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Elizabethan trailer parks.”
    “Mr. Eliot, why can't you ever just admit there's stuff you don't know?”
    “Oh, he knows what it is,” said Margaret.
    Mr. Eliot smiles.
    “And you're not going to tell us!”
    “C'mon, wouldn't you rather figure it out on your own? Tell you what—if you don't have it by the end of the day, come and see me. I'll give you a little hint: she capitalized
school
and
scandal
. You're the detectives—detect!”
    I
am
starting to feel like a detective, but first I have to go to math class.

In which Margaret declares herself to be a
moron, causing me to wonder what that
would make me
    After math class, I totally bomb a Spanish quiz (since I already speak French fluently, they make me take Spanish—
c'est injuste!
) and I'm pretty sure I dozed off in religion class (Lord, please forgive me!), so I am really looking forward to lunch. Leigh Ann joins our table for the first time, and over French fries and chicken nuggets, we tell her all about our little adventure. She is properly impressed and really excited that we have included her. (I'm still a bit doubtful about the whole quartet thing.) After dumping our trays, we all head back to the library to continue our research. Mrs. Overmeyer is on the phone when we get there, so Margaret immediately heads for one of the computers and logs on. Margaret is smart,
not
patient.
    She types in “school for scandal,” and we wait. When the results pop up, her mouth opens so wide her chin almost hits the table. “Oh my God. Turns out I am a complete moron. Sophie, do you have the note?”
    I pull it out of my bag and hand it to her.
    Margaret pounds the heel of her hand against her forehead. “I repeat—a moron.” She shoves the note under our noses, and we all try to see what had suddenly become so clear to her. “Do you see it?”
    “Uh, no,” I say.
    “Look at the note again. He talks about this play, Renidash's
Het Cholos orf Lanscad
. Look at what I found when I looked under ‘School for Scandal.’ It was written by Richard Brinsley Sheridan. RBS. Now, look at the names again:
Sheridan. Renidash
.”
    “Ahhhh. I see it. The letters are all jumbled up,” I say.
    “An anagram,” says Margaret.
    “And
Het Cholos orf Lanscad
is
School for Scandal!”
notes Leigh Ann, jumping right into the thick of things.
    “That Professor Harriman was a clever little man, wasn't he?” I say. “So, what is this
School for Scandal
, anyway?”
    Margaret scrolls down the screen. “Let's see. It's a play. Oh my God, it's in the Harvard Classics! It's in volume eighteen,
Modern English Drama.”
    “Have you read it?” I ask. “What's it about?”
    “Not yet. It says here it is a ‘comedy of manners.’”
    Rebecca has a puzzled look. “A play about manners? Is that like ‘Don't talk with your mouth full’? How do you turn that into a play?”
    “It's about a gossipy woman named—oh, Mr. Eliotwould love this name—Lady Sneerwell, and hey, wait a minute, remember the cat?”
    “Teaser,” I say.
    “Teazle,”
Margaret corrects. “There's a character named Lady Teazle. Let's see if it's still here in the library.” She leaps out of her seat to go to the card catalog computer and types in the name of the play. “Oh, no. It's in storage.” She lets that sink in for a second before starting her rant. “Wait a minute. The Harvard Classics are in
storage?
What kind of school is this? What kind of world are we living in? I have to talk to Mrs. Overmeyer.” She marches over to the librarian's desk, arriving as Mrs. Overmeyer hangs up the phone.
    “Yes, de-ah. How might I be of service to ye?” she asks. After something like forty-five years in the States, her Irish accent is as thick as day-old oatmeal.
    “If a book is in storage, where would I find it?” Margaret asks.
    “Oh de-ah. As the late Mr. Overmeyer—God rest his soul—would have said, ‘Are ye feeling lucky?’ The truth is, it depends. What are you looking for? Maybe you can