Spiders on the Case (2 page)

J
o Bell settled in between her favorite pages of a book,
Les Dessins des Hauts Couturiers
. She had finally figured out what the French title meant. The book was a bound port folio of original fashion drawings by famous French designers, including Coco Chanel and the legendary Charles Worth. There were even drawings by the woman who designed Marie Antoinette's ball gowns. But did anyone give her credit for learning French? No! All they could talk about was how stupid fashion was!

And what was so fabulous about hanging out in a pop-up circus? That was where Jo Bell's younger sister, Julep, had ensconced herself since they had arrived at the library. And Felix, for that matter? Felix's new webs were beautiful, but they were traps, nothing more. Felix might call himself an artist, but as far as Jo Bell was concerned, he was only making weapons to catch silverfish, book mites, and the rest of the bugs eating up volumes in the rare books room. Lately, he had buried himself in military history. It was interesting, but what made reading about war any better than learning French?

Forget about them
, she told herself. She wanted to look at this gorgeous drawing of a dress from more than a hundred years ago. It had a bunched-up funny thing on the back called a bustle. Jo Bell caught a glimpse of herself reflected in a glass case.
I have a natural bustle
, she thought.

All spiders did, for that matter. A spider's body contained two major parts — the front and the back. The front had the head, the back the stomach. The head was quite tiny when compared to the back end, which swelled up somewhat like a bustle. Now, if Jo Bell could only spin herself a bit of silk, not for a web but for a spider-size gown that would flow out over her natural bustle!

Just as she was having these thoughts, she heard voices.

“Oh, hello, Ms. Smoot. It's been a while.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Your husband was in a few days ago. So good to see you.”

It was Tom the conservator speaking. He welcomed everyone to the rare books room so warmly — even a family of extremely venomous brown recluse spiders. Jo Bell would never forget how Edith had told them to freeze when they first spotted Tom. But what did Tom do? Squash them under his rather large foot? Shriek and faint as the conductor at the philharmonic hall had done when he saw Felix on his baton? Call the dreaded E-Men, the exterminators? No! Nothing of the kind. He had merely bent over and whispered, “Welcome! I am so glad to see you. They tell me that book lice are quite tasty — from a spider's point of view. There are plenty here. They eat paper. You will be doing a great service to the rare books collection if you would indulge yourself.”

And the book lice were tasty and the spider family did indulge. Edith insisted. If Tom was kind enough to allow them to live in the magnificent Boston Public Library, they must earn their keep. Within a day of their arrival, Edith had organized patrols to hunt down the little critters. And it was not just book lice but silverfish and cockroaches and beetles who bored, gnawed, and feasted on some of the world's oldest and most treasured books. In the dim, soft glow of the rare books room, a great battle raged — the battle to preserve priceless volumes from enemies like dampness, mold, and bugs!

Jo Bell heard Ms. Smoot sigh with pleasure as she opened the fashion journal she had been exploring. Then the woman whispered, “These bustles will make the ultimate fashion statement in my new collection! They're drop-dead chic!”

Suddenly, a long, sharp shadow fell across the beautiful drawing. It wasn't a pencil. It was a blade! Jo Bell dived into the gutter of the book. Then came a tiny rasping
swizzz
and Jo Bell felt the page shake. A small jolt sent her deeper into the gutter until she fell through a tiny hole in the book's binding, thankfully safe from the sharp edge of the blade. Before her eyes — all six of them — the page with the beautiful illustration of the bustles vanished. It was gone in the blink of her half dozen eyes (had those eyes possessed eyelids to blink).

“Toodle-oo!” Ms. Smoot trilled into the conservator's room, where Tom was restoring a diary of John Adams, the second president of the United States.

“Good-bye, Ms. Smoot.”

Jo Bell lay in the binding, stunned. Did Tom realize what had just taken place? How could she tell him? Although Jo Bell's family understood English, they couldn't speak to humans, and humans couldn't understand spiders at all. And to think that her mother believed that silverfish were the bad guys in the library! The glint of the blade in Agnes Smoot's hand flashed in Jo Bell's mind like a bad dream that wouldn't go away.

W
hat is she going to do?
Buster wondered.
Will she panic? Naw! Why would she? She's got venom!
But Buster could tell that the spider girl was shocked.
Well, get used to it
, he thought. Agnes Smoot and her husband, Eldridge Montague, were becoming bolder with each theft. What a team they made! Eldridge was a dealer in old maps, and beneath her ugly wig and horn-rimmed glasses, Agnes was none other than the new rising design star Diane de Funk. “Where does she get her ideas?” people marveled. Where indeed! She sliced the pages out of old books and magazines and even lifted original drawings and sketches from the portfolios of some of the world's finest designers, all from the rare books room of this grand old library. But now, with the arrival of some of the most deadly spiders on earth, there was hope. The destruction of priceless treasures from the Rare Books Department could be stopped. And the wondrous newcomers were a family!

Buster had no recollection of his parents or even of any sisters or brothers. He had hatched in the Boston Public Library. To be specific, his hatching occurred in the armpit of a statue of a shepherd boy playing the flute. Buster imagined that his mother had deposited her egg sac there because (1) she was a sculptor herself. (2) She might have been a musician. (3) Or a shepherd? (4) Or maybe she just liked armpits.

It was a boring location, for no music came out of the flute, and sheep did not frequent the Boston Public Library. So Buster decided to move on. His next place of residence was the Bates Hall reading room of the library. When he crept into that vast space lit by hundreds of green-lamp-shaded table lights, he thought he had landed on another planet.

The green glow hovered over the oak tables like a cloud of the most exotic butterflies. A hush enveloped the huge room, and Buster felt smarter simply walking into it. It was in Bates Hall that Buster educated himself by perching on the shoulders of unsuspecting readers or nestling in the gutters of their open books. The one advantage of being a walnut orb weaver was that Buster was very flat and a boring brown. He was able to squeeze into the smallest places without being noticed. There was no spider in the world better at pretending to be dead than a walnut orb weaver. Buster could drop like a stone from his web and remain motionless for a long, long time with his legs tucked up, until any danger had passed. But could he deliver a fierce sting? Never. He had no hope of stopping Agnes and Eldridge on his own.

Now this lovely toxic family had arrived. They had been wonderful in apprehending silverfish and beetles and all manner of insects that were chomping through the books. The mother organized night patrols and was constantly sending her children out on recon missions. They had discovered a breeding community of little paper sharks on their first night and had finished them off by dawn. But there was bigger prey — humans bent on destruction.

Unfortunately, Buster lacked not only venom but nerve. He was painfully shy. Was he supposed to waltz up to this nice young girl — who was just about his age — and say,
Please join me on a mission to stop two dangerous criminals who might squash us both
? For silk's sake, he didn't even have the guts to say hello! His social skills were zero.

Buster couldn't remember how many self-help books he had read about how to make friends and influence people. He figured human advice would work for spiders, but he just couldn't get up the nerve.

He had to do something, though, and soon. Agnes Smoot was growing bolder.

J
o Bell made her way back to the glass case that displayed some of the library's oldest books — those printed before the year 1501 — slightly dazed from what she had just witnessed. She comforted herself with the musty smell of old parchment and the familiar sound of Tom Parker on the telephone. “Yes, we do have a first edition of the Champollion dictionary of hieroglyphs. It happens to be my area of interest. So, yes, we have quite a bit on hieroglyphics here. ‘Hieroglyphics are us,' you might say.” He chuckled at his little joke.

“What's this?” Jo Bell muttered. Something had fallen directly in Jo Bell's path, like a flake of peeling paint from the ceiling. She peered at it.

I cannot believe I'm doing this
, Buster thought.
Pretending I'm dead so I can meet a girl! How pathetic can you get?

Jo Bell crouched down on her eight legs to look at him closely. “It's not dust,” she whispered.

Right! Right! I'm
not
dust
, Buster thought.

“Not a flake of paint.” Jo Bell spoke softly.

“Are you kidding?” Buster squealed. “Paint! Who would ever paint something this dingy brown?”

“Yikes!” Jo Bell squealed. “It's talking.”

“Oh! Oh! I didn't mean to scare you. It just slipped out.” Buster was now in the process of unpacking his legs, which had been tucked in so tightly that there had not been the least hint that he had one leg, let alone eight. Jo Bell was astonished.

“Uh … this is sort of hard to explain,” Buster said.

“Well, do try. Have you been here all along? I mean since my family arrived?”

“Yes, yes indeed.”

“How come you never said anything? Not even a how-do-ya-do!”

“I … I … I have social issues,” Buster stammered. Then he blurted out, “Shy! I'm shy!”

“You mean you've just watched us and never said a word?”

Buster nodded.

“That's like spying!”

“Oh, no, please don't say that! I mean I … I didn't have anything bad in mind.” He paused. “Well, actually, I sort of did, but not bad for you.”

“Bad for who?” Jo Bell whispered. She was suddenly frightened.

Buster picked up on it immediately. “Don't be scared. I couldn't hurt a fly. That's my problem. I have no venom! But you saw what happened back there when you were in the fashion portfolio.”

“You saw that, too?”

“I did. And it's not the first time. And her husband is even worse. He's cut out at least half a dozen old maps — the latest one of Virginia drawn by the explorer John Smith in 1612.”

“No!” Jo Bell exclaimed.

“Yes!”

“And Tom doesn't know about it?”

“No, and believe me, I have tried to get his attention. But I don't know how.”

“Yes,” Jo Bell said thoughtfully. Communication with humans was always a problem. “So what do you suggest?”

“Well — just a little nip, a teensy-weensy bit of venom — a soupçon, as the French would say?” Buster spoke in a somewhat quavery voice while shifting his weight nervously from one of his eight legs to another and another and another.

“No! The French would NOT say that! There is no such thing as a soupçon of our venom. It's totally toxic no matter what the amount. Powerful, potent, and disastrous for human beings!” Jo Bell screeched.

Buster's request went against every thing Edith had ever taught her family. You didn't attack something you couldn't eat.

Jo Bell took a deep breath. “I have to tell you — by the way, what is your name?”

“Buster. What's yours?” He only asked to be polite. He knew Jo Bell's name but didn't want her to think he had been spying. Even if he had sort of peeked in on the family from time to time.

“Jo Bell. But as I was saying, Buster, this is not a good idea. In fact, it is a horrible idea. Period!”

“But they are destroying the treasures of this library.”

“Do you know what happens when brown recluses are discovered?”

“No, what?”

“E-Men come.”

“E-Men? What are you talking about?”

“Obviously being a nontoxic, venomless spider, you don't know of such things.”

Now Buster was cringing with shame. “Don't rub it in. It's not my fault. I was born this way.”

“I'm not saying it is your fault. But if you were toxic, you would realize that as soon as brown recluses are discovered, the exterminators come. And believe me, their poison is worse than ours. We'll be dead. You, too!”

“But Tom loves us. Loves all of us.”

“Tom will have nothing to say in the matter if someone gets bitten. The exterminators will be called. And trust me, we don't want that. My family has spent the better part of our lives on the run.”

“So you're saying a quick little bite is not an option?”

“You can bet every one of your eight legs it isn't!”

“Hmmm,” Buster said softly. “I guess we'll just have to think of something else.”

“What do you mean ‘we'?” Jo Bell asked suspiciously.

“You and me. Don't you think we could work together?”

“How?”

“We'll just have to think of a way. I don't have venom and you don't think biting is a good idea. But there are other ways.”

“Like what?”

“We both spin silk into webs. We have to make a sort of web — a dragnet!” Buster said.

“What's a dragnet?”

“It's a word used by cops. It's like an imaginary net, a web to catch criminals.”

“You don't say!” Jo Bell was impressed by Buster's vocabulary and his knowledge. “How do you know all that?”

“I read a lot of crime literature, like Sherlock Holmes, and then some nonfiction books like P. O. Guberhaus's book
Methods of Crime Detection
.” Buster named several other books Jo Bell hadn't heard of.

“Well, I'm sure you'll come up with something.” Jo Bell began to walk off.

“Wait!” Buster's voice quaked with panic. “Just me?” There was something very pitiful about the way Buster said “just me” that made Jo Bell's spinnerets tingle. “I need your help.”

Jo Bell was stunned.
He needs
my
help? He doesn't think I'm vain or just plain silly!
It had been a very long time since anyone had asked for Jo Bell's help.

“Listen, Jo Bell,” Buster pleaded. “Just imagine if you and I solve this crime spree. Felix would have to stop picking on you then!”

“So you
were
spying!” So many emotions swirled inside Jo Bell. Spying was nasty, but then again, Buster respected her. Still, what kind of spider spies on another family and doesn't introduce himself? Jo Bell started to walk away again.

“Stop! Come back, please? I just heard them making fun of you, that's all. And it wasn't fair. Not at all.”

Jo Bell turned around slowly. Their eyes met, her six and his eight. She looked deeply into the first six, then crept to one side to catch the two extra ones. She peered into their shining darkness. Could he be trusted?

“You really and truly think it wasn't fair? You don't think I'm shallow and frivolous?”

“No, not at all, Jo Bell! You speak French, for silk's sake.”

“Really?”

“Jo Bell, it takes all kinds of spiders to make a world, and I think you're one in a million. Well, to be more precise, one in, say, forty thousand because there are over forty thousand different kinds of spiders.”

One in forty thousand
, thought Jo Bell. It was music to her ears.

“Just for a second, imagine what your brother would think if you caught two of the worst criminals who ever crossed the threshold of the Boston Public Library. You'd be a hero, not just to your own family but also to the library. To the city of Boston! To the state of Massachusetts. To the United States of America and every person in the world who loves books!”

Jo Bell felt something deep within her begin to glow.
I could be a hero!
she thought. No one would call her shallow or silly or stupid if she caught these terrible humans who were destroying priceless treasures.

“There's just one problem, Buster,” Jo Bell said.

“What's that?” he asked.

“No one knows that these crimes against books are happening, and if no one knows, how will we ever become heroes for solving the crime?”

“Well, for one thing, we don't exactly need to solve it. We know who the criminals are. We could stop it right away. But you don't feel, er … uh …” Buster hesitated. “You don't think venom is an option?”

This spider needs a wake-up call
, Jo Bell thought. “Stop with the venom already, Buster. We never waste venom on something bigger and impossible to digest. And Agnes Smoot is definitely indigestible.”

“You have a point. So I guess the real question is, how do we expose the criminals?”

“Yes, that's the question,” Jo Bell said.

“We have to figure all this out. But we will, Jo Bell. You and I together. I have great faith in you.”

“You do, Buster?” Jo Bell replied. Her voice was soft with wonder.