Audacity Jones to the Rescue Read online

  In the cool dark of the pantry, Audie felt a pang of longing for Cook, for the School, and especially for her four best friends. Then she thought of how low Dorothy had seemed. How selfish to think of herself at this moment. In a flash, Audie had the most marvelous idea. Maybe Dorothy’s spirits would be bolstered by having seventeen pen pals! That would surely make her feel wanted. Audie had a grand plan in place by the time she returned to the kitchen. But there was no sign of the President’s niece.

  “Where’s Dorothy?” Audie asked.

  Mrs. Finch was breathing hard and her bun was askew. “What? Oh, gone back upstairs.”

  Audie could not hide her disappointment. Dorothy’s company had been a pleasant diversion. “Well, here’s the parsley.” How foolish to think someone of Dorothy’s station would need the friendship of one Wayward Girl, let alone seventeen.

  “Parsley?” Mrs. Finch stared at her blankly. “Oh. Yes. Wash it, chop it up, and add it to the soup.” She pushed her bun back into place, before pouring out the leftover tea and scrubbing out the teapot. Audie felt a pang to see all that perfectly good tea go down the drain. She certainly would have enjoyed a cup herself. Resigned, she stepped over to the big sink, trying to block the image of the turtles scrabbling in it earlier.

  She rinsed the two bunches of parsley, shaking off the excess water. One sprig went flying to the floor next to the turtle bucket and she bent to pick it up.

  The lid was closed tight over a fragment of blue voile. Audie’s ear buzzed as if an entire hive had taken up residence. She caught her breath. With trembling voice, she asked, “Where did you say Dorothy had gone?”

  “I told you. Upstairs.” Mrs. Finch was drying the teapot and turned to look at Audie. Our heroine had no experience in keeping expressions of horror from her face. Sadly, Mrs. Finch read what was there in an instant.

  “My dear.” Her voice dripped with insincere solicitude. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.” She reached for a teacup that Audie had not observed earlier. “Here, do drink this. It will steady your nerves.”

  “No thank you.” Audie stepped away from the turtle pot. “I’ll be fine.”

  “I insist.” Mrs. Finch reached for the very cleaver with which she had dispatched the turtles.

  Audie felt she had no choice. She drank the tea. Dorothy was right: It was awfully sweet.

  “Follow me.” Mrs. Finch led the way to a darkened room. She opened the door and motioned Audie in.

  “Please,” Audie begged. “Do let’s talk about this.”

  Mrs. Finch grabbed Audie’s arm. “It was such a simple plan. All we had to do was go into the kitchen with one girl and leave with another. We had it all worked out. The posh set can’t resist having the likes of us fuss over them.” She struck a pose. “Oh, my helper would so love to meet the President’s niece. Would mean the world to her.” These words were said in a simpering tone. “Dorothy would’ve been fetched, you’d have been introduced, and I’d have whispered a word in her ear about her family’s safety if she didn’t come with us—”

  Audie’s heart sunk to her toes. “That’s why there were two identical dresses. One for me. One for Dorothy. That’s how you’d sneak her out of here, past the guards. Dressed like the kitchen maid.”

  Mrs. Finch cackled. “Stinky—the Commodore—planned to come back for you later. He really did. But his vision is terribly limited. No idea why I insisted on an orphan.” Her words sent a chill down Audie’s spine. “In the morning, Stanley will return to fetch the knitting I ‘forgot’ and get you out of the storeroom. Then he’ll take you to the ship and you’ll soon be steaming to Paris. You’ll have to earn your keep en route, of course, but as an orphan you should be used to that. Once you’re safely on French soil, the LeGrandes will deposit the remaining finder’s fee in my bank account. And I will finally live the life I deserve.” She peered at Audie. “Orphans want parents, don’t they? And I’m sure the LeGrandes are lovely people. So eager for a daughter. Fifty thousand francs eager.”

  She pushed Audie toward the dark room. Audie caught another whiff of gardenia. The same scent she had noticed at the hotel. Her heart sank. Her stomach sank. Mrs. Finch kept talking.

  “Stinky was fond of you, in his own misguided way. But really: There are so many orphans in this country. Who is going to care about one gone missing?” She gave a sharp shove and Audie tumbled inside. “Bon voyage.”

  Audie stumbled over something metallic, catching herself before sprawling on the floor. She cried out, “Mrs. Finch?”

  The only answer she received was the ominous thud of the closing door and a key turning in the lock.

  The cat lurked in the corner of the courtyard all afternoon. The deliveryman with the geriatric horse had tossed her a few sardines, but hours ago. Otherwise she’d been without nourishment the entire day. The courtyard was a barren place. Not a shrub in sight. Not a twig for a bird to perch upon, not a branch for a mouse to hide beneath. The only reason the cat herself had escaped notice the entire morning and afternoon was the protection provided by the lone rain barrel. She fit nicely in the corner of the building tucked tight behind it. Ironic that this hiding place was so bereft of edibles, given that on the other side of that white wall was a kitchen, bustling with people preparing meals fit for a king. Or a president.

  The cat’s dearest friend had gone inside that kitchen earlier in the morning. Min knew from experience that when Audie came out, there would be some delectable tidbit to share. She ran her sandpaper tongue delicately over her mouth in anticipation. Perhaps a bit of the sea creatures she smelled in the delivery buckets. That would be tasty indeed. She licked her chops again.

  The shadows had stretched long over the course of the day and were now fading with the sun. Still Audie had not exited the building. Min was a patient cat. She had occupied the interlude with an especially thorough bath, taking great care to get the notches between each of her magnificently clawed toes. With that task completed, her thoughts gave way to a time—in what she hoped would be the near future—when they would return home. A bit of occasional excitement was all well and good, but Min hoped city life was not to become a habit with Audie. The cat did not care for the odd flavor of urban mice, with that unpleasant metallic aftertaste. Give her a plump little field mouse any day, brimming with the good clean juices of clover and fresh air and healthy living.

  A troubling tableau began to unfold before the cat’s golden eyes. The robin’s egg blue automobile glided into the courtyard. But the raven-haired man was not steering it, as he usually did. No, this time, the man who always dressed head to toe in white sat behind the wheel. As he exited the vehicle, he removed an enormous handkerchief from his vest pocket, vigorously patting his face.

  A short time passed before the man and the woman, who smelled of fish, and not in a good way, stepped through the arched doorway. The same doorway that Audie had entered several hours earlier. Between them, they carried with great effort an enormous lidded bucket.

  “This is not according to the plan.” The man huffed and puffed as he wrestled with one handle of the bucket. “Not to plan at all.”

  The woman struggled equally with her handle. “Well, when opportunity knocks, I answer. Are you carrying your share of this?” she asked. The bucket swayed wildly and it took both of them to stabilize and guide it into the backseat of the car.

  “But what about Annie?” the man asked, fingers resting on the door handle.

  The woman shrugged, sliding in after the bucket. “The little ash cat ran away.”

  The man’s face clouded with confusion. “That seems so unlike her.” He stood motionless, contemplating.

  “Well, remember that day at the train station,” the woman reminded him. “She’ll be fine.”

  For all of his nefarious plans to exact revenge upon this auto-fanatic president for a battered pride and lost fortune, the man in white had grown fond of the orphan, had envisioned mailing her postcards from Venezuela and points south. But his capacity
for caring for others was limited; thus he did not allow himself to question his companion’s assertion. Nor did he allow himself to consider the dangers, toils, and snares facing an eleven-year-old girl out in the world on her own. Instead, he chose to imagine that Annie was making her way back to that woman. What was her name? Miss Margaret? Yes. Annie was no doubt halfway to Swayzee by now.

  “We don’t have all day,” the woman snapped.

  He closed the door, scuttled to the driver’s seat, and off they drove.

  With a bucket. But without Audie. Most certainly without Audie.

  Min snapped her tail in irritation. If Audie had not departed in the robin’s egg blue automobile, then where was she? Preoccupied with this thought, the usually perceptive cat failed to notice an enormous shadow pressing itself against the opposite wall as the automobile departed. Had the cat been paying attention, she might have guessed the shadow to be one cast by a great ape. In that case, she would have been only partly mistaken.

  Intent upon other concerns, the cat bounded to the kitchen doorway. Underneath the aroma of horses and finned creatures she caught the whiff of something familiar. The scent of books and Sunlight soap and kinship.

  The scent of her best human friend.

  Audie pounded her fists against the door. “Mrs. Finch? Mrs. Finch?” She pressed her cheek to the cold wood, resting there, gathering her wits.

  No point calling out that name any longer. Waste of time. Audie’s tingling ear had been trying to warn her of that all day. Mrs. Finch had locked her in intentionally. All because she’d seen the snippet of blue fabric under the bucket lid. Why was it there? What did it mean?

  Audie’s brain was as unbridled as Bimmy’s curls. It was so difficult to think. To concentrate.

  She pushed away from the door, blinking hard to force herself to adjust to the dark more quickly. She found a coal scuttle, flipped it upside down, and attempted to get comfortable on the makeshift chair. She wobbled to the left, overcorrected, and wobbled to the right.

  “Get a grip, Audie, girl.” She spoke to herself sternly. But it was hard to take herself seriously, the way her voice slipped and sloshed so. Whatever was the matter? And why was the room wandering about this way and that? She wiggled her feet in her boots. The familiarity of the gold coin in each toe was small comfort.

  For the second time that day, she wished she had thought ahead; even one match would’ve made a difference against the dark. It was unlike her to be so unprepared. Audie shook her head. No time to fret about that now.

  Her stomach rumbled. If only she had been able to eat a slice of Sally Lunn cake, as had Dorothy. And where was Dorothy? Audie paused: Had she dreamed her up? Maybe. Maybe. Audie’s stomach rumbled again, taking her mind in another direction.

  Surely the Commodore would question her whereabouts when she didn’t appear for supper. He had entrusted Audie to Mrs. Finch’s care. Though he couldn’t keep Audie’s name straight, he would at least expect her to be returned to the hotel after her assistant soup-making responsibilities. It might take a few hours for him to put all the pieces together, but he would realize she was missing. Eventually. And come back for her. Hadn’t Mrs. Finch admitted that had been his plan all along? An unpleasant notion snaked its way around Audie’s swirling thoughts, chilling her through and through. She wrapped her arms around herself, facing the dreadful conclusion head-on: This visit to the White House wasn’t about making soup after all, but about something more devious.

  An image of Mr. Witherton’s library flashed through her mind. She recalled that book on South American poisons. Undetectable poisons! Audie struggled to remain upright on her coal-scuttle chair. The soup! What if those herbs she’d chopped hadn’t been marjoram or lemon thyme or parsley but hemlock or something equally sinister?

  Audie’s knees set to quivering like Cook’s jellied calves’ feet. The President would be poisoned and they could, rightfully, point the finger at Audie. She could see Mrs. Finch’s thinking. Why not let an orphan take the fall? And a Wayward orphan at that? Had Audie been the blubbering type, she might have allowed herself a tear or two. But she was made of sterner stuff.

  If there was a plan afoot to harm the President, Audie had best get busy trying to figure a way out of this room. She had to stop Mr. Taft from eating that soup. And she had to figure out what happened to Dorothy.

  She yawned. Suddenly, she was so very, very sleepy.

  Her last thought before losing consciousness was that Mrs. Finch must have put something in the tea. A decidedly nasty something.

  A furry creature swished across Audie’s face. She gasped, arms flailing, popping upright. Not a mouse! Or worse, a rat! She instantly calmed when her brown eyes met a pair of familiar golden ones.

  “Min!” Audie’s arms flew around her dear friend’s neck. “Am I dreaming still?” Moments before, she had been in that sliver of space between here and not-here and it had been delicious indeed: She and her parents together, bobbing high above the most marvelous city in a rainbow-striped hot-air balloon. She had stood between her mother and her father, each resting a warm hand on her shoulder, making her feel firmly grounded in spite of the altitude. Though great was Audie’s pleasure at seeing Min, fragments of that precious dream clung to her like sticky cobwebs, cobwebs from which she did not wish to be disentangled. As the last strands peeled away, the longing for her beloved parents nipped at her heart like a snapping turtle.

  That wasn’t the only pain she felt. Her neck was complaining vociferously about her having used the coal scuttle as a pillow. She whimpered in the most unbecoming manner as she attempted to unkink it, wincing as she rubbed. It might never be straight again. Then she stopped in mid-massage. “Say, Min. How on earth did you get in here?”

  Min sniffed at Audie’s face and hands, assessing her ability for travel. The cat surmised that her friend had consumed something that had made her ill. Sleepy. She sniffed again. It appeared to be largely cleared from her system. Travel seemed a safe and reasonable option.

  Min meowed.

  “The soup!” It was all coming back to Audie. “Is it tomorrow, Min? Is the President—?” She jumped up. “How did you get in? Can I get out the same way?” Questions skittered around in her brain like popcorn kernels in hot oil.

  Min padded to a corner of the room to point out a mouse hole, enlarged through patient and persistent scratching, which had provided her entrance.

  “Clever cat,” Audie complimented her. “But I’ll never get through there.” And it would take forever to carve it into an Audie-sized hole. Time was a precious and evaporating commodity. Propelled by a sense of urgency, Audie paced around the room, searching for some kind of useful tool. She picked up an old broom head and dropped it back to the floor. Likewise she discarded a percolator lid, an empty lard tin, and a canning jar lifter. “What a worthless lot of trash!” She threw a colander against the door.

  Min sat, calmly cleaning her right forepaw throughout the entire frantic demonstration. When the colander finished bouncing and had come to a rest, the cat stood, shook her head daintily, and padded toward the door. She whipped her lithe tail, then raised herself on her hind two legs and batted at the doorknob.

  “I’ve tried, Min.” Audie resumed her search for a useful tool. She uncovered an eggbeater missing its handle and thrust it into the air like a sword. “It’s locked.”

  Min continued batting at the door. She meowed. Insistently.

  “All right. All right.” Audie dropped the broken kitchen utensil and stomped across the room. “I’ll show you. It won’t open. I tried a hundred times last night.” She reached for the knob. “See?”

  It turned. It clicked.

  The door swung open.

  Is it possible that a cat could mysteriously open a door that was heretofore locked? We leave it to you to judge. But we do provide this gentle reminder: Min is one remarkable cat.

  Audie stared at her friend. “You’re a magician!”

  Min ducked her head modestly
. Then she darted out into the hallway. They had much to accomplish and precious little time.

  There would be ample opportunity for Audie to sing Min’s praises later.

  Still a bit wobbly from whatever potion Mrs. Finch had slipped into the tea, Audie could only run a few steps before she had to pause and lean against a wall. Min growled a warning.

  “I know.” Audie rubbed her forehead. “Give me a chance to gather my wits.”

  Another low growl.

  And then Audie heard the reason for Min’s alarm. Footsteps. Heavy footsteps. Fear threatened to turn her into an ice sculpture right there in the darkened back hallway of the White House basement. Audie attempted to whisper encouragement to Min but her mouth was as dry as Miss Maisie’s bath talc. Min wrapped her tail around Audie’s leg and tugged, signaling the girl to follow.

  With practiced care, Audie stepped ever so silently. One, two, three, four. Finally, her steps brought her to a small niche into which had been pushed an old armoire. While the footsteps pounded in rhythm with her heart, Audie painstakingly opened the door—which thankfully did not creak—and climbed inside. Min slipped in, too, and curled up at her feet. Audie was grateful for the company but hated to think that she had placed her dear friend in grave danger.

  As the footsteps crept closer, Audie pulled the door shut. The hinges were askew, leaving a slit of light between the two doors. This provided a sight line into the hallway.

  All too soon, a man turned a corner. Audie had a clear view of his face: He was a bellman at the Ardmore! The one the Commodore often spoke to. What on earth was he doing here? He glanced over his shoulder, clearly nervous. But why? Then she realized that he was standing stock-still but the sound of footsteps could still be heard. Heavier footsteps. She edged her way to the back of the armoire, reaching down to stroke Min’s back for comfort.

  The bellman started up again, making a direct line for the room from which Audie had recently escaped. He muttered something when he found the door ajar. “Annie?” he whispered. “Where are you?”