Rasmus Rasmussen froze, stared at Frederik, all his color draining away. “Zombies?”
“Please tell us you know where they are!”
Chapter 9
Top Priority
A cramped office, removed from danger. A table stained with circles from coffee cups. They could still hear the thud of that huge bull elephant ramming its door. The window rattled every time.
“Tea?” Rasmus poured boiling water into a teapot and stirred it with an old stick. “Where did I put that sugar?”
“Here,” said Pernille.
Three plastic bags sat side by side on a shelf. Each packed with sugar cubes.
Rasmus took a sharp breath and grabbed her arm. “No! Not that one. This one. On the right.”
“What’s the difference?”
Rasmus chuckled, a deep, throaty rumble. “This is a zoo. The sugar isn’t for humans, if you know what I mean.”
Pernille gave him a moody glare. “I have no idea what you mean. Frankly, it’s becoming something of a pattern.”
The elephant keeper sighed. “That one there, on the right, is sugar. Straight sugar. Very good sugar, as it happens. Try it.” He held the bag open. They each took a lump. Frederik’s sat on his tongue for a second before he noticed. And then he noticed. It was wonderful. Incredible. Unbelievable. The sweetest, most delicate, delicious sugar he had ever tasted.
“Wow,” he whispered.
“Finest coarse cane sugar from Sri Lanka. Extremely expensive.” Rasmus tossed the bag back onto the shelf. “We have it specially flown in.”
As the wonder ebbed away, Frederik asked, “Flown in, but not for humans?”
“For the elephants. It’s what they’re used to, see. Reminds them of home. They’ll eat that, no complaint, anytime, no matter what I inject it with.”
“You inject your sugar?”
“Yep.” He set three mugs of murky liquid on the table and squeezed beside Frederik. “The bag on the left is a mix of vitamins and dietary supplements. Elephants aren’t meant to be this far from regular sunshine. Messes with their hormonal balance.”
“And the bag in the middle?” Pernille asked, scrutinizing it.
“Sedative.”
She opened her eyes extremely wide.
“Mild,” said Rasmus. “Calms them down when we need to transport them. Or for medical treatment.”
“But you have tranquilizer darts for that,” said Frederik.
“They’re for emergencies. Sugar’s kinder.”
Pernille tugged on a length of her hair. “Would it perhaps be prudent to label the bags?”
Rasmus laughed. “Funny you should mention that. One morning, I wasn’t paying attention. Popped a couple of the vitamin cubes in my cocoa. Didn’t notice till I drank it.”
“What happened?”
“Terrible. Horrible. Ruins the flavor for one thing. Tastes repulsive. And then there’s the vomiting. A complete rerun of breakfast in reverse.”
“How dreadful.”
“It was.”
“But it didn’t persuade you to mark which bag is which?”
Rasmus shifted shiftily. “Can’t risk that. I’m not supposed to use them myself, see. Too pricey. So I hide a bag for me alongside the ones for the animals.” He rested his enormous elbows on the tabletop. It creaked. “Now.” He sucked his teeth, as though building up his courage. Lowered his voice. “What’s this about zombies?” His eyes went to the window and stayed there, watching for monsters outside.
“We need to know where they are,” Frederik said. “Can you tell us? The mayor’s long-lost marbles. We need to find them.”
Rasmus twitched.
“We’re in terrible trouble, you see. Terrible danger.”
“From zombies,” Rasmus nodded. “Finally, someone understands.”
“No, not from zombies exactly. But from the mayor. She knows we know.”
Rasmus pulled himself upright and almost toppled the table. “She knows you know about the zombies?”
“The marbles. Yes. Although she doesn’t know we’ve seen one.”
“You’ve seen one?” Rasmus pressed his back against the wall. A line of sweat appeared along his brow. His eyes were wide, his nostrils dilated, and that was a thing you didn’t want to be close to. “Where?”
“Down there,” Frederik said. “Underground.”
“You were down there?”
“We were down there today. They’re not really zombies. They’re statues.”
“No,” Rasmus hissed. “They are so much more than that. So much worse. They are old. As old as death. I’ve heard them. Their voices. I have looked into their eyes, and their eyes are old and cold and soulless.”
“Yes, but stone,” Frederik said. “Carved from stone.”
“They whisper. They moan. They breathe. And when they appear in all their legions, there is ruin! Destruction.”
Pernille folded her arms in front of her. “Listen, Rasmus. We know they upset you, and we understand, given how badly the mayor treated you. But you’re the only person alive who can tell us where they are. And finding them is the only way to prove the mayor is lying. If we find the marbles, we save our skins. If not, we’ve had it. Get it?”
Rasmus scowled. “I get it. But I can’t help you. I don’t know where they are.”
“You once told us they’re in the pipes.”
“They must be. I feel them. I hear them through the floor.”
“Are you sure?”
“As sure as sugar is sugar.”
Frederik eyed the confusing bags on the shelf. “So not very sure at all. This is hopeless. We’ll never find them. What can we do? We have to somehow get the mayor off our backs.”
“Oh,” Rasmus blinked. “Why didn’t you say? That’s easy.”
“It is?”
“She’s the mayor.”
“Yes?”
“And what do mayors do? They plan, they budget, they prioritize. She’s a prioritizer. A ruthless prioritizer. Do you know why she’s chasing you?”
“Because of the zombie rumors?”
“No. Wrong. Because the zombie rumors are her highest priority. However, should a higher priority present itself, she would immediately re-prioritize, prioritizing that higher-priority priority, and deprioritizing you. See? Simple.”
“Is it?” Frederik stood, stared out the window. “What higher priority is there?”
Beyond the zoo, in the Garden Park, grassy ramparts fell away from the castle to the boating lake below. At the foot of the hill there was a van and a man with a camera. He was snapping shots of the hillside, the pathways, the lake, and the lawns. Preparing for something.
“Her midsummer festival!” Frederik realized. “That’s a higher priority. Her highest of all.”
“So, can we make her focus on that?” Pernille said.
“How? We don’t know anything about it.”
“No. Except that that witch Gretchen Grondal is the caterer.”
“That’s something,” Rasmus said.
Frederik stared at his hands. “There’s less than two weeks till the festival. If we could somehow disrupt the catering preparations, it would become the mayor’s top priority for sure. But how?” And his gaze strayed across the cramped, little room, up the wall, to the shelf. And three bags of sugar cubes, side by side. He stood. Reached for a bag. “Vomiting, you said?”
“Hours of it,” said Rasmus. “Horrible.”
“Any lasting damage?”
“Nope. Vitamins and minerals. Harmless, apart from the upset stomach.”
“That’s how,” said Frederik. And he pocketed the bag of finest Sri Lankan coarse cane sugar on his way to the door.
They hurried through the park, snaking among the thickets and canals. Resolved, at first. Determined. But the f
urther they got from the zoo, the more Frederik began to worry.
“This is nuts,” he said. “Can we really interfere with the festival? Can we possibly get away with it?”
“I don’t know, muffin. But what alternative is there?”
Approaching the northernmost gate, they passed the door in the floor. A seemingly everyday, commonplace wooden front door lay flat in the cinder path beside the murky canal. They knew what was under there: the secret pipes and tunnels that snaked beneath Frederik’s Hill.
They’d been down there once. Frederik shuddered at the memory, and as they hit the street by Municipal Hall, he lost his nerve entirely. He grabbed Pernille and steered her to the Ramasubramanian Superstore. “Let’s think about it,” he said. “Let’s hide in here. I left it unlocked this morning.”
They tiptoed inside the silent store. The lights were off.
Wait.
Had he turned the lights off? He didn’t remember doing that.
“Pernille! Get out of here!” he hissed. And then a hand closed tight on his shoulder. He yelped.
Pernille’s eyes grew larger than ever. “Oh!” she said. And then she grinned a quite-delighted grin. “You’re here! You’re free! The mayor let you go?”
“Shush,” said Mr. Ramasubramanian. “Come away from the window. They must not see you are here. They want to catch whoever is responsible for the zombie ballyhoo. And that is you. They are looking for you!”
“We know,” Frederik said, recovered. “I’m so sorry I dragged you into it. Thank you for hiding me.”
Mr. Ramasubramanian shrugged. “As though I would give you up. You are my friend. The inventor of my celebrated chococcino beverage. Consider my store your sanctuary.”
“What happened at Municipal Hall?” Pernille asked. “Was it awful?”
“They grilled me,” the shopkeeper said. “Barked at me. Growled and threatened. But I did not break. I told them nothing. You were not betrayed.”
Pernille gave him a hug, to his evident discomfort. “You’re a wonderful man,” she said. “I’m so happy to see you.”
“And I you,” he said. “But it is a most unhappy day. I remember little other than unfortunate, unrewarding, unhappy day after unhappy day since I came to this dismal land years ago. A land without friends, save for occasional waifs and strays like you two—no offense.”
“None taken. None at all. We’re all waifs and strays, aren’t we? We have a great deal in common.”
And then something seemed to occur to her. She squinted at Venkatamahesh. Held the back of her hand in the air and examined it. She gave a tiny gasp. “Pernille Yasemin Ramasubramanian Jensen,” she murmured. “Why, I’d have more syllables than the rest of the street put together.” She grabbed Venkatamahesh’s hand and held it alongside her own. “Look!”
“What?”
“The same color.”
“Brown?”
“Yes!”
Venkatamahesh blinked a few times. “Am I missing something?”
“Yes,” Pernille gasped, like she’d been holding her breath for thirteen years. “Yes, you are!”
“You’re a lot taller though,” Frederik said to her. “I mean, really a lot taller.”
“A recessive gene,” she declared. “Clearly.”
“Clearly what?” Venkatamahesh asked.
“My darling man. Do you remember, somewhere around thirteen years ago, having, well... How should I put it?”
“A baby,” Frederik said, to shorten the inevitable agony. “Did you, your wife, or anyone else, have a baby? Unusually tall and vocal. Weird white hair.”
“A baby? A wife? I do not have a wife. And I do not have a baby.”
“Thought not. Pernille, are you ok?”
She gazed at the floor, breathing heavily. She twisted a strand of long, white hair into an irresolvable knot.
“Pernille?” he said more kindly.
“I am glad,” Venkatamahesh said, “that I do not have a wife or baby after what I heard from this mayor. She was red in the face and spitting spittle. She said if she doesn’t find out who started the zombie rumor, she will round up every person of foreign origin on Frederik’s Hill and send us back where we came from. Starting with me.”
Frederik choked. “She can’t do that. Can she?”
“She seems confident she can do whatever pleases her.”
Frederik went to the window, an icy lump in his stomach. “My parents,” he said. “That would include my parents. And me. And both of you. All of us.” He peered over the cereals and into the street. “We have to do something. We have to make her change her priorities.” He stared past the blue house, past the yellow. The duck pond, the never-open gallery, Frederik’s Sushi, Frederik’s Antiques. To a row of tables by the window of the Café Grondal. Customers enjoying the sunshine and refreshments.
His hand strayed to his pocket and a package of sugar cubes.
“Today,” he said. “Immediately.”
Chapter 10
Sweet Dreams
They made the hastiest of plans. They cajoled Pernille’s papa from his shop, marched to the Café Grondal, and found a table. There were people chatting. Lots of them. Food and drink on every table on dainty plates on dainty doilies. Neatly folded napkins. Silverware sparkling in the sun. A new banner had been draped across the front of the café: Official Caterer to Her Ladyship’s International Midsummer Festival.
“Not for long,” Frederik murmured.
Pernille’s papa stretched out his legs, and they waited. From the door, pecking and fussing like a spiteful bird, came Miss Grondal. Checking the tables. Checking the street. Checking everything whether it needed checking or not. She saw Pernille. Her back stiffened, her arms folded in indignation.
The upholsterer gave a wave. Miss Grondal wasn’t impressed. In fact, she was even less welcoming than she had been earlier. “You’re back,” she muttered.
Pernille cleared her throat. “Miss Grondal. I owe you an enormous apology.”
Even though this had been the plan, it still caught Frederik by surprise. Pernille was quite convincing.
Gretchen Grondal simply glared at her.
“This morning, I was unforgivably rude to you,” Pernille went on. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me. It may have been gas.”
The café owner didn’t blink. For more than sixty seconds. Frederik counted. It was chilling. Reptilian.
“Won’t you join us for coffee?” Pernille added. “A conciliatory café au lait?”
“Yes, do,” said Pernille’s papa. “Bygones and bridges and all of that. You’ve been on your feet all day, dear lady. Let us treat you to something to pep you up.”
Miss Grondal’s eyes flitted to the upholsterer without any other part of her moving at all. “I suppose I could spare a few minutes,” she said as though nothing would pain her more.
Pernille’s papa’s coffee was spectacular nonetheless. A Matterhorn of cream, reaching many inches above the rim. Miss Grondal took the seat beside him. Her arm brushed his accidentally. He cleared his throat, but he didn’t say a word. Neither did Pernille. But Frederik saw her flash of jealousy, her gulp. She grabbed a cake and stopped her mouth with marzipan.
Miss Grondal had a tiny espresso in a tiny cup in the palm of her scrawny hand.
“Sugar?” Pernille asked sweetly.
Would it work? Could it? All Miss Grondal had to do was pop one in her cup, and she’d be throwing up in minutes in front of her public. For several hours. That ought to get the mayor’s attention. And if it didn’t, they’d try it again tomorrow and every day till it did. They had no other way.
Miss Grondal’s gaze settled on Pernille like a mosquito. She glanced at the china sugar bowl at the center of the table. It was piled high above the brim with white and brown, crumbly, irregular sugar cubes. They looked extr
aordinarily tempting. Frederik’s hand went to his pocket. The bag of sugar cubes was gone. Where was it?
Miss Grondal frowned. “This bowl has been overfilled,” she said.
“Overfilled?” said Pernille innocently.
“I tell my staff to fill the bowl halfway and no more.”
“You used them all?” he murmured. This was not the plan. They had a plan, and this wasn’t it. The plan was one or two at most.
“I think they look lovely,” Pernille said. “Have one. You deserve it.” And she brought the bowl closer to Miss Grondal, waving it alluringly from side to side.
“I’ll take a couple,” said her papa.
“No!” Pernille snapped.
“No!” Frederik yelped.
The adults stared back, suspicious now.
“Your cholesterol,” Pernille explained.
“Your waistline,” Frederik added.
“There’s nothing wrong with my waistline,” Pernille’s papa protested. “I’m as fit as a ferret.”
“But you’ve had no exercise today,” Pernille said. “Whereas Miss Grondal has been laboring since dawn. If anyone deserves a boost, it’s Miss Grondal. Have one. Take one. That one there. The brown one. The white one. One of each. Or two.”
“Careful,” Frederik hissed.
Gretchen Grondal narrowed her eyes, and they were narrow enough to begin with. She reached out with pincer fingers, held them in midair, over the bowl of too many sugar cubes.
Then she dropped her hand to her lap with an irritated huff. “I always tell them: Don’t overfill.”
“Yes, but—”
“Yes but nothing. I can’t rely on my own staff. It’s maddening.” She studied the other tables. “And would you believe,” she said, exceedingly vexed, “the other tables are almost out?”
“Out?”
“Out of sugar! Well, these will do the trick.” She grabbed the bowl and hoisted it high, beyond Frederik’s desperate lunge.
“No!” he said. “Don’t give them ours!”
Miss Grondal frowned at him, lips puckered. “I’ll do as I please. Boys your age shouldn’t be eating sugar anyway. You’ve an excess of energy without it.”
Frederik Sandwich and the Mayor Who Lost Her Marbles Page 7
