Kristy just nodded, looking mysterious.

"What 1" asked Stacey. "Did you just figure something out?"

"I sure did," said Kristy. "I figured out where that delicious pizza smell is coming from." She pointed down the block, to Pizza Express. "I'm starving," she said.

"Me, too," I said. "Maybe we should go get Shannon and find something to eat."

"Hey, look," said Stacey, nudging me. "Isn't that the woman from the pictures? The one with the baby carriage?"

I turned to see. The woman was on the other side of the street, just down the block from the bank's main doors. "It sure is," I said. "And if we're going to pick up Shannon anyway, maybe we can take a closer look at her."

We crossed the street, keeping the baby carriage in sight. The woman pus.h.i.+ng it was a young mother, with curly red hair and tons of freckles. She rolled the carriage along, leaning down once in a while to coo to the baby and rearrange its blankets.

I smiled at her as we approached the carriage. "Nice day for a walk," I said, trying to lean toward the carriage in order to see the baby.

"Isn't it?" she asked, turning the carriage to the right so that I couldn't see a thing.

"How old is your baby?" asked Stacey, trying to peek over the front of the carriage.

"Just two months," said the woman, turning the carriage to the left.

"Girl or boy?" asked Kristy.

"Girl," said the woman. Then she wheeled the carriage away at a pretty steady clip.

"Hmmm," said Kristy, as we watched her walk away. "That was suspicious. I wonder why she didn't want us to see the baby."

"Maybe there isn't a baby," I said thoughtfully. "Maybe the carriage is actually full of moneybags."

"That's kind of farfetched," said Stacey.

"But who knows? Stranger things have happened." We all watched as the woman disappeared around a corner. Just as we lost sight of her, Shannon flew out of the bank's front door.

"VP!" she said. "He's the vice-president!"

"Who? What?" I asked.

"That man in the pictures," she said. "The one in the suit. I've been watching him. He's vice-president of the bank."

"He is?" I asked. "Hmm . . ."

"I found out his name, too," she said, "but come on. He's going to lunch, and we have to follow him." She pulled us behind the pillar, and we all watched as the man in the suit walked out of the bank and down the street.

"It looks like he's wearing the same suit," said Stacey under her breath, as we followed him down the sidewalk. "And he's definitely wearing that watch, again, too."

"His name's Mr. Zibreski," whispered Shannon. "I saw his name tag."

"And right now," I said, "Mr. Zibreski's going into that coffee shop." I watched as he disappeared into Thelma's Cafe.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" asked Kristy, as we paused outside. "Let's go in. I mean, we're hungry too, right?"

We looked at each other, shrugged, and went in. I'd never been to Thelma's before, but it seemed like a nice enough place, with turquoise leather booths and waiters and waitresses who wore turquoise-and-white uniforms. Kristy headed straight for the booth behind the one Mr. Zibreski chose. Stacey and I exchanged a panicked glance, but we followed her, and so did Shannon. Just as we sat down, a man in a navy-blue suit approached Mr. Zibreski's booth and Mr. Zibreski stood up. "Frank!" he said, sticking out his hand for a shake. "Good to see you. How's Lillian?"

"She's fine. Says to send her regards to Gretchen," said the man. "Been waiting long, Jim?"

Jim! His first name was Jim. Already we were learning things.

"No, no, just arrived," said Mr. Zibreski. "Sit down, sit down."

The two men sat down and started to look at menus. We were looking at our menus, too. "Mmm," said Kristy. "Cheeseburger deluxe. That's for me."

I tried to look at the menu and listen to the men's conversation at the same time, but it was hard. Finally I gave up and concentrated on the menu until I found the perfect thing: a grilled cheese sandwich with bacon and tomato. I put my menu aside and looked over at Mr. Zibreski's booth, which Kristy and I were facing. Shannon and Stacey had their backs to Frank and Mr. Zibreski, but I could see that they were straining to hear everything the men said.

The waitress stopped at their booth first, and Mr. Zibreski ordered a steak sandwich. Frank asked for the diet plate: a hamburger patty and cottage cheese. (Ew.) Then she came to our booth, and we ordered. After that, we started listening hard. We must have looked pretty strange: a booth full of people who weren't speaking to each other. But Mr. Zibreski and Frank didn't seem to notice.

"Bad news about that robbery," said Frank. I saw Shannon's eyebrows shoot up.

Mr. Zibreski waved a hand carelessly. "The police are on the case," he said. "If 11 be taken care of."

I thought that was interesting. He was either pretending not to be upset about it, or he really wasn't upset. Either way, it could mean something. We listened for more talk about the robbery, but unfortunately there was none.

The four of us sat quietly, munching our food (Stacey had a tuna-melt and Shannon was eating a BUT) and listening to every word Frank and Mr. Zibreski exchanged. And let me tell you something: it was about the most boring conversation I have ever heard. First they talked about mortgage rates. Then they talked about golf. After that they discussed the new sewer tax. Pretty soon I noticed that Kristy was yawning and Stacey was checking her nail polish. I finished my sandwich and asked the waitress for our check.

"I thought detective work was supposed to be exciting," I said, as we left the diner. "Nancy Drew always overhears good stuff when she tails suspects." The others cracked up.

"At least we got a good lunch out of it," said Kristy. "But next time, I hope he goes to Pizza Express. I still have a craving for pizza."

We all headed home after that, feeling a little let down. We'd spent the whole afternoon playing detective, and the mystery at the bank was no closer to being solved. I was definitely going to keep an eye on the woman with the baby and Mr. Zibreski. But if we didn't come up with a few more dues - soon - we were never going to crack the case.

Chapter 9.

On Tuesday, I spent the whole day thinking about the bank robbery case. But on Wednesday, by the time I was walking home from summer school, I had forgotten all about it. Instead, I was thinking about my photography cla.s.s, and about Mr. Geist.

Let me say right now that I don't have a crush on Mr. Geist. Well, okay, maybe I do have a little one. I admit that he's kind of cute, for an old guy. He has black curly hair and these cool-looking wire-rimmed gla.s.ses, and he's tall and lanky. He has a great smile, too.

But my feelings about him were more complicated than just a crush. Have you ever had a teacher who really inspired you? A teacher who*seemed to believe you were capable of doing anything you put your mind to? A teacher who encouraged you, and made you want to prove that you could do awesome things? Well, I had never had a teacher like that before, but now I did! Mr. Geist was definitely the best teacher I'd ever had, and more than anything, I wanted to please him. That day in cla.s.s he had explained some more about portrait photography, and he had said some really inspiring things. Plus, he showed us some really cool printing techniques that could help make good pictures great.

During cla.s.s, I realized that I had been so caught up in the bank mystery - and with our Day in the Life of Stoneybrook project - that I had put my portrait a.s.signment on hold. But I had the feeling those quick shots I'd taken of my friends might really be the beginning of a terrific project. One that would bring that great smile to Mr. Geist's face. Suddenly, I couldn't wait to close my darkroom door behind me and pick up where I'd left off with those pictures. The negatives had looked good, I remembered, but I wanted to work hard on making perfect prints from them. And after that day's cla.s.s, I had some new ideas about special techniques I could use.

The house was empty when I arrived. Janine was at her work-study job, and she'd said at breakfast that she wasn't planning to be home until dinnertime. And my parents were at work, of course. I had a quick lunch (a microwave burrito - the closest thing to junk food I could find in the kitchen) and headed upstairs to change.

That day I'd worn one of my favorite outfits to school: a lacy white s.h.i.+rt with big ruffled sleeves over a deep green leotard, with a short blue-jeans skirt and my favorite shoes (at least my favorites that summer): big black clunky boots.

Since I knew I was going to be in the darkroom, I threw off all my good clothes and pulled on an old pair of shorts and my ancient green Sea City T-s.h.i.+rt. I piled my school clothes on a chair, promising myself that I'd hang them up later. Then I sat down at my desk and pulled my negative file out of the drawer.

I leafed through the contact prints, looking for the one with the portraits of my friends on it. When I got to the one with the bank photos, I paused. I picked up my loupe, thinking that one more quick look wouldn't hurt. There was Mr. Zibreski, strolling up and down in front of the bank. And there was the lady with the baby carriage. I examined each picture carefully, but no new dues showed up. It was frustrating.

"If only I had more pictures," I said out loud. After all, I still didn't know exactly when the crime had taken place. What if it had happened right after - or right before - I'd taken those photos? I might have actually captured something on film.

Then, suddenly, I thought of something. "Whoa!" I said, shoving the negative file back into the drawer. I jumped up and got my camera bag out of the closet. I unzipped it with shaking hands and pulled out my camera. It was just as I'd thought.

There was still a roll of film in the camera. The roll I'd worked partway through when I was downtown with the kids. The roll I'd been shooting when Buddy and Charlotte pulled me away. More pictures of the bank!

There were still ten frames left on the roll, but I didn't care. Quickly, I rewound the film and popped it out of the camera. I had totally forgotten about my portrait project. This roll of film had pushed everything else out of my mind.

I grabbed my radio and headed into the bathroom, remembering once more that I hadn't gotten around to making that Darkroom in Use sign. But I didn't stop to worry about it, since I knew no one else would be home for hours. I pulled the door dosed behind me and shoved a towel into the crack. When I turned on the radio, Billy Blue was singing "It's All Right," which I thought was a good sign.

Then I got to work. Quickly, I lined up my equipment. I set up the film reel and made sure I was all ready to load the undeveloped film onto it. Giving the counter one last look, I snapped off the lights and began to load the film onto the reel. It didn't take me long. As I wound the reel, I thought about what I might find when I developed the film. Would there be incriminating evidence? Would I be able to march into the police station and show them pictures that proved, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that a certain person was guilty? My heart was beating fast as I imagined how impressed the police would be.

Once all the film was on the roll, I reached for the developing tank. In a few more seconds, I'd be able to turn on the lights. I groped around on the counter, trying to find the tank, but it wasn't where it should have been. "Darn!" I said, realizing that I must have been in too much of a hurry when I set up. I felt around some more, and finally I found the tank and its lid. I was just about to slip the reel of film into the tank when a horrible thing happened.

Somebody opened the door.

I gave a little yelp. "Hey!" I said, looking up at the door. The light from the hall filled the bathroom, blinding me for a few seconds. I saw a dark shape at the door, but there was no way to tell who it was. And whoever it was didn't say a word. Then, before I knew it, the door slammed shut and I was back in the dark again, with little white spots dancing in front of my eyes.

"Who's there?" I yelled. There was no answer. I sat there in the dark for a second, holding the reel of film. Then I stuck it into the tank and screwed the lid on. I would still develop it, just in case there were a few pictures that weren't completely ruined. As soon as the film was in the tank, I reached up and turned on the lights. Then I opened the bathroom door and peeked out.

"Anybody there?" I called. "Janine? Mom? Dad?" There was no answer. Suddenly, I felt a chill. Who had opened the door? And where was that person now? I had thought I was alone in the house.

I headed into my room and - I know this will sound silly - peeked under my bed. There was nothing there but the usual mess. Then I tiptoed to my bedroom door and peeked back into the hallway. It was empty and silent. I checked Janine's room, and my parents'. After that, I took a deep breath, headed downstairs, and checked the whole house. n.o.body was home; that was obvious. And the funny thing was that both the front and the back doors were locked! If somebody had come in, how had they gotten in? The whole thing was really creeping me out.

I went to the kitchen, poured myself a gla.s.s of orange juice, and guzzled it down. Then I picked up the phone and called Stacey. "Stace," I said, when she answered. "Something weird just happened. Would you mind coming over to keep me company?"

While I waited for Stacey, I went back upstairs to the darkroom and, with the lights on and the door ajar, began to develop the film. Soon I was so involved in watching temperatures and timing that I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a loud banging coming from downstairs.

"What? What is it?" I yelled.

"It's me!" A faint voice drifted up from outside. Stacey's voice. "The door's locked."

I ran down to let Stacey in. "Phew," I said. "I guess I'm a little spooked." I filled her in on what had happened and asked her to come up and sit with me while I finished developing the film. She perched on the edge of the bathtub and watched while I went through the final steps. When I was done, I hung up the film to dry and we both took a good look at it. Every picture was covered with a cloud of gray.

"Nothing," I said. "It's totally ruined. Now we'll never know what was on it."

Stacey tried to cheer me up, but nothing she said really made me feel any better. And when the rest of our friends showed up for the BSC meeting, and we explained what had happened, none of them made me feel better, either. In fact, something Mallory said after the meeting was over made me feel much, much worse.

"Maybe it was Mr. Zibreski who opened the door," she said. "Maybe he is the guilty person, and maybe he knew you had those pictures."

"Ooohh, creepy!" said Jessi. "I bet you're right."

"You mean you think I'm being followed?" I said, with a shudder.

"Maybe we're all being followed," said Kristy darkly.

"Maybe Mr. Zibreski is the head of a big gang," said Mary Anne, looking terrified. "Who knouts what they'll do next?"

"Hold on, hold on," said Shannon. "I think we're getting a little carried away. A gang?"

"It could be true," said Stacey. "Anyway, even if it isn't a whole gang, somebody did open that door. Who was it?"

We all exchanged panicked glances. Just a few hours earlier, I had been sitting in the dark, feeling secure in the knowledge that I was home alone. But I wasn't alone. Somebody else was in the house. And he wasn't a member of my family, I was sure of that. If he had been, he would have answered when I called out. Plus, I would have found him when I searched the house. No, it had definitely been an outsider. The question was, why had someone opened the darkroom door? Was it just out of curiosity, or did he have a purpose? Was he out to ruin my film and make sure I couldn't prove what I hoped to prove? And how had he gotten in and out when the front door was locked? Maybe he was a professional.

My head was spinning.

"I'm just so sorry you lost that film," said Mary Anne. "You must feel terrible about that. Now we only have those other pictures, the first ones. And we can't tell anything from those. If only I hadn't made fun of you for taking pictures of the bank, we might have a lot more." She sat with her face in her hands, looking glum. Then, suddenly, she sat up straight. "You know," she said slowly, "I just thought of something! There are more pictures of the bank, and they're still in my camera." She turned to me. "Remember? While I was using that one roll of black-and-white film you gave me, I took a whole bunch of pictures of you taking pictures of the bank, just for a laugh." She got to her feet. "I'm going to ride home and get them right this second," she said.

"Great!" I said. "And I'll develop them the minute you get back. Or, on second thought," I added, thinking of the stranger on the other side of my bathroom door, "maybe I'll wait till my parents come home."

Chapter 10.

Of course, by the time Mary Anne got back with the film, my parents were home from work, and so was Janine. Mary Anne handed me the film and said she couldn't stay because her dad and Sharon wanted her home for dinner. "But I'm dying to know what you find out," she said. "Call me!"

I was on my way upstairs, thinking I'd head straight for the darkroom, when my mom called from the kitchen. "Claudia, time for dinner," she said.

"Oh, Mom," I said, walking into the kitchen. "I'm really not hungry, and I have some work to do in the darkroom. Can't I skip dinner, just this once?"

She shook her head. "You know how I feel about that," she said. "Dinnertime is just about the only time our family is all together. I'd like you to sit down with us so we can all talk."

"Okay," I said. "Want me to set the table?" I was hoping I could at least hurry dinnertime along, if I had to be there for it. I grabbed the plates, napkins, and silverware and threw them down on the dining room table, setting it in record time. Then I headed back into the kitchen and helped my mom put together a salad to go with the chili my dad had made.

Finally, after what seemed like hours, we were all sitting down at the table. As usual, my parents asked Janine and me how our days had gone. "Fine," I said, trying to keep it short.

"I had a wonderful day," said Janine. "I worked at the lab straight through lunch, and Professor Woodley said my research techniques were excellent." I thought she gave me a strange look when she said she'd worked straight through lunch, but I ignored it. I had a feeling I knew what she was thinking: that I was a real lightweight because I sometimes complained about having to go to school until noon every day during the summer. Well, I didn't care what she thought. If she wanted to be a workaholic, that was fine with me. As long as she didn't expect me to be the same way.

I bolted my chili, plowed through a small plate of salad, and asked to be excused.

"No dessert?" my dad asked, pretending to be in shock.

"It's blueberry pie," said my mom, trying to tempt me.

"I'll have some later," I said. "Right now I need to develop some film. By the way, Janine, that reminds me. I still haven't made a sign for the darkroom, so could you please just knock before you open the door?"

"Of course," she said. "Destroying your film once was enough. I'll take every precaution to avoid repeating the error."

"Uh, right," I said. "Thanks." Sometimes I wonder about Janine. She's smart, no doubt about it. But will she ever learn to talk like a normal person? I jumped up from the table, took my plate into the kitchen and rinsed it, and headed upstairs.

For the second time in one day, I went through my film-developing routine. I brought my radio into the darkroom, and I stuck the towel under the door. I-set up my chemicals and equipment, and this time I checked everything twice to make sure the tank would be where I could find it. Then I switched out the lights and began to load Mary Anne's film onto a reel.