Pernille placed a fingertip in her open mouth and made a gagging noise.
“What was that?” Miss Grondal snapped.
“Pernille,” her papa murmured. “A little respect, please.”
“Respect?” It seemed to pop out of Pernille by surprise. Her tone tilted.
Frederik found himself grabbing for cake he didn’t want. It was all he could think of. “Yum!” he exclaimed, stuffing it in so fast he could no longer speak. “Delicious.” Crumbs flew everywhere.
Pernille stared icily at Miss Grondal, and Miss Grondal stared icily back.
“I apologize,” the upholsterer said. “I don’t know what’s gotten into my daughter today.”
“No,” said Miss Grondal. “Well. I expect it’s that temperament, isn’t it. She’s of a different nationality, after all. You know. By birth.”
“Nationality?”
“That’s not what she means!” And Pernille was getting to her feet, tipping the table. A knob of foam fell off her papa’s coffee into the saucer.
“At her age,” Miss Grondal said, “a girl needs a female influence. A mother figure.”
“She does!” said her papa, brightening. “My thoughts exactly.”
“I,” Pernille said, teeth gritted, fingertips gouging the tablecloth, “already. Have. A. Mother.”
“Where?” Miss Grondal tipped her head.
“Gone, sadly,” said her papa. “We don’t know where. But there must be others who could play that role. Don’t you think, Pernille? People close by? It’s hard for busy businesspeople to find time for a family. But here we are, Miss Grondal and I, two businesspeople living so close together. I was simply thinking that between us we could—”
“No!” Pernille leapt up, the coffee flew sideways and clean off the edge of the table. It hit the concrete with a smash, and Frederik’s ankles were instantly warm and damp. “I have a mama!” she shouted.
The other customers peered at her over their cups. A baby began to cry.
Gretchen Grondal stared intently at Pernille, head tilted, lips pursed. “You remind me of someone,” she muttered.
“No, she doesn’t,” Frederik said.
“No, I don’t,” Pernille snapped. “I’m nothing to do with you!”
“Pernille, please.” Her papa was reaching for her arm, but she shrugged him off. She forced her way out from behind the table, kicking a chunk of broken saucer into the street.
“Pernille!” Her papa was cross now, worried too. His calm and charm had disappeared.
“She is not my mama!” Pernille wheeled away, hair flying, skirts lashing, arms folded, head down. She marched away, along the street, toward Municipal Hall and the lighthouse that no one knew was there. She broke into a trot, and then a run.
“Wait! Pernille!” Her papa tried to go after her, but Miss Grondal caught his arm.
“Let her go,” she told him. “She’s a hothead, that one. It’s the foreign blood.”
“I’ll go,” Frederik said. “I’ll catch up with her.”
“Make sure she’s all right,” her papa called after him.
Frederik was far behind her. She had longer legs. She was past the duck pond already. Almost at the corner and the Ramasubramanian Superstore. Well, that was a safe place. He’d catch up with her there. Calm her down. They shouldn’t have gone near Café Grondal. He knew they shouldn’t. He’d said so. Don’t go there, he’d said. They had to be more careful. And he still hadn’t told her about the Dahl Dalbys and the zombies.
“Pernille!” he called, and ran as fast as he could.
Chapter 5
A Foreign Person
Frederik veered through the door of the Ramasubramanian Superstore and pulled up sharp.
No one there.
“Hello? Pernille?”
No heads above the rickety racks. No one perusing the out-of-date produce. No Pernille. Where had she gone?
At the back of the store, beyond the counter, Venkatamahesh Ramasubramanian emerged from a darkened doorway. “Young businessman! You are back. I was just experimenting with the icy chocolate drink you inspired.”
“Is Pernille here?” Frederik asked. “Have you seen her?”
“The extraordinarily tall young lady with the striking hair?”
“Yes, her.”
“No.”
“Rats!”
“But I wish she were here. She brightens my day. Such a vivacious young woman.”
“We’re in enormous trouble, you see. We made up those zombies, and now it’s backfired.”
“Such spirit. My mother would have told us—”
“Thanks then. Got to go.”
“My mother would have told us,” Venkatamahesh raised his voice, “that your friend reflects the auspicious qualities of a Lakshmi, wife of Shiva. Or was that Parvati? I really should have paid closer attention. Anyway, she would have said—”
“I really have to go!”
“Or was it Vishnu?”
“Thanks, then. See you.” And Frederik made it out the door. Spotted two tall figures crossing the street. And then he made it back in the door, backward, at high speed, and threw himself headlong under a shelf.
The shopkeeper stared down at him from not very far up. “I recall there was one with a lot of arms,” he said.
“Hide me!” Frederik hissed.
Thick, blue detergent dripped from dusty bottles onto the tile.
Two more people entered the store. Two huge men. In suits. Short hair and cold expressions. They examined Venkatamahesh’s stock, while Frederik rolled himself farther under the rack. The shopkeeper clearly had no idea who they were. But Frederik knew. The mayor’s detectives: Mortensen and Martensen.
“Welcome, gentlemen—welcome to the Ramasubramanian Superstore. Excellent goods at excellent prices, and open on Sundays for your extra convenience.” Venkatamahesh gave a little laugh, giddy at receiving so many customers at once.
The two men did not laugh.
“Sundays,” said one of them without emotion. He reached into a pocket, withdrew a notebook and a tiny ballpoint pen. He wrote something down. “Open,” he repeated, “on Sundays.”
His companion took a step closer to Venkatamahesh, staring down at him from a great height. “Are you aware, sir, of the borough’s designated opening hours for retailers?”
“Yes,” said Venkatamahesh. “Yes, I am. They are unnecessarily restrictive. Bad for business, and bad for you, my clientele.” He smiled. “So I ignore them.”
“‘I…ignore…them,’” said the first man, writing that down as well.
“Lucky for you! So, as the only grocer open today, can I interest you in some groceries? Cocoa powder? Buy two get one free. Or…” His face lit up. “Would you care to sample an experimental iced concoction? A recently invented, soon-to-be-patented Midsummer Festival souvenir.”
One of the detectives squinted. “Souvenir?”
“Exclusive limited edition for festival goers. Be the first to try the prototype. Half off.”
“The caterer for the festival,” the detective said, “is the Café Grondal. Souvenirs are subject to license.”
“License?”
“Got one?”
“Erm…”
“You don’t. I know that for a fact, Mr.… What is your name, sir?”
“Ramasubramanian.”
The detective with the pen blinked blankly at his pad. Then at Venkatamahesh. Started writing. Slowly. “Llama,” he said, “submarine.”
His partner walked around Venkatamahesh in a tight loop. His shiny shoes passed just inches in front of Frederik’s nose. “Submarine, sir?”
“No. Not a submarine.”
“You’re denying it now?”
“Denying what?” Venkatamahesh was becoming anxious.
“Wh
y,” said the first, “would a keeper of a convenience store several miles from the sea have need of a submarine, Mr. Llama?”
“My name is not Llama.”
“You gave a false name?”
“Who are you? Why are you asking me these questions?”
“Why are you avoiding them? Why do you keep changing your answers? What are you hiding, Mr. so-called Llama? And where is your submarine? Are you a subaquatic smuggler? A spy? You’re not from hereabouts, would that be correct? Where are you from, sir? Somewhere foreign? Are you a foreign person, Mr. Llama? Where are Llamas from, exactly, sir?”
“The Andes,” said the other detective.
“Are you from the Andes, Mr. Llama? Or is Llama an alias? A devious pseudonym? Are you, in fact, not from the Andes at all?”
Frederik’s head was wedged at an awkward angle underneath the shelf. There was grime and gooey liquid on the floor. He could smell it. His arm was going to sleep. But he couldn’t move. Didn’t dare. He’d be heard, seen, recognized instantly. These were the same detectives he and Pernille had eluded that night at the zoo. Now he was trapped. Couldn’t escape. Couldn’t help Mr. Ramasubramanian, couldn’t find Pernille, couldn’t move.
“I want you to leave my shop,” Venkatamahesh said, shaken. “Leave, or I will call the police.”
One of the detectives produced a card. Held it up for Venkatamahesh to read.
“Oh,” said Venkatamahesh. “You are the police.”
“Your submarine,” the detective growled.
“I do not have a submarine.”
“Denies,” the second one wrote, “owning…afore-mentioned…submarine.”
“I have never seen a submarine!”
“And what, Mr. Llama, do you carry in your suddenly nonexistent submersible? Hmm? Might it be”—and he paused for an excruciatingly long intake of breath—“zombies?”
Involuntarily, Frederik’s head jerked up. Smacked the underside of the shelf. Metal rattled. A bottle of laundry detergent skipped an inch in the air and landed with a thud. Frederik gave a hiss of pain. His vision went all wrong.
Two pairs of shiny shoes turned his direction, squeaking on the sticky linoleum. “What was that?” a detective asked somewhere far above.
Frederik held his breath, eyes watering. Any moment, they were going to crouch down and look under the shelf and straight into his eyes.
“Oh, that little noise?” Venkatamahesh replied hurriedly. “It felt like a tremor, don’t you think?”
“Tremor?”
No! Frederik mouthed, willing Venkatamahesh to stop.
“An earthquake!” the shopkeeper said. “Oh no. Please move toward the door in accordance with borough evacuation regulations.” There was hesitation. Murmuring. But on Frederik’s Hill, rules were rules. Two pairs of shiny shoes and one pair of shabby slippers moved away, toward the daylight, leaving Frederik behind. Venkatamahesh had covered for him. But at what cost?
“Earthquake?” a detective said, very doubtful indeed.
“Just like before. Remember?”
“There was no earthquake,” Venkatamahesh was told in a menacing tone.
Frederik wriggled and peered out from under the cornflakes.
“There was,” said Venkatamahesh. “You must remember it, surely? My mother would have told us it was the deity Ganesh, Remover of Obstacles.” He glanced around his shabby store. “I wish he’d remove mine.”
“Deity?” a detective asked, uncertain.
“Ganesh is the one with the head of an elephant,” Venkatamahesh explained.
“Elephant?” the detective said. “You know about that?”
“No!” Frederik breathed. “No, no, no.”
“I surmise,” said Venkatamahesh.
“You surmise the shaking was caused by an elephant?”
“I’m speculating.” Venkatamahesh was sounding ever more guilty.
“Have you mentioned this elephant to anyone, Mr. Llama?”
“No.”
“Has someone mentioned it to you?”
“No.”
One of them moved extremely close, forcing Venkatamahesh back to the refrigerator. “And did you speculate about zombies too?”
“Zombies? No. They were in the news.”
“How did they get in the news, sir? Who mentioned them? Where did the story start?”
Venkatamehesh coughed. “Well, there is a legend—well, a fable, really. Well, a story. About the vetala. Not zombies, exactly. Well, similar. Dead, you see. Except alive. And walking around. They harass innocent people.”
The detectives did that too. Heart thumping, Frederik quietly slithered sideways out from under the shelf, into the farthest aisle, head down. He crept to the rear of the store, the counter, the darkened doorway. Mortensen and Martensen weren’t looking. They were focused on Venkatamahesh, who was gripping the edge of the fridge in fear. Frederik tried to catch his eye, to signal, but he couldn’t.
“And where would you speculate these zombies are to be found, Mr. Llama?”
“Charnel grounds,” the shopkeeper croaked.
“What exactly is a charnel ground?”
“Where corpses are left,” he managed. “To decompose.”
“Corpses?”
“Dead ones. It is a ritual.”
“Ritual?”
“Yes.”
“Corpses?”
“Yes.”
“Zombies?”
“Yes. No.”
“It’s time we took a walk across the street, Mr. Llama.”
“Oh. You’re going?” Venkatamahesh’s head lifted. “Good. All right then. Thank you for stopping by. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you more. Safe journey.”
“You don’t understand.” And they crowded him more, till he was all but sitting on top of the soda. “We are all taking a walk.”
“All of us?”
“All of us.”
“Me?”
“You.”
“Where to?”
“To the mayor, Mr. Llama. Across the street, to Municipal Hall, to have a conversation with Her Ladyship the Mayor. About your story, sir. About your secret submarine. About your zombies.”
“The mayor?”
“The mayor. And if I were someone like you, I would get my story straight.”
Before Frederik could do a thing about it, Venkatamahesh was ushered out the door, onto the street, not even allowed to pause to lock up. And they were gone. All of them. For a walk.
To the mayor.
Frederik stood alone behind the counter. The fridge rattled unhealthily, and then the Ramasubramanian Superstore fell horribly silent.
Chapter 6
Zombies
Branches whipped in the breeze and clattered windows. Birds were flung backward and sideways, litter lashed Frederik’s ankles as he ran.
What had he done? He’d invented zombies to frighten bullies, and now the zombies had come alive. They were prowling the borough, out of control. Why hadn’t he kept his big mouth shut? Venkatamahesh was in front of the mayor, facing her angry questions, ugly threats, lights shining in his eyes. He’d crack. He’d break, no matter how bravely he’d covered for Frederik back there. And where was Pernille? Where had she gone? Had they taken her too?
He galloped into the square. The mall was closed. The library too, its big glass doors locked and darkened.
“Pernille?” he shouted, and her name echoed around the fronts of the stern, empty buildings.
“Behind you,” she called.
He whipped around, tripped, tumbled onto concrete.
She was sitting on a planter, tucked behind a wall. He had run straight by without seeing her.
“Venkatamahesh,” he wheezed, clambering to his feet. “They got him. They took him. He’s been taken. It’s o
ur fault. The zombies. They know about the zombies.”
She took a long length of white hair and coiled it around her finger. “There are no zombies,” she said. “Really. I don’t have time for this today.”
“You don’t have time?” Frederik nearly exploded. “He’s been taken away! He’s been arrested. We got him arrested.”
At that, her eyelids raised, and she unraveled her long, long legs. “And you’re sure about this?”
“I was there! I was under a shelf.”
“Were you? How odd.”
“I was hiding. He hid me. He had to. No! He didn’t have to. He could have given me away, but he hid me instead. And then I let him get arrested! What have I done? They’ll torture him. They’ll get our names. They think he has a submarine.”
“Has he?”
“No!”
“Pity. Well, I’ll try to help where I can, but I have a lot on my plate.”
“Like what?” He checked the street to make sure no one had followed him from the store.
“Finding my mama.” She didn’t say it exactly. She sort of sighed it. Breathed it out in a wave of longing.
“Oh,” he said. “Right.” Pernille’s search for her real mama was familiar ground and he knew to tread it carefully. “Miss Grondal is twisted and mean. Ignore everything she said.”
She let go of the curl of hair and it bobbed in midair like a spring. “Perhaps it’s the wake-up I needed. I haven’t been concentrating. I’ve neglected my search. I’m going to find her.”
“Yes, you should. But first, can we please go somewhere safe?”
“Today.”
“Today?”
“Today, muffin. I’m going to find my real mama today. I’ve been blind. I’ve been lax. I’ve been fast asleep at the wheel of fortune. How could I? What kind of daughter am I?”
“Pernille, this might not be the best time.”
“What better time could there be? Right now. This moment. This day, this place. She’s near. I know it. I feel her presence. I’ve always felt it. She’s someone I know; I know she is. I must find her. No more delay. I won’t have that harpy Gretchen Grondal pawing my papa!”
“All right. But let’s get out of sight.”
Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles Page 4
