Chapter 1
Having used up her last aunt, Ruby Morgan came at last to rest on the doorstep of her weird Uncle Simon in Chicago. A drift of boxes and bags accumulated around her, as the driver unloaded her life from the van. As she watched, she listened to the Blue Animals on her music player, singing along under her breath, Break another one, break another one for me.
She overtipped the driver, just to get rid of the last of the travel money, the last thing she had that Aunt Julie had given her. Then she turned to face the soot-stained brownstone at the end of day, and peered through the beveled glass of the door. A tarnished brass plaque beside the door read, "Simon Goodnight," then on the next line, "The Goodnight Agency."
Too dark inside to see much. She looked in vain for a doorbell button before noticing a dirty grey rope with a threadbare yellow tassel on the end, dangling off to one side. She pulled it, and could faintly hear ringing inside.
After a moment, the door jerked open, and her uncle peered out at her, looking distracted. "What... oh, it's you. Come along, and be quiet until I've done my business. Don't touch anything." He turned to walk away down the dimly lit hallway, then on second thought, turned back and picked up the nearest piece of luggage, a large box that contained all her specimens, individually wrapped in bubble wrap and tied with twine for security.
"Careful with that!" she called after him, struggling to collect three suitcases and get everything through the door. She ran back a couple times for more boxes, dumped everything at the foot of the stairs, and walked through a door covered in green felt, which Simon had left open behind him.
Walking into Uncle Simon's study was like stepping into the past. The whole large room was done up in dark wood and red velvet, every wall covered with built-in shelves and every shelf packed with books, with not a single paperback among them. Glass display cases and small round lace-covered tables full of bric-a-brac stood around on the floor, which was covered with an overlapping and apparently random arrangement of old, ornate, threadbare rugs. One corner was taken up by a huge old polished desk, overhung by a large Tiffany floor lamp, the sole source of light except for evening sunlight coming in through tall, narrow windows. Uncle Simon sat behind the desk, looking very much a part of the decor in a dark-green suit, black shirt, and red string tie with silver beads on the end. Across from him, his back to Ruby, another man perched on a spindly-legged chair, leaning over the desk to sort through a collection of items spread out over it.
"Where the devil do you get these things, Simon?" the man said. He reached into a large canvas bag on the floor and pulled out a thick, dog-eared catalog.
"That would be telling," Simon said. He glanced at Ruby, then his eyes flicked to the couch next to her. Interpreting this as an instruction, Ruby sat. She started to lean against the arm and put her feet up, but another look from Simon stopped her.
"This can't be real," the man said. "There are only three of them and I know where they all are."
"You'd best call the people who have them to make sure theirs haven't gone missing," Simon said.
"Oh, I trust you, I just don't think it's real."
"Take it with you while you check it out. If it turns out to be genuine, how much will it bring?"
"Hard to say; nobody's sold one in twenty years. No papers on it, I suppose?"
Simon shook his head and ran a finger over his thin blond mustache. "A friend of mine found it in his attic."
"Your friends have the most interesting attics," the man muttered. "Thirty, at least." Carefully, almost reverently, he set it into a padded case that rested on the desk beside him, and reached for the next item.
Ruby, bored, put her headset back on and listened to music, kicking her feet and looking around the room. Eventually the man stood, picking up his bag of catalogs and a padded briefcase containing a few of the objects. He was a short and rotund, with thinning ginger-colored hair. He paused in front of Ruby, and set the bag down. "You must be the niece," he said, offering his hand. "Octavian McTeague."
"Yeah, I'm Ruby." Ruby took off the headset, stood, and managed a smile. His hand was cool and dry, and trembled slightly. "With a name like that, you must come from a large family."
Octavian looked at Simon, who had come up beside him. "Knows some Latin," he remarked. "Yes, young lady, and all boys. What are the odds, eh?"
"One in sixty-four. No," she corrected, blushing, and hating herself for doing so, "two hundred fifty-six, if you're the youngest."
Octavian laughed, and reached up to the breast pocket of his jacket. "My card. It's been a pleasure, but I must run along. I'm sure we'll meet again."
Returning from showing the visitor out, Simon sat in a padded chair, and put his feet up on an ottoman -- he wore red and gold brocade slippers with pointed toes. He rested his chin on his steepled forefingers and looked her over. She looked back at him defiantly, determined not to squirm under his scrutiny despite feeling distinctly grubby and underdressed in a black t-shirt, travel-rumpled black skirt, and sneakers. While waiting for him to talk, she nervously flicked the edge of Octavian's card with her thumbnail. Nobody had ever given her his card before, and she was unsure what to do with it.
"You look very like your mother," Uncle Simon said at last.
"So do you, except for your height and build and hair and face."
Simon almost smiled. "We had different fathers," he said. "I hope you're like her in other ways."
"Why, do you need something blown up?"
He regarded her in silence, and she looked away. "I was referring," he said, "to her ability to keep secrets and to deal calmly with the unexpected. I'm in an... unusual line of work, and my home is also sometimes my place of business. Anyone who lives here must be capable of tact and discretion; I'm also quite busy. That's why I was reluctant to have a child in the house."
"I'm not a child; I'm fourteen," Ruby protested, which prompted another half-smile from Simon. "I can take care of myself."
"Perhaps. But so far, you haven't demonstrated tact. I'll give you the benefit of the doubt and assume it's only for want of trying. It must be clearly understood how you deal with any of my clients who come to this house."
"All right, shoot."
"I made some notes." Simon took a small black notebook from an inside pocket of his suit, and opened it to a page marked with a ribbon. "If I'm available, let me get the door. I see clients in this room. If I'm already in here with someone, or out of the house, you'll have to let them in. After you let them in, inquire what they want, and show them into the drawing room, across the hall. Never leave someone alone in this room for more than a few seconds."
"Let them in first, then ask?"
"Yes, if it looks like they might be a client. You mustn't stare at them, or show any surprise, or ask questions. In fact, it might be best not to look directly at them."
"Well holy crow, what kind of clients do you have?"
"Unusual ones. Are we clear so far?"
"Okay," Ruby said, mystified but managing to hide it, she hoped.
"Other rules of the house. Touch nothing without asking. Some things are delicate; others dangerous. Meals are promptly at eight, noon and seven; be here then if you want to eat. Home by ten unless by prior arrangement. Stay out of the basement. Stay out of the attic. Don't pry into my business."
He looked at her expectantly. "Got it," she said.
He nodded and flipped a page in the notebook. "About money. I'll start you out with fifteen dollars a week allowance and a transit pass. If you think you need more, keep track of how you spend it and we can discuss it. There's a petty cash in the top right desk drawer, which isn't locked. Use that to pay for C.O.D. packages, or if I'm out and you have to buy yourself meals, or I send you out for groceries, anything like that. If you take from petty cash, note it in the notebook. In case of emergency, if I'm not here, there's more cash taped to the underside of the third drawer on the right, which is locked. The key is in the spine of Collected Sermons of Wallace Blevin, on that shelf. I figure nobody will try to read it. Don't open the other drawers." Simon put the notebook away. "Questions?"
"You really trust me with your emergency cash?"
"Are you saying that's a mistake?"
"No," Ruby said, though she felt a flash of doubt. "It's -- well -- let's just say none of the aunts trusted me with anything. Because of my parents, you know."
"I don't understand what's wrong with them," Simon said, sounding frustrated. "I can't believe sometimes we grew up in the same house. I don't assume you're the same as your parents, and even if you were, I never knew either of them to steal anything."
"No," Ruby said dryly. "Only destroy government property."
"You have nothing against the postal service yourself, I assume?"
"Not positively."
"Then you get the benefit of the doubt in this house. Don't make me regret it, right?"
"Okay."
Simon put the notebook away. "What happened between you and Julie, anyway? She was a little incoherent on the phone."
"Well, she made it impossible for me from the start. She made sure everybody knew my parents were in prison and what for, so of course everybody at school was certain I was a terrorist."
"Okay, but what did you do? She said something about treeing the neighbor's son?"
"Well, yes, I chased him up a tree, but he'd kept tormenting me, and he felt me up! Anyway, it wasn't a real gun."
"I'm guessing he didn't know that at the time? And then there was something about owl pellets."
"That was probably the last straw," Ruby admitted. "It was an accident. I'd forgotten I had them in my pockets, and they went into the wash."
"What is an owl pellet, exactly?"
"You know cats and hair balls? It's like that. Anything an owl eats and can't digest, they cough up. Hair, mouse bones, ..."
"Yes, that wouldn't be fun to have in the wash. And you were carrying this around in your pockets, why?"
"I dissect them, to see what the owl ate. Sometimes I can get a complete skeleton out. Then I glue it together."
Simon looked still unsure why anyone would want to do this; he shrugged. "We'll be careful what goes into the laundry here, yes?"
"For sure. Anyway, I'd be surprised if there were an owl within twenty miles of here."
"All right. And there'll be no chasing people with guns, real or otherwise?"
"Not unless it's absolutely necessary."
"Good. Any other questions?"
Ruby paused, then took the plunge. "What exactly is it you do?"
"This is what I meant about prying into my business."
"I'm just asking; you can answer or not. But what do I say when people ask?"
"If someone asks who has no business to know, I say I'm a financial advisor."
Ruby smiled. Her Aunt Edith's husband was in that line of work, and he had an often-repeated complaint. "Don't people try to get free stock tips?" she asked.
"Yes." A clock on the mantle chimed, and Simon turned to look. "Time to start dinner. Can you cook?"
"I can chop."
"It's a start. I'll show you your room, you get cleaned up, then meet me in the kitchen." He stood, rubbing his hands. "It's tarragon quail and carrot soup tonight."
Ruby thought fish sticks and mashed potatoes might be more her speed, but didn't say it as she followed him upstairs, suitcases in hand.