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“We really have to—”
    â€œHurry,” Yulefski finishes. “Read the list I made. Don’t waste a second.”
    Number one on the list for me is
REMINDER: buck-fifty for drum lessons
. “What’s that about?” I ask.
    She looks over her shoulder to be sure Bradley’s gone. “It’s to muffle the noise of the digging. Don’t forget, Sister Ramona’s Music Room is almost next to that cellar. She doesn’t need to hear the shovels scraping all over the place.”
    Hard to believe. Yulefski even knows where the coal cellar is, and where Sister Ramona hangs out.
    â€œYes,” Yulefski answers. “My mind is made for important details.”
    Quickly, we move on to Zack’s list. His job is to procure a shovel.
Procure
, that’s the way she writes.
    â€œAnd not that broken-down old one of your father’s,” she says.
    Zack holds up one hand, cutting her off. “Hunter and I don’t have five cents between us. And if you think we’re buying a shovel and paying for it . . .”
    She waggles her ring finger. “Don’t forget the buck-fifty for drum lessons.”
    The bell rings and our open mouths clamp shut. We snake up to our classroom.
    The morning wears on. Sister Appolonia has everyone doing some kind of math. Sister sees our fingers flying and frowns. “We don’t count on her fingers,” she says. Her hands go to her hips. A sure sign of trouble. “See me after school,” she tells the two of us. “We’ll do a little math review.”
    Yulefski waves her hand in the air. Waves it wildly. “I’ll help them,” she tells Sister. She hesitates. “Next weekend.”
    I blink. Zack blinks. Even Sister Appolonia blinks.
    â€œHunter is taking drum lessons from Sister Ramona after school.”
    Sister Appolonia’s hands retreat from her hips. “Admirable,” she says.
    The bell rings and we escape to the cafeteria to eat our tuna fish and marmalade sandwiches.
    Drum lessons. I can’t believe it.

Chapter 11
    The bell rings and we head downstairs to the Music Room. “Wait,” Yulefski says. “Don’t move.” She darts away and out the door.
    Moments later, she’s back, dragging a pair of shovels. “I figured I’d bring my father’s. I couldn’t count on you guys.”
    They’re as rusty and dirty as Pop’s.
    She taps our shoulders with both hands. “That reminds me. We’re getting close to the money. I have to discuss something with you.”
    I brace myself. What next?
    â€œHalf is for me,” she says. “Half for you guys.”
    â€œWait a minute,” I say. “Thirds. T-h-i-r-d-s.”
    â€œWell . . .” She thinks about it, dislodging a Rice Krispie from her braces with one blue-painted fingernail. “It’s almost all in the family.”
    If I had drumsticks I might bop her over the head. But now we’ve arrived at the Music Room and step over a pile of junk. We lean the shovels against the wall, out of sight, and move forward, our ears to the door.
    Boom. Crash. Boom
.
    Is someone being killed in there?
    â€œYOUDY YO!” a voice screams.
    Yulefski has no fear. She pounds on the door with both fists.
    The
boom, crash, boom
stops.
    The screaming stops.
    We hear the sounds of locks opening. Four or five of them. Sister Ramona pokes her head out the door. She looks like a turtle coming out of its shell. A scared turtle.
    â€œWhew,” she says when she sees it’s only us, and not Fred, the killer. She grabs Yulefski’s arm, and my shoulder. She jerks her head at Zack. “Come right in,” she says, and locks the door behind us. “I was just getting myself into a music mood.”
    Yulefski speaks right up. “Hunter wants to take drum lessons.”
    Sure.
    But Sister Ramona looks thrilled.
    â€œI’ll have to owe you,” I say.
    She