Finally, Something Mysterious

by Doug Cornett

  “Cleansing the palate,” my mom whispered to me. “No taste from the previous dish can linger in his mouth.”

  I tried to clear my mind. What did it all mean? If I was right, then a fire department helicopter had picked up the duckies while collecting water from Schuylerville Lake. If the drop on Babbage’s yard was an accident, why steal the duckies from the storage shed and dump them in the swamp? But if somebody dropped them from the helicopter on purpose, why Babbage’s house? His next-door neighbor, Pocus, would have been a more likely target.

  And why did someone who was driving a Bellwood police van dump them in the Bell Woods? But then I remembered something Byron Willis told us. The police and fire departments shared vehicles. Maybe it was someone from the fire department, not the police, who almost hit Janice with the van.

  Pocus repeated the tasting ritual with Philly Rich and then with Officer Portnoy, who introduced his dish simply as “Spicy Bratwurst.” I tried to read Pocus’s expression after every bite, but he was a true professional. Whether he loved it or hated it, you couldn’t tell. The giddiness he’d had on his face earlier after kissing Hal the llama and the serenity he’d expressed when talking about Clara were pushed back below the surface. He’d undergone an amazing transformation in the last few days—that couldn’t be denied. But this was the Triple B. And business was business.

  A ruckus arose from the crowd. All eyes turned to see a scampering fur ball bouncing down the aisle carrying a rubber ducky in its mouth. It looked like Wild Bill Chipmunk was making another run for it, and this time he’d found a souvenir. Several people were giving chase, but Wild Bill was not about to stop. He raced up the stairs and onto the stage, scampering by Pocus and all of the finalists. The crowd erupted with laughter. Everybody clutched each other and stood on their tippy toes to track Wild Bill’s escape.

  Everybody, that is, except Byron Willis. As the tallest person at the Triple B, he could see the rodent just fine. But he wasn’t laughing. In fact, he had a troubled look on his face. Either he’d made the mistake of sampling Darrel Sullivan’s lobster rolls or Wild Bill was the last thing on earth he wanted to see.

  Eventually, Wild Bill leapt off stage right and disappeared into the row of booths, his handlers trailing him all the way. When the crowd settled itself down, it was finally Team Marconi’s turn.

  “We humbly present our dish: ‘Swine in a Sleeping Bag,’ ” my mother said, her voice even and controlled.

  “Oink oink!” my dad said loudly, grinning like a lunatic.

  My mom and I flashed him embarrassed looks, and he shrugged. “Sorry,” he mouthed to us silently. “Just nervous.”

  Pocus accepted the paper plate from my mom and opted to lift the pancake and brat with his hand instead of a fork. He closed his eyes and took a bite. Immediately, his eyes shot back open. He looked down at the plate in his hand and then at my parents. His eyes grew very small, then incredibly round; his nostrils flared out; his ears poked up like a startled dog; he chewed once, twice, three times, then swallowed with an exaggerated gulp. A change slowly occurred in his face, and at once I thought, Oh, no, my parents have poisoned him. He remained absolutely still for a second or two longer, and I thought he might tip over like a building crumbling to the ground. Then, in an instant, his face smoothed out and returned to its composed, expressionless features. I sighed with relief. At least Team Marconi wouldn’t go down in history as the only finalist to kill a chief taster.

  I glanced back over at Byron. I was still bothered by the face he’d made at the sight of Wild Bill. But then I wondered if it was Wild Bill that bothered him or the ducky in the rodent’s mouth. Once again, I felt the nagging urge to ask him a question. I’d always felt like we’d missed something when we talked to him at the storage shed.

  Finally, Pocus glided up to Babbage’s table. It might have been my imagination, but I could have sworn he stood a little bit straighter, was a little more attentive in front of the long-standing champ. Babbage was sausage royalty, after all, even if the two had had their share of disputes. Babbage sat up and cordially bowed to Pocus, presenting his entry with a little flourish of the hand.

  “I call this dish ‘Kraut to Sea.’ Here,” Babbage explained, “we have a playful bed of my homemade sauerkraut, featuring my patented special sauce, and here”—his voice was measured, confident, and clear, like he was hosting his own cooking show—“poking up from under this small ocean of fermented cabbage like tiny lifeboats, we have the pearls of the dish, my grilled kielbasa morsels.”

  Pocus nodded appreciatively at Babbage’s introduction. He carefully picked up the small paper dish and tasted the treat. He took small nibbles, and there was something gnomish about the way his lips moved.

  Gnomish. Who else had compared Pocus to a gnome? Byron, I remembered, when we talked to him at the storage shed.

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember the conversation. Byron had looked genuinely surprised when he found out that the storage shed had been broken into and evidence stolen. What would anyone want with all those duckies? he had asked. A reasonable question. But not if nobody had mentioned that the duckies were the stolen evidence.

  And then I remembered what else I’d been wanting to ask him.

  I jabbed another text to Shanks.

  Byron Willis is sitting behind you. Go ask him if he’s ever been in Pocus’s garden.

  Shanks looked down at her phone, then looked at me. She scrunched her face up like she didn’t understand.

  “Just do it,” I mouthed, trying not to draw attention to myself.

  I glanced at my parents, who were watching Pocus closely, and noted the looks of awe, reverence, and concern on their faces. For a long minute, the only sound to be heard was Pocus’s rhythmic chewing, which for some reason reminded me of ocean waves lapping against a sandy shore.

  “I have come to my decision,” Pocus finally said, and the crowd stirred with anticipation. “But before I name the winner of the Bonanza cook-off, I have an announcement. After today I will be stepping down as chief taster. Next year I’ll be entering the contest with my own bratwurst dish!”

  A gush of excited voices rippled through the audience, then hushed as Pocus raised a hand. Shanks, meanwhile, was dutifully crouch-walking two rows back, passing by people with Excuse me’s on her way to Byron.

  “Mr. Babbage,” Pocus said ceremoniously, “your ‘Kraut to Sea’ is a work of mastery and delight.”

  Babbage tried unsuccessfully to contain a self-pleased grin.

  “Your entry this year is indeed inspired,” Pocus continued, “and it is good enough for third place.”

  A collective gasp rose from the crowd. Babbage’s grin stayed glued to his face, as if the chief taster had just said something in a foreign language and he was waiting for someone to translate it.

  I looked out into the audience and saw that Shanks had made it to Byron’s row and was now squeezing past people to get to him.

  “There are two dishes this year that have pushed our annual competition to new heights,” Pocus continued, turning to the crowd with the dignified presence of a Roman emperor. “One devilishly spicy, the other heavenly sweet. In second place, we have a newcomer to the competition. With his ‘Spicy Bratwurst,’ Officer Rutherford Portnoy has created an arresting meal that will lock up your taste buds and throw away the key.”

  The crowd erupted into thunderous applause, whooping and yeehaw-ing and laughing in disbelief. Shanks was nearly knocked over in the fray, but when she got her footing, she let out a “Woo-hoo!” in the chief’s honor.

  Portnoy himself simply nodded and mouthed silent Thank you’s, his mustache concealing a half smile. But from the stage, I could see that his eyes were glistening ever so slightly with tears of joy.

  “And now,” Pocus said, “the moment we’ve all been waiting for….”

  Finally, Shanks had
made it to Byron’s side. She tugged at his sleeve. The tall teenager bent down as she whispered the question in his ear.

  “…the winning recipe has given us all a new definition of ‘delicious’!” I heard Pocus say, but my eyes were glued on Shanks and Byron.

  Byron touched his ear like he couldn’t hear Shanks and bent down lower. She leaned in again and whispered in his ear.

  “…this dish will usher in a new era of Bonanza!”

  Byron straightened up, his face a mask of confusion. “No!” he seemed to say, shaking his head. And that was all I needed to convince me that Babbage was never the intended target at all. Pocus was. And Byron was not only our ducky thief, but he’d dug up Pocus’s tomatoes, too.

  Byron looked down at Shanks, who was looking at me. Then Byron looked at me. We locked eyes. He must have read it right on my face. He knew that I knew.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of Bellwood,” Pocus shouted, “I give you your Bratwurst Bonanza champions…Team Marconi!”

  The crowd went wild.

  My parents went wild.

  Byron went for the exit.

  The band started in with “We Are the Champions,” jangling and blowing and stomping and kicking out the tune, and the crowd went nutso for its new Bonanza winner, and my parents and I were in a vortex of hugs and kisses and fist bumps and high fives and back pats, and the world during those few seconds was all hair, teeth, and eyeballs, and there was a floating tangle of voices saying, “How’d ya do it?” and “How does it feel?” and “What a stunner of a bratwurst!” and it was confusing and loud and glorious, and they handed us the bratwurst trophy, and everything smelled like syrup.

  I managed to wrestle free and look over the audience. Byron was trying to fight his way out of the crowd, but his long limbs were all snaggled up in the mass of celebrating bodies. He wasn’t making much progress.

  “Tackle him!” I shouted to Shanks, but she was getting jostled around, too.

  “What?” she called back.

  “Tackle him!” I yelled wildly, and my voice barely carried over all the noise.

  Shanks’s face went from surprise to pure excitement, and she started burrowing through bodies to get to Byron.

  In the fray, I was pushed up against Babbage. Despite coming in third place, he didn’t seem upset. Shocked, yes, but he was eyeing my parents with respect. Perhaps he was finally happy to have some real competition. Perhaps he was already planning his comeback at next year’s Triple B.

  Suddenly, Mr. Pocus sprang like a cuckoo clock in front of my parents and me. “Team Marconi,” he said, extending his arm for a handshake, “I’d like to congratulate you on your victory.”

  Scanning the crowd again, I couldn’t find Shanks or Byron. Had Byron already fled? Or were they buried somewhere in the party? I did notice that most everybody seemed to be looking at the stage with puzzled expressions. I turned to see what they were ogling and spotted Janice at the front of the stage, straining mightily over her tuba. She was blowing and blowing, but no sound was coming out. Her face was getting so red, it looked like she was about to pass out cold right in the middle of the celebration.

  Slowly the noise of the celebration dimmed until everybody was quietly watching Janice struggle with her giant instrument. The other band members had stopped playing. They just stood back, staring at her.

  “There’s something stuck in the tuba!” Chad Foster shouted.

  Janice must have come to the same conclusion, because she laid the tuba on the ground and reached into the bell. But her hand came back empty.

  “Her arms aren’t long enough to reach whatever is in there!” I shouted. And then an idea struck me. This reminded me of a story I’d just heard.

  “It’s like Waffle the Dolphin!” I exclaimed to nobody in particular.

  “And the world’s tallest man,” Peephole answered, appearing at my side out of nowhere in the chaos of the celebration.

  “Peephole! Where did you come from?”

  But he didn’t respond. He had a strange look on his face, a look I’d never seen before. Usually, he looked annoyed, bored, or scared, or some combination of those three. But now his eyes were clear and fixed, his jaw was straight, his back was rigid. He looked determined and…fearless. This was his moment to help.

  “And since the world’s tallest man isn’t here,” he said, “I’ll have to give it a shot.”

  I watched him stride confidently across the stage. He moved quickly, not frantically, as he rolled his T-shirt sleeve up to his shoulder, bent down on one knee, and stuck his arm down inside the tuba.

  “You can do it, Peephole!” I shouted.

  It seemed like eons, but it was only seconds, while Peephole reached farther and farther into the tuba.

  Then his face fell. “I can’t do it. There’s something in there, but my arms aren’t long enough.” He stood and looked out at the crowd. Suddenly, he pointed his finger at the back row. “Byron! Byron Willis!” He shouted, and everybody’s head swung around to look.

  Byron was at the edge of the crowd, slowly moving away from the stage. Something was dragging from his legs. It was Shanks.

  “Byron!” Peephole shouted again. “We need your help!”

  The tallest teenager in Bellwood froze. All eyes were now on him. He seemed to consider his options for a second, then realized he didn’t have many. He straightened himself, shook his legs free of Shanks’s badgerlike grip, and strolled up to the stage.

  Somebody started clapping as he took the stage, and then everybody else joined in. His face turned red as he bent down over the tuba, peered in, then reached his long, noodlelike arm into the horn. The crowd cheered him on as he reached and reached.

  His face lit up. He had found something! Straining, he wrenched his arm back and forth. Janice bent down and started blowing into the mouthpiece again, as if the wind might jostle the object loose. At last, Byron yanked his arm free and held up the thing that had been plugging Janice’s tuba.

  Janice’s giant tuba blew out a long, low note. The crowd stopped clapping and fell silent. And Byron stared at the rubber ducky clutched in his hands, the word “Confess” written across its back. The tuba seemed to ring out forever. When it finally stopped, Byron filled the silence with a barbaric yawp.

  “I confess!” he shrieked. “I dropped the duckies! I stole them from the shed! It was me! Me! Me!”

  Imagine a gallery of blinking, confused faces. Everybody in Bellwood stared at Byron, trying to process his frantic confession.

  Everybody, that is, except my dad, who was concentrating so hard on his victory shimmy that he didn’t notice the scene at all. He was doing his flaming-pajamas dance, which was appropriate, it turns out, because behind him the table was on fire.

  In the excitement of winning, we’d forgotten to turn the griddle off, and now the tablecloth was sending up flames into the air. A circle formed around the table, with a lot of people pointing and shouting for somebody to do something, but nobody did anything. Burning down the Triple B would have definitely put a damper on our victory celebration.

  In an instant Byron Willis transformed from villain to hero, launching across the stage in a somersault roll. With a swift tug he unplugged my dad’s griddle, then bounced to his feet, swiped the cloth from Portnoy’s table, and smothered the fire. With long, fluid steps he ran to the edge of the stage and plucked up a fire extinguisher. In a few quick seconds he’d swept the spray across the flames and reduced the fire to a soggy, sooty mess.

  The crowd burst into applause, but Byron didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he threw the extinguisher aside and bounded after Peephole, who was teetering on the edge of the stage and squawking, “I’m on fire!” though he obviously wasn’t.

  Byron tackled him anyway. They rolled around on the stage, looking like two rubber bands locked in a championship wrestling match.
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  “He’s attacking Peephole!” Shanks yelled from the edge of the stage.

  “No! He’s helping him!” I said. “See?”

  Byron gathered himself to his feet and extended his arm to help Peephole up. The two of them surveyed their arms and legs. No fire.

  Shanks and I raced to Peephole’s side.

  “You’re the ducky mastermind!” Shanks barked at Byron, then her tone softened. “But…you saved Peephole. Er, you would have saved him if he’d actually been on fire. So…uh…thanks?”

  The bashing of a bass drum made us jump, and we turned to see the victory band start again from the top, this time in full force with Janice’s tuba. “We Are the Champions” rang out over the Triple B, and the crowd came alive again with dancing and cheering.

  Portnoy appeared at our side, the newly pinned second-place ribbon on his uniform. “Well, kids…I’d say it’s been a heck of a Bonanza. Why don’t we go find ourselves a quiet place to sit and talk this out?”

  “You got it, chief!” Shanks said, and she gave him a salute.

  He winked, but he didn’t return the salute.

  “I never want to see another rubber ducky as long as I live,” Byron said. He was sitting on a patch of grass away from the noise of the Bonanza celebration, hugging his bony knees to his chest. Shanks, Peephole, Portnoy, and I all sat around him.

  “I thought I might be able to get away with the whole thing,” he continued. “I wanted to move on and forget about it, but everywhere I look there’s a ducky. In front of me. Behind me. To my side. In a dang tuba.” He gave a frustrated little tug to his stringy bun of red hair. “I couldn’t take it anymore.”

  Shanks reached out and pinched my arm. “I guess your plan was brilliant after all,” she whispered. “When did you put the ducky in the tuba?”

  “What? I thought you did,” I replied.

  “Well, Byron, you’ve caused quite the stir in our little town,” Portnoy said, shifting his weight from side to side as he tried to get comfortable. It wasn’t working. “These three detectives have run all over Bellwood to track you down. And even if they hadn’t figured you out, I would have soon enough.”