Legend of the Gilded Saber
A myrockandrollbook in the Accidental Detectives series by Sigmund Brouwer.
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2011 by Sigmund Brouwer. All rights reserved.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. Sigmund appreciates it if you do not sell this ebook or give it away. (He also appreciates it when you send your friends to find more of Sigmund Brouwer’s ebooks at www.myrockandrollbooks.com.)
All the myrockandrollbooks of the Accidental Detectives series:
Lost Beneath Manhattan
The Mystery Tribe At Camp Blackeagle
Phantom Outlaw At Wolf Creek
The Disappearing Jewel of Madagascar
The Missing Map Of Pirates Haven
Creature Of The Mists
Race For The Park Street Treasure
Downtown Desperadoes
Madness At Moonshiner's Bay
Sunrise At The Mayan Temple
Terror On Kamikazee Run
Tyrant Of The Badlands
Shroud Of The Lion
Legend Of The Gilded Saber
The Volcano Of Doom
Chapter 1
"How far do you think I could get one of these Cheetos up Ralphy's nose?" I whispered to my friend Mike Andrews.
Mike's uncle, a stockbroker named Theodore Emmett, had paid our travel expenses to bring the three of us and our friend Lisa Higgins to Charleston, South Carolina. The deal was simple. If the four of us agreed to be caddies at a historically reenacted golf tournament, we could have the rest of a week of vacation in Charleston.
Lisa was outside somewhere, talking to the golfer she would be a caddy for.
Mike and I were alone with Ralphy Zee, who slept nearby in a chair in the men's locker room of the clubhouse at the golf course. As I spoke to Mike, I munched from a bag of Cheetos—those narrow, long, cheese-flavored snacks. It wasn't much for breakfast, but at least it was something.
"Cheetos?" Mike stared at me as if I were crazy. Which was unfair. Of anyone I knew, Mike Andrews was the craziest. Red hair. Freckles.
Except for this morning, dressed in plaid knickers and a vested sweater like a caddy from the nineteenth century, he usually wore a wild-looking Hawaiian shirt and a New York Yankees ball cap. Even though he was only twelve, he had already managed to pack twenty years of pranks into his life. It was always Mike Andrews coming up with the wild ideas. "Up Ralphy's nose?"
"Sure." I held up a Cheeto. It would fit perfectly in a human nostril. "Listen to Ralphy snore. He's exhausted from the trip here."
The night before, thunderstorms had delayed our flight into Charleston by nearly eight hours. We had not landed until two in the morning. Theodore Emmett had sent a taxi for us because he'd lent his white Mercedes to his son, Devon. Between picking up our luggage and taking the taxi, it had been another hour before we reached Mike's uncle's house. And now it was seven in the morning, barely four hours later, and there were about fifteen minutes before we were called to the tee box to carry golf clubs for Mr. Emmett, his business partner, and the president and vice-president of the country club.
"But Cheetos up his nose here?" he whispered back. Mike wasn't whispering because he was afraid of waking Ralphy. He was afraid one of the members of the club might overhear us. When we'd told the taxi driver last night about the golf tournament, he'd whistled and let us know it cost more to join this country club than most people made in five years.
"This is ... this is..." Mike lifted his arms, gesturing to our surroundings, still whispering as if afraid of offending any of the wealthy members of the club.
The lockers were not cheap metal, like the ones at our school gym. These lockers were made of stained walnut, and each locker had an engraved nameplate with a member's name. The floor was lush carpet. Massive old paintings filled the walls. At the back of the locker room was a shower area with a whirlpool and a steam room. We sat in an area with leather-covered reclining chairs in front of a big-screen television.
"This is the snobbiest place we've ever been?" I finished for Mike.
"Exactly," he said in hushed tones. "Not even I would put a Cheeto up Ralphy's nose here. I'm not even sure we're allowed in this area."
"You're just jealous because I thought of it first."
"Hah," he said. "I'm just not crazy enough to try Even if we were back in Jamesville. You know what Ralphy is like. One little touch on his nose, and he'll jump through the roof."
"And I also know that while you and I slept on the airplane, he was so scared he couldn't even look out the window. And you can bet he hardly got any sleep the night before because he was so worried about flying. And last night, after getting in late, he probably stayed awake most of the night worrying about doing something wrong at this golf tournament. Which means he's only had a couple hours of sleep in the last two nights. Now he's so dead to the world, I'm pretty sure I could get a Cheeto halfway up each nostril."
I could see Mike thinking that through. "No way," he finally said. "This is still Ralphy we're talking about."
I could tell Mike was hooked. I hoped Ralphy wouldn't smile and give it away that he wasn't sleeping after all.
"Yes way," I said. I pretended to give this situation some more thought myself. But it was just pretense. Mike is usually the one playing pranks on Ralphy or me. In fact, on the last day of school, he'd squirted quick-drying super- glue onto the seat of my chair just before I sat at my desk. Five minutes later, when I'd tried to stand to leave for school assembly, I'd ripped my pants. And this was only two days after squirting the same superglue into Ralphy's baseball cap. Now, three weeks into summer vacation, Ralphy's hair still had big patches missing from where he'd been forced to pull the hat loose.
"Tell you what," I continued to Mike. "If Ralphy wakes up, I'll cut your lawn all summer when we get to Jamesville. But if I manage to get one Cheeto halfway up each nostril, you cut my lawn all summer."
"I don't know," Mike said. "Uncle Ted says this place is very snooty and—"
"Chicken?"
Mike straightened and glared at me. "Not a chance."
I stuck my hand out. "We've got a deal?"
He shook on it.
I hid a smile. There was no way I could lose. Ralphy and I had already arranged this the night before. Ralphy was going to pretend to sleep as long as it took for me to get both Cheetos in his nose. We'd have our revenge on Mike. Not a single thing could go wrong.
Except that just as I managed to shove the second Cheeto up Ralphy's second nostril, a loud, angry voice interrupted us.
"What are you boys doing in this area of the men's locker room?!"
Mike and I spun around to see a man named Jonathan Wentsworth, the president of the country club. I knew this because Mr. Emmett had pointed him out to us the moment we got to the country club—and had warned us to be on our best behavior around him.
Wentsworth was a big man, wearing old-style golf clothes. He had a huge bald head and a walrus mustache. And a face instantly red with anger.
"What are you boys doing here?" he demanded again. "Caddies are not permitted here!"
I kept myself between the president and Ralphy, who was still reclining in the leather chair. I didn't think Wentsworth would be amused to see Cheetos up Ralphy's nose.
"Sir," I said, "we knew we weren't supposed to be ready for a few minutes. We just thought—"
"You don't think around here," Wentsworth said. "You follow the rules. Who are your parents? I'll have to have a talk with them."
"We're from out of town," Mike explained. "My uncle invited us to help him with this tournament for your club."
"Uncle? We have golfers coming in from all over the world f
or this. Don't expect me to know who your uncle is."
"Ted Emmett," Mike said. Mr. Emmett was also an amateur historian and the person who ran this tournament. "He's here to—"
"Theodore Emmett." Wentsworth sniffed with disdain. "So I suppose that means you're the caddies he's picked out for us."
"Yes, sir," Mike said.
Wentsworth's frown deepened. "Why isn't that young man behind you out of his chair and standing with respect for his elders?"
I stepped aside, hoping that Ralphy had managed to pull the Cheetos out of his nose.
"Ralphy?" I said quietly.
Ralphy jumped to his feet and joined Mike and me, facing Wentsworth. I took a quick glance at Ralphy's face and sighed with relief. No Cheetos. I couldn't imagine how much more yelling we would have faced with orange Cheetos sticking out of Ralphy's nose like chopsticks.
I guess, though, Wentsworth still didn't approve of Ralphy's appearance. Ralphy's mouse-brown hair stuck straight up. He was small, and his clothing hung loose on him. He had a skinny face that sometimes twitched with nervousness.
"Straighten up," Wentsworth told Ralphy. "Make yourself presentable."
Ralphy ran his fingers through his hair, but it didn't help.
Wentsworth sighed. "Out to the tee box immediately," he ordered. "And don't let me catch you in here again. I don't care how important Ted Emmett is to the historical society; if any of you misbehave again, all of you will be gone."
"Yes, sir," I said.
"Yes, sir," Mike said.
But Wentsworth didn't reply. He had already walked away, expecting us to follow.
Ralphy didn't say anything, either.
That's when I noticed the tears running out of his eyes and a trickle of orange running onto his upper lip from each nostril.
Which gave me a bad feeling about exactly where the Cheetos had gone ... and still were.
Chapter 2
It was a beautiful, cloudless July day Hot. And humid with the heavy air that hung over the coast of South Carolina.
To our right was the magnificent clubhouse, three stories tall with large glass windows that overlooked the fairways. To our left was a large pond. And at our sides were the old-fashioned golf bags we were about to carry for eighteen holes. The golf bags contained mashie niblicks and all the other ancient wood-shafted clubs that were actually used over a hundred years earlier. My thoughts, however, were not on the golf course or the golf tournament that required our presence as caddies.
"Let me see if I understood you correctly," I said in a low voice to Ralphy. "It was Mike?"
Since Wentsworth had made us immediately follow him outside to the first tee box, then made us wait here as he went back to the clubhouse to find his playing partners, Ralphy had not even had time to get some tissue.
"He shoved them up my nose!" When Ralphy was excited or angry his voice became a high squeak. Like now. But it had also become a very nasal-sounding high squeak. Cheetos in the nose do that to people.
"You shoved them up his nose?" I said to Mike.
"Hey," Mike protested. "When Wentsworth stomped in, what else could I do?"
"Could have let me pull them out," Ralphy said. A constant stream of orange ran out of his nose. He wiped it away with his shirt sleeve, which left an orange stain on the sleeve. I doubted Wentsworth would like that; just Ralphy's luck to be his caddy.
"You couldn't have pulled them out," Mike said. "You were asleep."
I shook my head at Ralphy so that he wouldn't tell Mike he'd actually been awake the whole time. Ralphy and I needed to keep that secret.
"Well, then," I said quickly to Mike, "you could have pulled them out instead of mashing them in."
"Pull Cheetos out of his nose?" Mike made a face. "Then I would have had to hold them and hide them in my hand. Slimy, orange, and gross. You think I wanted that?"
Ralphy wiped away more of the orange stream from his upper lip. "And you think I wanted them jammed almost into my brain?"
Ralphy's eyes kept watering, which explained why stuff kept running from his nose. "Come on," he moaned. "I can't walk around all day like this. We have to do something."
"How about this," Mike said. He reached over and used his thumb and forefinger to squeeze Ralphy's nose, hard. "Waaaah!" Ralphy said. "What'd you do that for?" "Shhh!" I said. "Any second they'll be back out." As if to confirm, a voice came over the loudspeaker. "For the seven-fifteen tee time, Wentsworth, Mandily, Emmett, and Stang."
"Give your head a shake," Mike told Ralphy. "Give your own head a shake," Ralphy said, really mad now. "First you shove Cheetos up my nose. Then you mash them!"
"No, really," Mike answered. "Give your head a shake. The reason I squeezed your nose was to break the Cheetos into little pieces."
Ralphy squinted in suspicion.
"Come on," Mike said. "Our golfers just got paged. Better get that stuff out of your nose before they get here."
Ralphy shook his head. Orange crumbs trickled from his nose down into the grass at his feet. He shook harder. More crumbs fell out.
"Great work," I said to Mike. "But you still owe me." "Huh?"
"I got those Cheetos up his nose before he woke," I said. "You'll have to cut my lawn all summer."
"But..." Mike hesitated. There was nothing he could say. He would have to cut the lawn.
"But nothing." I grinned in triumph. "Guys!" Ralphy spoke again. Still with a nasal tone. "The rest are still stuck up there."
"Huh?" Mike was still thinking about cutting my lawn. He didn't understand what Ralphy meant.
"The Cheetos." Ralphy's eyes still streamed water. Orange goo still came out of his nose. "All you did was break off the bottom half of each. I can still feel them way up there. And I think they're too soggy to move."
"Blow," Mike said.
"Huh?"
"Press one finger against one nostril," Mike said with great patience, "and blow hard to clear the other. Then do the other side. Just make sure you point your nose away from us."
"But—" Ralphy began.
"Enough talk," Wentsworth barked as he and two other men approached the tee box. "Caddies should be seen, not heard. And my caddy must set the example."
All three of them wore knickers and old-fashioned caps. The whole point of this golf tournament was to play with equipment and clothing that would have been used in the late 1800s.
Behind Wentsworth, the second man was skinny and in his mid-fifties. I only knew his name because I would be caddying for him. Thomas Stang, the stockbroker who was Ted Emmett's business partner. He'd picked all of us up in his black Lincoln Navigator an hour earlier.
With Ralphy caddying for Jonathan Wentsworth, and me the caddy for Thomas Stang, that left Mike as caddy for the third man. Theodore Emmett, Mike's uncle. He insisted that we call him Ted. Ted, who was in his late forties, had a hollow, worn face, and constantly smoked. Like now. He sucked on a cigarette, flicked it into a bush, and winked at the three of us, as if telling us to ignore the stuffiness of Jonathan Wentsworth.
Seconds later Lisa Higgins followed with a fourth man, Jonathan Mandily, who had a completely bald head. Lisa smiled at us. I managed to fake a smile back.
"Ready, gentlemen?" Wentsworth said to the other three.
Each nodded. Each withdrew a club from the golf bags that Mike, Lisa, and I held balanced beside us.
Not Wentsworth. He barked another order at Ralphy and made Ralphy pull out a club to give to him.
Wentsworth watched as Tom Stang hit a drive first. The ball didn't go far. But it was what was called a machined gutta, a ball from the 1890s, not anything like a modern golf ball for distance. Plus it was hit by a club with a wooden shaft instead of steel or graphite.
Then Mike's uncle Ted hit his drive. It went down the middle and a little farther than Stang's drive.
Finally it was Jonathan Wentsworth's turn. He walked to the tee box and began to ready himself with great ceremony. He stepped away from his ball a few times. He looked down the
fairway. At the ball. At the fairway. Thirty seconds later he still had not yet swung. I could tell this was going to be a long day
Then, just as he began to draw his club back to hit the ball, Ralphy sneezed. Loudly.
Wentsworth stepped away from the golf ball and glared at Ralphy. "Another interruption like that, young man, and I'll send you packing."
"Yes, sir," Ralphy said, his voice filled with misery. Not a nasal-sounding misery, just normal misery His sneeze must have cleared his nostrils of the remaining pieces of Cheetos.
Wentsworth began to address the ball again.
Mike elbowed me and pointed. At a slimy piece of Cheeto that clung to Wentsworth's golf ball like a dead orange caterpillar.
Wentsworth noticed it, too.
"What on earth is that?" Wentsworth exploded. He leaned down to peer at it more closely.
I looked at Ralphy There was an orange trail down his chin.
I looked at Wentsworth, who had lifted the slimy Cheeto to examine it closer to his eyes. He squinted at it.
I looked at Mike, who was gritting his jaws to keep from laughing.
Lisa, dark-haired and blue-eyed, had a suspicious look on her face, as if she knew Mike and I were up to something but couldn't figure out what.
I looked at Tom Stang and Ted Emmett, who were giving each other puzzled glances.
"I believe it's dead," Wentsworth pronounced. "But where did it come from? I need to talk to the greenskeeper about this. The members will be outraged if some type of orange caterpillar decides to attack our shrubbery."
He put his hands on his hips to survey the tree above the tee box, as if perhaps the offending insect had dropped from a branch.
"Oh, man," Mike said quietly between his tight jaws as Wentsworth marched around looking for more caterpillars. "I have to laugh so bad, I think I need diapers."
Me too. I knew if either of us started to laugh, we'd never stop. Which would get us kicked out of the tournament for certain. So I put one of my knuckles in my mouth and bit as hard as I could, hoping it would prevent any giggles.
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