery dressed as a monk, and everybody was voicing their ideas at the same time. Brookie held up both hands for silence.

"Hey, guys, Mac's got something here. He thinks there is no client. Harley's just been snooping so he can steal it himself. And as far as I can see, that is the only thing that explains an idiot stunt like that." Brookie should talk!

"Harley must be desperate to see that art object. I know I'd be desperate before I wore a monk's robe," kidded Mort. Nobody paid much attention to him. Nobody paid much attention to anybody else. Everyone was just throwing ideas in the pond to see if they would float.

As I stood with my head swirling with confusion from the conversation, one timid voice stood out among all the others.

"Well, Harley musta heard about it, the art object, from somebody besides Ms. Kent. She didn't tell him about it. Where did he hear about it? Who? Maybe he has an accomplice that he's going in with?"

I swiveled toward Eric and exclaimed, "You hit the nail on the head, Eric." He blushed.

Everyone else was silent, staring at one another.

Ian looked kind of sad as he flexed his arms and leaned against the wall, shaking his head.

"There are only a few people that familiar with the monastery, guys, and that's the brothers and monks," Brookie pointed out. Could a brother be the accomplice? I didn't even want to think about the monks.

The speculations flew even faster now: "Wouldn't somebody in the monastery just be able to walk out with it?"

"Not if they needed an art dealer to fence it."

"Wait a minute, don't jump the gun. There is another possibility," said Ian, frowning in concentration. You could tell he didn't want somebody in the Order of St. Rupert to be an accomplice to Harley. "Somebody who knew the original art collector well, back in 1929, might know where this mystery object landed and how valuable it was."

Of course Prakash had to make it more complicated. "Good deduction, Ian, from what little information we have. But there is still too much guessing, not enough fact." The two tall boys were staring at each other across the room, their minds working as fast as an overclocked supercomputer.

"Try this one on, then, Prakash. Maybe an accomplice wasn't somebody from 1929 but somebody who just heard about it—say, a young kid or family member or an old servant who worked in the house of the donor. They decided to act on it, even if they didn't know where it was stashed. That would explain how clueless Harley is."

"Or maybe some business type associated with the family found an old document, a receipt, a proof of purchase. Somebody like an accountant," said Jerrod.

"Good one, Jerrod. Follow the paper trail."

I grabbed my head and held it. Trying to unknot the tangle of guesses, lies and facts made my skull feel like it was imploding. Brainstorming was well and good, but it was time to stop this before I did myself serious damage.

All I could think to say was "Look, wouldn't you guys rather just drop this whole thing? Because I don't think we're the ones to handle this." I couldn't believe I said it out loud. Everybody stared at me hard. Prakash cleared his throat in a pointed manner as he ignored me, and then walked to the center of the room with his laptop in hand, taking control.

"I think I'll just have a look at the names of all the monks and brothers to see if a potential accomplice could be living in the monastery. That's the place to start. Names. We need names: names of anybody who could be involved, accomplices' names, and yes, names on a receipt or tax document, Jerrod," said Prakash quietly.

"Time to get down to business and cut the talk about quitting, Mac." He glared at me over the top of his screen and propped up his laptop on the old oak table. We crowded around. Scrolling through information about the order, he clicked on the St. Rupert's Monastery Directory. It required a special password to enter. Ian didn't pause. As head boy, he had the password. He leaned over and tapped it in.

"Forwarding this to you, okay, guys? Ms. Kent might know if Harley knew any of these guys, but we'll wait until we can narrow the names down a little based on the donation date of 1929," muttered Prakash, intent on his work. I looked over his shoulder. Out of some 120 names in the order, eighty-five of them were listed as in residence here at St. Rupert's.

"Finding an accomplice is going to be like looking for a needle in a haystack," I said as I looked at the unfamiliar names.

Ian looked discouraged. "I guess we will just have to dig a little deeper on this."

"Sure, Ian. We can tell from their age if they had any blood relations alive back in the '30's. Or if anybody is related to Harley. Maybe we can find a business connection. We can dig up the dirt on these guys," said Pete eagerly.

"Hacking the personal lives of monks seems kind of sleazy. I mean, supposedly they left their worldly lives behind when they joined up," I countered.

"Yeah, but what alternative do we have?"

Ian's face said it was time to listen. "Caution. See what basic info you can find about where they went to school, grew up, and dates and stuff. Maybe somebody didn't leave enough of their life entirely behind when they came through these walls. If you stumble on any seedy personal details that don't seem to have anything to do with Harley, well, save those for later, in case we need them."

I swallowed and spoke. "Excuse me. One item: The year 1929 is not enough to go on." Everyone looked around at me. "Before any of this makes sense, accomplices or anything, we'll have to get one name straight, as soon as possible.

"We need to get the name of the donor."

Everyone groaned.
Chapter 8

Two weeks after Welcome Week, St. Rupert's put on an event billed as Parents' Weekend. It was really a chance to show the parents that everybody was okay and being productive. I wasn't too enthusiastic about it because, of course, my parents weren't there. There were other guys besides me whose parents couldn't make it, but it was kind of a lonely feeling seeing Ian and Pete and the rest of the guys getting hugged by their parents who looked both confused and pleased to be surrounded by so many boys at once.

The St. Rupert's faculty really pulled out all the stops to show the parents the best the academy had to offer. The grounds were tidied up. There were posters and projects and demonstrations. Samples of our schoolwork were pinned on the walls.

But before we could show off our academic prowess, we had Saturday church in the beautiful old chapel we'd seen in the monastery, followed by a Parents' Brunch with all the students. Brookie, who was wound up as usual, was the first to point out a little glitch in the plan.

He shoved his plate across the table at me, staring at it with disbelief. He pointed with a shaking finger at the green mess on his plate.

"Do you believe these scrambled eggs, Mac?" whispered Brookie. He spooned a bite into his mouth and grimaced. "Good Lord, they put in cheese and jalapeño peppers."

"Brookie, don't start, okay?" drawled Prakash. His parents and Brookie's weren't visiting, so we three were baching it at a table together with an overflow of parents. Prakash gave Brookie a warning look.

"You know I don't get much to eat around here, since I don't choose to torture the flesh of dead animals, Prakash," whined Brookie, giving him a meaningful look. Prakash did not blush. "Besides, I was worried about the poor parents. They have to eat this and act like they like it, in the interest of good manners, unlike us, who are used to eating here."

And the scrambled eggs with jalapeño and cheese did look strange. Something had gone horribly, horribly wrong.

"I do not like green eggs and ham." Brookie bowed his head over his plate and muttered the old Dr. Seuss rhyme under his breath, just loudly enough for the parents to hear, but not enough for the teachers at the next table.

"Stop it," I hissed, pointing behind my palm at the parents sharing our table.

"Do you suppose somebody ran amok in the herb garden—you know, thought they were picking something mild and savory and accidentally got something, you know, hallucinogenic?"

"Whew, you're not kidding," I said, swallowing and shoving my plate away.

The parents sitting near us were avoiding one another's eyes, but they could hear Brookie, and they were trying not to crack up. It was hard to ignore Brookie when he was being a cutup.

It was still pretty festive, despite the food. Some parents were getting to know their sons' friends. Other parents were herded off to see a video on the history of St. Rupert's. There was a tour of the gardens, museums, and classrooms.

I was nervous and excited. Tonight was our band's first gig, sort of, though only Ms. Kent and Ian were playing. The rest of us hadn't had enough time yet to hone our skills as a band, so we were recruited to serve the evening meal. Special food was going to be served for the dinner (not, we hoped, prepared by the same person who had ruined brunch), and a wine and dessert reception was planned afterward.

****

The Refectory looked great. There were lit candles in the cast-iron wall sconces along the east wall, and the old wooden paneling glowed in the soft light. Each table had a white cloth, a small votive candle, and a centerpiece with sprigs of lavender and mint. The scent of the flowers and herbs mingled with the aroma of the roast and fresh vegetables that were waiting in the kitchen. After an exhausting day visiting their kids, the parents were sitting down to enjoy some real food without the student body present. And, while they were tired and mellow, there was a good chance the teachers would take the opportunity to do a little fundraising.

The students were all in St. Rupert's dress uniform, navy jacket and tie with gray flannel trousers. The parents were dressed to the nines. We servers, however, had on long black aprons over our dress pants. Only Ms. Kent and Ian were in full Highland dress kilts and jackets.

Brother Matthew started the evening with a greeting and prayer. Thankfully it wasn't too long, so the food wouldn't get cold. He ended, "And now, let me present the St. Rupert's Pipe Band." He turned toward the kitchen door, clapping.

On cue, Ms. Kent winked at Ian and straightened her jacket. She and Ian fired up their drones and marched into the dining room playing a rousing version of "Scotland the Brave" as the rest of us marched behind—me, Brookie, Mort, Pete, Jerrod, Prakash, and Eric, carrying large trays of food on our shoulders. Eric was pretty steady, considering his size, as he precariously balanced his tray on one shoulder. He heaved a sigh of relief as he made it to his table in one piece.

The bagpipe music was pretty loud indoors, even for me. Brookie gave the crowd a wicked glance.

"A captive and deafened audience begs for mercy. Maybe Ms. Kent and Ian will promise to stop playing as soon as there is enough money raised to repair the chapel roof?"

"Yeah. I can't believe they gave me a tray with food on it." I was balancing it delicately, hoping I didn't drop the whole thing down somebody's neck.

We put the big trays down on stands and handed out plates to each parent. It was agony to serve all that good food—roast beef, red potatoes, peas, and salad—because we hadn't eaten yet, not since the green eggs and ham at the brunch. Some of us hadn't eaten much of that.

As I handed around the plates, I looked up briefly, and I stopped short. My mouth must have been hanging open wide enough to drive a truck through. Doggone if that wasn't Harley. Brilliant. Who'd let him in? He was at it again.

It was torture, but I kept my cool, didn't shout or run out of the room screaming. I smiled and gave out plates and responded in a dazed fashion to the parents' questions, until I had handed all the plates around to the parents, teachers, and monks and filled their water glasses. I hurried back to the kitchen, my hunger forgotten.

"Harley Bevison alert, guys," I gasped as I burst through the swing door.

"What . . . ?" Everyone rushed to the swinging aluminum door to peek out into the room. Ms. Kent and Ian were just heading back toward the kitchen after playing their set, and the people were starting to eat.

It was the first time the other band members had gotten a close look at Harley, and they were practically fighting for a closer look. Prakash got them in line in short order. "Ten seconds, and then let the guy behind you through to see him. Hear ye, hear ye, step right up. Only a quarter and you can have the chance to witness the jerk eating his dinner, just like he belongs here."

Harley wasn't playing the part of the humble monk tonight. Instead, it seemed he was being the jovial businessman. His gestures were expansive, and he was busy making sure everybody had the salt and pepper, and he was flattering all the ladies. You could almost hear him offering to sell you that oil well that wasn't producing yet but was guaranteed by his good friend in the business. Yuck.

"Look over there in the corner, Ms. Kent," Prakash whispered as she came up to the door. She and Ian looked puzzled as they tried to get past us into the kitchen. They turned and looked. Ms. Kent spotted The Bevison right away, even in the low light.

"That . . ." Ms. Kent bit her lip to keep from saying more, probably a bad word. She looked pretty grim; her lips were pressed together in a thin line. "Okay, what's he doing here?"

"To tell you the truth, we think he's got an accomplice in the school or monastery, getting him into these buildings, Ms. Kent," Ian said carefully.

She groaned. "Like life isn't complicated enough?" Her lips were even firmer now. "I'll go out and talk to him."

Ian stepped in front of her and waved a hand at us. "No, no, let these guys handle this. They're waiters and have an excuse to strike up a conversation with Harley." Besides, I was already out the door.

The crowd was finishing up their meal and starting to mingle, parents asking the teachers questions we probably didn't want to hear. We hurriedly cleared the tables and went back for the wine and dessert trays. We were supposed to carry our little trays and offer glasses of St. Rupert's Best Dandelion Wine and slices of Abbot's Choice Gooseberry Tart to the clusters of parents. The Bevison was standing with a group of parents. Unfortunately for me, there were none of the monks or teachers anywhere near him. If I was going to spot the accomplice type working with him, they would have to hang out together, right? Maybe somebody else at his table was his accomplice. Everyone looked up as I hurried toward the group. I was almost tipping the tray. I smiled my best smile.

"Hello, Mr. Bevison." I shoved the tray under his nose. "It's good to see you . . . here." He took a tiny glass of wine from my tray.

"Thanks, son. I don't seem to recall the face." His eyes narrowed a little, and he looked just a little paler. He remembered me, all right.

"I'm Charlie MacDonough, one of the St. Rupert's Pipe Band members." Harley turned from the group to look intently at me.

"So you're one of the boys who like to dress up in skirts, like the Ladies from Hell," he said a little maliciously, sneering.

Some members of his group laughed nervously. Maybe they sensed the veiled venom, but I burned inside at his attempted putdown. Nobody in our band was dressing up. We were a serious band. Many brave Scottish soldiers had been called "Ladies from Hell" because of their ferocity toward the Germans in World War II. Bagpipers had been the first ashore on D-day. I took a deep breath to tell them all about it, but instead I said, "Have a gooseberry tart, Mr. Bevison," through my clenched teeth.

A nice lady saved me by frowning at Harley's joke and turning to me very graciously. "You boys certainly work hard, then, all that practice and study."

"Yes, ma'am, we do," I said proudly. I gave her an appreciative smile; she had obviously noticed I was uncomfortable with Harley's remark.

"Well, cheers then, everyone," said Harley, toasting everyone with his glass.

How could Harley look so much like a profiteering Santa Claus, everybody's good friend? I guess he must have had a good side at some point in his life. He just had a greedy side as well. I took a good stare at him as I served the rest of the group.

As soon as my group was all served I headed for another, looking for Brookie. We met at the table that was set up for refilling our trays with the little glasses and plates.

"I called him by name, Brookie, and he recognized me."

"Do you think that's scared him off?"

"Who knows? I doubt it. Look at him," I said, pointing. "The man is unlimited bonhomie." I nodded toward Harley, who was laughing at what another diner had said.

"Well, let's keep an eye on him to see if he ever gets alone with any potential accomplices."

"Ms. Kent is phoning Officer Landers again."

"Maybe she can find some way to tell the brothers about Harley without tipping off his accomplice. At least tonight Harley has been trespassing, so the police will have to get rid of him."

****

No such luck. Officer Landers took his time arriving, and then things stopped going our way. He looked through the swing door just in time to see Harley leaving with a group of parents.

"Look, this is a public event. There is no way I can charge him with trespassing even if he isn't a parent." Even faced with obvious logic, Officer Landers wasn't convinced.

"But it is not a public event," Ms. Kent snapped. "The parents all had to have tickets. He sneaked in or stole a ticket. He wasn't invited as a parent."

"You can't prove it, ma'am, unless we get the guest list, and frankly, I don't want to." Flipping his notebook shut, he said in a bored voice, "Give the guy a break, Mrs. Bevison. He's not doing any harm. I won't be coming out again without some evidence that a real crime is occurring, is that understood?"

A small bomb was about to go off in front of him, and he didn't seem to know it.

"Firstly, Officer, my name is no longer Mrs. Bevison. I am Amanda Kent. And that patronizing air of yours is really getting under my skin. We are not trying to railroad my ex-husband; we are merely reporting that he is repeatedly trespassing on school grounds, where he is not supposed to be. As to his harassment of my private life, I am perfectly capable of dealing with that on my own time. Your job is, as my job is, to protect these kids."

We eight rather taller pipers stepped forward and formed a half circle behind Ms. Kent and tried to look as much as possible like a group that didn't need defending.

For a big guy, Landers stepped back pretty fast as Ms. Kent's cascade of words and our presence started pricking his elephant-thick exterior. You could almost see his self-defense mechanisms kicking in.

"Right. Well. Like I said, call next time a crime is in progress." The coward was escaping through the back door to the kitchen, looking somewhat chastened, a new appreciation of Ms. Kent on his face.

She let out a gusty sigh and raised her hands and eyes heavenward.

"I have had it, absolutely had it. I never thought I'd say 'Thank God it's Monday.' But I can't wait for a blessedly normal week to start." She dropped her hands and turned to us, with a rueful look on her small face. "Come on, boys, let's eat and forget about this. We can't let a lot of really good food go to waste just because some cop doesn't have any brains to spare, can we?"

I looked at the heaps of food and headed for the plates. I wasn't waiting for a second invitation, but I paused as Ms. Kent held up her hand.

"We have kitchen patrol, guys, and we'll have to help finish cleaning up this dining room for the hardworking ladies and gentlemen of the kitchen after we eat. So Ian, see if you can hijack the Refectory sound system and put on some rockin' bagpiper. We might as well enjoy ourselves now."

That was one thing this group knew how to do. Ian put on a CD full blast with some really good bagpipe music thumping through the speakers.

During cleanup, Ms. Kent surprised us by changing her mood with sheer determination, grabbing a broom and dancing all over the room with it. By the time we'd rocked our way through two hours' worth of music, we were happy, the room was spotless and our stomachs were stuffed to satisfaction.
Chapter 9

After a grueling week of schoolwork that made Parents' Weekend seem like a dream, another weekend rolled around. In Saturday mode, I staggered into the strangely quiet common room, my jammies sagging and hair sticking up. First thing that happened was I tripped over a pile of rope heaped on the floor.

"Watch it, Mac," mumbled Brookie.

"What is all this stuff?" I asked. I looked down at my feet. I carefully threaded my way through a minefield of equipment so I could collapse in a chair. Brookie was sitting on the floor, coiling the ropes into neater bundles. He wouldn't answer me.

"I repeat, what is all this stuff?" I said, kicking a pile of carabiners.

"You're not showing enough enthusiasm for my latest idea, Mac, so no comment," said Brookie sourly.

Prakash swiveled around, rested his head on his laptop, and looked at me with pity in his brown eyes.

"Brookie is a rock climber, Mac. When he's not enjoying one of his many other newsworthy pursuits . . ."

I turned to Brookie with despair in my heart. "I know, I know, you've gone over it before. But let me guess how you imagine it, Brookie. You're going to do a James Bond–style climb up the walls into the museum, photograph that book we saw while we were on the tour—that same book that has all the details about the art object, the location, and name of the donor—and escape, and spend the rest of the night at a cocktail party with a gorgeous blonde to establish your alibi. In reality we're going to get worked, totally shredded, and thrown out of school."

"I do not plan to get worked, Mac. I am planning to get in and out with a minimum of trouble, bringing with me the evidence of exactly what piece of St. Rupert's property Harley is planning to steal and the name of the original donor. That is exactly what I plan to do, Mac. Except for the fact that St. Rupert's Academy is short of beautiful blondes and I don't know of any cocktail parties going on, I wouldn't mind establishing my alibi that way."

Brookie scooted backward on his behind and rested his head and back against the wall, dangling his hands between his upbent knees. "Look, this is a three-day weekend, and the campus is going to be dead quiet. Everybody's gone from our floor but us. So as far as I'm concerned, it is a perfect weekend for breaking and entering." He waggled a camera at me. "I even got a better camera for close-up photography, Mac. Come on," he said coaxingly.

But I wasn't going to be lured into a felony by any of his new technology.

"Hey, most people are either visiting their parents or their friends. Ian is off touring colleges this weekend. Just you, me, and Prakash. We couldn't ask for a better opportunity."

I sat down next to Brookie, looking at him earnestly.

"Ms. Kent did give us a free rein, Mac."

"I don't think she gave us that much free rein, Brook. We're talking crime here. Don't they have alarm systems where you come from in Canada?"

I reluctantly helped him assemble the ropes and carabiners in a backpack. I didn't mean to be sarcastic, but I was feeling out of sorts.

Prakash didn't mind being sarcastic at all.

"May I point out, Brookie, that your hobby of rock climbing is a perfect blind. You will be seen lugging all this gear around, across perfectly flat terrain, through perfectly flat flower beds in the middle of the night. I'm sure nobody will suspect that you plan to use it for climbing the wall of a building."

Brookie ignored Prakash without a blush. "Did you notice any alarm systems at St. Rupert's, Mac?"

"If you mean the little stickers on the windows, no."

"Brookie means a little box with numbers on it, Mac. When you walk in the front door of the museum, you can enter a secret code and turn the noise off."

Brookie shook his head and stared at us in amazement. "Haven't you Yanks ever been to a museum? What kind of security do you think they have?" He had to needle us for the Canadian crack I'd made earlier.

"I'm not a Yank. I'm Bengali," countered Prakash.

Brookie ignored him some more. "Security. Cameras. Guys. Listen up. They have these motion detectors, pressure sensors, and electronic-eye things all cleverly disguised in the exhibits." He closed his eyes a moment, lost in contemplation of a future career in espionage at its most high-tech. He sighed as he ditched his fantasy and went back to being practical. "Anyway, there is no security in St. Rupert's Museum. I looked when we were there."

He handed me some rope to untangle. We worked in silence for a while. But Brookie couldn't stay quiet for long.

"Too bad we can't get you to go along with us, Prakash. It would be good for you."

"Look, Brookie," said Prakash, turning to face us, putting his brown hands flat on his knees to emphasize his point, "if you get caught, it'll be bad enough. If I get caught . . . face it, I'm a foreigner, from a Moslem country, and automatically suspect. I'll be in a whole different kind of category of 'in trouble' than you will. Dark-skinned and wealthy is still dark-skinned in the American criminal justice system."

I looked at Prakash with sympathy. I got up to stretch my legs, going over to stand next to him, putting my hand on his shoulder to show my solidarity.

"That's why you want to be a lawyer, right, to defend the rights of the oppressed?" I was mammoth proud of him.

He quickly slayed my illusions. "Actually, I just want to get rich quick selling real estate," he growled. He turned back to his laptop and went back to work, ignoring us. He was still hoping for a break on his Internet research, some inkling of what could make Harley want to break into the academy museum.

Brookie smiled at me, turning on all his charm, which he usually kept carefully hidden from us.

"Look, I know you don't want to do this, Mac, and you don't have to," he pleaded. "But I do need both of you to help me. Prakash, if you'll just stand by, look out the window, and keep your cell phone handy, in case you spot anyone around the back door of the monastery while we are inside, we'll be really, really grateful. And MacDonough, if you can keep watch inside while I photograph?"

It sounded simple enough. I nodded, getting sucked in by the sheer force of Brookie's audacity. Could this kid really believe it was that simple? I guess I was going to find out.

Prakash just threw us an "Okay, okay, whatever" over his shoulder.

But I tried one last time. "Can't we just ask one of the monks what this 1929 acquisition is and who the donor was and where it is kept?" I begged.

"We can't. The Head's out of town, and we don't know who else to trust. There's the accomplice in the monastery. We want solid evidence of what Harley is planning to steal and where it is located in the monastery so we can protect it. Hopefully without him knowing about it. Who knows, maybe we can even catch Harley and his accomplice red-handed while they are stealing it. We want him done, man. For Ms. Kent." There was a genuine appeal in his voice.

He knew which of my buttons to push. Protecting Ms. Kent's job could be handled quite nicely by getting Harley put away for stealing. I was ready to sign up. I replied with gusto, "Right, Brookie. And once we know just what it is Harley is after, then we'll move forward and catch him with his hands on the goods. Not enough information is all we have right now."

I couldn't believe I was agreeing with Brookie after all. He grinned like he knew he'd had me the whole time.

"Good to have you along, Mac." Brookie clapped me on the back. Prakash sniggered at me, for being a chump.
Chapter 10

We, the conspirators, played board games in the common room after dinner until it was well after midnight. Prakash ragged us as Brookie and I pulled on black coveralls, black gloves, black shoes, and black socks, plus black on our faces. We used washable marker. I don't know what James Bond used. I was too keyed up to even laugh as I looked at Brookie, dressed all in black with his freckles blacked over. We hoisted the small packs on our backs, high-fived, and walked out of the door toward the dark monastery.

I kept muttering to myself, "I'm way in over my head," during the whole hike over to the monastery in the dark. But being inside my own head was way scarier than anything that was happening outside. It was one of those nice fall nights, with a full moon shining through the partially leaved tree branches. The air was cool, and our shoes squeaked a little as we walked across the damp lawn. We ran quickly through the moonlight, around to the shadowed side of the building and into the herb garden that Brother Matthew had showed us. I could smell the pungent odor of crushed leaves as we walked into the garden beds. Brookie parted the vines and pointed. My eyes looked up, up, up the ivied wall toward a small window under the eaves.

"Oh, please, not that window," I prayed, uselessly, under my breath. I took a glance at Brookie. He was in his element; he practically glowed like a nuclear facility gone critical. He took a small grappling hook from his pack, threw it up to the handy window ledge, and then, pulling the rope taut, began to climb toward the top. Hand over hand, he walked up the wall to the window and peered in. I glanced back from my post, keeping watch at the corner of the building. When Brookie was in, we would give Prakash a flash of our light, and then I would climb in, too. Brookie motioned me to come closer.

"It's unlatched, Mac," he whispered. "I just can't get it open since it is so dirty and maybe painted shut too." He wrapped the rope around his behind so he could use both hands and run a knife blade around the edges of the window frame. As the window gave way, there was a groaning sound that echoed out in the night. If I hadn't been so scared, I would have laughed out loud if I could have seen the looks on our faces. "So flash Prakash and let's go."

I jogged around to the corner and gave the signal from my light, waiting for the answering flash. I did a quick visual check around the campus, and I could just see the night watchman, way over by the parking lot past the field house.

Brookie beckoned. "Grab on and climb up." He was hanging feet first through the window, but he hadn't dropped yet. As I walked up the wall, holding on to the rope, he disappeared over the edge inside. Peering in, I could see the floor, a long way down. Brookie was standing at the bottom, holding the end of the second rope he'd quickly attached to the rickety window frame for me.

"How did you get turned around?" I whispered.

"Grab and flip around as you're coming through. Head first."

I hoped it was easier done than said. I managed, just, to clear the tiny window. Going the other direction was going to be fascinating. I slid gently down the rope so I didn't knock anything I couldn't see in the darkened room, and then I made my way to the door, using my flashlight. It looked like a storage room of sorts. There seemed to be stacks of assorted old furniture. Opening the door, I looked around, and my heart stopped when I saw the altar.

"We came out in the chapel!" I hissed at him. "The sacristy of the chapel! Couldn't you have found some other window?"

"Shhh, Mac. I checked it out after service on Parents' Weekend, and it looked like a good location, right near the museum."

I shook my head in disbelief.

"I'll crack the door open and ease out, in case there is some late-night prayer going on," I said.

"The brothers have better things to do on a Saturday night."

We crept out, leaving the door ajar, our flashlights taped to only have a tiny ray of light visible.

"You'd better have your cell on vibrate, right?" Brookie cautioned. I'd like to have this guy on my side in a prison break. Maybe I would, if we got caught in here. He was shining his light along the wall at the pictures to spot the graduating Class of '55.

"Here we go," he said in a satisfied voice, just like a librarian who had spotted a good read in the fiction section. Could the guy never get serious? We eased the museum door open and crept to the book stand. I reached to turn on the desk-style lamp.

"Wait." Brookie stopped me with his hand and then made a cone with a piece of paper and taped it to the lamp. "The light will be more focused on the book, and at the same time, outsiders can't see it." With his gloved hands, he opened the book, turning on the lamp. It was a leather-covered album, the sort you see used as guest books. The cream-colored pages had been hand lettered in pen and ink, with calligraphy and colored illuminations on the corners that made it look like a medieval manuscript. The pages were dingy with age.

"This is old, Mac. This goes back to the early days of the order, back to 1630." Maybe it was as old as it looked. Gently paging through toward the present, Brookie bent his black-capped head close to the book. He ran his finger down the list headed "1900–1950."

"Here, this page. Hold it flat, while I photograph it." I braced my gloved hands on either side of the page, trying to read the entries as Brookie focused and snapped pictures. I gasped as I read. Sure enough, there was an entry for the Depression, 1929—for a what? The record was a little faded, so I strained my eyes to read. A pre-Columbian era artifact. Mesoamerican in origin. Ceramic statuette. Donated by Obadiah Brown.

Ka-ching. Was I smiling? You know it.

Brookie pocketed his fancy camera, turned, and hissed as quietly as he could.

"Shhh . . ." He paused, turning his head to listen better. "I think we've got company."

A door slammed down the hall, followed by rapid footsteps.

We'd talked about what to do if this happened, trapped in a room with one door. Brookie motioned with his hand. I quickly moved to my place. Behind the door, which opened inward, was a display case. I got under it and hoped whoever we were hearing didn't flip on the lights when he came in the room. Brookie took his spot behind the door and crouched down. He hadn't turned off the book light before hiding, and I knew that would bother him later. Right now he squatted, alertly focused on the approaching sounds.

Our invader swung open the door. Brookie let roll a marble, which smacked into the far wall some thirty feet from where we crouched. The loud crack was earthshaking in the silence.

We only got a glimpse of a robe flying by as we slipped out the door behind the man dashing in. It was way too close a call for me, and my adrenaline levels were spiking at dangerous highs. I wasn't being as quiet as I needed to be, I'm sure. But Brookie must have thought I was quiet enough, because he didn't say anything. Just as we got back to the sacristy, his phone vibrated. Prakash.

"Lights, guys. Near the west corner. I think the security guard is heading your way."

"Do we have enough time to make it?"

"If you get out the window now."

"Roger, we're doing it." Even as he spoke, Brookie had hold of the rope and was up and over the sill, reaching down for me, pulling me through, while he shut the window behind me with his other hand. It was a touch-and-go moment when he pitched the rope and grappling hook to the ground, and I was left dangling from some vines. Brookie neatly rocketed off the tiny window ledge and landed on his feet in the garden bed below with barely a sound.

"Shoot," I muttered, as I grabbed at a grapevine instead of the ivy. The vines gave way from the wall . . . with me attached to them, catapulting me outward, through a thorny shrub to the soft earth. Brookie had dropped clear and was gathering our gear while I lay on my back, gasping for breath from my fall. I saw the reflection of a flashlight coming toward me on the grass.

"Up you go," said Brookie, grabbing my hand and pulling. I hit my feet running. We rounded the corner and headed for a huge pine tree that was in deep shadow.

"Up the tree," Brookie hissed.

"Stop!" The guard shouted and began to run. Had he caught some glimpse of us? We huddled deeper under the spreading branches, and then Brookie and I took to the air in a bound, grabbing the lowest limbs and climbing like madmen to the densest part of the tree, and there we crouched. The stone wall was glowing pearly white by the light of the moon, but we were in shadow. Brookie loaded his slingshot and let fly a pinecone. It made a satisfying pock as it hit the side of the building that was farthest away from us. Like clockwork, the security guard turned and went huffing toward both the light and the sound. Unfortunately, it would be easy for him to spot the crushed plants in the herb garden, if he looked. He'd know exactly which window we had entered, and then follow our footsteps through the wet grass around to our shelter in the pine trees.

"Prakash, we need a diversion." Brookie was whispering into his cell phone, as the flashlight was making wider and wider arcs toward us. There was a loud slam and, after a heartbeat, a boom. It came from the direction of the dorms, and that noise had the security guard off and running, away from our hiding place.

"Thank you, Prakash," I prayed with gratitude. My heart gave a leap of relief as I climbed down the tree and scooted through the shadows with Brookie to the back door of the dorm. He was hunched over his cell again.

"Prakash, you were brilliant, man. Open the back door for us and we're home free."

Almost before he was done speaking, Prakash jerked the door open with one hand and pulled us in with the other. He practically dragged us up the stairs to our room, where we collapsed, shaking and panting, on our rickety bunks. Prakash's concerned face was glaring down at us. Since he was less out of breath than we were, he was the first to speak.

"Let's get this black stuff off you and get you in your other clothes, fast. In case the housemaster shows up, we want everything cool." He handed us alcohol wipes. "Here, wipe the marker off your faces." He sniffed at the air. "You guys reek of pine pitch and mint. Did you stop and take a spa treatment on the way back or something?"

"Lay off, Prakash. We had a little adventure in the herb garden, and I just took all the skin off my hands climbing a tree." Brookie groaned as he pushed himself back on his feet, took an alcohol wipe, and began scrubbing the marker off.

I gave Prakash an awed glance as I scrubbed at my face.

"Just what was that noise, Prakash, a bomb?" I gasped, struggling with the zipper on my black coveralls.

"Nope, a water balloon," he said casually.

"That was the mother of all water balloons, then."

"That's the only kind I use, dude."

Prakash pulled out a black garbage bag and bundled our dirty clothes and backpacks into it before shoving it far under the bed. He put the shoes and alcohol wipes into a smaller bag, stashed it in the closet, and shut the door. The man was born to crime.

Prakash had put out drink cans and chips and crackers, thoughtful lad, as part of our alibi. We took a break to catch our breath and eat a brief snack. Then back to business. We snatched up Prakash's laptop and Brookie's camera. Prakash opened the camera files on his laptop, hit the print button, and we stormed the common room printer.

"Sweeeet! These pictures are great, Brookie. Look at that detail." Prakash pointed enthusiastically at the broad, flat images of the book pages. The printer was already spewing out copies, and they were beauties. Brookie caught them as they came out.

"Here, Prakash. This is it," I said, leaning over his screen. I pointed to the entry that had caught my eye in the museum.

"Name: Obadiah Brown, 1929, pre-Columbian ceramic statuette. No value listed," Prakash mused, tapping his chin with his pencil.

"Here, everybody gets a copy. Back off from the laptop, Mac, you're crowding me." Brookie shoved the printed pages at me.

I grabbed eagerly. My finger crossed the page. "Where's that St. Rupert's directory Ian dug up? See if we can find any relatives of this Obadiah Brown who might be Harley's accomplices."

There were several Browns.

"Brother Matthew and Brother Roger were the only two monks who were around that day when Harley was masquerading as a monk near the museum. Let's see if they have Brown for a last name."

Brother Roger was easy to spot, but there was more than one Matthew in the list. We had to locate him by title, Assistant Headmaster.

"Here he is. Hey, he is a Brown too. Brother Matthew Brown, Brother Roger Brown. This is not a coincidence. Both monks there on the scene; both with the name Brown."

"Yeah, so have we got the accomplices, then?

"Somebody, not necessarily named Brown, let Harley in the monastery on Friday and made sure he knew there was something valuable in the museum. Somebody got Harley into the Parents' Dinner. You can't prove it was one of them. Guilt by proximity?"

"Brown is a common name, after all." I sure didn't want Harley's accomplice to be Brother Matthew.

"I don't like the idea of Brother Matthew being in on this, either. And Brother Roger isn't my idea of a mastermind criminal, but what are the odds, man? They have the same name."

Prakash pulled the second page toward himself.

"Okay, so where is this thing stored?"

"Donation: pre-Columbian clay ceramic statuette. Date: 1929. And the display location is . . . where?" My finger stabbed at the place where that particular detail was supposed to be noted. There was nothing except the letters AO.

"That doesn't tell me anything, guys. What is AO?" They both sat back in their chairs and looked at me as if I were seriously out of my mind.

"That's AO. Like in the name of the abbot's office, of course, dude. Abbot and headmaster." I really must have missed a lot when I toured the admin building.

"Couldn't be in a safer place, right?" I asked. I was disappointed, in a way, because it was such an obvious place and we hadn't figured it out ourselves. Brookie slid off the table he'd been sitting on and started laughing like a demented fool.

"Oh, man. They have it displayed in the Head's office? Not likely is it safe."

I looked at Brookie, who was laughing so hard he was rolling on the floor. I knew I wasn't going to get any answer from him.

"What does he mean, Prakash?"

"Father Dell's office is one of the easiest places to get into. Once he gets back from his sabbatical, anyone can get in his office. He has an open-door policy during the school year, so he can 'be there' for any of the students. If Father Dell steps out for coffee, Harley can walk right in. Of course, he may lock his door when he isn't in the office, but I wouldn't bet on it."

"Yeah, we know how ditzy Father Dell is," said Brookie. "The statuette is probably one of his favorite collectibles, too."

We stared at one another in dismay. I wished I'd paid more attention when I was making that visit with my mom. Though I racked my brain for any ceramic statuette that was on his desk that day, I had spent my time there staring at the shelves, not the desk.

"There's no value listed here," I pointed out. "I wonder if it is worth much?"

Brookie and I stretched out on the old chintz couch, each with our feet up and our backs against the armrests, the wind knocked out of our sails by the news.

"I guess it's worth whatever somebody else is willing to pay Harley for it," Prakash said with finality as he sat down at the table to google for more information. It didn't take long. Quicker than you might think, he went to the printer and pulled out some sheets with pictures of pre-Columbian statuettes from museums around the world.

"Just wanted to see what we're looking for, yeah?" Prakash smiled broadly as Brookie and I fell on the pictures like hungry jackals.

We were so distracted we barely heard the timid tapping on the door.

"Housemaster, guys." Brookie was on high alert.

We all three dove for the common room couch, back to the board game.

"Come in," Prakash called.

I was fidgeting nervously with the game pieces, waiting for the boom to drop. I wondered what had taken the security guard so long to notify the housemaster. Now I knew how crooks felt, waiting for the flashing red lights and the cop at the door. Not a good feeling.

It wasn't our housemaster after all. He'd gone for the three-day weekend like everybody else. We'd completely forgotten. Instead it was Miss Apples, our art teacher. She was spending the night in our dorm as his substitute, which we realized when she peered around the panel of the door. She had an intensely interested look on her face, and her gray hair was in chaos. She had taken the time to get partially dressed in a long sweater and shoes, but her nightie was sticking out under the sweater, and her scrawny legs were bare.

Brookie and I looked at each other, puzzled. Where was the security guard? Miss Apples gave us a disarmingly shy smile.

"Excuse me, boys. May I come in?" She pulled her old sweater down lower over her nightgown and peered over her half-glasses at us.

We nodded.

"Now, boys. What exactly has been going on?" She wouldn't look at us but began untangling the chain that held her glasses. When we didn't answer right away, Miss Apples looked up at us more sharply.

"I was just curious. Have you three boys been outside tonight?" She paused nervously to look at her watch. "Goodness me. It's three a.m.?" she said quasi-conversationally. She seemed more uncomfortable invading our space than we were at having her there. "The security guard came to me with reports of loud noises, loud laughter, and a slamming window in our house, and frankly, boys, I'd really like to be kept in the loop on what's going on around here while Mr. Benton is gone."

Prakash nodded. "Of course, ma'am. We were trying to hit each other with water balloons and got carried away." He looked smug. Brookie and I stared at him. Prakash was in his element, being apologetically respectful. But one look at Miss Apples told us smug wasn't working. We could tell from the mildly impatient look on her face. She obviously wasn't going to be so easily conned. Brookie jumped in to try to save the moment.

"And since we're some of the few people here this weekend, Miss Apples, of course it was easy for you to draw the right conclusion. We're the ones you are looking for."

"What!" I started to say. Brookie gave me the calm-down gesture with his hands, behind Miss Apples' back.

"Do you mind if I sit down here, boys?"

Miss Apples silently glided over to the couch and settled herself gingerly on the chintz cushions. She eyed the can of soda that was sitting on the table and crossed her legs and sat swinging her sneakers in an impatient manner. The silence was deafening as she picked up the papers we had left on the table next to the board game. She waved a sheaf of pictures at Prakash.

She gave me a significant look and then looked at Prakash, then Brookie.

"I see you are interested in Mesoamerican art, boys?"

Prakash and Brookie were speechless. They didn't know Mesoamerican from a ham sandwich, I guess. That left me to be spokesman.

"We were, you know, ummm." I coughed. "Your sculpture class next week. We wanted to take it. And make some pre-Columbian-style statues."

"Humor an old lady who has been around the block a few times. I don't know what you are up to, but I doubt you are interested in my sculpture class," she said kindly. She was pretty smart. She had added up the evidence, the pictures, the loud noises, and our guilty faces. How much had the security guard told her about the museum break-in? She looked down with interest for a moment, examining the pictures through her glasses. "It certainly won't hurt you to take a few sculpture classes, though." She had a satisfied smile on her face as she flipped through the pictures. She looked up again, with not a shred of uncertainty in her eyes.

"I'll see you in class on Friday, then, boys." And we knew that attending her class was the price we would have to pay for our freedom to keep investigating the statuette's mysterious presence at St. Rupert's Academy.
Chapter 11

Prakash was still crouched intently over his computer the next morning. I'd just come back from breakfast with some toast, jam, and peanut butter in my hand.

"I liberated this from the cafeteria for you."

I felt my way across the darkened common room and gave an endless yawn as I handed Prakash his sandwich.

"Whatcha doing?" I asked in the middle of that yawn. "Sorry, I guess I'm still used up from yesterday."

Prakash surfaced from the Sargasso Sea of the Internet and blinked at me lazily. He shrugged as he bit into the PBJ and swiveled around on his chair. "Thanks for breakfast, Mac. I would have starved without you."

"Still googling pre-Columbian ceramic statuettes, Prakash?" I went over to open the blinds and let some light in the room. It was a warm morning, so I lifted the ancient window sash and let some air in too. Prakash had been in the dark so long he squinted when the light hit him. He had a long swig of the tea I'd brought him and took a lengthy stretch.

"You know, I may end up studying archaeology, Mac. This is really interesting."

"So young to be so twisted."

"In more ways than one, Mac. I might never straighten my back up again from being hunched over this laptop for about twenty-four hours." He swiveled back to the desk. "Look at this, Mac." He pointed to the article he'd been reading. "A whole industry of tomb robbing for artifacts just like ours. And here, look at this." He brought up another screen for me to see. "Here's another article on a Peruvian cottage industry. They create pre-Columbian fakes to sell to collectors, as well as the gullible tourists. Cool art, but it's forgery. You can get 'em on eBay today, at low, low prices."

"Class 101. How to thrive in the tourist industry for blackguards and shysters. Wow. Makes you wonder if any of this stuff is real," I said, pointing to the pictures on the screen. This was utterly interesting.

"Some of it isn't. Forgers have fooled the experts plenty of times. Here's some stuff from the British Museum that they decided was phony."

I heard a sound behind me as I ogled the photos.

"Hey, what are you guys doing? Studying on a Sunday?" Ian breezed in the door, fresh from his college visits.

"Hey, Ian. Come look at 'Fakes that have fooled the experts for half a century.' These are great pictures." Ian walked over and looked over Prakash's shoulder.

"Hey, bro." Prakash turned and made enthusiastic fist-to-fist contact with Ian's hand. We were way glad to see him.

"Miss Apples stopped me on the way in. I understand you guys were up to something Saturday. She told me that you would give me the details." Ian crashed on the chintz chair with his leg over the chair arm. He directed his voice toward the door as Brookie wandered in from the hall. "I have trouble believing Prakash was throwing water balloons at you out open windows at two a.m., Brookie." He reached under himself and pulled out Brookie's juggling balls. He threw them overhand to Brookie, who snagged them and automatically began a cascade of balls, as he always did when he was nervous. His juggling wasn't much hampered by his long pajama sleeves, but he tripped on the hem of his pants and did an ungraceful collapse on the floor.

Prakash and I looked at each other over Ian's head. Brookie was avoiding eye contact with Ian by hunting for his juggling balls on the floor. I cleared my throat apologetically and spoke very quietly.

"Ian, we got the photo of that page in the museum acquisitions book last night."

"You what?" His eyes big, he sat up, his hair kind of standing on end.

"Easy, Ian. Here, take a look at these." Prakash pushed some papers across the table toward Ian.

Ian reached to take the printouts of the acquisitions book and a couple of articles on pre-Columbian art. He read the pages for a moment. Then he looked at us with a mixture of pride, envy, and worry.

"I'll hand it to you, Brookie. As soon as I left, you got the goods. I asked for evidence; I got evidence—but did you have to break every rule in the book to get it? This could get you guys expelled, not to mention arrested. I can't know how you did this, guys, and neither can anybody else. It could get me kicked out in my senior year," he said, shuffling the pages on his lap nervously.

Brookie rolled his eyes as only Brookie could roll his eyes. "Sheesh, details . . . See for yourself, man. Brown, the donor was Obadiah Brown, and we're almost sure there is an accomplice, either Brother Matthew or Brother Roger. Here." He handed Ian the monastery directory with all the Browns highlighted.

"Yeah, some monk was hanging around in the halls near the museum when we were in there. We didn't stop to introduce ourselves because we didn't want to get caught."

Ian looked skeptical at first and slid off the chair onto the floor, shaking his head.

"Strange, isn't it, that this accomplice hasn't walked out of the monastery with this sculpture and handed it straight to Harley so he can sell it, Prakash?"

"It's in the Head's office, Ian. Come on, man. It's under lock and key until Father Dell gets back from his sabbatical." I plopped down next to him on the floor.

"That is a relief. But I can't believe Brother Matthew would have anything to do with this. Brother Roger, either."

"Evidence is getting stronger by the minute, Ian," said Brookie. "They were both there the day we toured the museum, and somebody was there Saturday night."

Ian turned over the pages to read the other sides. "What if both of them are in it together with Harley?"

Brookie nodded. "It could be either one of them or both, Ian."

"I wonder if Harley is planning a double-cross, and they were just keeping an eye on him Saturday night?"

"I know I wouldn't hand anything valuable over to Harley and expect him to give me my cut later, after what Ms. Kent told us."

"Ah, Brookie, you do understand the criminal mind."

"You know what I think? I don't think any of them knows what they are looking for. They must be waiting to stumble across it, before we stumble on it."

"A treasure map with no X on it, and nobody knows what the treasure is?"

"Except us, now," said Brookie, tapping his puffed-out chest. He put down his juggling balls, squeezing in with all of us on the floor. He was just too much.

"But we also left the book open to just the right page, Brookie. Whoever came crashing in on us can now narrow down what we were looking for from that one page, hey? One entry from 1929? There wasn't that much on it," I said, pointing to the other entries on the page.

"If that was the accomplice who came in on us, he'll let Harley know exactly what we were after."

"Looks like we're skunked." Ian drooped dejectedly. "Okay, what are we going to do now? Or have we hit a dead end?"

"Not on your life, bro. Not after using up a couple of my nine lives last weekend," I shouted.

"So what's your idea, then?"

"We didn't tell you the real shocker, Ian," droned Prakash nasally.

"Cut the mystery; just tell him, Prakash."

He bumped me in the arm with his fist.

"Mac thinks we can substitute our own statuette for Father Dell's version, so the original doesn't get stolen."

"I think what?!" I turned to stare at Prakash.

Prakash was looking thoughtful, instead of superior. "You were the one that got us signed up for clay sculpture class. You might as well get credit for the idea. Harley doesn't know what this thing looks like, right? What if we put one of our own in place of the original and let Harley steal it?"

"So let him. Maybe we can catch him red-handed."

"Ah, bait the hook, pull him in?"

"Time out, guys," said Ian, looking concerned. "I think we should keep it simple. Just keep it simple. No trying to catch anybody. Just put the replacement in the office. We made Ms. Kent a promise to stay safe, remember?"

I nodded enthusiastically in agreement.

"Even if we don't catch him red-handed, at least the original is safe, and maybe there will be proof that Harley was after something and broke into the Head's office to get it."

Brookie looked a little disappointed, but the thought cheered him up.

"That might keep him out of circulation for a while."

But Ian, ever the voice of caution, had to find a flaw in our plan: "Wait, this still seems to require us also breaking and entering the Head's office in order to place the fake on his desk or wherever he keeps the dang thing."

"Seriously, Ian?" Brookie asked in disbelief. "We're supposed to go in broad daylight, perhaps with Father Dell sitting at his desk, and make the substitution?

"Well, better that than falling out windows in the dark, Brookie."

Prakash was not ready to give ground to Ian. "Okay, big brother. We'll try to find some other way of getting it in there, without opening any locked doors. How, I don't know."

I nodded. "Seems reasonable to me." I'd lived through the last break-in with only major heart failure.

Brookie had an unsettling grin. "But I really like climbing in through windows, Ian."

"So work off your energy some other way, Brookie. So, like, take that sculpture class and get coached on pre-Columbian sculpture with Miss Apples instead. We need everybody's help to make the fake. Besides, you won't have time to do anything else."

"Huh?"

"That's the bad news that Miss Apples gave me to tell you."

We were still feeling pretty cocky and weren't ready for what hit us next.

"You guys know the punishment for throwing things out upstairs windows and being outside after hours? Well, guess what? Detention, guys. That means confined to the dorms and only study hall, practice, or classes for the rest of the week. No free time." He paused on the way out the door and looked back at us sadly.

"Sorry about that, guys. I'm the enforcer in the dorm."

"Coward," said Brookie under his breath as the door closed behind Ian.

"That is way better than getting canned for breaking and entering, which may happen if anybody decides to figure out who broke into the museum."

"You sure know how to help me sleep better, Mac."

I yawned. "Chill. Don't borrow trouble, Brookie. Trouble's bound to find you, quick enough." I got up and stretched as I walked toward my bunk, turned to look at Brookie and Prakash, and felt a deep craving for the "normal" inside me.

"You know what? I'm a simple soul. I need my sleep, I need food. I'm just going to practice and let the rest of you guys worry about this. You keep on getting your data, Prakash, and you keep making your guesses, Brookie, but I'm outta here." I walked out and shut the door without looking back.

****

I headed toward the field with my bagpipes, since that was about all I could legally do on detention. I'd had enough. It was all too much. First I'd become an employment orphan, and then I'd gotten thrown in with these maniacs. Living for a whole weekend with Brookie was bad enough without a mystery to solve on top of it. I needed some space. That's what bagpipes are really good for. People give you lots and lots of space as soon as you start playing.

I walked quietly out on the lawn where bagpipe playing was allowed and opened my case. The familiar feel of the instrument already made me feel better. I put the three wooden drones over my shoulder and bared my teeth as I clamped them on the blowpipe stem. I inhaled to the bottom of my lungs and shut my lips as I filled the corduroy-covered bag with every speck of air I could muster. All three of the drones filled the air with their harmony. Then I began to finger a melancholy melody over the humming of the drones. I pushed the air into the chanter, with my arm on the bag to keep the steady sound going, and it filled my head and the air around me with the music that had been consoling miserable people for centuries. Some of their grievances were with the same things that were annoying me. As I played, I realized I was just one of many people through the ages who were fed up, worried, and confused. Playing this mournful tune didn't solve my problem, but it helped me know I'd survive, just like they did.
Chapter 12

Well, that was our idea. Make a fake and substitute it for the original. No way was Ms. Kent hearing anything about this one. Simply sign up for Friday sculpture class and rip a fake. That was our assignment, if we chose to accept it. It was a lot safer than falling off a stone wall as you are climbing down and the ivy gives way in your hands. So we all took Friday sculpture class, figuring one of us would make a shredding pre-Columbian statuette . . . somehow.

"I'm giving you guys these pictures of artifacts from Aztec excavations in the 1920s," said Prakash, handing out sheaves of papers. "You can see a few basic themes here: ball games, feathers, big ears, and prominent butts." We stared at the pictures of grimacing gods, warrior kings and assorted ugly mugs.

Brookie pointed at a particularly gruesome specimen. "If people were really this ugly in those days, I'm glad I wasn't there. Cool tattoos, though."

Prakash nodded as he relaxed back in the sofa cushions, staring at the pages intently.

"These ball games look interesting. You think we should reenact some of these ball games, Ian?" asked Pete.

"Sure, Pete, any time. Be my guest. However, the losers died." Prakash chewed his pencil as he looked at another page. "Sacrificed to the gods," he added nonchalantly.

Pete gulped.

Ian continued, "We wouldn't have wanted to have been there in the year 300 A.D. Human sacrifice was a pretty common feature of everyday life." He leaned over to show us a description of an average family enjoying a holiday on the top of an Aztec temple. There was a little sketch that went with it.

Pete pointed at the sketch. "Hey, is that the victim's heart that the priest has in his hand?" he asked.

Ian nodded.

"What did they do it for?" I asked.

"Propitiating the gods, crops, weather, boredom, whatever," said Prakash, sitting up.

"Like, was it voluntary or something?" I asked. "Maybe it was like an honor, or winning the lotto, maybe?"

Prakash turned to Brookie. "I think we have the perfect volunteer, right here. Fetch the sacred knife, Ian. I'm kinda bored." Both Ian and Prakash made a lunge at Brookie.

"Hey, cut it out." Brookie's voice was muffled as he dove under the sofa, kicking Prakash's grip off his ankles. Ian straightened up, waving Brookie's shoe in his hand. He tossed it to me, but I missed because I was doubled up from laughing at those two clowns.

"Looks like Brookie has feet of clay, guys; won't let us cure our boredom with a little human sacrifice." Ian changed his tone as his laughing tapered off. He took a deep breath and wiped his eyes. "Okay, dudes, give these pictures some study, and we'll make phony gods that really do have feet of clay. Our sacrifice will be to take Miss Apples' art class. The result: Mr. Harley Bevison will be out of our hair. How's that for motivation?"

Brookie was still giving Ian dirty looks.

****

So we became clay fanatics. You should have seen the look of joy on Miss Apples' face when we all, I mean every one of us, walked in together. Boy, was she surprised when we worked overtime and during our spare time and on weekends to finish as much as we could during our art rotation. She hadn't expected that much enthusiasm.

"We've got kind of a competition going for the best clay sculpture," explained Prakash, "to see who can make the most authentic example of the originals."

"Are these some more of the pictures you picked off the website the other night?" Miss Apples' face was ruddy from firing up the kiln where we baked our finished clay projects. Prakash handed her our example photos. She blew a strand of gray hair out of her face as she gingerly took the printouts in her muddy hands and squinted through her glasses.

She held the papers up to the light and looked at them, nodding as she viewed each one. Then she glanced up at us in alarm, hurriedly scrunching up one of the pictures and tossing it in the trash bin.

"Boys, really. This photo is obscene! I really think you should not try to copy that one," she said in a tetchy voice. We nodded and smiled. We'd figured that one out. She got herself calmed down and cleared her throat.

"Aztec culture is a subject that is rather sadly neglected in art education. There is so much material on European art. But you boys should be able to appreciate this excellent resource about Mesoamerican art." She kept lecturing as she rhythmically lifted and thumped a huge wad of clay on her working table. We could tell she was taking this pretty seriously. In her paisley work apron, raising her clay-covered arms in the air to let the clay hit the table with another thump, she was as intense about this in her own way as we were.

"You know, you boys could find this material useful as research if you ever had a paper you needed to write for one of your other classes."

Oh, no, please, no, I prayed. I had had enough of filed, pointy teeth, tattoos, and shaved eyebrows to last a lifetime.

"Not at this time, Miss Apples, but we'll keep that in mind for our rhetoric assignments," answered Ian.

I kicked him in the ankle, and I hoped it hurt. We went back to work, kneading clay and working it into shapes that vaguely resembled humans while Miss Apples showed us how to form the bodies and keep the clay arms and legs from breaking off, and how to make the clay surfaces as smooth as polished stone.

Our sculpture class was only on Fridays, but since we were signed up for the class we could use the studio in our free time, and we did. We were a production line, cranking out fake pre-Columbian sculptures like mad. We kept Miss Apples scuttling around helping us so much that she hardly had time to critique what we were making.

"Think stylized," muttered Brookie, wiping a streak of clay across his nose as he showed off his latest. He tilted his head as he looked at the little figure. It had symmetrical pigtails and a concentric circle tattoo on the forehead. Nobody could argue that Brookie didn't have a flair for the outrageous.

"Hey, can I keep this one when we're done? It's way cool," said Eric with enthusiasm.

Looking doubtfully at Brookie's bizarre creation from all angles, Miss Apples commented a little dryly, "It looks like you boys have a good handle on your Aztecan style. Let me give you a couple of tips on clay technique, though." And we dived right back into the cold, damp world of clay sculpture.

However, going to class soon crimps a guy's style when he's living the artist's life. Art, along with bagpipe band, took my mind off my studies very effectively. Apparently, spending my study hall time poring over ancient depictions of Mayan, Incan, and Aztecan heroes was affecting the quality of my academic work enough that they had to let my mom know about it. I got "The Call" from home—that is, my parents' home away from home.

"Charlie, are you adjusting all right? Should you go to the counseling office?" She sounded genuinely concerned and maybe a little guilty for abandoning me to be raised by the Order of St. Rupert. I didn't take time to glory in it. I thought fast instead. I guess I was learning a lot from Prakash. I'd better deflect suspicion.

"Actually, too well, Mom. I'm making friends with the band and developing a real interest in an art history project we've gotten involved in, in arts and crafts." She sounded doubtful.

"Well, don't neglect your studies, son."

"I'm just getting well-rounded, Mom." There was a long pause as she realized she'd just had her pet theory thrown back at her.

"Well, if you're homesick, I want you to deal with it, Charlie, promise? Get tutoring if you need help." I sighed. I was tired, I was involved, and I definitely didn't have time to miss my parents.

"I promise, Mom. You'll see a grade improvement, as soon as this project is finished in another week." Rolling my eyes, I said, "I'll send you pictures when our art project is finished." That would scare her into a real panic, if I sent her a photo of one of my clay uglies.
Chapter 13

"Not really a beauty contest, is it, Ian?" said Prakash, tapping his chin as he stared sideways at our collection of sculpture-class creations.

Ian nodded. "They'd all be a bomb at the Smithsonian, though," he said.

"Pull that lamp around so I can have some better light on these," muttered Brookie through a pencil he held with his teeth. "What a bunch of gargoyles." He was dodging around with his camera, getting a picture of each statue from different angles.

"You talking about my face, bro, or are you insulting my work of genius?" challenged Mort, hugging his sculpture protectively. Brookie looked around at us with a "Who, me?" face.

"We're going to send these pictures to Miss Apples. We owe her, big-time," said Brookie, clicking away. With her help, we had finished a ragging set of statuettes.

I gave Brookie a light shove to get him back on task.

"Watch it, don't damage the objet d'art," he said, carefully brushing an imaginary piece of dirt off his sleeve.

"Hey, you guys ready to vote?" asked Ian impatiently. We looked doubtfully at the sculptures. They were pretty bad, mostly, but not so different in the important parts, really, from the originals we were making copies of.

Ian formally cleared his throat as he began, "Congratulations, Rupert band. It has taken three weeks, but we've done it." He stood, leaning one hand on the large common room table with a clipboard in his other hand. "Twelve examples of the finest phony archaeological artifacts of Mesoamerican art of the pre-Columbian period you'll ever want to buy, I mean, see. You see before you the product of many hours of hard work. What am I offered . . . ?"

Jerrod glared at Ian as he squeezed past him to heave the largest of the fired monsters onto the common room table and turned it to face us. Brookie was fussily arranging the others to look like a gallery exhibit.

"Okay, then look for realism, guys," said Prakash, handing out some photographs.

Realism? Criminy. If the ancient people of Mesoamerica really looked like this, they would have had me running scared, for sure. After hemming, hawing, and voting three times, we came to the agreement that a copy of a crouching ballplayer with his jaw wide open, tongue sticking out, teeth filed to wicked sharp points, and huge disks in his earlobes was our winner.

"So this is 'The Candidate'?" It was Prakash's little brainchild. He gave us a deep bobbing bow. "So what do I get for this?" he asked.

"Applause, Prakash, nothing more. Like I said, it'd be a bomb at the Smithsonian," said Ian.

"Very talented, Prakash, very talented," muttered Brookie through the pencil in his teeth, still snapping away with his camera.

"You, Prakash, should get the honor of placing your little brainchild in the Head's office," I said with my usual wit.

He looked at me petulantly. "Not on a bet or a dare, MacDonough. I'm not built for it."

I looked at Brookie meaningfully. "Let me guess—it's you and me again?"

"How are you going to get into the Head's office, exactly?" asked Pete.

I sat down and propped my chin in my hand, waiting for the answer. Brookie looked so confident. Why didn't that inspire me? I didn't confuse his confidence with competence.

"Remember, I'm a klutz, Brookie." Everyone snickered, remembering some of my moments.

"I don't think you realize how whacked this facility is, Mac. St. Discount's Boarding School. We all came here because it was cheap, not new, Mac. Check out these doorknobs," Brookie said, pointing. "Not one of these even has a Yale lock, much less a key card or digital combination. I mean, you can open this one with a crooked hairpin from your classic twentieth-century mystery novel. The Head's office is probably just the same." He looked at me cleverly, like cleverness would convince me.

I looked at the brass knob wobbling on the side of the door. It had a key-shaped hole beneath it, for one of those old-style keys that they used a hundred years ago. I gave it a firm jiggle, and it fell off on the floor. That gave me some confidence.

"So are we going to do the nighttime thing again?" I blush to admit my voice trembled.

"I have a better idea. Everybody will be at the game on Friday afternoon, all the brothers of St. Rupert, everybody. Why don't we sneak in then?" Brookie slapped his thigh like he'd bagged the idea.

"Huh? Don't we have to play the pregame and halftime shows?" I asked.

"Yeah, but the rest of the time is just sitting around." Not Brookie's favorite thing to do. "After the halftime show, we'll put 'The Candidate' in a bagpipe case, sneak out, do the dirty deed, and be back in time to lead the team off the field."

It sounded easy. I nodded. "Just check out the lock thing, okay, Brookie?" I sighed in resignation.
Chapter 14

It's funny how much my nerves had changed since I had first arrived at St. Rupert's. Then I was worried about meeting new people. Now I was nervous about breaking into the headmaster's study. I was just about to play for the first time with the full St. Rupert's Pipe Band at the very first football game of the season. I had every right to be in a total panic. But instead, part of me was looking forward to it all. Being around Brookie must have rubbed off on me or deadened my nerves or something. Or maybe it was the hot spiced cider that our housemaster had sent to the common room as a pregame warm-up drink for the bagpipers.

"You getting dressed, MacDonough?" said Brookie, poking his head around the door. I ignored him.

I took a good whiff of the crisp air as I stood by the open window, sipping my steamy cider. In came the flood of smells that always reminded me of fall: earth, leaves, and wood smoke. The day had dawned bright, clear, perfect for football. Every tree was an eye-popping burst of red, orange, or yellow color. It all added to my high spirits, really, and I was ready for battle, er, I mean performing, er, I mean breaking and entering.

"MacDonough, get with it, will you? Ya gonna play in nothing but your shirtsleeves?" shouted Ian from across the room.

"What? Bike shorts not good enough for you?" I shouted back, grinning to myself.

I put down my cider and started my struggle to tie my tie, right over left, through the loop, left over right. And the tie was not cooperating. I gave it up with a sigh and turned to contemplate the rest of my uniform, which I had laid out in front of me on the common room sofa. There it was in all its glory. St. Rupert's band uniform.

I remembered the first time I'd ever played in competition. It had taken me forty-five minutes to get into the uniform. I'd been so exhausted from that experience that playing in front of people had seemed simple in comparison. The shirt and tie were the easy part.

I picked up the kilt and wrapped it around me and cinched up the two leather buckles that held it in place. We had a very sharp-looking red, blue, and green plaid kilt with knife-edge pleats. I adjusted the front so it fell smoothly to my knees. There is always a certain element in every crowd that asks, "What do you have on under your kilt?" We don't want any of that nonsense, thank you, so we wear bike shorts under it.

I twisted my back and looked behind me in the mirror to watch as I threaded the belt through my belt loops and fastened the huge buckle in front of me. The next part was the sporran. A sporran is a badger-skin bag that hangs down from your belt, in front of your privates, and holds the cell phone and the keys, in these modern times. In olden times, perhaps your lunch. All this stuff had a practical use way back when it was invented, but now it just makes us look like proper military Scots.

I eased my socks, called kilt hose, over my feet and pulled them up to my knees, fastening them in place with the little elastic garters decorated with blue ribbons called flashes. Each item and what color it was had significance. Take the feather on the side of my Glengarry hat. If it was red, it meant I had been in cahoots with King George; if it was white, it meant that I was a rebel, way back in . . . I can't remember. But it all added a historical flourish—and it also could add frustration to the person who had to figure out where it all went.

However, I still had to tie my tie. I stared at it in the mirror. My mom had always tied it before competitions when I lived at home. Here I was, ready to play, and I couldn't tie my own tie. Nobody was noticing me or my sorry self. They were all preoccupied with their own dressing.

"Somebody show me how to tie this tie, will you?" I whined, starting to panic, as the others were finishing dressing. So the seven best guys I had ever met put on their uniform hats, with their white uniform shirts hanging over their bike shorts, lined up in bare feet in a row, and, with solemn faces, tied their ties in front of me.

"Is this some kind of joke?" I yelled. "Because it's not funny. Just show me how to tie the dang thing."

"Yeah, chill, Mac. We always do this for the newbies."

"That's because they always ask that same stupid question."

"What did you wear to compete in before you met us, Mac, bunny slippers?"

I relaxed under their crazy ragging.

"Show him, Prakash, will you? I gotta get dressed," said Ian, swiping off his hat and climbing into his kilt. So Prakash kindly showed me how to get into my tie, a Windsor knot that was rather complicated. I had to watch carefully and repeat it twice to get it right. It was pretty nifty when it was finished. Pleased with myself, I admired my tie in the mirror.

"Okay, we good?" Ian stepped forward and did a crisp about-face, pipe sergeant to the front and center as smooth as silk. In fact, we all stood up straighter in uniform. Nobody would have recognized us from our usual appearance.

"You do the honors, Ian." Brookie tenderly handed Ian the statuette to pack for the trip to the Head's office. They weren't going to let it near me.

"Tuck him up with lots of bubble wrap there, son," said Prakash, wiping the corner of his eye. "I kinda hate to see 'The Candidate' go." They eased the statue into the spare bagpipe case and shut the lid.

"Right, guys. Now let's get geared up and get it out on the athletic field," said Ian, giving Brookie a high five.

"Wait. While we're clean and sharp, let's hang here just a little minute." Brookie pulled out his new camera. "We've got to get a picture of this moment for our descendants. The great statuette substitution caper is officially under way." We jostled a bit and lined up for Brookie, with the tall guys like me and Ian in the back, Pete and Eric in front.

Blond or dark, tall and thin or short and husky, we were a team now. I looked around at all our faces full of good humor, some serious, some laughing. I was so proud, I could have cried. Brookie set his camera on delay and ran around to get back into the line, fixing a maniacal grin on his face as he faced the lens, waiting until the flash went off. Snatching up his camera and pocketing it in his sporran, he headed out the door with the rest of us, lugging the extra-heavy bagpipe case containing "The Candidate."

Ms. Kent met us on the concrete walk by the frost-blackened flower beds just outside the back door of the dorm. It was chilly in the shade of the buildings, but our uniforms were good cold-weather wear, so we hardly felt it.

"You guys look great, every one of you," she said, throwing out her hands as if she wanted to hug us all. Getting compliments like that made me want to blush.

Ms. Kent didn't look too bad herself. In fact, she looked kind of proto-military chic, her Glengarry tilted on the side of her head, giving her a jaunty air. This was one great lady. Any one of us would do anything to help her. She didn't deserve being hassled. This caper was worth it, even if the worrying did take ten years off my short life.

"Form a circle, and we'll warm up and tune up out here, away from the athletic field."

"Not that we're going to be a huge surprise, when we get out on the field," said Prakash wryly. "They can still hear us from here to kingdom come when we're just tuning. They just have more time to escape before we get there."

Ms. Kent threw him a look.

"Can you bring the tuner around here to this side, Ian?" Ms. Kent and Ian went around the circle with an electronic tuner and helped each of us tune our bagpipes. Tuning a bagpipe is not for wimps. But I'll bet you'd rather be deaf than listen to an out-of-tune pipe band squealing away.

"Everybody got their spare reeds?" said Ian. The bagpipe is a reed instrument, and that little piece of carved river reed breaks easily, which is disaster in the middle of playing. The reeds also change quickly with temperature and moisture, so we keep spares in case a reed gets soggy. Bagpipes are from a cool, damp climate, so hot and dry—or cold and dry—can make the bagpipe sound like the yowling of a cat while it's being skinned alive. Our weather was extra-good today, not too dry and not too wet, so we were good to go.

Ms. Kent threw a critical look over the group and nodded approvingly, with a beaming smile. "Ready? Let's go."

Prakash contemplated Brookie for a moment and said, "Cool doesn't describe you, Brookie."

In a fever of excitement, Brookie was close to incandescent. But he was weighted down to prevent takeoff, big-time. He had ditched his real pipe case and was lugging the heavy spare case with the art in it. The rest of us were carrying our bagpipes in one hand and our empty cases in the other as we walked across the lawn to the athletic field. We had to play as soon as we got there, so there was no point in putting our instruments away just to walk across the lawn.

"You guys could, you know, take this case for a while," Brookie said, gasping from the effort of lugging the heavy case.

"No we couldn't. We want to know where you are, Brookie, not have to pick you off the ceiling somewhere."

Ms. Kent had it timed exactly right. The football team was just ready to go on the field when we showed up. We quickly stowed our cases under the stands, right near where we were supposed to sit throughout the game. Once we were joined by two school drummers, we all formed lines of two with Ms. Kent as our leader and marched ahead of the football team onto the field, playing our school anthem. Then, while we caught our breath, we had to stand quietly at attention during the National Anthem. That is not a tune we can play on the bagpipes. It doesn't work. We have nine different notes, and the "Star Spangled Banner" has a much larger range than nine notes. Then, after some other announcements, we played the "St. Rupert's Fight Song."

We finished up our set and marched off the field back to our seats on the bleachers. I high-fived the band as we retreated under the bleachers to stow our bagpipes until halftime. Then we tried to watch the game. Our football team needed help, is all I can say.

When the second quarter ended Ms. Kent had us stand for our halftime show. She gave us a big smile as she marked time with her foot. "Band. On the left, mark. One, two." We all struck our bags, coming in together, drones sounding and the melody wailing. We were matching our pipe master's playing in perfect unison. Marching briskly, we paraded out to the center of the field and began our show.

Our formation was a tricky one that took concentration. I took the time to cast Ian a look as I passed him on a corner. Intense focus was written all over his face. I could see why he wanted this band to win the Area Championships. We had every reason to be proud of ourselves and the work we had put into this performance. Brookie and I would not screw up, not get the band into trouble. I knew we could get Harley out of Ms. Kent's hair and keep his greedy hands off the artwork. I felt it deep in my being.

We finished with a flourish and sat back down again.

"Now," said Brookie, elbowing past the other band members. They parted for us and gave us a thumbs-up as we hurried past, with "The Candidate" in Brookie's pipe case. Ms. Kent had gone to sit with some other teachers to watch the game. With the distractions of the game and all the other guys to cover for us, she would probably never notice we were gone.

Back at the monastery, we found the huge front door conveniently open, catching the cool breezes, and no one around. Talk about trusting God. We hurried to the administration offices and went inside the anteroom to Father Dell's door.

"Wait a minute while I get out my lock pick," whispered Brookie, bending over the scratched brass keyhole. "I practiced at the dorm, and this is the same lock."

I ran tiptoe back down the echoing hall. Listening carefully to the silence, I kept watch, peering alertly between the front door and the office door. Soon as I saw Brookie was in, I hurried back down the hall and stationed myself nearer to him while he worked.

"Mac, you've got to come in here," I heard Brookie whisper in a strangled voice. I went through the reception area into the office proper, and there I beheld the original statuette on the Head's desk.

A ten-inch-high statuette of a squatting, fat little man glared back at me. I sighed. I was risking my sanity for this thug?

"We've got to swipe this for safekeeping, Mac."

Brookie quickly unfurled the bubble wrap from "The Candidate" and plopped him down on the desk, next to the original.

"Candidate, meet your father, Mordred. Mordred, meet your long-lost ceramic son," muttered Brookie to the statuettes as he worked.

Not happy campers, either one. I swaddled the ugly little Mordred carefully in the bubble wrap and was about to put it in the bagpipe case "The Candidate" had just vacated when I stopped in dismay. We hadn't thought at all about what to do with the original!

"No, wait. Let's put it in the museum, under lock and key," I said, thinking how unhappy Ian and Ms. Kent would be if they got in trouble as accessories to our theft. "It won't be theft then, will it, Brookie?" I asked, pleading.

"Good thinking, Mac," he said, all business. He tweaked the position of "The Candidate" on the scarred oak desk and rounded on me with that maniacal grin. He was loving this, every minute of it.

"Let's go, go, go. Time's short before the show, and I've got to pick the museum door lock."

I tucked the bubble-wrapped Mordred under my arm to follow.

As we turned the corner out of the Head's office, there was Brother Matthew, crouched in a nook next to a large stone plinth with a statue on it. I almost maxed my life insurance right then and there, but I survived it because he had a look of dread on his face that was twin to my own. His pointer finger to his lips, he was shaking his head like mad and gesturing frantically around the corner with his other hand.

Brookie got it right away and interpreted it for me. "Harley coming. Brother Matthew is one of us. No time for the museum."

Brother Matthew waved even more frantically, and we found cover in the alcove behind the door across from his hiding place. I wrapped the statuette further in my band uniform coat, hoping the extra padding would protect it. Then I shoved it behind me. Just in time, too.

Harley Bevison looked around stealthily as he walked with quiet assurance across the polished stone floor. The wide-open doors seemed to be causing him some confusion. Then he shrugged as he went over to the desk. He picked up "The Candidate" with a satisfied smile and rotated it gently as he looked at it, then slowly lowered it back to the desk. The dawning look of fury on his face was frightening to witness.

"A goddamned fake!" he shouted, taking a step back from the desk.

He looked down at the floor as he stumbled. There was Brookie's bagpipe case, wide open on the floor. Harley kicked it in rage and then looked up, right at our miserable selves, in our miserable hiding place, right into our miserable, horrified faces. We were worked.

Fear shot through me when I saw that look in his eyes. He meant business. Harley lunged toward us like he belonged in a boardroom full of Wall Street speculators who hadn't had their lunch yet. I didn't want to be his first course. I had time only for a brief glance at Brother Matthew, who shrank farther into his shadowy hiding place. I was relieved to see he was frantically dialing a cell phone.

"Hand it over, boys. Now. Or you'll be sorry," Harley growled, focusing in on us, daring us to defy him. But we didn't stop to consider "sorry." Harley seemed to have forgotten that he was not between us and the door. Brookie gave him a shove in order to give me a chance, and I ran for it, clutching the coat-wrapped statuette to my chest.

Harley was after us at full speed, wingtip shoes and all. There we were, our feet clattering down the hall of the monastery, bursting out the door into the sunlight as we headed toward the athletic field. Brookie turned his head as he ran.

"Back to the game, Mac," he gasped.

"But . . ."

I didn't need Brookie to tell me that if Harley caught us now, he was desperate enough to do us damage.

"Safety in numbers, Mac." He took the time to see what he could do to distract Harley, who had almost caught up to us. Brookie pulled out his slingshot and let one fly. You could tell it stung by the way he grunted when it hit, but this guy had lost his mind over that statuette. A little pain wasn't going to stop him. He gave Brookie a really dirty look.

"You'll regret that," he shouted, rubbing his cheek. Then he was lunging at us like a crazy man.

I felt myself stumbling and started to see my life flashing before me, but Brookie was fast, very fast. He steadied me, grabbed at the bundled statuette, and shoved my uniform coat back in my hand, all quicker than the time it takes me to tell it.

"Quick," Brookie panted, "use your coat as a decoy." I wadded up my coat as though I were still carrying the statuette. Brookie took off across the smooth lawn toward the game. I went toward the pine trees, but Harley paused only a second. He caught on to our ploy easily and began chasing Brookie instead of me.

My feet plowed into the soft earth as I abruptly changed direction, all of us heading for the ball field. Maybe I could tackle Harley if he caught up with Brookie. I could hear the wail of police sirens in the distance. God bless Brother Matthew for calling in the cavalry.

As Brookie plunged onto the field in a last burst of speed, Harley lunged to tackle him. I lunged to tackle Harley. But Brookie was way prepared. He tossed the Mordred statuette as far away as he could, just before he hit the ground.

Everything stopped—the ball game, Harley, me, and Brookie—as we watched this incredibly valuable piece of art curving through the air. Our football team captain stepped forward, hands ready, as everybody held their breath, and . . . he caught it, the best catch he would make all season, for sure. We all exhaled.

Ms. Kent, a frantic look of worry in her green eyes, was already running across the field. Sputtering words were starting to erupt from her mouth by the time we met up with her. Behind us we heard the breathless voice of Brother Matthew, who came panting onto the field behind us.

"Well done, boys," he said, interrupting her. He turned to face us, making meaningful eye contact and giving us a brief "don't say anything to screw this up, boys" nod. Our mouths must have fallen open, but we shut them quickly. Brother Matthew grimaced and turned to face the approaching police. At the front of the pack was a grim-faced Officer Landers, our old friend.

"Officers, thank you for responding so quickly. I called you when these boys caught this man breaking into the headmaster's office, obviously trying to steal this." Here he stopped to carefully accept the statue from the football player's extended hands. "It was on the headmaster's desk when these boys caught him in the act of trying to steal it. They grabbed it from him to prevent his escape with it."

Ms. Kent was looking at us like she didn't quite believe the story—and with good reason, since she knew Brookie's dicey reputation.

"Let's go back to the office and we can check it out," said Officer Landers, keeping a complete poker face and definitely not looking at Ms. Kent. I was feeling pretty pumped to see how ratty-looking Harley was since he'd chased us. He didn't look nearly as imposing now, but he had recovered a little of his cool. You could tell from the dazed look on his face that he knew he'd shot himself in his own foot by losing his temper and chasing us. He made a half-hearted attempt to run away, but another officer quickly caught him by the arm and marched him off with the rest of us.

The football team was just standing around, staring at us, until the coach shouted. It looked like they were going to try to start up the game again. It was not forever ruined, but the interest and focus of the teams just weren't there anymore.

Here's the real shocker. On returning to the offices, there was the headmaster, Father Dell himself, standing calmly behind his desk, his hands neatly folded in front of his robes.

"Well done, boys. You arrived . . . just in the nick of time, if you'll . . . excuse the old adage." This might have been overkill, because Officer Landers and his buddies were starting to look decidedly weary of hearing us Rupert pipers getting praised.

So we went into the office. The Head stuttered, "I think these boys won't . . . be necessary for a few minutes. We need . . . to chat, officers." Father Dell took control of the situation with the practiced skill of someone used to organizing boys. He smiled and nodded to us. "These boys are . . . needed back at the game for the finale."

So we headed back to the game, confused, to say the least.

"What the heck was that all about?" I asked, shaking my head.

"Yeah, I can't believe this is happening to us. Brother Matthew was having the police on, big-time. And in our favor. Whoa!" said Brookie, his face one big picture of awe.
Chapter 15

The cheering of the students at the football game floated toward us like a dream on the breeze as we approached the field. Abrupt return to reality. Ms. Kent hurried over to us as we hove into sight.

"What were you guys doing in the admin building? Now, right now, I want to know," she whispered frantically as she made worried eye contact with Ian. He maintained a fairly effective deadpan and left us to hang ourselves with our own noose, the coward.

"You can fool the police, but you can't fool me with all that drivel about just happening to be outside the Head's office in the middle of the football game," she hissed.

"Ms. Kent, we were trying to keep Harley away from the art object that he told you about, and we made a decoy."

"You what!?"

"You know, to fool Harley and keep him away from the original."

"We took the original off Father Dell's desk and were just going to hide it in the museum, honest," pleaded Brookie, as he started to feel the heat. Ms. Kent's eyes bulged.

"That's when Harley showed up and started chasing us," I said, figuring Brookie needed some help. She shook her head.

"If we didn't have this game to play for, I'd make you go confess the truth now. We'll go over there as soon as the game's over and have a little chat with the Head. I don't like this one bit."

****

Well, we lost the game, but it sure felt like a win. The crowd just about choked itself cheering us while we played "Scotland the Brave" and marched off the field. Word must have gotten around about Brother Matthew's version of the events. Little ripples of pride were trickling down my spine. I was going to get an attitude from this if I didn't watch it.

Ms. Kent didn't even stop to have us put away our pipes. We were marched, pipes and all, right smartly, straight to Father Dell's office.

The Head reached out to Ms. Kent and interrupted her before she could spill the beans about anything. I guess he sensed her dread about what we'd done.

"Ms. Kent, I am so glad you've . . . come. Make yourselves comfortable, boys," said Father Dell as he reassured her with a friendly handclasp. Ms. Kent smiled awkwardly as she fondly patted the old man's plump little hand.

We found ourselves places to perch on the arms of furniture and tables and floor.

Officer Landers was looking sour as he was leaving, with Harley in tow. "We'll be seeing you brothers later at the station when you come to complete your charges against Mr. Bevison," said Officer Landers stiffly. He was avoiding eye contact with us and Ms. Kent. It must have been really hard for her to resist a parting shot at his arrogant backside.

Father Dell quietly closed his office door and turned.

"I think we can talk with you boys freely, now the police and their prisoner have gone." He scratched at his scraggly off-white hair.

"What were you doing in this office area during a football game?" asked Brother Matthew, beginning from the interrogation perspective. Father Dell interrupted to change the tack.

"In a minute, Matthew. What I want to know is: Who made this interesting . . . ummm . . . creature that is on my desk?" he said, eyeing our wild and weird "Candidate."

"Well, Father . . . ," began Brookie.

Ian stepped forward. He was going to be our leader, no matter how badly it hurt. That had to take a lot of courage. I was impressed. He stood up straight and took a deep breath.

"We were concerned about Ms. Kent and the presence of Harley Bevison on campus, Father Dell."

"My God, he's going to tell the truth," gagged Brookie, grabbing my arm and staggering against me.

"It happens," I whispered back.

"We discovered Mr. Bevison was bothering Ms. Kent about a pre-Columbian work of art that was in your office area. We couldn't have him hassling Ms. Kent and getting her in trouble, so we made a few . . . er . . . replacements in art class and decided to decoy him into thinking our statue was the one he was after." He stepped back, with a sick look in his eyes as he looked around at the teachers in front of him.

"We really didn't plan to catch him in the act of stealing it, Ms. Kent, honest," Brookie pleaded, looking at her horrified face. "We had no idea he was going to show up right when we made the switch."

Father Dell surprised us all. He started chuckling, and we started staring. And then we got seriously worried about his sanity as his laughing escalated and was close to a honking guffaw by the time it tapered off and he came back to himself.

"Quite clever, boys. Great minds must think alike, but in ways you may not suspect."

Not only did we not get it, Father Dell had completely lost his stutter, even after laughing like a demented hyena.

He choked back another laugh. "What you did is exactly what Brother Matthew and I had planned ourselves." He gave a triumphant shout. "Oh my, we did put one over on our friend Bevison, didn't we, boys!" We gaped as he went over to a safe behind the desk, opened it, and carefully pulled out yet another version of "The Candidate." Was I seeing in triplicate? Three statuettes: Mordred, "The Candidate," and one more!

We got it. Father Dell had also made a decoy. Father Dell and Brother Matthew had gone one step further. They had actually tried to catch Harley in the act. Wow, did this headmaster have hidden serious cool. Talk about not judging a book by its cover!

After everyone was done exclaiming over our trio of uglies on the desk, Brother Matthew cleared his throat apologetically.

"Let me explain, everyone. My great-grandfather Obadiah Brown was the original owner of that atrocity," he said, pointing to the statuette that Father Dell had just pulled from the safe. "To be honest, I can't recommend my family as people of the highest principles. In fact, the best word to describe them is 'bandits.'"

"Which we all have trouble believing, knowing your scrupulous honesty, Matthew," commented Father Dell. Brother Matthew blushed lightly. I guess he was remembering the lies he'd just told on the athletic field.

"Is Brother Roger also related?" blurted Brookie.

There was a blank look, and then Father Dell smiled. "No, boys. Brother Roger's name is Brown, but that was only a coincidence. However, returning to Brother Matthew . . . ," he said, looking pointedly at the speaker.

Brother Matthew cleared his throat and thought a minute.

"It was oral history within our family that our great-grandfather was a slick old speculator. He protected his fortune using an old trick: collecting art, which he then donated to the monastery the moment the financial crash came in 1929. He donated this statuette to prevent his private collection from being liquidated with the rest of his estate when he was hit with bankruptcy during the Depression. But Great-Grandfather died before he was able to retrieve his art when the economic situation improved." He walked over and put his hand on the real pre-Columbian statuette.

Prakash nodded and added in an undertone, "The excavations in South America were really heating up in the 1920s. It was very trendy to have pre-Columbian art in your collection." I shushed him.

"Well, it seems my cousins ran into some problems of their own when the stock market crashed again in 2008, but they hadn't been as wily as old Obadiah. They needed to bail out the family company, which was already tottering on the edge of bankruptcy, in part because of some of their questionable practices. They were relying on the myth of the fortune of Obadiah's statue to tide them over until things improved.

"The problem was nobody in my family was quite sure what the art object was or what it looked like. So they asked me, figuring that I'd know where it was, since I was part of the museum staff. They sent Mr. Bevison to try to find out more information. It was not pleasant. That's when I came to Father Dell with my doubts about what was going on." Brother Matthew looked a little sick at the thought of the whole thing.

"Apparently my cousins also asked Harley, as an art dealer, to handle the negotiations with Father Dell. What they didn't count on was that Mr. Bevison was going to try to get it for himself."

Father Dell took over the tale. "But we are getting ahead of our story, Matthew. Harley Bevison did contact me about the statuette, to find out more about it and to try to purchase it, at first," said the Head. "Something must have changed his mind after speaking to me. Perhaps when I told him it was priceless, he took that to mean it was valuable. That's when he broke off negotiations." Father Dell hitched up his robe and sat down in his desk chair.

"So you knew Harley was going to steal it?" I asked.

"No." He smiled wisely, shaking his head. "But Matthew started getting suspicious after you boys spotted Harley roaming the halls in his monk disguise."

"So if Brother Matthew didn't let him in the monastery when he was dressed as a monk, who did?" I asked.

Father Dell looked surprised and shook his head. "Not Brother Matthew. He must have just walked in, dressed as he was."

"But when did Harley find out where the statuette was? Did we lead him right to it, with all the mistakes we made that night when we found the acquisitions book and left it open to the right page?" I asked, disgusted at myself for having made that goof.

"Not only were you and Brother Matthew there that night, so was Mr. Bevison. He was able to question the security guard about all the noises going on and convinced him, with a little bribery, to let him see if the museum was all right," said Father Dell.

"That was when Bevison found the information he needed and decided to steal the artwork for himself. It was quite a sight, seeing him pore over the acquisitions book that night," said Brother Matthew with a sigh.

"So that was you in the museum when we took the pictures?" Brookie groaned.

"What a night! First, you gave me the fright of my life, boys. Then Harley showed up." Brother Matthew wiped a hand over his face, remembering.

"The compliment is mutual." I grinned in total understanding.

"I was only able to hide myself from Bevison in the nick of time. Thankfully I did and was able to prove his interest in the statuette was more, ah . . . personal."

"It was at this point that I decided to have this copy made," said Father Dell, patting his Mordred, "and I let Harley know I'd be displaying it on my desk while giving him plenty of opportunities to snatch it when Brother Matthew was available with a camera and to act as witness."

"Whoa, you set up a sting?" gasped Brookie.

"I believe that is the term, yes, Brookstone. Remember, Mr. Bevison had never seen the statuette. I was trying to protect the original and lure Harley into an act of theft. And I left Brother Matthew on constant watch, in case we could catch Harley in the act of stealing."

"So that is the story. Harley was nagging me about getting into the monastery museum so he could steal this, not buy it?" Ms. Kent said, touching the little statue in wonder. "The rat. He must have known I'd be considered an accomplice if he was caught. He could have ruined my life entirely!" she said indignantly.

"I know that now, my dear. I didn't realize it then. Until you came to me with those photos of Mr. Bevison trespassing, I thought he had contacted only me and Brother Matthew. I'm very sorry I wasn't able to reassure you. You should have trusted me, told me what Mr. Bevison was looking for."

Ms. Kent didn't know where to look, she was so embarrassed.

"I realized when I saw those pictures why you boys were involved, not just as busybodies. You were worried about Ms. Kent. I'm sorry, dear, that I took so long to realize how distressed you were by that annoying ex-husband of yours. We are so grateful for the boys' dedication and loyalty to you."

"I'm sorry, Father. And I guess I should have known you'd understand, too, Brother Matthew. But I was afraid—and stubborn enough to believe I could handle it myself. And I wasn't at all sure that Brother Matthew would be sympathetic."

"So were you the ones who gave Harley the tickets to the Parents' Weekend dinner?" I had to clear up the rest of my questions while I had the chance.

"Yes, we hoped he would reveal more about himself, and we could keep our eye on him better if we had his confidence. We were quite shaken after the impersonation incident. I realized that this weekend was a perfect one for the sting. I didn't want Harley to miss seeing the little thing," Father Dell said in a bemused tone, turning the statue to give us a chance to look at it from all angles. He looked up briskly.

"He really was remarkably difficult to lure into my office, for all his so-called cleverness. I even had to invite him to the football game and send him tickets and tell him I was putting the statuette on my desk while I was out of town.

"Then I pretended to leave town, making sure the doors were all easily unlocked and Brother Matthew was poised to call the police. To tell you the truth, I didn't think you boys would be ready to act so quickly. You quite surprised all of us this morning."

"And you guys walked right into it and further confused the issue, in a public and very dramatic fashion," said a glaring Ms. Kent.

We looked at the three statuettes lined up on the desk. I could see how amateur ours looked compared to the other two, but it had done its job well enough.

"It's hard to believe anybody would spend money on something this ugly, isn't it, boys?" asked Father Dell as he walked behind his desk. He reached down to get something out of his desk drawer.

"But you don't know the half of it," he said, suppressing a giggle. To our confusion, he was holding a wooden mallet poised over his head.

"So, since I now have not one but two wonderful copies to remind me of how powerful the force of greed is, I'm going to sacrifice this one," he said, pointing to the original original. Not Mordred, not "The Candidate." There was a collective gasp as Father Dell brought the mallet down with a smack on the statuette's head and it crumbled into large ceramic chunks.

Had he lost his marbles? No, he was really the only one of us who knew what was going on. We watched in awe as he cleaned the clay off the core of the statue. Beneath the clay, we saw what it had all been about: Father Dell had revealed a solid gold statuette underneath the ugly clay ceramic. The once-hidden statuette gave off a golden burnished gleam as Father Dell held it high, rotating it in a beam of sunshine for us all to see.

"Oh, my gosh. Will you look at that?" Eyes bugged out, Brookie for once in his life was bested as center of attention.

"And just how many ounces is that?" asked Prakash, busy checking the current price of gold on his iPhone. Everyone laughed but strained closer to get a good look. Probably we'd never get to see that much pure gold in one place again.

"I, of course, realized it was gold. It simply weighed too much to be a ceramic statue. But that was my secret," whispered Father Dell.

"I think, without doubt, Father, this is the most valuable thing in the whole monastery collection," Brother Matthew spoke excitedly. "However, ethically speaking, it was just a loan from Obadiah, until he could come claim it again. He had no intention of permanently gifting St. Rupert's Order with something this valuable, despite what he may have said to our former abbot."

"As tempting as it is to sell it and spend the proceeds for renovations to St. Rupert's Academy, I think you are right, Matthew. And I also think that it is just too valuable to be kept in our museum."

"Shall we give this to a legitimate museum to remove any temptation?"

"Absolutely. Obadiah's relatives will have to deal publicly with the legal tangles involved if they want it back—and oh my, what a gnarled legal tangle it will be." Father Dell turned to us, beaming with the glow of victory.

"Thanks to you most devoutly for your help, boys."

"Even if you did have to lie to the cops?" Brookie said, with a wink to Brother Matthew.

Father Dell shook his head sternly. He had to straighten us out on that one as quick as a blink.

"No question about that, boys. The police will get the absolute truth. Brother Matthew's story was just for the general public, to explain Brookstone's dramatic interruption of the football game," he said, looking over at the brother for confirmation. Their eyes met with a long look of understanding, and Brother Matthew nodded.

****

As we were slowly walking away from the school offices, we grinned shyly at Ms. Kent. She smiled back at us a little skittishly, likely not knowing if she should trust us out of her sight again.

"Why did you all stick your necks out for me like this—again?" asked Ms. Kent. "I mean, you could have gotten into real trouble, guys; even I am not worth that."

"We wanted you to be on your mettle. We felt like you were losing your edge as a coach," Ian mumbled.

Ms. Kent looked flummoxed by that.

"And Mac and I just wanted to risk our lives for you, so we could win the Area Championships," snarked Brookie.

Ms. Kent opened her mouth and shut it again. She wasn't sure how to take Ian and Brookie's lame stabs at humor.

"Anytime now. We can start practicing anytime now," said Prakash, shaking his pipes in his hands like we were holding up his very important practice session.

I had a niggling feeling inside. Joshing the teacher was all well and good, but we hadn't really said it. Simple truth: Besides being a great teacher and a really fabulous piper, she was a great person, and we all would have done anything for her. Should I, the very newest band member, be the one to say it? Out loud?

So I did say it. Out loud. She turned pink and couldn't look any of us in the eye. She looked really flustered and embarrassed.

"Okay . . . well . . . I really appreciate your loyalty, band. But next time, don't commit any felonies for me, please, guys?" She cringed a little, remembering.

"Just practice your pipes, study hard, and show up on time for practice." She threw up her hands. "Oh, what the heck, I like you guys, too." Then she started crying and laughing at the same time and went around, reaching up on tiptoe to hug each of us. Bold, outrageous, and cool, every one of us. Cool enough to be pipers and bold enough to get hugged, we shouted outrageously all the way back to the bleachers to put our pipes away.

###

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Nanette Fynan

About the Author

Nanette lives in Northern California with her family. When she is not writing she plays the fiddle for the Celtic band Plaid Menagerie. She is currently working on a Celtic fantasy and a sequel to Deceiving Mr. Bevison. Read more about her work at www.plaidmenagerie.com.

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