The Spy Who Loved Ice Cream

by Sam Hay

  “Does your mom know you’re here?” Senior Agent Frost-Flipper interrupted, prodding Jackson.

  At the word mom, Jackson was snapped out of his shock. He jumped up, blinking at his uncle’s boss. “Um—not exactly.” He gulped. Then he took a deep breath. “Uncle Bryn’s innocent!” he blurted out. “He’s got to be. No way would he rob a jewelry store. Or a bank.” He felt his eyes prickle and looked away so the FBI boss wouldn’t see. According to the secret-agent handbook (which Jackson had borrowed from Uncle Bryn and forgotten to return), secret agents never cried. Not even when their favorite heroes turned out to be the worst sort of lowdown, bank-robbing, turncoat super baddies.

  Senior Agent Frost-Flipper puffed out her cheeks. She waved to her colleagues. “All right, guys, move into the store and see what they took. Don’t forget to dust for flipper prints.” She looked back at Jackson. “I must admit, I’m surprised at your uncle. I mean, he was never the best agent on the force—”

  Jackson winced. “Hey,” he began. “That’s not true—”

  “In fact, he was a terrible agent!” Senior Agent Frost-Flipper said. “But a bank robber? It’s hard to believe.”

  “It’s got to be a mistake,” Jackson said. “Maybe it’s just a penguin who looks a lot like him?”

  Senior Agent Frost-Flipper shook her head. “We got flipper prints from the bank job. It’s definitely him.”

  “Then someone’s forcing him to do it!” Jackson snapped.

  “Yeah, perhaps they’re blackmailing him,” Quigley added. “Maybe they know a secret about him—something really bad that they say they’ll tell unless he works for them.”

  “A bad secret, eh?” Senior Agent Frost-Flipper rolled her eyes. “What, like the fact that he’s actually a secret bank robber? Take my advice, kids. Go home and keep your beaks out of FBI business.” She turned away.

  “Wait—” Jackson grabbed her flipper. “See, there was this ice cream truck sled. A really weird-looking one, and Uncle Bryn got into it.”

  “Yeah,” Quigley added. “And he was eating this strange ice cream earlier. It was so freaky. Like alien ice cream. It kind of glowed.”

  “I’m not interested in your uncle’s snacks!” Senior Agent Frost-Flipper shook Jackson’s flipper away. “Go home before I call your moms.”

  “But Uncle Bryn’s innocent!” Jackson shouted. “I can feel it in my feathers. You’ve got to check out the ice cream and—”

  “I’m dialing!” Senior Agent Frost-Flipper waggled her icePhone at them. “Your mom gave me her number, Jackson. One more tap and she’ll be down here before you can say grounded!”

  “Okay, okay!” Jackson backed away. “We’re leaving.” But this isn’t over, he thought to himself. Uncle Bryn’s innocent, and I’m going to prove it!

  7

  “Good morn-ing, Jack-son,” said a high-pitched robot voice. “Time for a clean!”

  Huh? Jackson sat bolt upright and banged his head on the bunk bed above him. “What? No! Get off!” He tried to wriggle his foot away. But the vacuum cleaner house-bot had suckered onto him. “QUIGLEY!”

  His buddy’s face appeared, upside down, from the bunk above. “It’s okay. It’s just dusting you.”

  “Why doesn’t it dust you?” Jackson used both flippers to tug the bot’s sucker pipe off his foot, then pulled himself up onto Quigley’s bunk, out of its reach.

  “I programmed it to recognize my family’s DNA,” Quigley explained. “Anything else that comes into the house is alien. So it cleans it up. It just thinks you’re a—”

  “—giant alien dirtbag!” Jackson rolled his eyes. “Great! Well, please, can you call it off? We’ve got work to do.”

  Jackson had spent most of the night lying awake, thinking up ways to prove Uncle Bryn’s innocence. There was just one teeny-weeny feather-size problem. Uncle Bryn wasn’t inno- cent! They’d seen him do it. They’d seen him hopping out of that jeweler’s shop with what looked like a large bag of stolen gems on his back. And by now the FBI would have the flipper-prints to prove it!

  “So that means there’s only one explanation,” Jackson told Quigley as they headed into the kitchen for breakfast. “Uncle Bryn must have been hypnotized.”

  Quigley nodded. “Oh, yeah, that makes sense. Hypnotism is a powerful weapon. My nana got hypnotized once to stop her snoring. It didn’t work. But she could suddenly do amazing cartwheels— Watch it!” Quigley dragged Jackson down to the floor. “The dishflipper is on a countdown.”

  “Huh?” Jackson glanced up at the dish- flipper’s clock: 5, 4, 3, 2. “Uh-oh!” He ducked just in time as the dishflipper door clunked open and its entire contents—freshly washed cups, plates, bowls, knives, and other utensils—were flung out. They shot across the kitchen toward a huge, rubbery shelving unit, where they landed with a thwump!

  “Bravo!” Quigley’s dad cheered as he shuffled into the kitchen. “Looks like only two cups broken today. You’ve done a great job improving it, son.”

  Quigley beamed.

  Jackson wanted to ask why they didn’t just empty their dishflipper themselves, like regular penguins. But he knew never to question the gadget-loving Puffle-Popper family.

  “Morning, all!” Mrs. Puffle-Popper shuffled in, scooping up a cap from the kitchen counter. As she put it on, a crab claw popped out of the side of the hat and dangled down around her face as a mouthpiece for her to speak into. “Coffeepot ON!” she said into the mouthpiece, and Jackson heard a click on the counter as the coffeepot responded.

  Quigley nudged him. “It’s one of Sunny’s caps. Remember?”

  Jackson nodded. They’d seen Quigley’s cousin with a similar hat a few weeks earlier. Jackson remembered how much Quigley had admired it.

  “Pancake machine ON!” Mrs. Puffle-Popper said, and a grill on the counter lit up. “Oh, Jackson, your mom just called,” she said, moving the crab-claw mouthpiece to the side. “She says there’s been a small mix-up concerning your uncle. But you’re not to worry. They just haven’t managed to speak to him yet, to sort it all out.”

  Jackson’s shoulders drooped. How could they speak to him, when Uncle Bryn’s probably hiding out somewhere in his ice cream truck sled getaway vehicle!

  “Your parents are seeing your uncle’s boss when your mom gets off work,” she went on. “I said you could spend the day with us until they’re finished.”

  “Thanks.” Jackson glanced over at Quigley. No way were they staying at Quigley’s house. Not when they had to find out who had hypnotized Uncle Bryn.

  “Pancakes are ready!” Mrs. Puffle-Popper called. “Plates!”

  The pancakes pinged out of the machine and were now flying through the air, heading for the table. Jackson knew he was supposed to hold out his plate, because the sensors in his seat were supposed to tell the pancake machine that a penguin was sitting there and needed a pancake deposited on its plate. But he’d gotten biffed in the beak every time he ate at the Puffle-Poppers, so now Jackson had a new method—the use-your-plate-as-a-shield method.

  It worked. Splat! His pancake hit the plate instead of his face. Jackson lowered the plate and—splat! A second pancake smacked him in the beak.

  “Oh, sorry, Jackson,” Mrs. Puffle-Popper said. “The pancake machine is doing doubles again. So, what have you boys got planned for today?”

  “Um—homework.” Jackson scraped the pancake off his beak and glanced at Quigley. No way could they tell his mom about their secret mission to clear Uncle Bryn’s name.

  “We’re making a Visitor’s Guide to Rookeryville,” Quigley explained. “We’ve got to go take pictures of all the famous landmarks in town.”

  “You should stop by my garage,” Mr. Puffle-Popper said. “It’s a landmark!”

  Mrs. Puffle-Popper smiled. “Sure is, honey.”

  Mr. Puffle-Popper puffed out his chest with pride. “I could show you kids the new gear system Sunny and I have come up with.” As well as fixing fairground rides on the pier, Sunny often helped out in Quigley’s
dad’s garage.

  “Cool!” Quigley breathed. “What does the gear system do, Dad?”

  Jackson checked the time on his wrist- flipper. Oh, man! We don’t have time for this. We have to get going!

  “Well, we call it the hopper gear,” Mr. Puffle-Popper waffled on. “It makes a sled hop over any holdups, like traffic jams or snowdrifts, or wandering walruses.” He smiled. “We’ve just fitted it to a fleet of ice cream truck sleds, along with rocket boosters and—”

  “Huh?” Jackson nearly choked on his pancake. “Ice cream truck sleds?”

  Mr. Puffle-Popper took a last slurp of juice and picked up his keys. “Yep, ice cream truck sleds! A bit strange. You’d think they’d want their ice cream truck sleds to go slowly, not fast! Otherwise, how can people stop them to buy an ice cream?”

  Jackson felt his feathers stand on end. His danger detectors were sounding. “Um, Mr. Puffle-Popper, who owns the ice cream truck sleds?” Please don’t say Bryn Rockflopper, he thought, crossing his flippers.

  “Oh, it’s one of Sunny’s customers.” Mr. Puffle-Popper scratched his crest. “I can’t remember the name. Anyway, I’ve got to hop. So long, boys. Have a great day.”

  8

  Big Bong, the giant Rookeryville Frost clock, was chiming ten as Jackson and Quigley whizzed past on their way to Brain Freezers.

  “I just don’t get it!” Jackson shouted. “Why would an ice cream truck sled need rocket boosters and a hopping gear?”

  Quigley nodded. “It doesn’t make sense.”

  “Unless”—Jackson frowned—“unless the ice cream truck sled is really a bank-robbing, jewel-thieving getaway vehicle!”

  They skidded to a halt outside Brain Freezers.

  “I wish my dad could remember who owns the truck sleds,” Quigley said. “Maybe we could go ask Sunny?”

  “Good plan. We’ll go find him after we’ve checked out Brain Freezers.” Jackson headed for the door. “This is where the whole mix-up started. There’s got to be a clue in here somewhere.”

  As they walked in, Quigley nudged Jackson. “Victor’s back!” He waved to a round-faced penguin with a heavily gelled crest who was standing behind the counter.

  “Quigley! Jackson!” Victor smiled. “Ice to see you! The usual?”

  “Sure, thanks,” Jackson said.

  “I’ll bring them over.” Victor reached for the shake glasses while Jackson and Quigley made their way to their favorite booth.

  “Nothing!” Jackson said, after checking around the seats and looking under the table. He wasn’t sure what he’d been hoping to find, but a leaflet advertising an evil criminal hypnotist would have been a good start.

  “Here you go.” Victor appeared with a tray. “Two frostberry-seaweed specials, shaken not stirred.” When he leaned over to place their drinks on the table, Jackson noticed a gold medal pinned to his apron.

  “What’s that, Victor?” he asked.

  “Real fancy, isn’t it!” Victor puffed out his chest. “We won it in the best café contest!”

  Quigley took a slurp of his shake. “Mmm, you definitely deserve that medal.”

  Victor blushed. “Aw, thanks. That’s why we were closed yesterday; we were at the awards ceremony.”

  Jackson frowned. “But you weren’t closed yesterday. We were here.”

  “Hey!” Victor had turned to glare at a group of rowdy young penguins playing flipper ball with a rolled-up napkin on the other side of the café. “Stop that!”

  “It’s Hoff Rockface and his buddies,” Quigley whispered to Jackson.

  “So rude!” Victor sighed. “Can I get you anything else? Did I mention about our new ice cream?” He passed them each a menu. “They’re real fancy! They’re made by Frosters.”

  “Frosters?” Jackson hadn’t heard of that brand before.

  “Oh yeah, it’s this fancy new ice cream factory down by the docks.”

  Jackson smiled. Fancy was Victor’s favorite word.

  Victor pointed to his medal. “That’s where the awards ceremony was held. They gave us a tour and let us taste a whole bunch of exotic ice cream. They sure do make some fancy flavors in that factory!”

  “Wait—” Jackson frowned. A tiny alarm was sounding in the back of his brain. Fancy flavors? “Um—do they make a green-and- yellow-striped ice cream that kind of glows?”

  Victor chuckled. “Glows? Ha! Good one, Jackson. Nope, I didn’t see any glowing ice cream. But I did pick up a tub of some lovely pink sorbet called Freezy-Breezy Lemon Squeezy. It’s real fancy. Want to try some?”

  Before Jackson could answer, there was a loud SMASH! from Hoff’s direction.

  “Oh, my feathers!” Victor gasped. “That’s another glass gone! Sorry, boys, I have to go fetch a brush and pan. Have an ICE day!”

  “Did you hear that?” Jackson whispered as soon as Victor had gone. “About the fancy flavors at that ice cream factory? What was it called—Frosters, was it? Maybe that’s where the weird ice cream Uncle Bryn was eating came from.”

  Quigley nodded. “And why did Victor say they were closed yesterday?”

  “Yeah, I wondered about that, too. Maybe he just got his days muddled. Or maybe—” Jackson shivered. “Something odd is happening here,” he said, glancing around the diner. “I can feel it in my feathers.”

  “Surely you don’t think Victor’s involved?” Quigley shook his head. “He’s the last penguin on the planet who would get mixed up in bank robbing.”

  Jackson sighed. “I thought that about Uncle Bryn, too, and look what’s happened to him.” He glanced up at one of Victor’s employees who was waddling past with a large bag of trash. Something at the bottom of it caught Jackson’s eye. “Quigley!” he hissed. “I swear I saw something glowing in that trash bag. Come on, we’ve got to go check it out.”

  They left some coins for their drinks on the table and slipped past Victor, who was crouched on the floor, sweeping up the glass by Hoff’s table. They followed the employee through the back and outside to the dumpsters, hiding behind a pile of crates as the worker deposited the sack and went back inside.

  “Come on, let’s take a look.” Jackson led the way. He flipped open the dumpster lid and both penguins stood on tiptoes to peer inside.

  “There!” Jackson said. “The ice cream carton at the bottom of that bag.”

  “Try and grab it,” Quigley said. “If there’s enough ice cream left inside, we can take it back to my mom’s lab and run some tests.”

  Jackson leaned in as far as he dared. But just then— “Hey!” He felt a sudden, hard shove in his back. And— “Whoa! I’m falling!”—Jackson’s beak hit the trash bags. Quigley landed on top of him. And they heard a familiar, annoying laugh from above. “So long, losers!” a voice said, and then everything went black.

  9

  “Hoff Rockface!” Jackson growled in the darkness. “I’d know that voice anywhere! He must have followed us outside.” The boys heard a lock snap shut. Jackson pummeled the lid of the dumpster. “LET US OUT! LET US OUT!”

  “Sorry, loser patrol!” Hoff shouted. “Trash belongs in a dumpster! Ha-ha!”

  “Grrrr!” Jackson flopped back down onto the sacks. “Don’t panic, Agent Q,” he added. “There’s got to be a way out of this—whoa!” He blinked in the beam of Quigley’s flashlight.

  “Such a bad design,” Quigley said, examining the rim of the dumpster. “No emergency- escape release mechanism.”

  “I guess not many penguins get stuck inside a dumpster.” Jackson frowned. “We’ve got to think like secret agents.” He scratched his crest. “Um—maybe we could ninja kick the lock. Move over. I’ll give it a try.”

  “Wait, I’ve got another idea.” Quigley pulled open his backpack. “See, I’ve got this new gadget. I reckon it’ll get us out of here before you can say ‘Agent Q is a genius.’”

  Jackson peered at the long, thin device Quigley was waggling. “I’m not sure a crest comb is going to help us much.”

  “But this is no
ordinary crest comb!” Quigley flicked a switch and the teeth of the comb began to whir and rotate. “See, it works like a chainsaw.” The teeth were moving faster now, their sharp points glistening in the flashlight’s beam.

  Jackson flattened himself against the side of the dumpster. Whoa! Agent Q nearly took my beak off! “Um—maybe I should hold the flashlight. I think you need both flippers for that thing.”

  But Quigley couldn’t hear over the noise of the whirring. “Look at it go!” he shouted. “It’s cutting through the lock like it’s made of Jell-O.”

  While Quigley worked, Jackson dug around the trash bags, hoping to spot the ice cream glowing in the darkness. “Urgh,” he muttered as his flippers touched something sticky. “Smells like toffee sauce!” Then, there it was. “I found it!” Jackson pulled a small tub out of the sack. A tiny trace of the ice cream that was stuck to the bottom gleamed brightly. He felt a bubble of excitement in his belly. He was about to show it to Quigley when he heard a chugging outside.

  “Two more minutes,” Quigley called, “and I’ll have us out of here! I can see daylight now.”

  But daylight wasn’t the only thing Jackson could see through the hole Quigley had made. “Err—you need to get a wiggle on,” Jackson said, his heart starting to pound in his chest. “Because that looks a lot like the dumpster truck sled out there. I think we’re about to be emptied!”

  There was a loud CLANG! and then the rattle of chains, and their dumpster suddenly lurched one way, then the other, and began to rise.

  “Just a few more seconds…,” Quigley said.

  Jackson braced himself against one of the dumpster’s sides as it lurched to a stop, dangling in midair.

  “Done!” Quigley shouted, and the lid flipped open.

  Jackson gasped. They were super high; at least thirty flippers off the ground. He waved to the driver. “Hey! Up here! You’ve got to stop!” But a moment later, he muttered, “It’s no good. I don’t think he can hear me over his engine.”