Sandapalooza Shake-Up

by Chris Grabenstein

  It’s not a plush toy; it’s a story!

  That’s the big difference between the Conch’s giant pirate statue and the Wonderland’s life-size buccaneer, Stinky Beard, who stands guard at the entrance to our miniature golf course.

  The Conch’s pirate is just a hollow plastic shell.

  Our Stinky Beard commemorates the smelliest pirate ever to sail the seven seas, because even with all that water, he never took a bath. They say his beard reeked of three-week-old fish chowder. That his toes smelled like last week’s shrimp sitting in the sun.

  In fact, Stinky Beard was so smelly his crew mutinied and left him stranded on the sands of St. Pete Beach, where he opened Florida’s first miniature golf course right there at—you guessed it—the current site of the Wonderland.

  At least that’s the story I’d tell you to make playing miniature golf at the Wonderland a little more fun. And if somebody farted while I was telling my tall tale? Even better!

  Gloria and I reached Lady Lilly’s chair.

  I had to shield my eyes from all the sparkly reflections.

  “Looks like you found your tiara,” I said.

  “Have you gone absolutely doolally?” Lilly giggled. “You don’t seriously think this crown is real, do you?”

  Now that we were closer and Lilly was in the shade, I could tell her headpiece was a toy made out of plastic and rhinestones.

  “I’ve simply been practicing my proper princess posture and poses. Mum insists I work with a crown for at least an hour every day. We must be prepared, mustn’t we?”

  “For what?” asked Gloria.

  “For the day I become a real princess. In fact, I might actually marry Prince George when he grows up. He’s only a few years younger than me.”

  “A few?” said Gloria. “Try twelve.”

  “If we fall in love, a decade’s difference in our ages won’t matter! We’re royals. Never forget, Catherine of Aragon was several years older than Henry the Eighth when they wed. All it will take is for dashing Prince George to see me across a crowded ballroom, sweep me off my feet, and make me his bride!”

  “Sounds like a plan,” I said.

  “Quite. Now then, if I may, what brings you two over here to this much nicer hotel?”

  “We wanted to give you a souvenir of your stay in the Cassie McGinty Suite,” I said, sliding the autographed photo of Pinky Nelligan out of its envelope.

  Good thing Lilly was sitting down.

  “Oh my word! That’s Pinky Nelligan! He’s ever so dreamy!”

  I held the photo away from her gimme-gimme hands.

  “So, Lilly,” I said, “where exactly was the Twittleham Tiara when you left the suite?”

  “In Digby’s room, of course. Locked up tight in its box, which was handcuffed to a sturdy iron table.”

  “Do you guys still have that lockbox?” asked Gloria.

  “Of course. And now that we no longer possess the Twittleham Tiara, Mum let me borrow it for my practice crown.”

  She reached under her chair and pulled out the box. Its handcuff chain rattled and pinged against the sides of her chair.

  I checked out the lock.

  It wasn’t scratched at all.

  Gloria and I puzzled over our new evidence as we hiked down to the beach behind the Conch Reef Resort.

  “The box didn’t look like it was forced open,” I said. “Someone with a key had to unlock it.”

  “Or,” said Gloria, “they had precision lock-picking tools and were experts at using them.”

  “True. So basically, we’ve got nothing?”

  “Basically.”

  By taking the beach route back to the Wonderland, we not only avoided the Conch’s lobby (and the possibility of bumping into Veronica again) but also ended up in the middle of the St. Pete Beach Sandapalooza. It felt like a carnival filled with sand creatures instead of rides and booths where you could pop balloons with darts.

  There were food stalls with everything from cotton candy to ice cream and orange juice smoothies. This is Florida. Orange juice has to be a part of everything. It’s a state law.

  Everybody was having fun except Gloria and me, because we had a mystery to solve and no clues to solve it with.

  We found Grandpa staring at a sand castle being attacked by a giant sand dragon.

  “There’s only one good thing about this whole mess,” said Grandpa. “Since the Twit family’s tiara is missing, Disney is going to miss out on a chance to make another bazillion bucks selling rhinestone knockoffs of it! They have too many princesses over there already. And who wants to ride around in a giant pumpkin carriage, anyway? It’d be like sitting in a rolling zucchini!”

  Have I mentioned that Grandpa has major issues with Disney World ever since the whole “I opened my amusement park first and you nearly ran me out of business” thing happened back in the 1970s?

  We left Grandpa and hurried up the beach with the crowd until we came to the Surf Monkey sculpture.

  That particular patch of sand was mobbed.

  Because supercool Travis was spinning his spiel and putting on an awesome show.

  “This, ladies and gentlemen,” Travis proclaimed, “is the crowning achievement of Michelsandgelo’s sand-sculpting career. Surf Monkey is our statue of David, but with more clothes.”

  “Plus,” I shouted, “his name is Kevin. From YouTube. Michelangelo’s David didn’t have the Internet. He didn’t even have basic cable.”

  The crowd cracked up.

  Travis waved for me to join him in front of the sculpture. We were going to work the crowd together!

  “And this guy with the pitchfork?” said Travis. “Why, he reminds me of my old boss. Always poking me in the butt about something!”

  More laughter.

  “Of course,” I said, “Poseidon wasn’t in the first Beach Party Surf Monkey movie. But he might be in the sequel!”

  “Woo-hoo!” shouted some kids in the crowd. I figured they were Rick Riordan fans.

  For the next five minutes, Travis and I spun a story that made the creation behind us become something more than a cleverly molded lump of construction-grade sand.

  Travis winked at some of the pretty ladies in the crowd. A couple winked back.

  Fact: Travis might’ve been the most awesome adult I’d ever met (besides Mom and Grandpa, of course).

  “That was fun, son,” said Travis after our show ended with a big round of applause.

  “You should hang out with us more often,” said his partner, Darryl. “We’re here till Monday.”

  “I’d like to,” I said.

  “But,” said Gloria, “we’re extremely busy.”

  “Doing what?” asked Darryl.

  “Trying to crack the case of the missing tiara,” I told him. “People are saying horrible stuff about our friend Clara.”

  “Ah, don’t worry about it, son,” said Travis. “It’ll all blow over. Come Tuesday morning, all folks around here are going to be talking about is who won the big prize at the Sandapalooza closing ceremonies on Monday night.”

  “That’ll be us,” said Darryl.

  “Let’s hope so,” said Travis. “I’d love to leave the trophy with you and your mom as a parting gift, P.T. After all, you’re our sponsors. If we win, you win!”

  “Have you competed in many of these contests?” asked Gloria.

  “Tons,” said Darryl.

  “We were the top sand-sculpting team in all of Florida twelve years ago,” said Travis. “But then, well, we had to leave. The heat down here was too much for us.”

  Darryl laughed when Travis said that. “Amen, brother!”

  “We’ve mostly been working in California and the Carolinas,” Travis continued. “Cooler climes. Bigger opportunities. Not so many complications—if you know what I mean.”

  When he said that, Travis shot me a wink.

  The wink made me start wondering.

  It also made me start doing some math.

  I was twelve years old.<
br />
  Travis said he’d left Florida twelve years ago.

  Now, all of a sudden, he was back.

  Was it just a coincidence?

  Or had Travis seen Beach Party Surf Monkey and realized what he’d been missing back home in Florida for a dozen years?

  Was Travis my father???

  “Well,” said Gloria, nodding sideways to let me know it was time for us to move on, “we have a crime to investigate.”

  “Chill, girl,” said Travis. “R-E-L-A-X. Take time to smell the suntan lotion. It’s Saturday. School’s out. It’s a long weekend. Even the sun is about to take a dip in the Gulf to cool off.”

  “And our friend’s reputation is taking a huge hit in the media.”

  “Gloria’s right,” I told Travis. “We’ve got to go.”

  “You’re a good man, P. T. Wilkie,” said Travis. “And if you ever need to talk about anything—anything at all—I’m always here for you, son. Stay strong. Be cool.”

  “We’ll certainly try,” said Gloria. “Come on, P.T. Clara’s probably done for the day. Let’s go see what she has to say about all this before she takes off.”

  We trudged up the soft sand to the path of paver stones leading into our motel grounds. While we walked, I kept thinking about Travis. I remembered what Mom had said about my father: He was very handsome, very charming, and he could tell a good story, P.T. Just like you.

  Travis was definitely handsome. He had dimples. I think girls like guys with dimples.

  He was also extremely charming.

  And he could absolutely tell a good story, just like me.

  I didn’t tell Gloria what I was thinking. She might think I’d gone all soft and goofy.

  But I knew I’d talk with Mom later. Make sure she and Travis spent some quality time together. It might be just what Mom needed with all the craziness and checkouts.

  Maybe Travis would even bring her roses and chocolate.

  Maybe not.

  This is Florida. Chocolate melts. Even those hollow chocolate alligators they sell at the airport.

  We found Clara in the laundry room, loading a pile of towels into our jumbo washing machine. The pile was a lot smaller than usual. We were operating at about 50 percent capacity.

  “Hi, Clara,” I said. “How are you holding up?”

  “As best as I can, P.T. It’s been a long day. My neighbor, who is a lawyer, thinks I should sue His Lordship for slander. My daughter, the future doctor, says I should take deep breaths to keep my blood pressure down.”

  “Don’t worry,” I told her. “The police know you didn’t do it.”

  “Why would I? Stealing is wrong. It would also be stupid. If something goes missing from a room, who is the first person everybody blames?”

  “The cleaning staff,” said Gloria.

  “Exactly.”

  I flipped open a motel notepad I had decided I should start carrying once Gloria and I launched our investigation. “So what do you remember?”

  “About what?”

  “Cleaning the suite.”

  “Nothing unusual. The British guests were very neat and tidy.”

  “What about the tiara? Did you see the lockbox in the butler’s room?”

  “That would’ve been room 227,” said Gloria.

  “Sí, sí, sí. I saw the box. It was chained to the table. I saw the tiara, too.”

  “Impossible,” I said. “You couldn’t’ve seen the tiara. It was locked inside its box.”

  Clara shook her head. “The box was open.”

  “No way.”

  “Way,” said Clara.

  She fished her phone out of her smock.

  “I probably shouldn’t’ve done this, but I wanted my daughter to see the tiara. It was so sparkly.”

  She showed us a photograph.

  “Does your camera do time stamps?” asked Gloria.

  “Sí. And GPS coordinates. This picture was taken in the Wonderland Motel, 7000 Gulf Boulevard, at nine-twenty-three a.m. yesterday morning.”

  “While the Pettybones were off having breakfast at the Pancake House. Can you send that photo to me?”

  “Sí. But why do you need it?”

  “Because Gloria and I are going to clear your name, Clara.”

  When I said that, Clara—who doesn’t show her emotions too often, not even when she’s just discovered a poopy diaper surprise under a bed—hugged me.

  “Um, like I said, Gloria’s helping out, too.” I grunted it, because Clara is a very strong hugger.

  “Ven acá!” she said. “Come and get some of this.” She wrapped her left arm around Gloria and her right around me.

  And even though it was sort of hard to breathe, we all ended up in a pretty amazing group hug.

  When we left the laundry room, it was twilight. I saw Travis crouched beneath a lamppost at the edge of the Banana Shack’s seating area.

  He must’ve brought up a couple of jumbo buckets of heavy sand, because while we were inside talking to Clara, he’d whipped up an incredible new sand sculpture. A dog. With his hind leg raised like he was peeing against the pole.

  Jimbo and what few diners we had were cracking up.

  “Good one, man!” said Jimbo. “Just don’t let the health inspectors see him! I think that might be a serious violation, dude.”

  “What’s his name?” I hollered across the patio.

  “Mr. Pee-body,” joked Travis. “And, son, he’s all yours. Because every boy needs a dog.”

  He waved and disappeared into the darkness. I figured he was headed back to the beach to razzle-dazzle the Saturday evening crowds still cruising through the sculptures.

  “That guy is so cool,” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Gloria. “Handsome, too.”

  “Is he charming?”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean, does he remind you of me?”

  “Who said you’re charming?”

  “My mother.”

  “Well, duh,” said Gloria. “She’s your mom. It’s her job to say nice things about you. So where to next?”

  “The lobby. I want to bring Mom up to speed on our investigation. We need to show her that photo Clara took.”

  “Somebody isn’t telling the truth, P.T.”

  “I know. It’s up to us to figure out who.”

  I also wanted to take Mom down to the beach. If Travis was my father, only one person in the world could tell me for sure: my mother!

  But something stopped us from going into the lobby.

  Make that someone.

  Veronica Conch was marching up and down the sidewalk in front of our motel, wearing a blinking sandwich board that advertised the Conch Reef Resort as a “high-security hotel.”

  “Check out while you can, people!” she hollered. “Join the royal family and enjoy the royal treatment next door at the Conch Reef Resort. Leave the Plunderland before the barbarians on the housekeeping staff pillage your room!”

  I looked up to the second floor and saw some very nervous faces.

  “Book two nights at the Conch Reef Resort and the third night is free,” Veronica shouted. “Plus, you’ll get a ten percent discount on pirate eye patches!”

  My turn to shout. “They’re made out of construction paper and yarn! Stay here and you can play Putt-Putt for free!”

  While I was busy battling Veronica, a young couple scurried into the lobby. They banged the desk bell because Mom wasn’t out front.

  I couldn’t waste any more time on Veronica. I hurried into the lobby. Gloria hurried after me.

  “Hiya, folks!” I said before the man could bang the bell again. “Can I be of assistance?”

  “Yes,” he said. “We’d like to check out.”

  “Room 229,” said the woman.

  “Okeydokey,” I said, slipping behind the counter and clacking a couple of computer keys. “Let me just call up your record. I see you were scheduled to be with us until next Friday.”

  “Well,” said the woman, “given the, you know
, theft…”

  “You mean the alleged theft,” said Gloria.

  “We’d just like to leave,” said the man. “Now.”

  “No problem,” I said, thinking fast. “Of course, you’ll miss the world premiere of Chef Jimbo’s newest gourmet breakfast special. Actually, I wouldn’t be surprised if the Food Network swung by to cover it. Jimbo’s been on TV before.”

  That was totally true.

  Once, when Mr. Ortega was doing a report about kitesurfing on St. Pete Beach, he shot a couple of scenes on the sand behind the Banana Shack. Jimbo was working that day. You could see him in the background. He even waved at the camera once.

  “Your chef has been on TV?” said the woman.

  “A couple times,” I said, because the kitesurfing story on WTSP was a two-parter. Jimbo was in the background both times.

  “What’s his specialty?” asked the man.

  “We’re foodies,” said the woman.

  I thought fast and remembered a blurb about Skyway Jack’s, a local landmark, that I’d read on the Food Network’s website. I’m something of a foodie, too. Actually, I’m mostly an “eatie.”

  “Does Philadelphia scrapple sound interesting to you guys?” I asked.

  “Ooh,” said the woman. “What is it?”

  “A fried patty of pork scraps and cornmeal that Jimbo serves with fried eggs and a side of home fries, because if you ask me, everything tastes better when it’s fried. Candy bars, Twinkies, Thanksgiving turkeys…”

  “He’s serving this scrapple tomorrow?” asked the man.

  “So I’ve heard,” I said with a wink. “Jimbo doesn’t really like to publicize his daily specials. It’d be a shame if he ran out before the Food Network crew showed up.”