Sandapalooza Shake-Up

by Chris Grabenstein

We wanted to find out whether she’d left the room with the lockbox unlocked. We also wondered if maybe she took the tiara because, like Digby said, she didn’t want to share it with anybody.

  Maybe the princess had done it instead of the butler.

  “The royal family isn’t here right now,” Veronica told us when we entered the lobby.

  Veronica was hostessing the “brand-new” all-you-can-eat British Breakfast Buffet. They’d given their morning meal the Jolly Ole England treatment by adding scones, baked beans, something called bubble and squeak (I think it was mashed-up and fried leftover veggies), and English breakfast tea.

  “Do you know when they might be back?” asked Gloria, way more politely than I would’ve.

  “Later,” said Mr. Conch when he strutted over to gloat at us. “They went to Orlando. Needed to talk to the folks at Disney about the tiara. So, Petey, do you think your maid will fork it over by tomorrow?”

  “She doesn’t have it!” I said.

  “What? She already sold it?”

  “Clara didn’t steal the tiara, sir. In fact, we’re very close to clearing her name. We have a few new suspects.”

  “Is that so?” said Mr. Conch. “What are you, some kind of junior detective?”

  “Yes, sir. And a very good one.”

  Mr. Conch was kind of squinting at me, trying to see if what I said was true.

  I didn’t flinch. I wanted to wipe the smug smile off Mr. Conch’s face.

  It didn’t work.

  He gestured to the crowd swarming through his packed lobby. “Well, whoever stole the tiara, we’ve definitely stolen all your business. You people have no idea how to run a resort. But don’t worry. We’ll do something nice with your property when we take it over. I’m thinking asphalt. We could turn it into a first-class parking lot.”

  My face must’ve turned purple. I was about to go apoplectic—that word we learned from Digby. Gloria gently took me by the arm.

  “Come on, P.T.,” she said, nudging me away from what was about to turn into an ugly scene. “Like you said, the police need us to wrap up our investigation so they can apprehend the real culprit.”

  They didn’t and we both knew it.

  But Gloria is a good friend. What I really needed was to get away from anyone named Conch.

  “Lilly and her family should be back from Orlando later in the day,” said Gloria after we were off the Conch Reef property and on the beach. “We can talk to her then.”

  Since it was Sunday, the second full day of the Sandapalooza festival, the beach was packed. The sculptures were all pretty awesome, except the one created by the Conch Reef Resort’s professional team.

  They’d built an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet, which never looks very appetizing when it’s made out of sand. Plus the eggs, bacon, toast, pancakes, waffles, and OJ all had cartoony faces and Muppet eyes.

  “That is so totally disgusting,” said Gloria. “Who wants to eat food that’s been smiling at you?”

  I wasn’t as completely grossed out as she was. Probably because I was distracted. Hearing that the Pettybones were at Disney World made me think about what Grandpa had said.

  Orlando was where my mother had met my father.

  “I need to go talk to Travis,” I told Gloria. “Something Mom wants me to tell him.”

  “Cool. Meet you back at the Banana Shack? All of a sudden, I’m hungry for a breakfast sandwich. Get it?”

  “Got it. Save me a Sproke.”

  She took off for the Wonderland. I wove my way through the throng and made it down to the sand statue of Surf Monkey and Poseidon.

  Travis was pocketing his phone and getting set to mesmerize the crowd by spinning another tale in front of his masterpiece.

  “What people forget,” Travis told his audience, “is that the Great Sphinx in Giza, Egypt, was the best-in-show winner at the first sand sculpture competition ever held.”

  The crowd laughed.

  “It’s true. But after all that work, not too many tourists dropped by to check it out, because the pharaoh was a dummy who held his competition in the middle of a desert instead of on a beautiful beach like this one right here!”

  The audience applauded when Travis ended his spiel. Some even dropped bills and coins into a kiddy sand bucket labeled “Tips.”

  One spectator wasn’t so thrilled: Mr. Francis Frumpkes. My grumpy history teacher from school. His mother’s house is just down the beach from the Wonderland.

  “Young man, that story you just told was patently preposterous!” he fumed.

  “Thanks,” said Travis. “So’s your comb-over.”

  Fact: Mr. Frumpkes wasn’t fooling anyone into thinking he had hair by combing six greasy strands over the top of his otherwise bald dome.

  “I’m going to report you to the WHA!” shouted Mr. Frumpkes.

  “The whaaaa?” said Travis.

  “The World History Association! They’ll put an end to your fact-bending shenanigans, buster!”

  Travis gave him a jaunty two-finger salute. “Looking forward to it, sir.”

  Mr. Frumpkes stomped away without even noticing that I was there or that I was smiling. (Mr. Grumpface wasn’t exactly my favorite person on the planet.)

  “Well, hey there, P.T.,” Travis said when he saw me.

  “Hey there. Where’s Darryl?”

  “Hang on.”

  Travis grabbed his binoculars off the back of a canvas fold-up chair and checked out the Wonderland.

  “Yep. He’s back at the Banana Shack, ordering us up a couple of breakfast burgers from that Parrothead Jimbo. We can’t get enough of those things.” He lowered the binoculars. “Can I ask you a question, P.T.?”

  “Sure!”

  “Have you known your cook very long?”

  “Jimbo? Not really. He’s only been with us for a month or so.”

  “Huh” was all Travis said about that.

  “Sorry about Darryl’s phone.”

  Travis nodded. “He thinks the maid stole it.”

  “She didn’t, because she wouldn’t.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, son,” Travis said with a smile. “I’m sure it’ll turn up.”

  “Me too.” It was time to pop the question. “So, Travis, have you ever worked over in Orlando?”

  “Sure, sure. In fact, if I remember correctly, my final Florida gig before this one was a Sandtastic Weekend—a big event over at the Walt Disney World Swan and Dolphin Resort. It was something! They had all sorts of food trucks and a DJ Dance in the Sand Party. Lot of pretty girls came to the dance….”

  “And, uh, when was this, uh, dance and stuff?”

  “Gosh, guess it had to be twelve, thirteen years ago.”

  I tried not to let him see how excited I was.

  Twelve or thirteen years ago was exactly when Mom was working at Disney World!

  “Did you, uh, meet any special girls when you were at Disney World?” I asked.

  Travis grinned. “A few, son. A few.”

  “Stay right here.”

  Travis laughed. “What?”

  “Don’t go away. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  Travis threw open his arms. “No problemo. I’m here all day.”

  I took off running.

  “Where are you going?” hollered Gloria when I raced across the Banana Shack patio.

  “The lobby! I gotta introduce Mom to Travis!”

  Yep, that’s what I said.

  Even though I was pretty sure they’d already met—twelve or thirteen years ago!

  I nearly ripped the door off its hinges as I burst into the lobby.

  “Mom? Mom? You’ve got to see something!”

  “Give me a minute, hon,” she said.

  She had a long line of guests at the front counter—all of them, apparently, waiting to check out. I heard one of them mutter, “Now they’re stealing cell phones out of people’s rooms!”

  “I assure you, Mr. and Mrs. de las Heras,” Mom told the parents
at the head of the line, “your valuables are completely safe here at the Wonderland. There’s really no need for you to cut short your stay.”

  The mother covered her son’s ears. The father took care of the daughter.

  “Well, what about the M-A-I-D who stole the T-I-A-R-A and the I-P-H-O-N-E?”

  “Those are just unsubstantiated accusations,” said Mom, who looked totally frazzled.

  “Well,” said the father, “people wouldn’t be making accusations, unsubstantiated or otherwise, if there was nobody to accuse!”

  “Huh?” said Mom. “That doesn’t really make sense….”

  “Just give us our refund,” fumed the mother. “The kids want to go swimming.”

  “And the Conch Reef Resort has an incredible pool,” added the dad. “You should see the waterslide!”

  “We’re starting a special stay-two-nights-and-the-third-one-is-free promotion,” Mom said with a smile.

  “No thanks,” said the man.

  “That includes a free breakfast.”

  “No. Thanks.”

  Mom printed out their final bill.

  And then she checked out the next two families waiting their turn to flee the premises.

  “Have fun in the sun,” Mom said sort of limply when the last of our early checkouts raced out the door so they could head over to the Conch Reef Resort and jump in their pool.

  She turned to me. “Now, what is it you wanted me to see, P.T.?”

  “The sand sculptures!”

  “Seriously?”

  “They’re awesome. Hey, have you even met our sand-sculpting team?”

  “Yes, P.T. I met Darryl. Last night. When he came in to tell me Clara had stolen his phone. Remember?”

  “What about his partner? Travis?”

  I was hoping the name Travis might ring a twelve-year-old bell.

  “Sorry,” said Mom. “I haven’t had a chance. I’m sure I’ll bump into him before the weekend is over. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go clean some rooms.”

  “Wha-hut?”

  “I asked Clara to stay home today because I didn’t want people staring at her or saying mean things. Now none of the other maids will clean rooms unless Grandpa or I go in with them. They don’t want to be falsely accused of theft, too.”

  “But I think checking out the sand sculptures would cheer you up.”

  “No, P.T. What would cheer me up is somebody finding that blasted tiara!”

  Mom practically clomped out of the room.

  I don’t think I’d ever seen her look so frustrated. I thought back to when the Conches wanted to buy us out, before we landed the Beach Party Surf Monkey movie. Mom wanted to take the money Mr. Conch offered her and move to Arizona. Retire while she was still young. I talked her out of it. I was guessing she probably wished she hadn’t listened to me.

  Gloria came into the lobby.

  “I just saw your mom,” she said. “What’s going on?”

  “We’re losing even more business,” I told her. “And the housekeepers are all afraid to do their jobs. We need to find that tiara, Gloria. Soon.”

  “We might have a lead.”

  “Really?”

  “Dad just texted me. I think he has some new evidence!”

  “It’s the bottom of the ninth, the bases are loaded, I’m three and two at the plate,” said Mr. Ortega when Gloria and I joined him in room 234. “Do I choke or do I drive in the winning run?”

  “Dad,” said Gloria, “what are you talking about?”

  Mr. Ortega wiggle-waggled his phone.

  He smiled his ultrabright smile.

  Then he jiggled his phone some more.

  Gloria rolled her eyes. “Dad, can you puh-leeze just tell us what’s on your phone?”

  “Proof that Clara didn’t do it but somebody else sure might’ve!”

  “What’ve you got?” I asked.

  Mr. Ortega shook his phone. Again.

  “Friday,” he said, “before the burglary was reported, I was out on the balcony, putting together an audition clip to let the folks at WTSP know I can handle breaking news as well as sports. Then real news broke and the coach sent me in. The news director had me cover the royal press conference on Saturday, which, by the way, I totally aced.”

  He raised his palm, so I slapped him five.

  “Anyway, there was no longer any need for an audition piece, so I forgot about the clip I’d recorded until just now, when I was trying to free up some memory.”

  He put the phone down on the coffee table.

  “See, I had propped the phone on the balcony railing and switched the camera to selfie mode. Then I backed up and launched into a piece about Lord and Lady Pettybone arriving in St. Pete Beach with the fabled Twittleham Tiara.

  “Watch closely,” said Mr. Ortega, muting the sound so we could concentrate on the visuals. “I never saw what was going on behind me, because, well, it was going on behind me! Here it comes.”

  We focused on the screen.

  Jimbo, our chef, marched up the balcony behind Mr. Ortega. He balanced a tray topped with a stack of room service food under warmer domes. Behind him, a bright green blur rushed out of the frame.

  While Mr. Ortega yammered at the camera, Jimbo banged on the door to room 227.

  “That’s the butler’s room,” I said.

  “That’s where the tiara was!” added Gloria.

  On-screen, no one answered Jimbo’s knock.

  So he set down his tray on one of the white plastic lawn chairs outside the door.

  He started jiggling the knob.

  He knocked one more time.

  Jiggled the knob. Harder.

  He looked over his shoulder to see if anyone was watching him.

  I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

  Jimbo reached into his pocket just as Mr. Ortega finished his audition, stepped forward, blocked the lens, and shut off the video camera.

  So we didn’t get to see the most important part of the clip: Jimbo breaking into the butler’s room to steal the tiara!

  “Jimbo did it?” I said out loud.

  “So it would seem,” said Mr. Ortega. “This could be the break this team needs. I’ve seen your mom, P.T. She’s been struggling. She needs a win to stop this skid. And the Wonderland? It’s about to slide into the cellar of the motel league.”

  “Dad?” said Gloria. “This is news, not sports, remember?”

  “Check.”

  Gloria turned to me. “What do you guys know about Jimbo, anyway?”

  I shrugged. “He’s a nice guy who makes a mean burger and very tasty curly fries.”

  “What’s his background?” asked Mr. Ortega.

  “I’m not sure. He was a cook in the army….”

  “Or so he says, P.T.,” said Mr. Ortega skeptically. “Or so he says.”

  “Let me put this on the stoop and see if the cat licks it up,” said Gloria. “Here’s my theory: Jimbo’s had his eye on room 227 ever since the royals checked in. Don’t forget, he can see who’s coming and going in and out of the second-floor rooms from his post at the Banana Shack.”

  Mr. Ortega nodded. “I sometimes wave at him when I’m on the balcony working on my tan. Always wear sunscreen, kids.”

  “So let’s look at this from ten thousand feet,” said Gloria. “Jimbo waited until he knew everybody was out of the Cassie McGinty Suite. The adults went to the art museum. Lady Lilly scampered down to the beach when Travis and Darryl shot off Roman candles to open their Sandapalooza exhibit. Once she was gone, Jimbo faked like he was making a room service delivery and used a master key to sneak into the butler’s room!”

  “Jimbo doesn’t have a master key,” I pointed out. “Just the maids. And me.”

  “He could’ve ‘borrowed’ one,” suggested Gloria. “He could’ve borrowed it weeks ago and had a duplicate made. We should call the police. ASAP.”

  “No. Not just yet. Jimbo’s a good guy.”

  “So what do you want to do?” asked G
loria.

  “Wait until there’s one second left on the shot clock?” added her dad.

  “Just give me five minutes, you guys. I want to talk this over with somebody. I think I need some fatherly advice.”

  “Um, this is my father,” said Gloria. “And he just gave you some very sound advice.”

  “Thank you, Gloria. P.T.? Call the police.”

  “I will,” I said. “Probably. I just want to check in with one more person.”

  “Of course you do,” said Mr. Ortega, clapping me on the shoulder. “But remember, P.T.: a win today snaps your family out of this losing streak! Now go talk to your grandfather. See what he says.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I dashed out of the room.

  I definitely needed to have a father-son-type chat with someone else before calling the sheriff’s office and pointing a finger at Jimbo.

  But I didn’t want to have it with Grandpa.

  I wanted to have it with Travis.

  “Well, son, I’d say you’re stuck between a rock and a hard place.”

  Travis and I were sitting in the shade behind the Surf Monkey sculpture. It was just him and me. Darryl was out front, chatting with the crowd.

  “I’m not one hundred percent positive that Jimbo did it,” I said. “The video ends before you actually see him bust in or steal anything.”

  “Well, the good news is you don’t have to be sure,” said Travis. “You can just turn this video you found over to the sheriff’s office. Let them investigate it.”

  “But Jimbo’s such a great guy….”

  “I know you like the cook,” said Travis. “And I definitely love his burgers. But for the sake of your family, if your cook is a crook, he needs to go to jail.”

  I nodded.

  “The sooner you make the call, the better, son. I’ve seen all those people checking out. If you don’t move fast, there won’t be anybody staying at the Wonderland except you, me, and Darryl.”