Rupert shimmied along the narrow ledge, his toes sliding inch-by-inch toward their goal. His fingertips clinging precariously to the scalloped landing above, he finally got close enough to the open window to wedge himself through. Rupert flicked on his headlamp and found that he was, indeed, in Mr. Fleckwalter’s library.
He quickly tip-toed over to where Fleckwalter hid his safe. It was in a hollowed-out alcove behind a row of leather-bound first editions. Time was of the essence! As Rupert started tearing the books away from the shelf, his eye landed on one title in particular: Mrs. Dalloway by Virginia Woolf.
Ah, Mrs. Dalloway, thought Rupert. What college sophomore hasn’t wrestled with the thorny question of whether to actually read it or just rely on the Wikipedia summary? Woolf’s trailblazing excursion into stream of consciousness storytelling had been the bane of young Rupert’s English Literature 201 class, lo those many years ago.
But had it really been Mrs. Dalloway, or had it been the vexing young redhead who sat beside him every Tuesday morning in that chilly Language Arts building? Clarissa was her name. Rupert could see her even now, smiling over her shoulder at him as she went down beneath the waves. Why had she lied to him about being able to surf? The question still tortured him.
Mrs. Dalloway was just a convenient scapegoat, a relatively short, paperback target to pin his disappointments and fears on. It had always been easier to say, ‘Who cares if Dr. Holmes attends the party?’ than to say, ‘I wish Clarissa had known how to surf.’ Alas, Rupert’s fistfight with Professor Pickles on the marble steps of the Language Arts building had been his first step out the door of academia.
But seriously, Professor Pickles wore the most outrageous pantaloons! If Rupert had been a tailor instead of an aspiring jewel thief, he might have killed the man. Jewel thief. That reminded him of something. Oh, yes! He was in Mr. Fleckwalter’s library. Stealing jewels. Get it together, man, he told himself. But the room was aswirl. Aswirl! How many Xanax did I take? thought Rupert as the room spun madly around him.
Rupert was found lying there the next morning by Mr. Fleckwalter’s valet. He had a copy of Mrs. Dalloway clutched in his teeth. No cause of death could be determined, although to this day, local hillbillies insist it was Shingles.
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