Sandapalooza Shake-Up

by Chris Grabenstein

  “On second thought,” said the man, “we’d like to stay.”

  “At least through breakfast,” said the woman.

  “Great,” I said. “And who knows what Jimbo might whip up for lunch?”

  “Is he famous for that, too?”

  “Well,” I said, “you can’t really become a celebrity chef if all you know how to cook is breakfast.”

  “Maybe we’ll just stick to our original reservation,” said the man.

  “Great,” I said. “And don’t worry. The housekeeper didn’t steal that tiara.”

  “No?” said the woman. “Who did?”

  “Stay tuned,” I said. “I guarantee the real culprit will be behind bars before the weekend is over.”

  “We have some very solid leads,” added Gloria. “Now we just need to peanut-butter out the tasks that will close the loop.”

  “That means we’re going to spread around the jobs,” I said, translating.

  The satisfied couple left the lobby and headed back upstairs.

  “Well played, P.T.,” said Gloria. “Well played.”

  “Thanks. You too!”

  I wanted to stick out my tongue at Veronica Conch, who was still outside, parading up and down our sidewalk.

  But we didn’t have time.

  Not even to drag Mom down to the beach to bump into Travis.

  We needed to go find Grandpa and ask him to take us to the supermarket.

  I just hoped they sold scrapple.

  Grandpa drove us down to Publix.

  “Scrapple?” he said. “Is that the board game with the letters? Who’d want to eat those little wooden squares? Did a family of beavers check in while I was napping?”

  I explained that we wanted Jimbo to experiment with his breakfast specials.

  “Scrapple,” explained Gloria, who (of course) had done some quick research, “is a dish that was created by the thrifty Pennsylvania Dutch. When they made sausage, they used the leftover scraps to create scrapple.”

  Fortunately, the meat department at the supermarket had one package of Jones country-style scrapple. And it wasn’t past its expiration date (if scrapple even has one).

  Grandpa studied the ingredients list, which, I had to admit, would’ve made a vegetarian weep. “Oy. I’ll tell you one thing: this scrapple is no bologna.”

  Breakfast meat secured, we just had to worry about getting Jimbo to serve it with fried eggs and potatoes for the couple in room 229.

  * * *

  We took the scrapple package back to the Banana Shack and stored it in the fridge.

  “See you guys tomorrow,” said Gloria. “I want to check on the business news.”

  “It’s a holiday weekend,” said Grandpa.

  “The best time to do an unpressured market analysis,” said Gloria. She headed up to her room.

  I asked Grandpa if I could talk with him about something.

  “Sure, sure.”

  We sat down on a concrete bench facing the Gulf of Mexico. The stars were sparkling in the sky, and under the full moon, the surf looked like a field of rolling black trash bags fringed with white foam.

  “So, Grandpa,” I said, “I know you always say I should discuss this with Mom….”

  “Uh-oh,” said Grandpa. “Do you want to talk about girls again?”

  “No! My father. Did you ever meet him?”

  “P.T., I really think—”

  “And I really need to know.”

  Grandpa looked at me. I looked at him.

  He blinked first.

  “Nope,” he said. “Sorry. I never met the fella. But, well, I hoped you’d never find out about this….”

  “What?”

  “He and your mother were over in…She had a job at…”

  “Where? Tell me!”

  Grandpa put his fist to his stomach like he was feeling nauseous.

  “Disney World!” He spat out the words. “The Magic Kingdom.”

  “You’re kidding.” I couldn’t believe I’d never known that.

  Grandpa shrugged. “What can I say? She was young. She was going through a rebellious stage. All kids do.”

  “Why didn’t anybody ever tell me about this?”

  “P.T., there are certain things we just don’t discuss in this family. For heaven’s sake, P.T., she sold Mickey Mouse ears!”

  “So she, uh, met my dad in Orlando?” I shivered a little, wondering if my father might’ve been a guy who dressed up like Goofy.

  Grandpa put his hand on my knee. “Whoever your father was or is, wherever he came from, I don’t really care. All I know is he gave me the greatest gift of my whole entire life. You!”

  “Thanks, Grandpa. Because I’ve been sort of wondering…”

  “And if you did come out of Disney World, then you’re the best thing that ever happened there. The happiest place on earth? Fugghedaboutit. We’re happy! What’s Disney World got that we don’t?”

  “Um, a castle?”

  “So? We’re building a bunch of sand castles down on the beach.”

  “Disney also has princesses,” I said.

  “Princesses, schmincesses. Gloria could put on a sparkly gown.”

  “I don’t think Gloria would ever—”

  Suddenly, we heard tires squeal in the parking lot.

  Somebody was leaving the Wonderland.

  And they were in a huge hurry!

  Grandpa and I jogged into the parking lot just in time to see a minivan swing out of our driveway and onto Gulf Boulevard.

  When it passed under a streetlamp, I saw the lady sitting in the passenger seat and recognized her from earlier, in the lobby. She and her husband were the ones we’d convinced to stay at the Wonderland with the promise of scrapple.

  “Of course!” I said.

  “Of…course…what?” said Grandpa between gasps for breath. He’s kind of old. He doesn’t jog on a regular basis.

  “That’s the couple from 229. They were just two doors down from the butler’s room.”

  “So?”

  “So we told them we were very close to solving the mystery of the missing tiara.”

  “Are we?”

  “Not really. But now they’re leaving in a huge hurry after they told me they wanted to stay so they could eat Jimbo’s scrapple!”

  “Maybe they Googled ‘scrapple’ and found out what that stuff’s made of,” said Grandpa. “It’s worse than liverwurst.”

  “Or maybe they couldn’t stand the heat, and they decided to hightail it out of town.”

  “No,” said Grandpa, watching the minivan turn into the Conch Reef Resort. “It looks like they’re just hightailing it next door.”

  Gloria clomped down from the second floor.

  “What’s going on, you guys?” she asked.

  “The couple from 229,” I said. “I think they stole the tiara. Looks like they’re going to lie low and stash the loot next door.”

  Gloria arched an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “Well, maybe. I mean, who checks out of one motel and into another at nine o’clock at night?”

  “Um, people who, for whatever reason, are afraid their valuables might get stolen at motel number one?” said Gloria.

  “We need to go investigate this!” I insisted.

  She shrugged. “Fine.”

  “You’re wasting your time,” said Grandpa. “The butler did it!”

  “Wha-hut?” I said.

  “The butler always does it. Read a book. Watch a movie. Good night, you two. I’m going to bed.”

  Grandpa shuffled off to his workshop behind the pool.

  “I’m calling 911!” I announced.

  “Why?”

  “That couple was two doors down from the crime scene. They heard we were this close to solving the mystery. They took off. Fast. Who squeals wheels in a minivan? That’s very suspicious behavior!”

  I dialed 911 and we caught our first break.

  A Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office cruiser must’ve been just down
the block. Ten seconds after I got off the phone, we saw its blue and red roof lights swirling as it pulled into the Conch complex and parked right behind the minivan.

  “Awesome!” I said. “Come on. Let’s go help the cops bust the perps!”

  “P.T.?”

  “Yeah?”

  “You definitely watch too many police shows.”

  “Or just enough!”

  Gloria and I ran next door.

  When we got to the resort’s covered entryway out front, we overheard the sheriff’s deputies explaining to the couple, “The 911 dispatcher just got a crazy call from some knucklehead who thinks you two might be caught up in this whole diamond-tiara-theft deal.”

  That knucklehead would be me.

  Gloria and I hung back in the shadows.

  “That’s crazy,” said the guy.

  “We didn’t steal anything!” added the lady.

  “Would you like to search our bags?” offered the guy.

  “We can’t ask you to open them, sir,” said the deputy.

  “It’s okay,” said the lady. “We don’t have anything to hide.”

  After a hasty search of the suitcases, the deputies apologized to the couple.

  I guess the deputies didn’t really care that the young couple had stolen several of our towels, a bath mat, and a half dozen tiny bottles of Wonderland hair goop.

  Actually, they didn’t have time to care.

  Before they were even finished apologizing, the radio in their cruiser started squawking at them.

  “Unit twelve, proceed to the Wonderland Motel. We have a report of another theft.”

  Gloria and I raced back to our motel.

  This was turning into a very busy Saturday night!

  We beat the sheriff’s deputies, who blooped their siren a few times, pulled out of the Conch Reef driveway, cruised down Gulf Boulevard half a block, and, lights swirling again, pulled up to our front doors.

  I saw Darryl, the sand sculptor, in the lobby. Mom was behind the front counter. Darryl didn’t look happy.

  Gloria and I followed the deputies into the lobby.

  “Deputies!” said Darryl. “Man, oh man, am I glad to see you two!”

  “What seems to be the problem, sir?” asked one deputy.

  “The sticky-fingered maid stole my phone!” said Darryl.

  “There aren’t any housekeepers on duty right now,” Mom explained. “They all went home hours ago.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Darryl. “My phone was in its charger. Now it’s gone.”

  “When was the last time you saw your phone, sir?” asked the deputy.

  “When Travis and I took a break in our room for lunch.”

  “And what time was that?”

  “Around two o’clock. We both had one of those Surf Monkey burgers. Man, those things are delicious. You ever have one?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “We had us some curly fries on the side. And a fruit smoothie. Fruit smoothie was good.”

  “Why do you suspect the maid?”

  “Because,” said Darryl, “Travis and me left our dirty plates and napkins on the table in the kitchenette. When we knocked off for the night—about fifteen minutes ago—we went back up to our room for the first time since lunch. While we were down at the beach all day, somebody cleaned up our burger mess and stole my phone right out of the charger!”

  Mom assured Darryl and the deputies that the housekeeping staff wouldn’t steal a guest’s cell phone.

  “Oh,” said Darryl. “They just go for the diamond tiaras? My phone isn’t good enough for them?”

  “Look,” said Mom, sounding worn out, “we’ll buy you a new phone.”

  I cleared my throat. “Um, seriously, Mom?”

  “Seriously.”

  “It’s a good move, public relations–wise,” Gloria whispered.

  “Oh-kay…”

  “It was the newest model,” said Darryl. “The one they just came out with.”

  “I’m sure it was,” said Mom.

  That seemed to make Darryl happy, which made the deputies happy. Everybody left the lobby except Gloria, Mom, and me.

  Mom sighed. It was even sadder than her usual sad sighs.

  “I really hate making this call.” She picked up the phone. “Clara? This is Wanda. We know none of this nonsense about the tiara is true. But until we get it sorted out, maybe it would be best if you didn’t come to work tomorrow.”

  Mom was so totally bummed out after calling Clara, I knew it was probably the worst time ever to share my Travis/Dad theory with her.

  So I let it drop. For the time being, anyway.

  Feeling down, Gloria and I slumped out of the lobby and headed to the Banana Shack, which Jimbo keeps open till eleven every night. He also makes a very fruity, very frothy Tropical Breeze milk shake. It’s way better than a Sproke.

  “We need to keep working the case,” Gloria said as we walked, because that’s what partners say to each other on cop shows. “So far, all we have is a warm bowl of nothing.”

  “And a stolen phone,” I told her.

  “Right. There’s that.”

  The Banana Shack was lit by strings of colored lights, including some that looked like pink flamingos. It was late, so not too many people were still at the restaurant.

  But one very interesting character was perched on a barstool, chatting with Jimbo while sipping a Tropical Breeze milk shake. A paper umbrella speared through a pineapple slice, an orange wedge, and a cherry was sticking out of it.

  Digby. The butler.

  “What’s he doing here?” I whispered to Gloria.

  “Only one way to find out,” she replied. “Eavesdrop.”

  Gloria and I slid into a pair of nearby seats at a table on the patio. We kept our backs to the bar but were close enough to hear whatever Digby had to say to Jimbo.

  “So,” Jimbo said to the butler, “do you have to take your dinner break this late every night, man?”

  “Indeed. Lord Pettybone and his family can be quite demanding. I’m on call twenty-four-seven, as you Americans say.”

  “Bummer,” said Jimbo. “They can, like, wake you up and make you go fetch stuff in the middle of the night?”

  “Can and do,” Digby said drily.

  “So if they wanted a can of Pringles and some Twinkies at, like, midnight…”

  “I’d run to the nearest convenience store.”

  “Man. I want a butler.”

  “As do I,” said Digby.

  “So,” said Jimbo, “what’s the pay like, man?”

  “Wretchedly abysmal.”

  “Does that mean it’s bad?”

  “No, my good man. It means it is horrible.”

  Listening to Digby grumbling and grousing, I started wondering. Maybe Grandpa was right. Maybe the underpaid, underappreciated, and underfed (he was totally wolfing down his burger) butler really had done it!

  I stood up from our table and sidled over to Digby’s stool. Gloria shadowed me.

  “Excuse me, my good man,” I said, because I was trying to talk like Digby talked.

  The butler turned around, saw who I was, and gave me a stink face.

  “N’yes?” was all he said, but, wow, it sure sounded snooty.

  “I want to show you something.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “It’s a photograph that a friend of mine, a certain motel housekeeper, snapped yesterday morning.”

  I showed him the picture Clara had forwarded to my phone.

  “Recognize that tiara?”

  “Of course. It is the missing Twittleham family heirloom.”

  “Notice anything unusual about the lockbox?” asked Gloria.

  Digby peered at my phone screen. “Not particularly.”

  “It’s not locked!” I told him.

  “Kind of defeats the whole purpose of a lockbox, man,” said Jimbo, wiping the bar with a towel. “I mean, if you’re gonna have a lockbox, you oughta lock the box. Otherwise it’s jus
t, you know, a box-box. Know what I mean?”

  Digby sighed. “Lady Lilly was supposed to close it when she was finished.”

  “Finished doing what?” I asked.

  “Practicing,” said Digby. “Lady Lilly loves putting on the tiara and pretending she’s a princess. Her mother encourages her efforts. Proper posture and all that. Lady Lilly left it unlocked when we went out for our syrup-soaked pancake breakfast. I chided her about her negligence, but her father, His Lordship, instructed me to remember my position and whom it was I was addressing so harshly.”

  Digby sniffed.

  “Whoa,” said Jimbo. “I’m definitely glad that snooty dude isn’t my boss.”

  “Indeed,” said Digby. “However, when I was called away to join Lord and Lady Pettybone on their excursion to the art museum, Lilly assured me she would, this time, take full responsibility for securing the tiara in its travel box.”

  “Do you think she did?” I asked.

  “I cannot answer for Lady Lilly. However, I would not be surprised if, once again, she forgot to properly secure the lid. She has been somewhat distraught of late.”

  “Does that mean she’s upset?” asked Jimbo.

  “Quite. When she was told that the Twittleham Tiara would be residing at Disney World for a full year, she was positively apoplectic.”

  “Hang on, dude,” said Jimbo, grabbing a napkin and a pen. “What does that one mean?”

  “She was enraged. Furious. Irate.”

  “Whoa,” said Jimbo. “That’s a whole lot of angry, man. That’s not healthy.”

  “Indeed,” said the butler. “Lady Lilly didn’t want to share those precious diamonds and pearls with anybody. Least of all Mickey Mouse.”

  First thing the next morning, Gloria and I trooped over to the Conch Reef Resort, hoping to have another word with Lady Lilly.