Amanda Lester and the Pink Sugar Conspiracy by Paula Berinstein
Now she was facing a dilemma. Should she go back to Laurie’s for her bag or home? She really wanted that ice cream and she knew it wouldn’t spoil her dinner. She had never had an appetite problem. She could consume a piece of chocolate cake with double fudge frosting a half hour before a meal and her parents wouldn’t be able to tell. They never had to urge her to finish her plate. In fact they bragged to all their friends about what a good eater their little girl was—a fact that everyone could deduce just by looking at her.
On the other hand, if she was late for dinner her parents would be angry and she certainly didn’t want that, but she needed her bag. Her phone was in there and she couldn’t afford to be without it. Hm, angry parents or no phone. It was a tough choice. Of course there was the issue of Laurie, who was also angry with her. Oh well. If they were all going to be mad she may as well have her bag. She’d go back and get it.
As soon as Laurie opened the door, the answer hit her.
“OMG, I’ve got it! The film! I know what to do!” She had the best idea ever, and she knew they’d make the festival deadline. No way would actors not want to work on this movie. And now that she knew what the film should be, a slice-of-life story set in a beloved local restaurant that was being edged out by a chain, she would calm down and be more patient and everyone would get along. Hurray!
Thwack. Laurie threw Amanda’s purse at her and slammed the door in her face. It made an angry sound.
“Laurie, open the door,” yelled Amanda. “I have to tell you something. I know what the film should be.”
Silence.
“Laurie?”
A muffled voice. “Go away, Amanda. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”
“Laurie, please. I’m sorry. I got carried away. I didn’t mean it. Everything will be different now. I know what I’ve been doing wrong. I’m going to change. Please.”
Silence, then footsteps moving away. It was over. The end of the stick dogs, the end of anything resembling friendship that she had. Oh well. What was one more failure? But it was the last, for sure, because now she had this great new idea, and YIKES—it was dinner time!
Again Amanda ran, her bag thwapping with each stride. A half-block from home she heard a crackle-squish and felt something under her foot. Oh no! A snail. She stopped so fast she almost fell over and bent down to look at the scene of the murder. Poor thing. She’d completely smashed it. Tears filled her eyes. She felt like a criminal.
Wondering what the proper punishment for a snail murderer should be, she marched the rest of the way to her Spanish-style house, past the fake lagoon with the egrets and the coots, past the pepper trees that made her sneeze, past the palm trees with ten years’ worth of dead fronds hugging their trunks, up her driveway, and through the squeaky back door. She would definitely not admit to the crime. Instead she headed to her room to write down her idea but was derailed when her mother called from the living room in that sickeningly sweet voice she put on for other people.
“Amanda, dear, come and see Uncle Randy. He’s staying for dinner.”
Not Uncle Randy. First of all, he wasn’t really her uncle. He was a friend of her parents. Second, he was a cop, just like Lestrade. And third, he was blubbery, like a whale. She didn’t know how he got away with being overweight like that. She thought police officers were supposed to be fit.
“Hello, Amanda,” Uncle Randy yelled. How could such a short man make so much noise? She was always surprised he didn’t break the glass in the picture frames—those awful family photos and the ones of Sherlock Holmes and his dopey sidekick, Dr. Watson. Although with the terrible lighting in that dark, heavy room no one could see them anyway. Thank goodness her room was Navajo white, which worked really well for shooting scenes. In secret, of course.
She fought the impulse to cover her ears. “Hello, Uncle Randy.”
“I brought that information about the department I promised you.” He looked extremely proud of himself.
Kill me now. You could find information about careers with the police department on the Web.
“Uh, thank you,” she said.
“The L.A.P.D. would be an excellent place for you to work,” said her father. “They have great career paths. Of course you couldn’t testify in any cases I was prosecuting. But there would be plenty of others. With our help, you’d make detective in no time.”
Kill me again.
“You know, dear,” said her mother for the eleventy-seventh time, “Lestrade is a household name. You’d advance like lightning. Probably be running the place by the time you were thirty.”
“And there are so many clever criminals out there,” said Uncle Randy. “The force could use someone like you who could put them in their place.”
“Like Moriarty,” said her father, waving the pipe he never lit.
Moriarty? The brilliant arch-criminal who was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis? The only thing that made reading about Holmes’s cases bearable? That Moriarty?
“Dad,” she said. “Moriarty’s been dead for eighty years. Anyway, I don’t want to work for the L.A.P.D. It’s not interesting.”
“You shouldn’t say such things, Amanda,” said her father. “You come from an illustrious family. You don’t know how lucky you are. Uncle Randy has gone to a lot of trouble for you. I want you to apologize to him.” He drew himself up to his full height of five-foot nine and gave her his best district attorney face, which since the election had begun looking a bit forced.
Herb Lester had run for District Attorney of Los Angeles and lost, and it had nearly crushed him, devastated both Amanda’s parents. It was all he had ever wanted. He lived and breathed his job. The only reason he knew anything about film was because occasionally someone in the movie industry got into trouble, like the time Skip Loopsy murdered his wife and went on trial. Her father hadn’t even known who he was until then. And him an A-list actor, too.
But now her dad had changed. He’d been behaving even more peculiarly than usual lately, which was saying something for a man who wanted his daughter to become the next Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes he’d sit staring at the ceiling and brood till all hours of the night. At other times he’d scream in his sleep, mumbling something about “rictus” or “plexus” or “blixus.” He’d also been acting secretive, which had never been his way before. Truth be told Amanda was starting to worry about him, but she didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t talk about what was bothering him, and she couldn’t talk to him about her life. She was constantly walking on eggshells.
Which for some reason didn’t stop her from speaking up now. She just couldn’t go along with this charade any longer. “I’m sorry, Uncle Randy,” she said, “but policing isn’t for me. I’m going to be the best filmmaker in the world.”
“No, you’re not,” said Amanda’s mother. Here it came again—the speech. “Filmmaking is too risky. Most of those people barely make a living. If you like movies you can always watch them, but there’s no future in making them.”
It was an odd thing to say, as Lila Lester had been writing books for fifteen years—police procedurals partly based on Herb’s cases— and was actually famous. Most writers didn’t do half as well.
“I’m not the same as ‘most of those people,’ Mom,” Amanda said. “You’re always saying how special our family is. If that’s true, then why don’t you think I’m special? And if G. Lestrade is so great, why don’t you change our name back to his?”
Her father winced and the light from the chandelier glinted off his bald head. He’d never had a good answer to that one. Too much paperwork, everyone knows us by Lester, what’s done is done, and all that. She’d always wondered if deep down he doubted his own propaganda. Now he was looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She didn’t know whether to be angry or sad. Without realizing what she was doing she stepped back to put more space between them, overshot her mark, and bumped into the mantel. Her grandmother’s glass-domed clock crashed to the hearth and broke into a million pieces. Her dad jumped as if some
one had snuck up on him. She’d never seen him do that before. Whatever was spooking him was turning him into a nervous Nellie.
“How could you?” yelled her mother. “Go to your room—now!”
Lila started to follow her daughter, tripped, and almost fell off those five-inch heels she always wore. A vein on her neck pulsed with anger.
“Wait a minute,” said Uncle Randy. “Don’t you want to tell her about the letter?”
“What letter?” said Amanda. She’d hoped to be home in time to intercept the letter that was supposed to come from the West Coast Young Filmmakers program, but with all the to-do about the stick dogs’ film she had completely forgotten about it. She’d applied during the summer and it was just about due. If they found out about that they’d probably ground her for life.
“Go look on the hall table,” said her mother, rubbing her foot.
Amanda trudged out into the hall, knees as weak as butterfly legs. As she left the room she heard her parents and Uncle Randy whispering. By the front door, on the polished cherry table that smelled faintly like lemon cleaner, she saw a heavy white envelope with red and gold embossing. She approached slowly, knowing that as soon as she opened it her world would fall apart. Maybe she could just run out the door and never come back. Perhaps she could go live with—who? There was no one. She had no friends, and her real aunts and uncles would never go against her parents’ wishes. Maybe Child Services—
Something was wrong. The name didn’t look right. There was no “f” for “film.” She peered at the envelope. Oh no! She’d completely forgotten. “Legatum Continuatum: The Enduring School for Detectives,” it said.
Not this again. For months her parents had harped on the idea of sending her to that secret school for the descendants of famous detectives, which was tucked away in the English Lake District a million miles away. She’d screamed, threatened, and cajoled, and finally they had dropped the idea—she’d thought. So why was this letter here now?
Fingers shaking, she opened the envelope, which was easier said than done. It didn’t want to give. Secret was right. Even the mail was so secret you couldn’t see it. Finally, frustrated beyond belief, she tore the envelope, ripping the letter inside. Then she saw the terrible words.
Dear Miss Lester,
We are delighted to inform you that your application has been accepted. You may enter our school immediately. We have reserved a dormitory room for you and expect you to arrive Sunday, 6th January. Orientation will take place at 3:00 in the afternoon. Spring term begins Monday, 7th. Please pack for cold weather, as the temperature in this area often dips below freezing. Do not be concerned about bringing your own microscope. We have everything you need.
The Legatum Continuatum School is the most prestigious detective training institution in the world. Our existence is known only to our select community, so we would appreciate your not mentioning us to anyone. We maintain the strictest standards of secrecy and academic achievement. However, being a Lestrade, you are undoubtedly aware of our traditions, and I’m certain that you will comply completely with our policies.
Have a safe journey! We look forward to seeing you on 6th January.
Yours sincerely,
Drusilla Canoodle, Dean of Admissions.
Amanda dropped the letter, ran to her room, and slammed the door. She looked up at the picture of Darius Plover she’d torn out of a magazine, then turned on her computer, opened her email, and hit Reply. Her hands were so unsteady that she had to correct her typing over and over, but finally she managed to write what seemed like a coherent answer.
Dear Mr. Plover,
Thank you so much for your prompt and helpful reply. Your message means more to me than I can express.
I hope you will not think me too much of a pest if I take you up on your offer and write back to you. I do have one more question, but please don’t bother answering if you’re too busy. I am looking for some career advice. How do you become a filmmaker if your parents won’t let you?
Sincerely,
Amanda Lester, Filmmaker.
On the other hand, if she was late for dinner her parents would be angry and she certainly didn’t want that, but she needed her bag. Her phone was in there and she couldn’t afford to be without it. Hm, angry parents or no phone. It was a tough choice. Of course there was the issue of Laurie, who was also angry with her. Oh well. If they were all going to be mad she may as well have her bag. She’d go back and get it.
As soon as Laurie opened the door, the answer hit her.
“OMG, I’ve got it! The film! I know what to do!” She had the best idea ever, and she knew they’d make the festival deadline. No way would actors not want to work on this movie. And now that she knew what the film should be, a slice-of-life story set in a beloved local restaurant that was being edged out by a chain, she would calm down and be more patient and everyone would get along. Hurray!
Thwack. Laurie threw Amanda’s purse at her and slammed the door in her face. It made an angry sound.
“Laurie, open the door,” yelled Amanda. “I have to tell you something. I know what the film should be.”
Silence.
“Laurie?”
A muffled voice. “Go away, Amanda. I don’t ever want to talk to you again.”
“Laurie, please. I’m sorry. I got carried away. I didn’t mean it. Everything will be different now. I know what I’ve been doing wrong. I’m going to change. Please.”
Silence, then footsteps moving away. It was over. The end of the stick dogs, the end of anything resembling friendship that she had. Oh well. What was one more failure? But it was the last, for sure, because now she had this great new idea, and YIKES—it was dinner time!
Again Amanda ran, her bag thwapping with each stride. A half-block from home she heard a crackle-squish and felt something under her foot. Oh no! A snail. She stopped so fast she almost fell over and bent down to look at the scene of the murder. Poor thing. She’d completely smashed it. Tears filled her eyes. She felt like a criminal.
Wondering what the proper punishment for a snail murderer should be, she marched the rest of the way to her Spanish-style house, past the fake lagoon with the egrets and the coots, past the pepper trees that made her sneeze, past the palm trees with ten years’ worth of dead fronds hugging their trunks, up her driveway, and through the squeaky back door. She would definitely not admit to the crime. Instead she headed to her room to write down her idea but was derailed when her mother called from the living room in that sickeningly sweet voice she put on for other people.
“Amanda, dear, come and see Uncle Randy. He’s staying for dinner.”
Not Uncle Randy. First of all, he wasn’t really her uncle. He was a friend of her parents. Second, he was a cop, just like Lestrade. And third, he was blubbery, like a whale. She didn’t know how he got away with being overweight like that. She thought police officers were supposed to be fit.
“Hello, Amanda,” Uncle Randy yelled. How could such a short man make so much noise? She was always surprised he didn’t break the glass in the picture frames—those awful family photos and the ones of Sherlock Holmes and his dopey sidekick, Dr. Watson. Although with the terrible lighting in that dark, heavy room no one could see them anyway. Thank goodness her room was Navajo white, which worked really well for shooting scenes. In secret, of course.
She fought the impulse to cover her ears. “Hello, Uncle Randy.”
“I brought that information about the department I promised you.” He looked extremely proud of himself.
Kill me now. You could find information about careers with the police department on the Web.
“Uh, thank you,” she said.
“The L.A.P.D. would be an excellent place for you to work,” said her father. “They have great career paths. Of course you couldn’t testify in any cases I was prosecuting. But there would be plenty of others. With our help, you’d make detective in no time.”
Kill me again.
“You know, dear,” said her mother for the eleventy-seventh time, “Lestrade is a household name. You’d advance like lightning. Probably be running the place by the time you were thirty.”
“And there are so many clever criminals out there,” said Uncle Randy. “The force could use someone like you who could put them in their place.”
“Like Moriarty,” said her father, waving the pipe he never lit.
Moriarty? The brilliant arch-criminal who was Sherlock Holmes’s nemesis? The only thing that made reading about Holmes’s cases bearable? That Moriarty?
“Dad,” she said. “Moriarty’s been dead for eighty years. Anyway, I don’t want to work for the L.A.P.D. It’s not interesting.”
“You shouldn’t say such things, Amanda,” said her father. “You come from an illustrious family. You don’t know how lucky you are. Uncle Randy has gone to a lot of trouble for you. I want you to apologize to him.” He drew himself up to his full height of five-foot nine and gave her his best district attorney face, which since the election had begun looking a bit forced.
Herb Lester had run for District Attorney of Los Angeles and lost, and it had nearly crushed him, devastated both Amanda’s parents. It was all he had ever wanted. He lived and breathed his job. The only reason he knew anything about film was because occasionally someone in the movie industry got into trouble, like the time Skip Loopsy murdered his wife and went on trial. Her father hadn’t even known who he was until then. And him an A-list actor, too.
But now her dad had changed. He’d been behaving even more peculiarly than usual lately, which was saying something for a man who wanted his daughter to become the next Sherlock Holmes. Sometimes he’d sit staring at the ceiling and brood till all hours of the night. At other times he’d scream in his sleep, mumbling something about “rictus” or “plexus” or “blixus.” He’d also been acting secretive, which had never been his way before. Truth be told Amanda was starting to worry about him, but she didn’t know what to do. He wouldn’t talk about what was bothering him, and she couldn’t talk to him about her life. She was constantly walking on eggshells.
Which for some reason didn’t stop her from speaking up now. She just couldn’t go along with this charade any longer. “I’m sorry, Uncle Randy,” she said, “but policing isn’t for me. I’m going to be the best filmmaker in the world.”
“No, you’re not,” said Amanda’s mother. Here it came again—the speech. “Filmmaking is too risky. Most of those people barely make a living. If you like movies you can always watch them, but there’s no future in making them.”
It was an odd thing to say, as Lila Lester had been writing books for fifteen years—police procedurals partly based on Herb’s cases— and was actually famous. Most writers didn’t do half as well.
“I’m not the same as ‘most of those people,’ Mom,” Amanda said. “You’re always saying how special our family is. If that’s true, then why don’t you think I’m special? And if G. Lestrade is so great, why don’t you change our name back to his?”
Her father winced and the light from the chandelier glinted off his bald head. He’d never had a good answer to that one. Too much paperwork, everyone knows us by Lester, what’s done is done, and all that. She’d always wondered if deep down he doubted his own propaganda. Now he was looking like a deer caught in the headlights. She didn’t know whether to be angry or sad. Without realizing what she was doing she stepped back to put more space between them, overshot her mark, and bumped into the mantel. Her grandmother’s glass-domed clock crashed to the hearth and broke into a million pieces. Her dad jumped as if some
“How could you?” yelled her mother. “Go to your room—now!”
Lila started to follow her daughter, tripped, and almost fell off those five-inch heels she always wore. A vein on her neck pulsed with anger.
“Wait a minute,” said Uncle Randy. “Don’t you want to tell her about the letter?”
“What letter?” said Amanda. She’d hoped to be home in time to intercept the letter that was supposed to come from the West Coast Young Filmmakers program, but with all the to-do about the stick dogs’ film she had completely forgotten about it. She’d applied during the summer and it was just about due. If they found out about that they’d probably ground her for life.
“Go look on the hall table,” said her mother, rubbing her foot.
Amanda trudged out into the hall, knees as weak as butterfly legs. As she left the room she heard her parents and Uncle Randy whispering. By the front door, on the polished cherry table that smelled faintly like lemon cleaner, she saw a heavy white envelope with red and gold embossing. She approached slowly, knowing that as soon as she opened it her world would fall apart. Maybe she could just run out the door and never come back. Perhaps she could go live with—who? There was no one. She had no friends, and her real aunts and uncles would never go against her parents’ wishes. Maybe Child Services—
Something was wrong. The name didn’t look right. There was no “f” for “film.” She peered at the envelope. Oh no! She’d completely forgotten. “Legatum Continuatum: The Enduring School for Detectives,” it said.
Not this again. For months her parents had harped on the idea of sending her to that secret school for the descendants of famous detectives, which was tucked away in the English Lake District a million miles away. She’d screamed, threatened, and cajoled, and finally they had dropped the idea—she’d thought. So why was this letter here now?
Fingers shaking, she opened the envelope, which was easier said than done. It didn’t want to give. Secret was right. Even the mail was so secret you couldn’t see it. Finally, frustrated beyond belief, she tore the envelope, ripping the letter inside. Then she saw the terrible words.
Dear Miss Lester,
We are delighted to inform you that your application has been accepted. You may enter our school immediately. We have reserved a dormitory room for you and expect you to arrive Sunday, 6th January. Orientation will take place at 3:00 in the afternoon. Spring term begins Monday, 7th. Please pack for cold weather, as the temperature in this area often dips below freezing. Do not be concerned about bringing your own microscope. We have everything you need.
The Legatum Continuatum School is the most prestigious detective training institution in the world. Our existence is known only to our select community, so we would appreciate your not mentioning us to anyone. We maintain the strictest standards of secrecy and academic achievement. However, being a Lestrade, you are undoubtedly aware of our traditions, and I’m certain that you will comply completely with our policies.
Have a safe journey! We look forward to seeing you on 6th January.
Yours sincerely,
Drusilla Canoodle, Dean of Admissions.
Amanda dropped the letter, ran to her room, and slammed the door. She looked up at the picture of Darius Plover she’d torn out of a magazine, then turned on her computer, opened her email, and hit Reply. Her hands were so unsteady that she had to correct her typing over and over, but finally she managed to write what seemed like a coherent answer.
Dear Mr. Plover,
Thank you so much for your prompt and helpful reply. Your message means more to me than I can express.
I hope you will not think me too much of a pest if I take you up on your offer and write back to you. I do have one more question, but please don’t bother answering if you’re too busy. I am looking for some career advice. How do you become a filmmaker if your parents won’t let you?
Sincerely,
Amanda Lester, Filmmaker.