"I know that we've had a stomach flu going around, but I'm sure that affects all children equally." Mrs. Winterson looked off in the distance for a second. "You're friends with Atlanta, aren't you? Are you concerned about her going to the hospital?"
"It's not that, Mrs. Winterson." Willow had to convince her. "I mean, I am worried about Atlanta. But we have evidence. Video evidence. It's here on my laptop."
She slid the computer out of her backpack and put it on the principal's desk without waiting for permission. She started the video they'd recorded that morning. "It shows that Bannon Foods, the food distributor who supplies our cafeteria food, received unrefrigerated food via a truck from California, then placed it in their refrigerator, and they'll be delivering it here this morning and claiming it's local food. It's not, Mrs. Winterson. I don't know exactly what's going on, but it's something weird."
The principal watched a few minutes of the video, then paused it, and hit a button on her desk phone. "Get me Miss Berry from the cafeteria and the assistant principal. Have them report to my office."
Soon the other adults arrived. "Start that from the beginning, Willow," the principal said.
At the end of the video, Willow was asked to explain everything. "It started with Mrs. Dozen's class on how food gets to us. We talked about local foods, and then I went to dinner one night at a restaurant and saw local food, real local food, and I knew what we were getting in the cafeteria wasn't it." She went on to explain all the steps of their investigation: visiting Bannon Foods, watching the truck delivery, and spying on the warehouse.
Miss Berry nodded throughout Willow's explanation.
"I told you, Miriam," she said to the principal. "I said something was wrong with our food delivery."
"I'm sorry, Ada," Mrs. Winterson said. "I just figured the food wasn't quite up to snuff. I didn't realize the situation was so bad." She turned to face the kids. "I'm going to call the police, and then we're going to visit Bannon Foods."
Soon they were driving to Bannon Foods in the back of Mrs. Winterson's car, with Miss Berry in the passenger seat. The principal had a grim look on her face the whole drive over.
A police car was parked in the lot at Bannon Foods, a uniformed officer waiting next to the door.
"I'm Officer Whitmarsh," she said, one hand held out.
"You'll accompany me inside," Mrs. Winterson said, without breaking stride.
They entered the building, trailing Mrs. Winterson.
"Do you know what's going on?" Officer Whitmarsh asked Willow, turning in beside her.
"They're giving our school cafeteria bad food," she said. "The evidence is here on my laptop."
Linden and Elon followed so close behind they kept giving her flat tires.
"Sorry," Linden said to Willow. Then he turned to the police officer and held out a scrap of paper. "We've got the license plate for the truck that delivered the spoiled food."
Officer Whitmarsh took the paper, scooped up her radio from her belt, and asked for a license-plate check.
Mrs. Winterson stormed passed Brett's desk and went right into Tom Bannon's office. Miss Berry, Officer Whitmarsh, Elon, Linden, and Willow all followed.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
TOM BANNON SAT at his desk, his phone held to one ear. The door to his office blew open and the crowd entered.
"Bob, I'm going to have to get back to you. I think I have an emergency." Mr. Bannon hung up, and stood. "Hello? How can I help you?"
Elon realized that if Mr. Hutchins saw them all here, he might try to make a getaway. He reached out for Officer Whitmarsh, and pulled her down close, even as he heard Mrs. Winterson explaining what happened.
"We think Mr. Hutchins, the warehouse foreman, is in on it. He's in the back," Elon said, and went on to explain what he looked like.
Officer Whitmarsh listened for a moment more, then rushed out through the office door.
Mr. Bannon was pale and his hands shook. As Miss Berry and Mrs. Winterson continued their accusations, Mr. Bannon sank into his seat.
"We've never done anything wrong," Mr. Bannon said. "I inherited this company from my father and grandfather. We've been in business for over fifty years. There just has to be a mistake."
Willow cleared her throat and everyone looked at her. "The Monday delivery to the school is supposed to include our local food, right?"
Mr. Bannon nodded. "Yes, we discussed this when you visited."
"Then what do you make of this?" Willow turned her laptop around so that it faced Mr. Bannon. It was that morning's video feed, paused on an image of a sheet of paper. "The photo is blurry, but you can see white paper on a tan folder--the same folder we saw Mr. Hutchins receive this morning from the workers unloading the blue truck. The food from that truck then got loaded onto the truck for Mt. Hood Elementary."
"I can't read the text," Mr. Bannon said. "It's too blurry."
"But can you read the company letterhead at the top?" Willow asked.
"Los Angeles Distribution Services." Mr. Bannon's voice was weak.
"Los Angeles, California is not within four hundred miles of Portland," Willow said. "So that food is not local. It also wasn't refrigerated, even though it's a fourteen-hour drive from LA."
Mr. Bannon shook his head. "It doesn't make sense. I've never even heard of them, let alone done business with them."
"Maybe he has," Officer Whitmarsh said, accompanied by Mr. Hutchins.
"What's going on here, Tom?" Mr. Hutchins said, nodding politely to each of the adults in the room. When he laid eyes on the kids, he stopped smiling and clenched his jaw.
Elon was ready for Mr. Hutchins to mention the spying that morning. But when seconds passed and Mr. Hutchins said nothing, he realized it was further evidence that Mr. Hutchins was guilty. He didn't want to say anything.
"Jack, has there been any problems with the Mt. Hood Elementary orders?" Mr. Bannon asked. "They're here because the food they've been receiving hasn't been fresh."
Miss Berry snorted at this understatement.
"No, it's been fine, Tom. We sent out the order this morning."
"You sure?" Mr. Bannon said. "Then what's this about an early-morning delivery from Los Angeles Distribution Services? A delivery that got loaded onto the school's truck."
Mr. Hutchins's eyes opened wide and his nose flared. "I don't know what that is. We delivered the same thing we always do to the school. Produce from two farms on Sauvie Island and meat from the Oregon Co-Op.
"No way," Willow said. "I went out for dinner with my parents, and we ate real local food and it is NOTHING like what's being served at school."
"Yeah," Elon said. "You're probably taking the food for the school and selling it to fancy restaurants!"
"Then you got some really cheap food," Linden said, "and delivered the cheap stuff to school, figuring that nobody would know the difference."
"What the--" Mr. Hutchins cut himself off, looking nervous. "Look, I have to get back to work in the back. I've got trucks to unload." He turned toward the door.
Officer Whitmarsh stepped in front, blocking his way. "I think you should wait right here until we're done."
Mr. Hutchins turned to face Elon, Willow, and Linden, nervousness turning to anger. "You nosy kids are making a big deal out of nothing."
Mrs. Winterson spoke up. "My students have laboriously gathered evidence to the contrary. They show the delivery this morning, the packing of the foods onto the truck, the paperwork. What are you trying to hide, Mr. Hutchins?"
Tom Bannon reached up and smacked his forehead with one hand. "Hutchins, does this have anything to do with Better Business Bureau complaints filed against us since my father died? We had other customers complain. How could I be so foolish? You took advantage of me, because I didn't know as much about the business as my father."
Mr. Hutchins nearly shook with anger and his face grew a dark red. He looked like he was going to say something, then shook his head slightly, and changed his mind. His shoulders sl
umped. "I want to speak to my lawyer," he said.
Officer Whitmarsh smiled at that. "Fine. You can call your lawyer down at the police station. I'll need you to come with me." She turned to Mr. Bannon. "I'll call for a couple of detectives to come down and look at the warehouse, so touch as little as possible."
Mr. Bannon nodded, then turned to the rest of the group. He rubbed one hand through his hair.
"I am real sorry for whatever has happened. You've been our customer for years, and I will do whatever it takes to make it up to you. I'll get a truck loaded right now with our best stuff."
"Thank you, Mr. Bannon," Miss Berry said. "That would be very nice."
"Mr. Bannon?" Elon asked.
"Yes?"
"Our drone, which we used to take the video, is here in your warehouse. Mr. Hutchins attacked it with a broom. Can we look for it? It's our science-fair project."
"Of course," Mr. Bannon said, and led them into the warehouse.
They found the Silver Dragon in Mr. Hutchins's office in the back. They could see it laying there on his desk, the rotor broken and the case cracked.
Elon wanted to run to it, but Mr. Bannon blocked his way with one arm, gentle but firm.
"The police are probably going to want to go in there, so we shouldn't touch a thing."
Elon's heart sank. Willow put one arm around him and Linden took his hand.
"We'll figure something out," Linden said.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
THE WEEK UNTIL the science fair passed quickly.
On Monday, they got back to school with Mrs. Winterson by the middle of the morning. Before lunch, a new Bannon Foods truck showed up along with two chefs that Mr. Bannon had hired himself to help Miss Berry. Lunch was an enormous Italian meal, with fresh-made local pasta, meatballs, and right-out-of-the-oven Italian bread and garlic bread. The pasta was so good that even Linden abandoned the lunch he'd brought to get the hot lunch. And there was cake for dessert, even though the school wasn't really supposed to provide dessert.
Mrs. Winterson called Elon, Linden and Willow to her office right before the end of the day. She was sitting behind her desk, just as intimidating as usual. "Mr. Hutchins has been officially arrested by the police."
They nodded solemnly, not sure of what to say.
"You did a good job investigating the crime," the principal said.
"Thank you," they said in unison, then smiled at each other.
"More importantly," Mrs. Winterson went on, taking a deep breath, "you did the right thing. You investigated when no one else believed anything was wrong, and you kept investigating even when we didn't believe you, until you had the evidence. You may have saved people's lives and at least saved them from missing any more school."
Then the bell rang dismissing everyone. Mrs. Winterson looked like she wanted to say more, then changed her mind. "Go on, I know you want to go."
"Thank you, Mrs. Winterson," Willow said. "Thanks for believing us when we came in this morning."
Mrs. Winterson nodded, and they all filed out of her office in an orderly fashion, until they reached the hallway. Then they peeled out for the schoolyard.
The decadent meals continued. On Tuesday, the lunch was turkey pot pie, mac and cheese, stuffed artichokes, and brownies for dessert. On Wednesday, Linden decided he'd try hot lunch again. There was a cheese, sausage, and bread plate, olives, and bruschetta with fresh mozzarella, tomato, and basil. Dessert was gelato they made in class from fresh ingredients.
Late Wednesday night, as they sat around the dining room table doing homework, the phone rang. Mom answered it, and called Elon. Linden and Willow watched with surprise, as Elon didn't get many phone calls. He took it in the kitchen, and listened at first, then asked questions too quietly for Linden and Willow to overhear until he finally hung up a few minutes later.
He came into the dining room, and Linden and Willow pretended they hadn't been trying to listen in. Elon cleared his throat, and they both looked up.
"We won't be getting the Silver Dragon back. It's been confiscated as evidence by the police. They expect they'll need it until the trial is finished."
He sat down heavily in his chair, his chin resting on his hands.
"What are we going to do for the science fair?" Willow said.
They sat quietly for a moment.
"We'll just have to do a good poster," Linden said.
They started that evening, laying out the stand-up poster they'd use. They took turns drawing an intricate diagram of the quadcopter, starting with pencil, then overlaying with black marker, and coloring it in. Willow suggested they blow up the photo of the three of them with the drone they'd taken in the garage after they finished building it and before they'd taken it out to fly.
By Thursday, word had gotten back to Mr. Bannon that he'd forgotten it was a Japanese immersion school, and fresh sushi showed up. They had salmon nigiri, onigiri, unagi, and udon noodles. Dessert was mochi with red bean paste.
That night they put the finishing touches on their presentation and practiced what they'd say with their parents.
On Friday they had bento boxes of teriyaki chicken or salmon, pickled vegetables called tsukimono, rice, and dessert was fried ice cream.
And then before anyone realized it, it was Friday night, the science fair.
The cafeteria, which doubled as the auditorium, was hot and busy when they arrived back at school at six o'clock. Students and parents ran around, frantically setting up experiments. Electrolysis of water into hydrogen and oxygen was next to an experiment to measure the voltage from a potato battery.
Basil and Atlanta's project was so immense, they'd gotten placed by themselves on the stage. The large wooden structure was fifteen feet tall, their rope swing hanging from the crossbar. Atlanta stood on a tall ladder, attaching the human-hair braid to large eye-bolts. Atlanta's dad brought a wheelbarrow in, and together Basil, Atlanta, and their parents carried sandbags onto the stage for the four corners of the structure.
The attention of the entire crowd was focused on the hive of activity around Basil and Atlanta's construction project.
"We're in the back," Willow said, holding the map of project locations in front of her. Linden and Elon followed her, Linden carrying the poster and Elon bringing a small crate of the spare parts they hadn't used in the drone. Linden stood up the poster board. Elon set out the parts with their accompanying labels, a half-dozen in all: two rotors, some wiring, an extra motor that didn't work, the transmitter.
They stepped back. The left-hand side of the poster was the line drawing they'd made together of the design of the Silver Dragon, showing each of the parts and its function. The right-hand side featured a printout of the photograph of them with the finished drone. The parts on the table didn't even fill the space.
They were sandwiched between kindergarteners with a baking-soda-and-vinegar volcano and second graders who'd put different foods in closed glass jars, and then left them for a month to see what would open. Every so often, they'd open a jar to give someone a sniff, and the whole area would be overcome with noxious odors.
Some kids ran by without a glance, talking about the liquid-nitrogen display down the aisle.
Willow sighed.
"I imagined we'd have the drone here, hovering above the crowd," Elon said, "picking things up, and carrying them around. It was going to be more impressive."
"If only we could have gotten it back," Linden said. "Even if we didn't fix it, at least there'd be something for people to see."
"It doesn't look like much," Willow agreed. "Let's go see Basil and Atlanta's project."
There was a thick cluster of kids surrounding the swing structure.
Basil stood on a chair to be seen over the crowd. He picked up an orange traffic cone and shouted into the thin end to amplify his voice. "Ride the world's first human hair swing. Feel the incredible strength. Braided from the hair of one thousand cheerleaders. Step right up. The line forms on the right. Come on now, don't b
e shy."
The crowd shuffled to the right, leaving a clear line of sight between Willow and Atlanta.
"Cool!" Willow said. "Can I have a turn?"
Atlanta beamed. "It's awesome isn't it? Basil -- let Willow and her brothers go."
Basil nodded and bowed toward them with a gracious wave of his hand. "Ladies and germs first."
Willow sat down, grasping the rope on either side of her. It was coarse, with little strands poking out here and there. She could see brown hair, blonde hair, bits of black hair, even purple, blue, and pink streaks here and there. "Are you sure this can hold me?"
"We tested it with me, Atlanta, and my mom and dad at the same time, and my dad was even holding Bermuda." Bermuda was their great dane. "All together we weighed over six hundred pounds, and we jumped up and down."
Basil gave Willow a big push and she flew up into the air. With each additional push, she went higher and higher, until she was nearly horizontal to the ground. A big smile spread across her face as the wind blew through her hair. Then Basil slowed her down after just a couple of swings. "Sorry, but there's a lot of people waiting."
"No problem," she said. "That was awesome! Arigatou gozaimasu." Thank you.
"Dou itashi mashite," you're welcome, he replied, bowing his head. "Next!" he called, and Elon ran up.
Willow wandered back toward her exhibit. Still no one came to see what they'd done. Most of the kids were up at the hair-swing. Well, it was no wonder. Atlanta did have a great idea, and Basil had done an excellent job putting most of it together while Atlanta was sick, and they deserved all the attention. Still, Willow wished their drone would have at least gotten some notice.
Elon joined her, followed by Linden, once they'd gotten their turns on the swing. Soon after, there was a squealing from the PA system as the microphone was turned on. Mrs. Winterson took the stage, glancing behind her with some alarm at the towering swing structure. "Good evening students, parents, relatives and friends. Thank you for coming to our school science fair. As you know..."
Willow tuned out the speech, and looked around. Holy cow, there was a working laser beam on the next aisle over! She decided to leave her station to go see the laser when she felt a tug on her arm.
The Case of the Wilted Broccoli Page 8
