by Kara LaReau
“That is a pity,” said Hugo Fromage. “For you.”
“Well, we have quite a situation here, eh? The Mentioner is going to have a field day,” Mr. Goode said, unfolding his paper and laying it on the table. “They always come up with such great headlines for their crime stories—today’s was COPS TEASED; WEASEL FLEES. For this mystery, I’m imagining THE LADY VANISHES!”
“Ah, you are a clever one, Monsieur Goode,” said the great detective. “Can you tell me where you were when the lady vanished?”
“I was in the compartment with Cecily after we returned from lunch and until the bell rang for tea, except for the time she excused herself to powder her nose,” Mr. Goode explained. “You know how long it takes a woman to make herself presentable? Well, multiply that by ten for my Cecily! Sometimes I wonder how we manage to go anywhere or do anything, with the amount of time she spends off in the loo. ‘It’s a good thing you’re easy on the eyes,’ I tell her.”
The young man chuckled at this. Hugo Fromage did not. Instead, he said, “Have you ever been on this train before, monsieur?”
“Well, yes. I travel frequently in my line of business,” the young man explained.
“And what line of business is that?”
Desmond Goode produced a business card and handed it to the great detective. The Bland Sisters could see that it said:
“We import and export all manner of items: pottery, art, furniture. Whatever our clients request. I transport it by train to the docks at Uncanny Valley and see that it’s packed onto a ship.”
“And the reverse, I assume, if you are expecting imports from abroad?” asked the great detective.
“Sure, that’s the ticket,” said Mr. Goode. “My fiancée was right. You are sharp as a tack!”
Hugo Fromage bowed his head. “One more question, s’il vous plaît. Have you ever met Mademoiselle Magique, or anyone else on this train, prior to this journey?”
“Well, I met my fiancée on this train, of course. In this very dining car, about six months ago. Once I caught a glimpse of those shining eyes, and heard that sparkling laugh, she’d stolen my heart.”
“Anyone else?” asked the great detective.
“No one . . . except the conductor. I always see him on my travels between Dullsville and the Uncanny Valley,” the young man said. He snapped his fingers several times. “Oh, what is his name?”
“Mr. Harold,” said Kale, looking through her notes. “Frank Harold.”
“Right, good old Mr. Harold,” said Mr. Goode.
“You have been very helpful,” said the great detective. He pulled out the monogrammed handkerchief. “By the way, do you know to whom this belongs?”
The young man took the handkerchief from Hugo Fromage and inspected it. “No, I don’t,” he said. “But I imagine it belongs to someone of some means. The embroidery is very fine.”
“Merci,” said the great detective. He took the handkerchief from Mr. Goode and placed it on the table between them. “I appreciate your time and consideration.”
“At first, I thought he and Miss Springwell could have been up to something together. But he just seems like a normal businessman,” said Jaundice, after Mr. Goode had left the dining car. Although Jaundice had never before met a businessman, normal or otherwise, she was sure she was right. She almost always was.
“A businessman with exceptional dental hygiene,” said Kale, as she added this to her notes.
“If Mr. Goode’s teeth are real,” Hugo Fromage said, “they may be the only genuine thing about him.”
Professor Magic’s Rules of Illusion
If something goes wrong onstage,
always have a backup plan.
“This is an outrage!” said Mr. Hatchett, storming into the dining car. “I have been sitting in my compartment all afternoon with no word as to whether or not they’ve cleared the tracks. What kind of outfit is this?”
“We do not work for the railroad, monsieur,” explained the great detective. “But I can assure you, our work will not take long.” He gestured to the seat across from him.
Reluctantly, Mr. Hatchett sat. “Well, I guess it doesn’t matter. Other than the interview I did with Colonel McRobb, this whole trip has been a waste. Magique invited me to review her comeback performance at the Uncanny Valley Hippodrome, and it looks like that’s not going to happen. I’ve always said female magicians aren’t up to the task. It seems this one made herself disappear before she produced another failure.”
“Another failure?” asked Hugo Fromage.
“I panned her debut at the Dullsville Music Hall last year,” he explained. “Total disaster. Several audience members walked out, and then the rest of the crowd turned on her. I’ve never heard such loud booing—or seen actual tomatoes being thrown.”
“What made everyone get up and leave, and boo, and lob the tomatoes?” asked the great detective.
Mr. Hatchett pulled out his reporter’s notebook and leafed through it. “It was in the middle of a goofy routine she called ‘The Mind’s Eye.’ She claimed she could read the audience’s thoughts. After she started with her silly ‘readings,’ some people had had it, I suppose. One man even shouted at her as he stormed out.”
“What did he shout, if I might ask?” inquired the great detective.
Mr. Hatchett flipped his pen around his fingers as he scanned through his notes. “It was too dark in the music hall for me to see his face, or anyone else’s, but everyone heard him. Ah, here it is. It was ‘Balderdash.’ As he left, the man shouted ‘Balderdash.’”
Kale looked at Jaundice. Hadn’t they heard the word “balderdash” somewhere before? She flipped through her notes.
“That was what Colonel McRobb said earlier,” she whispered. “Balderdash!”
“Do you think that means he did it?” Jaundice wondered.
“Thank you,” Hugo Fromage said to the reporter. “That will be all.”
After Mr. Hatchett left the dining car, the great detective turned to the Bland Sisters.
“That will be all for you, too, mademoiselles,” he said. He took a newspaper from the courtesy cart and began leafing through it.
“But, don’t we need to continue our investigation?” Jaundice asked.
The great detective smiled. “You two have been very helpful. But I think we have gathered all of the necessary information.”
“Would you like my notes?” Kale asked, offering her notebook. “Jaundice and I have found a few really good leads.”
“I have made my own notes. Up here,” the great detective said, pointing a gloved finger to his exceedingly round head. “Now that all of the ingredients are in place, it is time for Hugo Fromage to allow his brain stew to simmer.”
“Well, if you need us for anything else, we’ll be in our compartment,” Jaundice reminded him, though he seemed too preoccupied with his newspaper to hear her.
“I’m not really a fan of stew, anyway,” admitted Kale. She had tried it once, unsuccessfully, when the Bland Sisters were kidnapped by pirates. “Let alone brain stew.”
Professor Magic’s Rules of Illusion
Practice makes perfect.
Not just for magic, but for everything.
The Bland Sisters leaned out the door between the dining car and the passenger car. A tow truck had just finished pulling the Fluff-O truck away, and several workmen from the train company were clearing away the broken barrels and using blowtorches to melt the last bits of marshmallow crème off the tracks and the train’s wheels.
“Looks like they’re almost finished,” said Jaundice.
“Ah, well,” said Kale, gazing longingly at the scene. She would have loved to help with the cleanup.
Back in the Bland Sisters’ compartment, Jaundice made sure to tie the door shut with one of her trusty pieces of string, to make sure they wouldn’t fall prey to any foul play. As she would one day learn when her first issue of Nuts for Knots finally arrived, she had just executed a more than decent “slipped constri
ctor.”
“It’s nice to be alone together, with no one needing our assistance,” Jaundice noted.
“It is,” said Kale. “Though I wish we had some socks to work on. The darning basket must be overflowing at home.”
“Well, we’ve already tried admiring the scenery,” said Jaundice. “And we’ve read the better part of Professor Magic’s Rules of Illusion.”
“I do wish I had Tillie’s Tips to keep us company,” Kale said.
“There has to be something we can do to pass the time,” said Jaundice.
“There is the matter of Monsieur Fromage’s investigation,” Kale reminded her sister. She flipped through her notebook. “Though there is a lot to consider, starting with all the evidence: the red envelope, the burned paper, the bloody fabric, the green handkerchief embroidered with the letter H . . .”
“And the box of Good & Plenty. Don’t forget that,” Jaundice said. Kale added it to the list. “And then there’s all the suspects.”
“There are so many of them. And most of them were unattended when she disappeared,” Kale said, showing Jaundice her notes. “Miss Springwell and Mr. Goode, the countess, Mr. Harold, even Vera Dreary was alone for a few moments when she went to fetch the cream. The only two who say they were together were Colonel McRobb and Kirk Hatchett.”
“They say they were together,” said Jaundice. “But were they?”
“We know Colonel McRobb was the one who said ‘balderdash.’ Doesn’t that mean he was the one who stormed out of Magique’s show?” Kale asked.
The Bland Sisters blinked at each other.
“Whoa,” said Kale, holding her head. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d used that much brainpower.
“Is it just me, or are we starting to sound like real detectives?” Jaundice asked.
“Well, if we are, we have our work cut out for us,” Kale said. “We also have to figure out who stole Countess Goudenoff’s ring. Everyone on this train seems suspicious.”
“Except for us and Monsieur Fromage,” said Jaundice.
Kale closed her notebook and put her head down on the table. Even if this kind of accounting didn’t involve numbers, it still left her with a headache.
Jaundice put her head down on the table, too. The Bland Sisters sat in silence for several minutes. Finally, Kale spoke.
“Three,” she said.
“Six,” said Jaundice.
“Nine.”
“Twelve.”
On they went with their numbers divisible by three—until eventually (and not surprisingly), they both fell asleep yet again.
This time, Kale was still doing her best to rescue whoever was buried beneath the dust and clutter. After a great deal of effort, two hands finally appeared. Kale grabbed them and pulled as hard as she could. Eventually, the endangered party emerged . . .
. . . and it turned out to be none other than the Bland Sisters’ parents.
“Finally,” said their mother, dusting herself off.
“It’s about time,” said their father. “You and your sister packed us away long enough.”
“Packed you away?” Kale said. She turned to Jaundice. “Does that make any sense to you?”
But Jaundice didn’t look like herself; she looked like a long piece of string, with a knot where her head should be.
“I’m a frayed knot,” she said.
At the same time, Jaundice was dreaming that the phone, as ever, was still ringing urgently, and seemingly close by.
Ring-ring! Ring-ring!
This time, the Bland Sisters’ parents were standing over Jaundice.
“I don’t know why you keep expecting them to pick it up,” said their father.
“I’m right here!” Jaundice shouted, waving her arms. But their parents didn’t seem to notice.
Their mother sighed. “Oh, well. I guess there’s always Plan B,” she said.
“Right,” said their father. “I’d forgotten about Plan B.”
Suddenly, Jaundice found herself in the red wagon with Kale, being pulled by their parents at a breakneck speed, on a steep incline. Up, up, up they went, their parents running faster and faster.
“Here goes nothing,” said their father.
They were just about at the top, where the incline dropped off into a valley of what seemed like nothingness.
“I don’t like this at all!” Kale said, whimpering.
“Please, stop!” Jaundice cried.
“Well, if you insist,” said their mother.
“Hold on tight!” cried their father. “Things are about to get interesting!”
And then they disappeared.
Jaundice and Kale were still in the wagon, and the wagon was airborne.
The Bland Sisters woke up with a jolt.
It took a moment for Jaundice to realize she wasn’t still in midair.
“Did you feel that?” she asked.
“I did,” said Kale, exhaling. She was glad her sister was there for her, in dreams and in real life, and that Jaundice now looked a lot less stringy.
The Bland Sisters put their hands over their hearts.
“I dreamed about our parents,” Jaundice said. “And now I’ve got that ache again.”
“Me, too,” said Kale. “In my dream, they told me we’d ‘packed them away.’ Whatever that means.”
“In my dream, they kept trying to call someone,” Jaundice explained. “I think that someone was us. Then I dreamed you and I were flying. It was scary at first, and then, it felt . . .”
“What?” Kale asked.
Jaundice thought for a moment.
“It’s times like these I wish we had our dictionary with us,” said Jaundice. “I think the word I’m looking for is . . . exhilarating?”
“Whoa,” said Kale. Exhilarating was a word she wasn’t sure she could spell, let alone experience.
“But then I woke up. I wish I knew what happened next,” said Jaundice.
A whistle pierced the air.
“Did you hear that?” Kale asked.
“I did,” said Jaundice. “What do you think it means?”
Kale opened the curtain and looked out at the landscape. “Well, either the trees are moving, or we are.”
Mr. Harold appeared in their doorway. “The tracks are finally clear, so we’re on our way,” he said. “We should be in the Uncanny Valley in about an hour. In the meantime, Mr. Fromage would like to see everyone in the dining car. Including both of you.”
Professor Magic’s Rules of Illusion
Magic is about noticing little details
that others don’t take the time to see or understand.
The great detective was seated with his back to the Bland Sisters when they first entered the dining car. As they walked around him to take their seats, they could see his mustache and shoes looked particularly shiny, and he was wearing a fresh flower in his little vase-shaped lapel pin.
The Bland Sisters considered the suspects. Cecily and Desmond were already seated, and Cecily was whispering in Desmond’s ear. An anxious Vera Dreary helped the countess to her chair. Kirk Hatchett and Colonel McRobb appeared last, and they each seemed more disgruntled than ever.
“Everyone looks guilty,” Jaundice whispered.
“Well, they can’t all have done it,” said Kale. “How silly would that be?”
“This better not take long, Fromage,” the colonel said. “I have a bookstore full of True Hero fans waiting for me. I’m sure the line for my signing is out the door by now.”
Desmond Goode rolled his eyes. “We all have business to attend to,” he said. Cecily squeezed his hand.
“We have our socks waiting for us, for instance,” Jaundice said.
“A lot of socks, I’m sure,” Kale added. “And we only have one darning egg between us.”
Hugo Fromage stood up and cleared his throat. “Mesdames et messieurs, I thank you for indulging me this afternoon and evening. It has been quite illuminating, speaking to you all. In fact, I think I ca
n reveal, without a doubt, what has happened to our errant magician. Let us start, first, with the evidence.”
The great detective gestured to the table beside him, on which the embroidered handkerchief, the torn bit of robe, the box of Good & Plenty, the red envelope, and the scrap of burned paper were laid. He held up the bit of robe with his gloved fingers.
“A magician’s robe, smeared with what is no doubt blood, her train compartment ransacked. She is nowhere to be found on the Uncanny Express, and there is no way she could have willingly leaped off the train, given its speed. So how can we account for this? The rest of the clues tell a story.”
The Bland Sisters sighed. They loved a good story.
“The burned scrap of paper, it turns out, is a clipping from the Mentioner—specifically, the advertisement for Mademoiselle Magique’s comeback performance,” Hugo Fromage informed the group. He opened his copy of today’s newspaper to reveal the matching ad. “There is writing across this clipping. One can make out the words ‘STOP, OR EL’ from the letters that remain legible: ‘STOP, OR ELSE,’ I suspect. Someone did not want her to appear at the Hippodrome this afternoon. But who? Then, Hugo Fromage allows his brain stew to simmer. He remembers the magician’s outburst at lunch, and her mention of secrets waiting to be revealed. He remembers what was recounted by Monsieur Hatchett, the reporter who was in attendance six months ago at Mademoiselle Magique’s fateful show in Dullsville. People walked out, Monsieur Hatchett said. Just as the magician was starting to perform her mind-reading trick. I believe something was said that night that had a ring of truth to it.”
“You mean, Magique really can read minds?” Kale asked.
“The act of mind reading is a great deal like detective work,” explained Hugo Fromage. “One must only be observant, and clues will appear. Just by looking out at her audience, I am sure the magician could have made some observations, and from those observations came connections, and from those connections came conjecture. For instance, what were the psychic claims she made to her audience during her performance last year?”
