The Crims #2 Page 6

  “Oh,” said Freddie, disappointed. “I really thought I’d gotten one of them. There was an eighty-seven percent chance you were Elsa Kruk, according to my algorithms. What are you doing here?”

  “Do you think we could continue this conversation at ground level?” Imogen said as terror joined the jumble of emotions she was experiencing.

  Freddie reluctantly lowered her to the floor. She landed on her face. It wasn’t very dignified.

  “At least I know the trap works,” he said.

  “Works? Yes—on your family members,” said Imogen, disentangling herself from the net. “Why did you set the trap to deploy after the target correctly enters the code to the Loot Cellar door and gets inside?”

  “Because I worked out there was a one in twenty-six chance they’d crack the code, and a two in seven chance they’d be so pleased with themselves for doing it that they’d let their guard down as soon as they entered the cellar.”

  There was silence for a moment while Imogen tried and failed to figure out what Freddie was talking about.

  “Look,” she said. “Never mind. Want to help me? I’m trying to find things to donate to a charity auction. This annoying new girl at school is apparently friends with Elton John’s nephew, and he got his uncle to donate seven actual tiaras, a songwriting lesson, and a pair of glasses shaped like the sphinx.”

  “We have a toilet brush shaped like a canoe down here somewhere, if you’re interested,” said Freddie.

  “I’m definitely not,” said Imogen.

  She and Freddie rooted through all the bizarre junk in the cellar—a box of nappies marked “Used”; a cassette tape labeled “Learn Esperanto!”; the original Broadway cast of Cats (they had formed a new breed of musical-theater superhumans at the very back of the cellar and communicated only in high kicks and Andrew Lloyd Webber songs). This is pointless, Imogen thought. The only valuable thing in the cellar—Uncle Clyde’s Captain Crook lunch box—was too important to the family to give away.

  After reaching into a bag marked “Gold” and pulling out a handful of half-chewed chocolate coins, Imogen gave up.

  “See you upstairs, Freddie,” she called to her cousin, who seemed to have been distracted by a 1980s edition of the board game Who’s Who?

  “Wait,” Freddie said, looking up. “Big Nana said she’d like to talk to you this afternoon.”

  “About what?” Imogen asked.

  Freddie shrugged.

  Imogen sighed. Freddie had given up his “I don’t know anything” persona and turned out to be a total mathematical genius, but he was still as much use as a chocolate hand grenade. Which is to say, only useful in very specific circumstances—delighting soldiers and terrifying parents, for instance.

  Imogen walked back upstairs, disappointed. She still had nothing to donate to the charity drive. She would have to admit defeat, and she didn’t like to admit anything, unless it would buy her a plea deal. She pushed open the door to her apartment and found her parents standing on the landing, together—not a very common occurrence. Josephine was usually more interested in looking at herself in the mirror than paying Al any attention. And Al usually preferred chatting to his bank manager than his wife.

  But here they were, giggling together—and were Imogen’s eyes deceiving her, or was her father fastening an extremely expensive necklace around her mother’s neck?

  Imogen’s eyes were not deceiving her. They were the most honest of all her body parts. Imogen recognized diamonds, sapphires, emeralds, rubies, and amethysts on the necklace. To be honest, the colors looked terrible together, but it must have been worth thousands.

  “It’s stunning!” Josephine said breathlessly—she didn’t really care what things looked like as long as they were worth a lot of money, which is why she could often be seen wearing designer track pants and very heavy solid-gold shoes. “Where did you get this?”

  “I stole it!” said Al.

  Josephine gasped. “Darling! Did you? Really and truly?”

  “It was nothing.”

  But it wasn’t nothing, Imogen thought. Not for Al Crim.

  “Look, darling!” Josephine said, turning to Imogen. “Look what your father just stole for me! Can you believe it?”

  Imogen couldn’t believe it. “Dad would never steal a necklace,” she said.

  “What did you say?” said Josephine. “I couldn’t hear you, I was too busy polishing my necklace.”

  Imogen pulled her father aside. “Dad, are you sure you’re okay? Are you sure there’s nothing wrong?”

  Her father looked confused. “Of course I’m okay!”

  “But this isn’t like you.”

  Al flushed slightly. “Well, Big Nana said we had to up our game and commit as many crimes as possible,” he said slowly. “And there was an article in this month’s Accounting Today! about how crime gets the adrenaline flowing and improves blood pressure over time. . . .”

  “Really? Accounting Today! is persuading its readers to become felons now?”

  “They didn’t phrase it like that,” said Al. “The article was based on a survey of accountants doing time for money laundering. Apparently, they have a better quality of life than other accountants. Did you know they teach stand-up comedy in some prisons?”

  “But, Dad,” said Imogen, “you’ve spent time in jail. You hated it.”

  “It wasn’t all bad. . . .”

  “And you hate stand-up comedy! You don’t like being the center of attention! You don’t even have a sense of humor!”

  “Yes I do!” said Al. “Ha! Ha! See?”

  I should just drop this, thought Imogen. She had a horrible feeling that any minute now, her father was going to try to prove how hilarious he was, and it would be so extremely un-hilarious that she might be forced to eat her own arm just to get through it. He really is having a midlife crisis, she mused sadly. She remembered Uncle Knuckles’s midlife crisis all too clearly; he had tried to steal the principality of Liechtenstein and had ended up stabbing himself on one of the country’s many mountains.

  Thinning hair could really do a number on a man.

  Imogen went to her bedroom. She looked at her crime homework timetable—write an essay on techniques for escaping a net, steal a small plane and land it on the highway, and file fingernails into razor-sharp points—but she just couldn’t motivate herself. What she really needed to do was research businesses that looked as though they might be willing to donate expensive goods for the charity auction.

  She sent out a few emails, calling herself “the Duchess of Blandingshire”—companies were always more willing to give free things to rich people—and had so far secured promises of a set of electric nose-hair trimmers and a subscription to Posh Lady magazine (her fault for posing as a wealthy eighty-three-year-old). She was just about to email a computer store to see whether they’d give her a free laptop when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” said Imogen, by which she meant, “Please go away and leave me alone.”

  The door creaked open, and Big Nana’s face appeared. “Hello, my wrinkly passion fruit,” she said. “Where have you been?”

  Imogen felt a sudden rush of guilt. She had completely forgotten to find Big Nana. “Sorry!” she said. “Freddie said you were you looking for me earlier? I’ve been caught up with this school charity drive. . . .”

  Big Nana settled herself onto Imogen’s bed. “That’s what I wanted to talk to you about,” she said. “I’m worried you’re already falling behind with your crime homework. You still haven’t handed in yesterday’s essay—and you were supposed to steal a cherry tree today and replace it with a hatstand to see if anyone noticed. But you didn’t, did you?”

  “No . . . ,” said Imogen.

  “Have you committed a single crime today?”

  “Yes,” said Imogen, reddening. “I’m committing internet fraud right now, I promise.”

  “Yes, but for a good cause,” Big Nana pointed out. “You know how I feel about good caus
es.”

  “‘Helping others is only worth it if they can get you free tickets to the Emmys,’” chanted Imogen.

  “Exactly.”

  “But look,” said Imogen, pulling out her criminal plans journal. “I’ve been doing proper crime homework too—see? I’m working on a programming code to skim money out of Blandington Police’s online bank account.”

  “How very twenty-first century of you.”

  “I know. And guess what—it turns out their password is ‘password.’”

  “So how much have you stolen from them so far?”

  Imogen felt her face reddening even further. “I haven’t actually put the plan into action. I’m still finalizing the details. I don’t want them to be able to trace it to me. . . .”

  Big Nana folded her hands in her lap. “You’re prioritizing school over your crime homework, in other words,” she said.

  Imogen was starting to feel a little desperate. “You know that it’s important for me to do well in school!” she said. “You don’t want me to be like Uncle Clyde, do you? At least when I come up with a heist, you know it will work.”

  “But Clyde has passion,” said Big Nana. “And a sense of urgency!”

  “But there isn’t a deadline on my crime homework, is there?”

  Big Nana pushed herself up from the bed. “There is no time to lose!” she said. “We don’t know when the Kruks will launch their next attack—”

  “Next attack?” Imogen asked skeptically.

  “THEY SENT US A THREATENING NOTE IN A CHILD’S BIRTHDAY CAKE!” Big Nana reminded her—the shoutiest reminder Imogen had ever received.

  “But that can’t have been the Kruks,” Imogen said. “It wasn’t sophisticated enough to be them!”

  Big Nana shook her head. “I understand why you’re claiming not to think they’re a threat,” she said. “Denial ain’t just a river in Egypt, eh, my trepidatious persimmon?”

  Imogen stared at her. “What?”

  Big Nana tilted her head, studying Imogen as if she were a work of art. “You’re afraid to believe it might be true. After all, it’s a pretty terrifying prospect. But ignoring it isn’t going to make it go away.”

  “I’m not ignoring it—”

  “You are,” said Big Nana. “You’re behaving just like you did when you were at Lilyworth. You’re behaving like you don’t want to be head of the Crims one day. Like there’s more to life than crime.”

  Imogen looked away. “Maybe there is,” she said quietly.

  There was a silence. Imogen’s words hung in the air like horrible helium balloons.

  “What did you just say?” Big Nana asked in the calm, quiet, dangerous voice that she normally only used to threaten judges.

  “Nothing,” Imogen said quickly. “Let’s just pretend I didn’t say anything.”

  But Big Nana was so angry, her hands were beginning to shake. “Crime is what keeps this family together!” she said.

  “I know,” said Imogen, edging backward.

  “NOTHING IS MORE IMPORTANT THAN FAMILY!” shouted Big Nana, looking more like Uncle Knuckles than Imogen was comfortable with. “EXCEPT CRIME! AND DINOSAURS!!!” And with that, Big Nana stalked out the doorway, slamming the door behind her and stomping downstairs.

  Imogen stared after her. That had not gone well. In fact, it had gone badly. In fact, it was the most disturbing conversation she’d had that day, and that morning Aunt Bets had called her “a turnip with a face.” She shook herself, trying to get rid of the guilt and shame she felt from disappointing Big Nana. As soon as this charity drive was out of the way, and she was secure in her position as queen bee, she would give all her attention to her family.

  Nodding to herself, she turned back to her desk and tried to carry on with her email to the computer store. The screen seemed to swim in front of her eyes, but that would have been weird, because laptops are very bad at the breaststroke.

  Then she realized she was crying.

  I’m not sad, Imogen told herself fiercely. I’m just exhausted.

  But she was a bit sad. She hated disappointing Big Nana more than she hated anything else—even more than cheese from a can, and toothbrushes with all of the bristles splayed out.

  She shut her laptop and opened her crime homework timetable. She really was behind—she was supposed to write yet another essay today: “You and your entire family are in the custody of a master criminal. You’re handcuffed, dangling over a pool of acid. The master criminal is delivering an evil monologue. He is using long words like ‘heretofore’ and ‘unrepentant’ and ‘filibuster.’ How do you begin the process of escaping?”

  Imogen chewed the end of her pencil. (She preferred to do her crime homework by hand so that the Blandington Police Department would never find it if they searched her laptop.) “First,” she wrote, “I would distract the master criminal by flattering his authoritative speaking voice and asking for details of his genius plan. While he explained, I would look around for an exit. . . .”

  CHAPTER SIX

  IMOGEN STAYED UP till three in the morning finishing her essay and then got up again at five to make herself a bank robbery uniform (dressmaking, according to Big Nana, was an essential part of every criminal’s skill set). She arrived to school on time, but she was so tired that her eyes were burning and her brain felt buried in cotton wool, which sounds cozy but is actually quite unpleasant.

  By lunchtime, Imogen was ready to collapse. As soon as the bell sounded, she pushed back her chair and walked, zombielike, toward the classroom door—but then Mr. Fry called her back. Or stammered her back, really. He seemed so terrified that he could hardly get the words out.

  “I—I don’t think you meant to hand this in,” he said, passing her the essay she had given in that morning on the symbolism of beards in ancient Egypt. Imogen looked at the essay, confused. Of course she had meant to hand it in. She was particularly pleased with her analysis of the correlation between the pointiness of a pharaoh’s beard and the earliness of his death. And then she read the title of the essay and realized why Mr. Fry looked as though he’d rather be anywhere than talking to her—even in a cheap hotel in the dodgiest part of Bucharest, famous for its high murder rate and scratchy complimentary slippers.

  She hadn’t handed in her schoolwork. She’d handed in her crime homework by mistake. No wonder Fry looked terrified. You’d have been terrified too if you had read such a detailed description of what acid can do to human feet.

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, trying to look innocent, even though she knew that he knew that she knew how to murder someone with a skipping rope. “I promise you, this is all totally theoretical. My grandmother is quite eccentric—”

  “Please stop talking,” said Mr. Fry, wide-eyed, his hand covering his bow tie, as if protecting it from her. “The less I know about you, or your grandmother, or your dangerous sporting equipment, the safer for me. How about we never talk about this again?” With that, he ran off down the corridor like a lamb who has just learned what the word “abattoir” means.

  Somehow Imogen got through the rest of the day without falling asleep, though it probably wouldn’t have mattered if she had—word had clearly gotten around to the other teachers about her crime essay, and they were all behaving as though she might bite them at any minute, which she obviously wouldn’t do because everyone knows that teachers taste revolting. Mrs. Mariposa, her physics teacher, actually asked her not to hand in her homework the next day. It was an essay on particle physics, too, and Imogen loved writing about atoms—but she decided not to argue. She was regretting leaving Lilyworth more with each passing day.

  All Imogen wanted to do after school was go home, eat a large amount of ice cream, watch videos of cats freaking out about cucumbers, and forget about her teachers and her grandmother and Ava Gud and the fact that she was Imogen Crim. But she couldn’t. There was a charity committee meeting that afternoon in the dining hall. The charity committee consisted of Ava and Imogen, Penelope, Hannah and
Willa, and five boys who had clearly just joined so they could spend the entire meeting staring at Ava.

  “I brought brownies!” said Ava. “Baked them before school.” She arranged them neatly on the plate in front of her. “I’ve got a thing about symmetry,” she explained.

  Smart move, Imogen thought. Way to get the committee on your side. Even Imogen’s friends were grabbing the brownies and cooing “Thank you!” to Ava. Imogen shot glares at them, and they had the decency to look chastened—but not enough decency to put down the brownies, which, Imogen had to admit, looked delicious.

  “So,” said Ava, taking charge of the meeting.

  “So,” said Imogen, taking charge of the meeting too.

  Ava smiled her toothy smile at Imogen, her head tilted to one side. “Is it okay with you if I chair this meeting? I’ve brought a notebook. . . .” She reached into her bag and pulled out a notebook with “Ava Gud, Chair of Charity Committee” embossed on the front in gold letters. “My mom had it made for me,” she said with a shrug as the others oohed and aahed over it.

  “Hang on—” Imogen started.

  But Ava blew her a kiss. “Thanks, Imogen!” she said, as if Imogen had agreed, which she definitely hadn’t. “Okay. Let’s run through the donations we’ve collected for the auction so far. I’ll start! I’ve been really busy, doing a bit of modeling in the evenings, but I have managed to scrape a few things together. So, we have Elton John’s glasses and tiaras and a songwriting lesson—you know about that already. I persuaded Le Cordon Bleu cooking school in Paris to donate a weeklong cooking course, and then there’s a disco-dancing lesson with Academy Award–nominated actor Don Vadrolga!”

  Everyone on the charity committee burst into a round of applause. Everyone except Imogen, that is. She shot a fierce look at her friends, and they stopped clapping.

  “Don Vadrolga, wow— I thought he was dead,” Penelope said loudly, winking at Imogen like she’d just delivered a huge zinger. Imogen tried not to sigh. Amateurs.

  “Oh, no, he just played an angel in a movie once. Maybe you got confused?” said Ava, smiling and shaking her head. “Anyway, it’s nothing, really. I’m sure you guys have got much cooler donations. Penelope—what about you?”