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visit and our theory about the list.
    Lola sat down on top of a stuffed elephant on her bed. She stared at me. “I’ve seen the list. Mr. Peat had Jerry’s name on it the day before he died.”
    “That proves it!” I said. “We need to get that list.”
    “I’m dead! I’m dead!” cried Aaron.
    “Shut up,” said Lola, but even Lola couldn’t keep Aaron from sobbing. Lola pulled him in front of her. She cupped his face in her hands and stared directly into his eyes. “Look at me,” she said, surprisingly gently. “We’re going to get that list. If we can destroy it, you won’t die. But you’ve got to stop crying, okay?”
    Aaron sobbed away.
    “If you stop, I’ll let you keep that rock your holding.”
    Aaron looked down at the rock and sniffled loudly.
    “Good job. Now you and Josh get your bikes. I’ll meet you in front of my house in five minutes.”
    I had to admit, when it came to blubbering little kids, Lola was pretty good.
    We rode our bikes to the address on Victor Peat’s business card—the same funeral home we’d been to twice before. There was a sign out front: PEAT AND PEAT. COMPLETE FUNERAL ARRANGEMENTS .
    The lobby had dark carpeting, straight-backed chairs, and a black coffeepot oozing steam. I asked a frizzy-haired woman sitting at a desk if Victor Peat was there. She told us he and Ludwig were out calling on prospective clients.
    “They’ll be back this evening at five o’clock for a funeral but won’t be available to meet with anyone until Monday morning. Is there something I can help you with?”
    I mumbled, “No thanks,” and we went outside.
    “What are we going to do?” asked Aaron. “If we don’t get the list before Monday, I’ll be dead.”
    “We go home for now,” Lola said. “And we come back here at five o’clock, for the funeral. That’s our only hope.”
    When we got home, Dad was still painting. He’d made remarkable progress on the front of the house, tilted ladder and all. I told him I’d felt sorry for Aaron and had thought of a way to cheer him up. Dad still yelled at me, so I took my position at the bottom of the ladder again. I stayed there, helping him move the ladder, until four o’clock.
    At four thirty, Aaron and I were in our bedroom, putting on our dressiest clothes—black pants, white shirts, and clip-on ties. Aaron looked horrible. He’d been crying all day and his whole face was puffy and red. At a quarter to five, Aaron and I were sneaking out the back door when we heard Mom call us to set the table for dinner. We made a run for it. Aaron’s life was on the line. We had no choice.
    Lola met us in front of her house. She was wearing a dress and looked years older than me. We pedaled hard until we reached the chapel, where we hid our bikes in the bushes out front and went inside.
    The chapel was crowded, so we sat in the back row. A minister told us all about a man named Joe Lampkin. According to the minister, Joe had worked as a garbage collector, always remembered his nephews’ birthdays, and was a friend to everyone on his route. Between frightened sniffs, Aaron said the dead man sounded like a nice guy.
    “Everyone sounds nice at their funeral,” said Lola. “That’s the rule.”
    In a few minutes, Victor and Ludwig Peat entered the chapel through a side door. They watched the rest of the service quietly, and then Victor Peat went to the front of the chapel and invited all the guests to the reception area, where they could “enjoy some refreshments and reminisce with friends and loved ones.”
    “Ludwig keeps the list in his inside coat pocket,” I whispered to Aaron and Lola. “If we can get him to take off his coat, we can snatch it and get rid of it when we’re safe at home.”
    “How do we get him to take his coat off?” Aaron asked.
    “I don’t know. Let’s go to the fellowship room and see what we can figure out.”
    When we entered the reception area, Aaron grabbed my arm and pointed to the punch bowl. “We