The Crims #2 Page 8

  What if Big Nana is right about the Kruks? She’d never doubted Big Nana when she was younger. She thought Big Nana was right about everything—until she had discovered that Big Nana had pretended to be dead for two years. But Big Nana had never been wrong about something as important as this. She must have some reason to believe that the Kruks are after us, she thought. And for some reason, she doesn’t want to tell me what it is. . . .

  She looked at her alarm clock. Four a.m. She’d have to get up in an hour to start her crime homework before school. This week’s essay: “Your neighbor, James J. Cranky, dies suddenly, under suspicious circumstances. Forge a will, leaving everything to yourself, that can satisfy the authorities.” She would get up and do it. She’d take the threat from the Kruks more seriously. She just needed to get a little more sleep first. . . . She closed her eyes again, but then she heard a strange sound coming from the garden. A sound of creaking wheels.

  Could it be the Kruks?

  Imogen was wide-awake now. She pushed back her duvet, crept downstairs, and opened the back door. There, in the moonlight, someone was pushing a heavy-looking wheelbarrow.

  But it wasn’t a Kruk. It was—

  “Dad?” Imogen called.

  Al Crim looked around, startled. “Oh! Imogen! It’s you! Just the person I was looking for!”

  “What are you doing?”

  Al laughed, a little too loud and a little too long. “Well, I’ve found a few little things to donate to your charity auction!”

  Imogen looked through the contents of the wheelbarrow. A genuine first edition of Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (Imogen knew what to look for, as Uncle Clyde had stolen at least five fake ones while he was reading the series to Delia), a briefcase with “$100,000 in unmarked bills” written on the front, something massive and metal and green that looked as though it might be the Statue of Liberty’s torch.

  “That’s not real, is it?” she asked.

  Al nodded. “Fell off the back of a very large, transatlantic truck,” he said.

  Imogen stared at him. The father she knew would never have stolen such impressive things. He’d never have been able to steal such impressive things.

  But what if she didn’t know her father that well after all?

  “Why were you taking this stuff into the garden?”

  “I didn’t want the mole to get their hands on it,” said Al. “Whoever that is.”

  Imogen felt a prickle of fear. Could her father be the mole? No, Imogen decided. He couldn’t be. She had known him her whole life, and there was no way he’d do anything to hurt his family. In fact, he was trying to help her, right now. Just in quite an uncharacteristic way.

  Imogen looked at the wheelbarrow. She hadn’t seen loot this amazing since she’d visited the Kruks’ Loot Cellar. And if she brought this stuff to the charity auction, she’d be in, with a chance of reclaiming her queen bee crown from Ava. . . .

  But how had her father managed to pull off these incredible crimes when the rest of the Crims couldn’t even steal a banana from the supermarket?

  What to do . . . what to do . . .

  “Dad?” Imogen said gently. “I know we don’t really talk about feelings in our family—”

  “‘If you don’t have anything nice to say, physically injure someone instead,’” said Al, quoting one of Big Nana’s favorite sayings.

  “Exactly. And you know you can always talk to me.”

  Al frowned. “We’re talking to each other right now.”

  “About anything you’re going through, I mean,” Imogen said. “Like . . . do you think you might be having a midlife crisis? You usually avoid committing crimes, and here you are, with a cartload of amazing loot. . . .”

  “Oh!” said Al, visibly relaxing. “Yes! That’s it! I’m having a HUGE midlife crisis. I’ve already stolen three sports cars! And a wig, just in case I start to lose my hair. I’m probably going to die soon! Isn’t that terrible?”

  Imogen had never seen anyone look so cheerful when confronted with their own mortality.

  “Anyway,” Al continued, “I’ve been looking deep inside myself, which is difficult to do—I had to borrow some equipment from the doctor—to work out what I really, truly want to do with what’s left of my life. And the answer I came up with was—”

  “Steal parts of major American monuments?”

  “No. I want to live my life in accordance with the values of our family. Which mostly involves committing lots of crime. So I went on a little stealing spree—not too hard once you get the knack.” He shrugged. “But that was before someone starting sabotaging all of our crimes . . . obviously . . .” He smiled at Imogen nervously. “So . . . will you take this stuff to school?”

  There’s something really weird about this, Imogen thought. Maybe I should push this further. Maybe Dad needs help.

  But the lure of the loot was too strong. She needed help too, if she was going to step out of Ava Gud’s wealthy, glossy-haired shadow. And with Al’s stolen goods, she had the tools to do it.

  So she smiled, and said, “Yes, I will. Thank you.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  THE NEXT MORNING, after Imogen had done her ten laps around the piranha pond and applied antiseptic to her piranha wounds, she packed up her dad’s loot in her old Lilyworth trunk and dragged it to school. She couldn’t wait to see Ava’s expression when she showed her what she had collected for the auction.

  But before she could reach her classroom, Delia tapped her on the shoulder.

  “Let’s get out of here,” she whispered, looking up and down the corridor. “The goose has eaten the contraband.”

  “What does that mean again?” She still hadn’t gotten her head around the code the Horrible Children used to discuss their crimes at school.

  “It means that the mole is somewhere in the school. I just broke into Giles van Loaded’s locker—”

  “The really rich guy?”

  “Yep. But guess what was in there? Nothing but BOOKS.”

  “Wow. What a shocker,” said Imogen, willing Delia to leave so she could show Ava her loot.

  But Delia wasn’t going anywhere without Imogen. “Come on, then,” she said. “We’ve got to go and tell Big Nana.”

  “I need to do something first, actually,” Imogen said.

  “I’ll come with you.”

  “It might be better if you didn’t. . . .”

  Delia narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms. “What are you up to? There’s something in that trunk, isn’t there? Show me.”

  Imogen couldn’t be bothered to argue. She opened her trunk and showed Delia the contents.

  Delia gasped. “Holy paroley!” she muttered. “Where did you get all this stuff?”

  “From my dad,” Imogen said, shutting the trunk quickly.

  “Come on,” said Delia. “Be serious. Did you steal it all yourself?”

  “I am serious,” Imogen said. “He stole it and gave it to me for the charity auction.” She didn’t want to dwell on how massively weird that was; her father’s midlife crisis wasn’t anyone else’s business.

  “Hold up,” Delia said. “Your dad? Al Crim? Stole all that stuff?”

  “Apparently.”

  Delia laughed. “That’s obviously a lie.”

  Imogen shrugged. “My dad doesn’t lie.”

  Delia leaned back against the lockers, frowning. “Wait,” she said. “That reminds me of something. Does your dad drink?”

  “What? No!” said Imogen. Surely Delia knew that by now? “He can’t handle alcohol—he gets drunk after a couple of sips. Haven’t you heard about what happened when he was in college? He drank one beer and jumped out of a window shouting, ‘I am a dragon! A lovely green dragon! Aren’t my scales shiny’?”

  “I thought so,” said Delia, eyebrows furrowed. “But get this: There were a couple of nights I went up to your apartment to see if you wanted to hang out, but you were already asleep. And your dad was in the living room, smoking a cigar and
drinking a Hefeweizen.”

  “A what?”

  “You know, that German beer that Isabella orders when we go to the pub. He was not pleased to see me. He slammed the door in my face.”

  “He was smoking a cigar and he slammed a door in your face?” said Imogen, still trying to process this. “He never smokes! He’s obsessive about carcinogens! He doesn’t even eat burned toast!”

  Delia and Imogen looked at each other.

  “And Big Nana thinks there’s a mole in the house . . . ,” said Delia.

  Imogen felt sick. Her real father would never be the mole, but what if the man currently calling himself Al Crim wasn’t her real father? It was hard to deny the mounting evidence.

  But if he wasn’t her father . . . where was her father?

  Panic gripped at her gut. She had to find out!

  “Come on, Delia,” she said, grabbing the trunk and running to the door. “I think it’s time to talk to Big Nana.”

  The house was in chaos, as usual. Aunt Bets and Uncle Knuckles were sitting on the living room sofa while Big Nana bandaged their hands. “Another fake tip-off,” she said grimly when she saw Imogen and Delia. “Someone told them you can get a lot of ransom money for porcupines.”

  “But they didn’t mention they shoot their quills when they’re angry,” said Aunt Bets.

  “AND I HAVE SUCH DELICATE, SENSITIVE SKIN!” shouted Uncle Knuckles.

  Josephine bustled into the room, carrying a plate of ham and cheese sandwiches.

  Big Nana took a sandwich, bit into it, and grimaced. “Revolting,” she said. “You bought the ingredients for this, didn’t you?”

  Josephine nodded. “It was so humiliating,” she said, shaking her head. “I tried to steal them, but the cashier stopped me as I tried to leave the shop! Someone must have told her who I was!”

  “See what we’ve been driven to?” said Big Nana, banging her hand on the table and making Uncle Knuckles jump (he was very sensitive to loud noises).

  “Listen, Big Nana,” said Imogen, “we need to talk to you. Look what Dad stole this week.”

  She opened the trunk.

  When Big Nana saw the loot, her eyes lit up like cheap, dangerous Christmas tree lights.

  “Plus, Al has been drinking beer,” said Delia. “And smoking cigars. Not candy ones—I checked.”

  Big Nana nodded slowly. “Your instincts are right on, my miniature pork chops. Something about this smells fishy. And not in a good way, like someone’s about to serve us salmon en croûte. It would take a very sophisticated criminal to pull this off. . . .”

  Josephine froze. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”

  “If what you think I’m saying is ‘your husband isn’t who you think he is,’ then yes. I think an imposter is in his place.”

  Imogen felt sick. Hearing Big Nana say it out loud made it seem horribly real.

  “No!” cried Josephine, dropping the sandwiches, which were instantly snaffled by Barney.

  So she does love Dad, Imogen thought, feeling a sudden rush of affection for her mother.

  “The imposter is so much better at stealing jewelry than Al!” wailed Josephine. “Do we really have to find the real Al and switch them back?”

  Imogen’s affection drained away.

  “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear you say that about my son,” Big Nana said dangerously. “I’m going to have a word with this so-called ‘Al.’ Who wants to come?”

  They all did.

  Heart racing, Imogen followed Big Nana, Delia, and Josephine to Al’s office. He was sitting at his desk, with Barney on his lap, watching what appeared to be an illegally downloaded German show about luxury yachts called Sehr Gut Boot. Looking at him now, Imogen was more certain than ever that this man wasn’t her father. Al hated yachts—they made him seasick—and German accents gave him unpleasant flashbacks to the Bavarian nanny who had forced him to wear lederhosen to kindergarten.

  “Al,” said Big Nana, “You’re coming with us.”

  Al swiveled in his chair. “Thanks for the invite,” he said, “but I’m busy at the moment.”

  “That wasn’t an invitation,” said Big Nana. “It was an order.” And she grabbed him by the arm and marched him downstairs to the secret room in the basement. Imogen snatched up Al’s latest copy of Accounting Today! and followed behind, heart thumping and Barney yapping happily at her heels.

  “Sit down,” Big Nana said to Al, pointing to the velvet-covered chair in the middle of the room.

  She pulled a dust sheet from a large lamp and turned it on, shining the light straight into Al’s face. He squinted and held up his hand to cover his eyes.

  “Bit bright for you, is it, Al, my sweet?” said Big Nana.

  “Yes,” Al said falteringly.

  All of Imogen’s instincts told her to reach out and comfort her father, but she had to stop herself, because he almost certainly wasn’t her father at all. She hugged herself for comfort instead.

  “LIAR!” shouted Big Nana.

  “I’m not lying!” said Al. “It really is extremely bright! I don’t think that’s an energy-saving lightbulb!”

  “You are lying,” said Big Nana, “because you are not Al. And therefore you are most certainly NOT MY SWEET.”

  “Of course I’m Al!” said Al. “Look at me! Imogen, darling, you know I’m your daddy, don’t you?”

  Imogen felt her hairs stand on end. “I’ve never called my father ‘daddy,’” she said.

  Al’s eyes grew cold, in a way her father’s never would have. “Well, it’s not too late to start,” he said.

  “If you are my father,” said Imogen, handing him the copy of Accounting Today!, “show me that article you were talking about. The one that said that crime was good for your blood pressure.”

  She willed him to succeed. She willed him to be Al Crim, so that she wouldn’t have to worry about where her father was and what was happening to him.

  Al, looking slightly panicked, took the magazine and started flipping through it. “I’m sure it’s in here somewhere. . . . Oh, no. I remember now. It was actually in Calculator World magazine—”

  And that’s when, without warning, Big Nana reached down and grabbed Al’s nose, which just broke off in her hand.

  “ARGH!” screamed Al.

  “ARGH!” screamed Imogen and Delia and Josephine.

  “RARGH!” barked Barney.

  “AHA!” screamed Big Nana.

  Because it wasn’t Al’s nose that had broken off—it was his fake nose. Which was part of his entire, thick, fake, rubbery face. Big Nana grabbed a piece and pulled the rest of the mask off, to reveal . . .

  “GUNTHER KRUK!” screamed Big Nana. “OF THE BAVARIAN KRUK COUSINS! YOU ARE THE MOLE!”

  “Bitte, don’t shout,” said Gunther, in his real voice, which was extremely deep and German sounding. “My ears are very sensitive to the words of hopeless criminals.”

  Imogen felt sick with dread and fear and shame. Big Nana had been right all along. The Kruks really were after her family—enough so that they’d kidnapped Al and replaced him with this imposter! How could she have been so blind? How could she not have realized that her father had been replaced by a psychopathic master criminal? Because she hadn’t wanted to believe it. Because she had been more interested in being popular at school than saving her family. And because she hadn’t been able to bring herself to fully trust Big Nana. Well, it was time to start trusting her now.

  She felt hot with anger and cold with fear at the same time. “Where’s my father?” she managed to say. “What have you done with him?”

  “Answer her,” said Josephine, her voice shaking with rage. “What have you done with my husband? And do you have any spare rubies lying around?”

  Gunther just sat there, an irritating smile on his irritating face.

  “If you don’t tell us where Al is RIGHT THIS SECOND, we’ll set Barney on you,” warned Delia.

  Barney, at the mention of his name, scrabbled
over to Gunther and started licking his (real) face.

  “Pathetic,” muttered Delia.

  “Fine,” Big Nana said quietly. “You asked for it, Gunther. KNUCKLES!” she called.

  An incredibly loud crashing sound came from above them, which was the sound of Uncle Knuckles walking downstairs as quietly as possible. He appeared in the doorway, blocking out all the light from the passageway.

  “YES, MOTHER?” he said.

  “This is Gunther Kruk,” she said.

  “PLEASURE TO MEET YOU, SIR,” said Knuckles.

  “It is not a pleasure,” said Big Nana. “This man has been impersonating your brother for the past few weeks. He is the mole we’ve been looking for. Please take him to the interrogation room.”

  “RIGHT AWAY,” said Uncle Knuckles, and he picked up Gunther between his thumb and forefinger, like a miniature sausage, and carried him out of the room.

  “Do whatever it takes to make him talk,” Big Nana called after him.

  “We have an interrogation room?” said Imogen.

  “I want you to forget you ever heard this conversation,” said Big Nana, turning toward the door. “What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Apart from the nuclear codes. Now, why don’t we ladies go to the kitchen for a nice cup of tea while the gentlemen are . . . getting acquainted?”

  Imogen loved tea—no matter what was going on, the fragrant, warming taste of it usually made her feel as though everything was going to be okay. But today it seemed to curdle in her mouth. Her mother was having no such trouble. She slurped it down, pinky finger raised, as she moaned on and on about all the things Fake Al had promised to steal for her. “A small castle with a real moat, a badger-fur coat, dishwashing liquid made from greyhounds—apparently they have great cleansing properties . . .”

  Imogen wasn’t really listening. My father’s missing, she thought. I’ve failed him. I’ve failed my whole family. She felt disgusted with herself. She prided herself on being the cleverest of the Crims—and yet they had all been right about the Kruks, and she had been very, very wrong. She should never have doubted Big Nana. She should never have allowed herself to be distracted by school.