SHAKESPEARE’ SECRET by Elise Broach Page B

the last time she’d had a friend she liked well enough to miss. Not Kate or Lindsey, certainly.
    The buzzer rang in the quiet kitchen, and Mrs. Roth hurried to open the oven door. A rush of heat filled the room, full of the fruity smell of the muffins. She carried the tin to the table and rested it on a pot holder between them.
    Hero dropped a hot muffin onto her plate and blew on it, watching the steam swirl in the air. She had so many questions she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure if Mrs. Roth was still in the mood to answer them.
    After a minute, she said, “If the diamond is at my house, why do you think the police didn’t find it? They would know where to look better than we would.”
    â€œTrue,” said Mrs. Roth. “And you should have seen the mess they made. The house looked as if it really had been burglarized, by the time they finished with it.”
    â€œBut if they didn’t find the diamond after all that, do you think it’s still there?”
    â€œWell, it’s a quandary, isn’t it? But we have several advantages over the police, my dear. For one thing, Eleanor and Arthur. I know how they thought. I know what they cared about. And for another, we have a clue.” She slid the note card across the table.
    Hero looked again at its crisp, dark letters. “Still ... it must be in a really good hiding place.”
    â€œA good finding place,” Mrs. Roth said quietly.
    â€œWhat?” Hero asked, puzzled.
    But Mrs. Roth only shook her head. She seemed distant and sad.
    â€œOkay” Hero said, trying to make things normal again. “Let’s look at what he wrote. Let’s try to figure out what it means.” She read aloud the script that looped generously over the paper: “Eleanor would have wanted you to have this. You were a good friend to her.”
    And, then, turning it over:
    â€œDo not go gentle into that good night. Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
    â€œThe dying of the light,” Hero repeated. “What’s that? Sunset? Nighttime?”
    â€œPerhaps,” said Mrs. Roth. “But the poet is talking about death.”
    â€œOkay. But what ’rages’ against death? Doctors? Medicine?”
    Mrs. Roth took another sip of tea. “Well, yes, literally, I suppose. But also love. Hope. Memory.”
    Hero shook her head in frustration. “That doesn’t help. Those aren’t places you can hide something.”
    â€œNo, not really. Unless love meant a gift, something concrete. Like a book.”
    Hero leaned forward excitedly. “A book of poems? A book with this poem in it?”
    â€œThat would be tidy. But there weren’t any books left in the house, were there? Everything went with Arthur when he moved away.”
    Hero sighed. She took a big bite of the muffin. The blueberries were so hot they burned her tongue. “Maybe I should start by looking everywhere the Murphys would have kept books. Where they would have kept a poetry book. There are lots of built-in bookcases at our house, and weird cupboards and things. Maybe a board is loose somewhere, or there’s a hidden compartment.”
    Mrs. Roth looked unconvinced. “That sounds like something out of a detective story, doesn’t it?”
    â€œWell, the clue is out of a book. Maybe the hiding place is, too.”
    â€œIt’s a starting point, I suppose.”
    â€œI’ll check the bookcases and the medicine cabinets,” Hero decided. “But, the problem is, how am I going to do this without my whole family figuring out that I’m looking for something?”
    â€œYou’ll just have to do your searching when they’re not around.”
    Hero stared out the window gloomily “They’re never not around.”
    Mrs. Roth patted her arm. “Then you’ll have to be clever and take advantage of unforeseen opportunities.”
    â€œI guess,” Hero answered