Nessie Quest

by Melissa Savage

  “You mean their handles? Like on the radio?” I say.

  He smirks. “Not exactly—these are names Cornelius and I have come up wi’ on our own, based on their, ye know…individual traits.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard of Cornelius,” I say. “Euna Begbie said he lives out past the beach in his camper van.”

  “He’s one o’ ours,” Hammy Bean says. “He gave up his whole life in London twenty years ago just to move to the Highlands and find the monster. Ye’ll meet him soon enough.”

  “Okay, so what are the aliases of the old guys?”

  “Cornelius says they always sit in the same exact order, so it goes like this, in order of appearance.” He counts them on his fingers, thumb first. “Number one is Lord Grunter.”

  I scribble the name on my pad.

  “Second in line is the Duke of Buttcrack,” he says. “For obvious reasons.”

  I snicker at that one and scribble it down.

  “And the last one?” he says. “Ready for it?”

  My pen is poised.

  “Ready,” I say.

  “Sir Farts-When-He-Laughs.”

  I detest tuna casserole.

  It’s vile on all levels.

  Especially when Mom forgets to crumble the potato chips on top of it, because the potato chip pieces are its only redeeming quality.

  But don’t tell her I said so.

  What I never would have guessed in a million years when Mom takes me to lunch the next day at Farquhar’s Famous Fish House in town is that Tuna Tetrazzini would become one of my new favorite things about Scotland. That’s because the Scotland kind of Tuna Tetrazzini doesn’t come from a can with a mermaid on it. And there isn’t a single pea in sight.

  This Tuna Tetrazzini is a cat.

  I meet her for the very first time at Farquhar’s Famous Fish House. She’s curled up on the counter next to the cash register and purrs when I scratch her on top of her head. I find out from Mr. Farquhar that Tuna Tetrazzini doesn’t belong to the Farquhar family, or anyone else in Fort Augustus, for that matter. Technically she belongs to the whole town and it’s everyone’s job to love and care for her.

  And they do too.

  Next to Mr. Mews, she’s the sweetest cat ever, with a white-and-black mustache, and she purrs when you pet her on her belly as well as when you scratch her head. She also seems to take a special liking to me, because when she wakes up from her counter nap, she jumps down and rubs her side along my leg over and over. She probably senses that I’m a cat person and maybe even how much I miss Mr. Mews.

  Cats are sensitive that way.

  “Take a look at the menu,” Mr. Farquhar says, standing in front of the register and waving a hand at the large blackboard stuck to the wall behind him.

  On the board is a long list of fish basket choices neatly printed in white chalk. Mr. Farquhar is about as tall as Dad, with a whole lot more in the middle. Mr. Farquhar has a scraggly beard with more gray than black, and he’s wearing a white grease-spotted apron that’s more grease than white.

  “Ooh, can I have pudding for dessert?” I ask Mom, pointing to the board, where there is a list of different flavors. “It looks like they have three different kinds. Red, black, and white. That’s probably Scottish for chocolate, vanilla, and…maybe red velvet or strawberry.”

  Mr. Farquhar chuckles and when he does it, his belly dances up and down under the apron.

  “Lass, that type o’ puddin’ refers to a Scottish meat dish. Black puddin’ is blood sausage wi’—”

  I don’t get all of what he’s saying because I’m too busy swallowing down a gag from the first part to hear the second.

  “No thank you on the bloody pudding, Mr. Farquhar. In Denver, we don’t put bloody meat in our pudding.”

  Mr. Farquhar chuckles and his belly bobs. “Nae?”

  “Never,” I say. “Just sweet things like chocolate or vanilla or butterscotch. Never meat. Never, never meat. So if you don’t have the sweet kind of pudding, I’ll just stick with your famous fish. Wait…you don’t make your fish with bloody meat stuffed inside it, do you?”

  He chuckles again. “Nae, lass, it’s nothin’ but a fish wi’ a battered topping.”

  Mom holds up two fingers. “We’ll take two orders of fish and chips, please,” she tells him. “Extra tartar sauce.”

  After Mom pays, we find a tall table with red stools right by the front window. I get busy telling Mom all about my new position while she makes out a grocery list for our next stop at Ness for Less.

  “He even made me an actual reporter,” I tell her, rubbing Tuna Tetrazzini’s belly while she purrs in a ball on my lap. “Well, reporter/secret agent, whatever that means. His newsletter is called the Nessie Juggernaut. I told him he needed to update his whole operation if he wants to be relevant. You know, like adding a podcast. Do you think you could help him set up his own podcast the way you did for me?”

  “Of course,” she says, writing the word mayo on her list.

  “And…Dax is busy making a musical intro for the podcast. He’s the boy who was playing guitar on the steps when we first moved into the abbey. I’m thinking I’ll ask him to do one for Words with Ru too,” I go on. “I’ll wait and see what he comes up with for Hammy Bean first. But it’d be cool to add a musical intro. Don’t you think, Mom?”

  She smiles. “Sounds good. By the way, I saw Euna Begbie on my way out today and she was telling me about these Brie and bacon sandwiches that are popular here. How does that sound for lunches this week?”

  I shrug. “Fine,” I say. “But I’ll have mine with the crust cut off, Velveeta instead of Brie, hold the bacon.”

  Mom blinks at me. “That’s just a plain old cheese sandwich.”

  “Brill.” I give her a thumbs-up.

  “Brill?”

  “That’s what Briony says for brilliant,” I inform her. “Brill.”

  She smiles and goes back to her list.

  “And you want to know what else?” I go on. “Today, for my first assignment, Hammy Bean told me to interview the Loch Watchers. They’re another team that’s part of this thing called the Nessie Race. That’s the unofficial contest to be the first to get the best evidence to prove the existence of the monster.”

  Mom looks up again. “What about some more scones from a Wee Spot of Tea for breakfasts?”

  “Sure,” I say. “I like the orange ones, and look at this too.” I take my new walkie-talkie off my belt loop to show her. “It has a four-and-a-half-mile radius and we can only talk in code because of”—I look to the right and then the left—“Nessie Race spies.” I whisper the last three words.

  She smiles at me and then exclaims, “Oh!” as she scribbles down 3 onions on the list.

  The radio beeps in my hand and Hammy Bean’s voice comes out of the speaker.

  “Captain Green Bean to Denver? Come in, Denver? Do ye read me? Over.”

  “See?” I say, pointing to the radio. “That’s my official handle. I have to get this. You know, official Jug business and all.”

  She nods and grins. “I completely understand,” she says, going back to her list.

  I push the button on the side just like Hammy Bean showed me. “Denver here,” I say.

  Silence.

  I push it again. “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Hammy Bean’s voice comes out of the speaker. “Ye have to say over when you’re done talkin’ or I willna ken you’re done. Get it? Over.”

  “Oh, right,” I say. “Over.”

  “I’m just checking in to make sure you’re listenin’ in case some real important Nessie business happens that I need ye to report on. Over.”

  “Well, I am,” I assure him. “Over.”

  “I just emailed you the official walkie-talkie spy-prevention codes for any and all communication starting im
mediately,” he informs me. “Learn them. Live them. Be them. Over.”

  I look at Mom. “The kid’s a little intense about all this Nessie Race business,” I tell her.

  “Clearly,” she says.

  “That’s a ten-four,” I call into the radio.

  “Ye forgot to say over. Over.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Over.”

  “I will be expectin’ a debriefin’ on the Three Bears once ye’ve obtained the intel. Captain Green Bean is over and out,” he says.

  “Ah…okay, Denver is over and out.”

  I clip the radio carefully back onto my belt.

  Mom’s just grinning at me and flicking her pencil in the air back and forth between her thumb and pointer finger.

  “What?” I say.

  “I knew you would rise to my challenge,” she tells me.

  “Don’t get crazy or anything,” I tell her. “I’m still homesick as all get-out. And Britney B texted me that she saw Delilah Morgenstern trying to walk Mr. Mews down Tennyson on a leash.”

  “I still love seeing you’re enjoying yourself here, making friends and learning something new about the area.”

  “Mr. Mews was on a leash, Mom. A leash.”

  “I’m sure Mr. Mews will rise to his challenge too,” she tells me.

  “Here we are, ladies,” Mr. Farquhar says, carrying two plastic baskets lined with red-checkered paper and filled to the brim with fish sticks and thick potato fries. “Two orders o’ Farquhar’s famous fish an’ chips. Cheers.”

  “Mr. Farquhar?” I ask him, taking a giant bite of a chip, which is really just a flat French fry. “What makes your fish so famous?”

  “Ahhh.” He places his pointer finger against his nose. “There’s a secret seasonin’ combination in the batter, and o’ course the top-secret homemade tartar sauce,” he tells me, winking at Mom. “A family recipe handed down from my great-great-great-granddad Colonel Ian Stewart, a fisherman in the North Sea for a right many years.”

  “That’s a lot of greats,” I say, taking a bite of famous fish.

  “It certainly is,” he agrees, watching me chew my first bite, covered in a generous helping of homemade tartar sauce. “How is it?”

  I swallow. “I can definitely see why you’re famous.”

  I take another bite of famous fish slathered in tartar sauce. “Mr. Farquhar,” I say. “Do you believe in the Loch Ness Monster?”

  “Aye, of course, lassie.”

  I look at Mom. “See?” I say.

  She just smiles and nods.

  “As you may or may not already know, I’ve just been named official reporter for the Nessie Juggernaut, which will be expanded into an upcoming podcast, available for download where you get your podcasts. It is now my job to do interviews on eyewitness accounts and other relevant Nessie things. Would you be interested in being interviewed for the program? On the record, of course.”

  “Nae, I wasna aware o’ your new position.” He pulls out a red stool from under the table and slides himself onto it. “But I would be delighted to oblige. The name is Fergus Farquhar. F-E-R-G-U-S.”

  “Okay, hold on,” I tell him, pulling my iPhone out of the back pocket of my jeans. “Please speak clearly into the speaker.”

  He starts again. “The name is Fergus Farquhar,” he says.

  “Thank you, sir. And just so we know your level of knowledge on the subject, could you answer some questions for us?”

  “Aye.”

  “Have you seen the monster with your own eyes?”

  “Back in 2012 I was out sweepin’ the front walk near the canal side.” He juts a chin toward the front of the store. “In the water, oot front here, somethin’ caught my eye.”

  “There?” I point. “Right in front of the shop past the sidewalk?”

  “Aye,” he says. “I canna say wi’ certainty what it was. But when I got closer an’ took a keek at it, I saw somethin’ under the water that was longer than the Tibbys’ Nessie Quest boat an’ Jasper Price’s Monster Chaser put together. The thing splashed about and stirred up the loch just under the surface. Like it was stuck in the canal an’ tryin’ to get back oot to the main part o’ the loch.”

  I swallow. “And you think it was one of…them?”

  “I dinna ken what it was, lass, but that’s the mystery then, isn’t it? Everyone is seekin’ an answer to determine what people ha’ been seein’ all these years. And that’s no wee feat. This loch contains more fresh water than all the lochs in England an’ Wales combined. The monster could be anythin’, and there are certainly a lot o’ differin’ opinions aboot it.”

  “Like what?” I ask.

  “No one kens for sure,” he says. “And all those who participate in the Nessie Race believe somethin’ different.”

  “You mean, like if someone spotted a Bigfoot or a Kraken or even an extraterrestrial, we know exactly what they are, but this thing could be a lot of different possibilities?”

  “Aye. Take that bloke there, Jasper Price?” He points to a man polishing the brass rails on the green speedboat bobbing in the water. “He runs the Monster Chaser daily tours, an’ he dinna ha’ a doubt it’s an actual plesiosaur.”

  “Is Jasper Price a part of the Nessie Race too?”

  “Aye, he is,” Mr. Farquhar says. “An’ see those blokes there?”

  He points to the three old men with binoculars lined up on the bench by the beach.

  “The Loch Watchers,” I say. “They’re my very first assignment.”

  “Those right numpties each have a different theory o’ what is in the deep waters of the loch. They sit by the water all day every day wi’ their binoculars and argue about who’s right.”

  “What do they believe it is?” I ask.

  “I’m sure they’ll blether on to ye all aboot it in yer interview.”

  “It sure sounds like the Nessie Race is some serious business around here,” I say.

  He nods. “Aye, indeed. And those are just our local competitors. There are many others from different countries, even scientists who have come here all the way from America. There’s one chap, a French artist, Dureau Bouvier, who wraps his boat in black plastic an’ sails through the waters o’ Loch Ness once a year, beatin’ on a large drum on the highest deck o’ his ship, callin’ out to Nessie to come to the surface for a blessin’.”

  I chew on the end of one of my fish sticks and then swallow. “So, Mr. Farquhar, what do you think is living in these waters?” I ask him.

  “It’s not the most interestin’ opinion, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s okay,” I tell him.

  “I think it’s nothing but a sturgeon,” he tells me.

  “Is that another kind of whale?” I ask.

  “Nae, lass. It’s a fish.”

  “A fish?” I say. “Just a plain old fish?”

  “Aye, it’s one that can grow to many meters in length, and in a loch this size, hidden in deep waters for all these years, that sturgeon could be the largest in history if someone ever caught it.”

  “Are sturgeons supposed to be extinct, like dinosaurs?”

  “Nae.”

  “So…really just a regular old boring fish?” I ask.

  He nods. “I told ye it wasna the most interestin’ opinion.”

  “You’re right about that,” I mumble. I consider this and take another bite of famous fish.

  PAGE ONE

  It all started with just a regular old boring fish.

  Dullsville supreme.

  “What does Hammy Bean’s team think it is?” I ask Mr. Farquhar.

  He gives me a full-on Cheez Whiz. “What do you mean, lass?”

  “Hammy Bean,” I say again.

  “Honey Tibby’s lad?”

  “That’s right.”

  “We
ll, that wee lad is not exactly considered part o’ the Nessie Race for discovery,” he tells me.

  I look at Mom, then back at Mr. Farquhar. “Why not?”

  “This is a serious race wi’ serious scientists and investigators, and I reckon a few dunderheids to make it interestin’.” He gives me a wink. “But nevertheless, dinna ye doubt that there is a serious search for real evidence happenin’ in this loch.”

  “But Hammy Bean is as serious as you get,” I tell him. “Believe me. To the point of being fairly obnoxious about it, if you ask me. He probably knows more about what’s living in this loch than anybody besides maybe Mamo Honey, and that’s only because she was a famous investigator at one time.”

  “Well…” Mr. Farquhar pauses. “Honey Tibby gave up her investigations long ago, so no one really considers her a part of the race either. She spends her time runnin’ the Nessie Quest tours now and tendin’ to the lad. You ladies enjoy yer lunch. Please let me know if there’s anythin’ else I can get for ye.” Then he stands and heads back toward the kitchen.

  I press Stop on my iPhone and call after him.

  “Mr. Farquhar,” I say. “Does anyone in Scotland believe that people are just seeing things or even pulling practical jokes just to fake people out?”

  “Aye, there have historically been hoaxes, even datin’ way back. Google the 1934 surgeon’s photo. That was the longest-running hoax. But dinna let that dunderheid fool ye, lass. There is somethin’ verra big swimmin’ in those waters. The question is…what is it? And who will be the first to find it?”

  I give Mom a big grin. “See?” I say.

  “Mom,” I call from her closet after lunch the next day. “Where’s your tan hat? The one with the black band around it?”

  “Why?” she calls back from the living room.

  I pop my head around the corner and see her sitting cross-legged next to the coffee table, typing on her laptop.

  “I need it,” I tell her.

  “Ahh…one of the bottom drawers of the dresser, maybe?”

  I pull open one drawer.