by Bj Gold
“He's your son?” I know I was stammering. I was trying to be a fact finding detective, but I was a fraction less than an expert, who knew her interviewing fundamentals. The old lady was fine, but I was certainly a foreigner in understanding the way she furnished information.
“Well, no. Not really. His Mama left and his Daddy weren't much, so I took him.” She shook her head, and then said, “Guess it's a good thing I didn't do a very good job of teaching him to shoot.”
I grinned, “Yes, Ma'am.”
“You better be a going on to find that cat. If he is still alive, I think he just might be up in the cabins. Folks throw out a lot of trash. What the bears and raccoons don't get, the cats usually find,” she said.
“Thanks. Thanks a lot,” I said. I left that fine old lady, with thoughts of finding Forgotten Freddy before gun-totting folks could focus on finishing him off with frustrated and flawed fire power.
Chapter SIX
Fighting Flesh Eaters For Freddy
I quickly scouted the west side of the lodge and then followed the narrow, dirt path going up the hillside. It was dark on the path, as the trees blotted out all the sunlight. But the bugs were a lot worse. They seem to come from everywhere. It was like I was in the middle of their target range. The mosquitoes nosed dived right into my neck and face. On my arms and the backs of my hands. I started to run and slap at myself all at the same time. SLAP! SLAP! SLAP!
By the time I came out of the tree-lined tunnel, my hands and face looked like I had been on the losing side of a jam fight. Either that, or I had the worse case of instant pimples you could ever imagine.
First FISH GUTS and now BODY-BOMB DIVING Mosquitoes.
I quickly headed up and stood on a pile of rocks. Pure sunlight and a breeze. Just enough to surround me in an instant safe zone from all human eating bugs. I pulled my teeshirt out of my pants and stretched it to wipe off my face. I couldn't take the chance of using anything clean in my back pack that I might need later. Besides, I think sweat might be a good substitute for soap and water. Especially for BUG BLOOD and FISH GUTS!
. . . .
My tee shirt was instantly stained with my blood. Maybe that's what my coach meant when he asked if me if I've got any “bug juice” on me. Oh man, my coach has got to be a little clearer about these kinds of things. I thought he always meant that “bug juice” meant something to drink. Jeez Coach, I'll never drink anything red and sweet ever again. BUG BLOOD and GUTS mean “BUG JUICE.” Cripes.
. . . . .
The old lady was right. Up on the hill, overlooking Elfin Cove were a bunch of little shacky houses. Not much to look at. Then I remembered. On the plane, the two men where talking about how much they were paying for staying in “Historical Alaska Homesteads.”
The narrow log cabins were all lined up in a row. They were grey with age and looked really old. Each cabin had four steps up to a small porch. I could see grass and weeds growing under all the porches. It looked like the porch was the outdoor drying station for anything that needed to be hung over the log railing. One cabin had fishing bibs and towels slung over the railing. Maybe folks filleted their fish and left the FISH GUTS near the porches.
I started looking under every cabin's front porch.
Then I hit my head with my hand. “Like, duh.”
Freddy the Forgotten Feline likes warm SUNNY windowsills. I needed some food and some sleep. I wasn't thinking straight. My tummy seemed to agree. It growled and groaned. I definitely needed something besides chocolate and sugar. I would never admit it to Mom, but I knew I needed protein. Something substantial. Then a bed, or at least something to curl up on and take a nap. With the sun out almost all night in Alaska, it made it hard to realize that it was midnight. I had been detecting for eighteen hours with no sleep and no real food.
I needed food. But first, since I was here, I looked quickly through all the trash containers around the cabins, the warm windowsills, and anywhere that might have a strip of sunshine on it. No Forgotten Freddy. No white hairs stuck to splinters of wood. No little cat footprints in the dirt. Forgotten Freddy was quickly becoming a Fickle, Forsaken Feline that Frolicked and didn't want to be FOUND.
. . . . .
I ran as fast as I could back down through the tunnel of trees and the BODY-BOMB DIVING Mosquitoes. I was able to hold my breath the whole way. By the time I reached the lodge's front porch I was reaching for my knees and taking deep breathes. But at least I made it through without looking like I had suddenly become a zit-filled face of an unlucky teenager.
Now for some food. Anything but fish. And I didn't want spaghetti—just the thought of red made me think of FISH GUTS. Maybe I could find some macaroni and cheese. Then I could focus on finding Freddy, that Forgotten Feline who seemed to be flourishing much better than one very famished detective.
Chapter SEVEN
Fast Food Fortification
One of my least known detective tools is my Mom's ATM code. It was actually her idea that I have it. About a year ago she got stuck in a meeting. She needed cash. She called me, gave me the magic code and WAHOO—I was in money mecca heaven. I've only tested it once to see if the magic numbers still worked. I have a great Mom. Better yet, she 's kind of forgetful. And she doesn't like to have to do anything with bills. So I didn't think she would even notice forty dollars taken out of her account.
Just inside the lodge, there was an ATM machine. I knew there had to be one. Where there are tourists, there are ATM machines.
There was also an old fashioned telephone. Just waiting for Mom's long distance phone card. I dialed home. I was in luck. I got the answering machine. Pretty easy to tell Mom that I had decided to stay overnight and would be home late tomorrow. That wasn't lying. I just didn't mention that I was in ALASKA.
“Are you waiting for your parents?”
Ponytail, pimples and pumping on her gum. Her greying apron had smudges of mustard, catsup and gravy on it. She held a pencil and pad in her hand, all the while looking out the window as she talked to me.
“No, they told me to eat without them,” I said.
“So what ya want?” she asked.
She kept looking out the window. focused on a group of guys that were drinking beer down at the docks.
“Hamburger with everything but onions, large fries and a chocolate shake,” I said.
“How you want it?”
“On a bun?” I guessed.
She took a deep breath and popped her gun and then gave me a look that said she wished all kids were dead.
“How you want your meat cooked?”
“Oh. Done. Well done,” I said.
“Good luck,” she said.
She flipped her ponytail and walked her stretched tight jeans towards the kitchen.
In the time it took to get my meal, I made the decision to keep looking for Forgotten Freddy for as long as I could, or until it got too dark to see his white and grey fur ball self. I also decided that I was thinking of Freddy in a new light. The formerly known feline named Forgotten Freddy was now renamed Fickle, Fish Eating Freddy. I figured that Freddy was finding his new freedom to be a fabulous adventure, or I wasn't
Jubilee Kincaid:
Owner and President: All Things KID Detective Agency
My dinner plate held a Frisbee-sized hamburger, cooked to perfection. Another platter appeared with the fries and my chocolate shake was in one of those huge, old fashioned milkshake glasses. I poured on the mustard and catsup (I tried not to think about fish guts) and started to eat. And eat. And eat. It was worth the full price of twenty-six dollars.
My waitress came back, still popping her gum and looking bored.
“Anything else?” she asked.
“My Dad asked me to ask where his friend might find a place to sleep tonight.” I said.
“Ain't no place tonight. We're all full up,” she said. She looked back at the guys on th
e dock and mummered, “Course half the time people party all night, don't even go to sleep.”
“Not even a dumpy place?” I asked.
She turned back to me and with a smirk said,”This is Elfin Cove. We don't got no 'dumpy places.'”
“Ah, okay,” I said.
She took my twenties to the cash register and came back with all ones.
I put three dollars down on the table. I hoped that I wouldn't have to eat again before I found Freddy.
I guess I should have asked her about Forgotten Freddy, the fickle fish eating feline who was having an most excellent adventure. I shook my head. A good detective knew when to ask questions and when to quietly leave. I picked up my backpack and left while she was staring at the guys on the dock. One of the guys was holding a rifle. I had to find Freddy—I was running out of time.
Chapter EIGHT
Freddy Favors Fishy Folks
I quickly ran down to the docks, keeping away from the beer drinking guys. They seemed to be in a really good mood, but I was tired of fishy guys and possibly more fish guts.
No Fickle, Fish Eating Freddy.
I tried to run all the way back up through the tunnel of trees and the BODY-BOMB DIVING Mosquitoes. But my stomach hurt from so much food and so little time to digest it. So I gave up and let the bugs feast on my face for the last twenty yards.
Here's a good question: Why do adults pay huge sums of money to vacation in a place that is infested with every kind of flying bug that wants a piece of you, not to mention four legged creatures that see you as snack bait?
. . . . . .
With one finger I could push the cabin door open. It seemed like a good place for a city cat to sleep for the night. I looked around--there was no one in sight. No suitcases in the bedroom and no used soap in the bathroom. And no Freddy. Suddenly I was tired. Very tired. I was yawning all the time. My eyes just needed to be able to close. Maybe if I took a quick nap I would have more energy to find Freddy. Fatigue. That was it. I was mentally and physically fatigued. I needed to sleep.
I quietly and carefully tried to close the door. But it stuck just before it would click closed. I would have had to slam it to get it to close. So I pushed the heavy desk chair, which was made out of all sorts of antlers, in front of the mostly closed door.
I pulled open my backpack and took out my toothbrush. Yuck! Finding your toothbrush slimed up with FISH GUTS is truly awful. I dug a little deeper and realized that everything at the very bottom of my backpack was soaked in FISH GUT slime. I put a thick layer of toilet paper over the stuff in the bottom (guess I wouldn't eat left-over Halloween candy) and washed my hands. Finger brushing would have to do until I could get a new toothbrush.
I went back into the bedroom and flung myself on top of the bed. I took one last sniff and realized that my backpack wasn't the only thing that smelled like FISH GUTS. I stunk. Everything I was wearing, even my skin was soaked in FISH GUTS. This was not my idea of a fine time in Alaska. It was totally uncool to be be so foul—steeped in FISH GUTS.
I would just sleep for a little while. Then I would go find Freddy and go home.
. . . . . .
The boat was sinking.
I was going down with the ship.
I couldn't move.
There was a weight on my chest.
Water was lapping up my chin. To my lips. Then my nose.
I flung my arms and WOKE-UP!
I tried to focus my eyes, but it was all white and blurry.
And then “SLURP.” Right up my nose. And again, “SLURP.”
“Hey, what's going on?”
SLURP.
I sat up. Or least tried to sit up. There was enough sunlight coming in through the window that I could see a . . .white, fuzzy blur right on top of my chest!
“MEOW.”
I squinted and then I saw the white freckles.
“Oh my gosh!”came out in a hushed disbelief.
He just looked at me, as if this was the most usual way to wake up in the morning.
“FORGOTTEN FREDDY, IT'S YOU!” I said.
He smiled. He actually smiled. Then he SLUPPRED my face again.
“Okay, pal. I like you, too. But ENOUGH with the kisses,” I said.
He smiled again.
“Wow. Double Wow,” I said.
I put him back down on my stomach.
He licked his front paws for a moment, turned around and around, and curled up. Right there on my stomach. It was my good fortune that Forgotten Freddy had found me, girl detective. But I'm guessing that for whatever reason, Freddy figured that this cabin was the best one for him to flourish in and not become a feline who floundered in Alaska. Forget that I was soaked in FISH GUTS and probably smelled just fine to Freddy.
I scratched him behind his ears. His ringed tail twitched twice and then lay still.
“I can see why the Fiddle Family finds you so fabulous,” I said and yawned at the same time.
The former famous feline named “Forgotten Freddy,” needed a new formal name.
And now that I had met him, I realized the “Fickle, Fish-Eating Freddy” would not due for this feline.
I got it. From now on, “Forgotten Freddy” would be called “Flying Freddy—Famous Frontier Fish-Finding Feline.” Well, I would just call him plain old “Flying Freddy.” For now.
Chapter NINE
Ferrying Freddy
It took all of Mom's frequent flyer miles and one more trip to the ATM machine to get Flying Freddy home to Friday Harbor. I think he liked hiding out of my backpack. Or maybe it was being able to totally enjoy the aroma of FISH GUTS that were soaked into the bottom of the backpack. (I highly suspect that being immersed in FISH GUTS is what lead Forgotten Freddy to find his way to my cabin. Maybe that fiendish fisherman was really a fine and friendly fisherman.
. . . . .
“Jubilee Kincaid, my family and I are so very grateful to you,” said Mr. Fiddle.
I had just handed Flying Freddy over to the Fiddle family's youngest child, Felicia.
Standing on the Ferry dock, with all passengers and people from the town circled around us, Mr. Fiddle took a check out of the inside of his coat. I peeked. I tried not to let anyone see me move my eyeballs totally sideways. I saw the number “5” with a zero Well, fifty dollars was not too bad.
Snap out it. I had to remember that I was not in this business to make money off of other's misfortunes. After all I was:
Jubilee Kincaid
Owner and President All Things KID Detective Agency
“I figured that Forgotten Freddy. . .ah, I mean, Flying Freddy was worth a fortune to us,” boomed Mr. Fiddle.
The crowd clapped.
The ferry blew it's horn.
He patted me on the shoulder and turned to the crowd, “So Jubilee I hope this check for FIVE THOUSAND DOLLARS will let you know how . . .”
Everyone was cheering and blowing their car horns. The ferry blew its horn again.
I don't remember much of the trip home. On the ferry and on the plane all I did was answer questions from folks about that fine, fascinating, famous feline named “Freddy.”
Chapter TEN
Freddy's Fortune
“Did you have a nice weekend?” Mom asked.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said.
Then she hugged me.
She backed up and wrinkled her nose.
“Did you guys go fishing?” she asked.
“Yeah, sorta,” I said.
“Looks like it was a long weekend in the outdoors,” she said.
I gave her a limp smile.
“Okay. Go take a shower and put on some clean clothes. Dinner is almost ready.“ She took me by my very tired shoulders and pushed me gentle towards the hallway. “And. . .”
She gave me a funny, but definitely a mother's suspicious look.
“What?” I asked.
“Where's your backpack?” she asked.
“Oh honey, those things happen. I don't want you to spend what little money you have on a back pack,” she said.
I smiled and nodded. Aren't Mom's great?
“And Jubilee,” she stopped, wiped her hands on the towel and said, “I really missed you this weekend, I'm glad your home.” She even dabbed at the corner of her eye. (My mom is one of those weepers that you just have to learn to live with.)
“Me too, Mom.” I could feel my heart turning a little mushy, so before she could hug me again, I turned and headed for the hallway and my bedroom.
Everything was just like I left it.. My desk. My bed. I opened my closet and took a whiff. Yes! NON-FISHY CLOTHES. And my little VHS Denis the Menace tape box. Maybe I should open a real bank account. I pulled the folded check out of my back pocket. Of course I would repay my mom and then I would just wait. I really didn't need to spend the money on anything for me. Besides, there should always be enough money to find some kid's best friend and first class buddy. I mean, pets are priceless, right?
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About Bj Gold: Lives with her husband and rescued dog, Layla, on the Washington coast, exactly where Lewis and Clark reached the ocean, and before they crossed the Columbia river and wintered in Oregon. Writing stories is a little like exploring unknown territories, it is always exciting, sometimes a little scary, but most of all fun.
Title: “Unexpected Gifts” a Theodore B. Scott Mystery (ages 8-11)
Connect with Bj Online:
Facebook: http:/www.facebook.com/bj.gold.16
You can find upcoming books and more information on her Website: www.bjgoldwrites.com
And for her blog for parents at: www.dearfriendsblog.wordpress.com
