Us and Uncle Fraud by Lois Lowry Page B

into a drawer of his desk and handed me a paper towel. "Here," he said. "Wipe your hands and face. Maybe you ought to take off your wet coat, too."
    I did, and hung it on the coatrack in the corner. Then I wandered, my wet shoes squishing inside my boots, into the children's room.
    "Are you looking for anything special, Louise?" Mr. Mueller called. "Do you want some help?"
    "No, thank you," I called back.
    Then I thought of something. I went back to his desk, where he was busily typing something on index cards.
    "Do you have any books about Russia?" I asked.
    "Of course. Do you want Travel, or History, or Political Systems, or Language?"
    "I don't know." It hadn't occurred to me that there would be so many different aspects of Russia and that there would be books for each.
    "Well, what is it you want to know about Russia? Are you studying it in school?" Mr. Mueller looked genuinely interested. I had always liked him; he was chubby and cheerful, but usually there were lots of people in the library, and he never had time for conversation.
    "No. But someone was telling me—well, you may not know anything about this, Mr. Mueller,
but someone was telling me that in Russia they used to have these fabulous Easter eggs. Not regular Easter eggs, but ones with real jewels on them, like diamonds and stuff."
    To my surprise, he was nodding. "Oh, yes," he said, "the Faberge eggs."
    So they were real, and not part of an imaginary world dreamed up by Uncle Claude. I hadn't said so to Marcus, but after our days of fruitless searching, and after hearing Mother tell about Claude's tree house kingdom, I had entertained vague doubts about the eggs. But Mr. Mueller—who knew everything there was to know about everything—was nodding vigorously and with interest.
    He stroked his chin. "I wonder," he said, "whether it would be best to look under Jewels, or Art Treasures, or whether maybe there might be a listing under..."
    His voice drifted off, and he went to the card catalogue. I looked at the big clock on the wall. Twenty minutes had passed since I left Marcus.
    The library was silent except for the rustle of Mr. Mueller sorting cards to look at them. He closed one drawer and opened another.
    "I just thought I'd check first to see if there was perhaps a listing under Fabergé," he explained. "He was the man who created the eggs. No one has ever been able to duplicate them.
    "But there's nothing listed under his name. Now, let me think. I believe I'll try Jewels, though I
doubt..." He opened another drawer and moved his fingers through the cards.
    I shifted my weight in my wet boots and glanced again at the clock. Twenty-four minutes had gone by.
    "I should
know
this," Mr. Mueller said apologetically. "After all, I'm the one who catalogues these books. But you know, Louise, I've been here seventeen years. And one does forget things after seventeen years. A
few
things, anyway." He chuckled. He opened another drawer. "I think I'll look under Art. It's easier, you know, when something is clearly defined. Now if you'd asked me about Rembrandt, of course, I would look under Art. But those eggs: Well, that's an odd category. No question that they were works of art, but..."
    He leaned over and shuffled through the cards in the drawer marked
A.
I could hear the clock tick in the silence. I willed myself not to look at it again right away.
    The
A
drawer snapped closed. Mr. Mueller's chubby face was red with frustration. "You know," he mused, stroking his chin again, "I just might try Kremlin. I seem to remember that those eggs are stored in the museum in the Kremlin. In seventeen years you are the first person who has ever asked me this particular question, Louise; isn't that amazing?"
    I broke my vow and looked at the clock. Thirty minutes exactly. I went to the door of the library
and listened for the sound of Marcus on the steps, but the only sound was the sound of rain. I took my slicker from the coatrack and put it on. Mr. Mueller was