Sandapalooza Shake-Up

by Chris Grabenstein

“Care to be more specific?”

  “Yes. I am totally sorry for even thinking you could have had anything to do with stealing the Twittleham Tiara.”

  “And why is that?”

  That stopped me in my tracks. I had to think for a second.

  And then it hit me—the real reason Grandpa would never, ever steal anything out of any room in our motel.

  He knew that Clara, or one of the other housekeepers, would be blamed for it.

  “You would never do it,” I said, “because Clara and Debbie and Edith and all the housekeepers are like family. And we Wilkies never do anything to hurt our family.”

  Grandpa threw open his arms wide.

  “Let all the people shout ‘hallelujah’! My grandson is back!”

  Gloria and I quickly brought Grandpa up to speed.

  “So you think Travis and Darryl did it,” said Grandpa, “not the butler?”

  “Exactly,” I said. “If we can get into their room and search it while they’re not there, I’m pretty sure we’ll find the tiara. There aren’t that many places you can hide stuff in a motel room.”

  “True,” said Grandpa. “But we can’t just barge into a guest’s room. That’s against the law and the hospitality industry’s code of ethics.”

  “But,” I said, “what if the guests invited us to go into their room?”

  “Go on. I’m listening.”

  “We pretend we’re filming a documentary. Pinky Nelligan, the star of Beach Party Surf Monkey, is the host.”

  “Oh,” said Grandpa, fishing a can of Cel-Ray soda out of his portable ice chest, “he’s good. I’d watch Pinky read the phone book. Do they still make phone books?”

  “Doesn’t matter,” I said. “Pinky’s making a movie about the life of sand sculptors. We could call it Sand Hoppers.”

  “Um, isn’t that a type of flea?” asked Gloria.

  “Not in this movie. Sand hoppers are artists who hop around from beach to beach, creating beautiful sculptures. Pinky and his camera crew are capturing their life on the road. Including a backstage, behind-the-scenes look at their living quarters!”

  “I love it!” said Grandpa.

  “So we need you to be our mature adult.”

  “P.T., this is me we’re talking about here.”

  “It’ll make the movie look more legit.”

  “Will you do it, Mr. Wilkie?” asked Gloria.

  Grandpa shook his head. “Nope, nope, nope.”

  “Huh?” I said.

  “I’m not your guy, P.T.”

  Wow.

  I figured he was still mad at me.

  “We need Manny!” said Grandpa. “Gloria’s father!”

  “We were going to use his camera,” said Gloria.

  “Good. Use him, too. He’ll know how to talk digital and pixels and all that technical stuff.”

  “You think he’ll do it?” I asked Gloria.

  “Definitely,” she said. “He has the day off. Plus, he’ll do anything to help you guys.”

  “Fantastic!” said Grandpa, eagerly rubbing his hands together. “I love it when a plan comes together. Hannibal used to say that on The A-Team.”

  Gloria and I just stared at him.

  “The A-Team. It was a hit TV show.”

  We kept staring.

  Grandpa flapped his hand at us. “Ah, never mind. But that George Peppard? One heck of an actor!”

  “Riiiight,” said Gloria. “I’ll go grab Dad!”

  “Hey,” Grandpa said to me, “speaking of fantastic actors, shouldn’t you hurry up and call Pinky to the set already?”

  “On it!” I said, pulling out my phone.

  Pinky was happy to help out. “Do I have to, you know, kiss Lady Lilly on the cheek again?”

  “No,” I promised him. Then I filled him in on our plan.

  “Cool. You know, I’ve always wanted to fake-host a fake documentary.”

  “Meet us out back at the Banana Shack!”

  “On my way.”

  Ten minutes later, our whole A-Team (that’s what Grandpa insisted we call ourselves) assembled at the outdoor café. Mr. Ortega had a camcorder propped on his shoulder.

  “Gloria filled me in on what’s going down,” he said. “Hey, hey, Tampa Bay. Let’s get to it. It’s time to put the biscuit in the bucket!”

  “Um, yeah,” said Pinky. “What Mr. Ortega just said.”

  “Thanks again, everybody,” I said. “Here, Pinky. Gloria and I wrote up a script for you. You’re playing you, but as a reporter doing a human-interest feature story.”

  “Cool. If they’re humans, I’m interested.”

  “The whole idea is to get Travis and Darryl to invite us to film inside their room. Because that’s where we think they hid the stolen you-know-what.”

  “Towels?” said Pinky. “Did they steal a bunch of those fluffy pink beach towels you’re only supposed to use at the pool? Because I love those things, man.”

  “We didn’t concoct this elaborate caper to find a few missing towels, Pinky,” said Gloria.

  “Well, I would. Especially when they’re warm, right out of the dryer.”

  “You guys?” I said. “The clock is ticking. We need to find the tiara before that Michelsandgelo van tears out of here at like five-thirty.”

  “Fine,” said Pinky.

  “We can circle back for the towels later,” said Mr. Ortega, placing his hand on Pinky’s shoulder. “Right now, we need to play with a sense of urgency.”

  “So let’s hit the beach,” I said.

  “Booyah!” said Gloria.

  The five of us strode across the patio and onto the beach path—where we had to stop.

  Because Pinky Nelligan was mobbed by several dozen adoring fans.

  Have I mentioned how super famous he’s become? It’s great, but it can really slow you down, especially when you’re in a hurry.

  Finally (okay, twenty minutes later), our little movie crew made it down to the Surf Monkey sand sculpture.

  “Hey, you’re that kid!” said Travis when he saw Pinky. “From the movie!”

  “Can I take a selfie with you?” asked Darryl, pulling out his phone—the same phone he swore Jimbo had stolen when, now that I thought about it, he probably just hid it in that basket thingy and had Travis call his number while the deputies were talking to Jimbo.

  Plus, Travis was the one who had made me suspicious of Jimbo in the first place!

  I tried not to let any of those thoughts show on my face. I had to be like Pinky. I had to be an actor!

  Pinky posed for the selfie.

  “What’s with the camera crew?” asked Travis.

  “We’re producing a documentary!” announced Grandpa. “I’m the producer. That means I’m putting up the cash, but, hey, I don’t mind, because this, my friends, is a project I truly believe in.”

  Fact: I’ve learned a ton about showmanship and spinning a story from my grandfather, the one and only Walt Wilkie. For instance, to really sell a tale, you need specifics and telling details. That’s what makes fiction seem so real.

  “We’re very fortunate to have the legendary Manuel Ortega as our director of photography,” Grandpa continued. “I’m sure you’ve seen his work on TV.”

  Mr. Ortega lowered the camera and smiled. “Weeknights at eleven.”

  “My grandson, P. T. Wilkie,” said Grandpa, “is our director.”

  “Really?” said Travis. “He’s just a kid.”

  “It might run on one of those family channels they have on cable first,” said Grandpa. “And who knows what a family likes to watch better than a kid with a family? P.T.? Take it away.”

  Yep. Grandpa was handing the story off to me.

  “This movie,” I explained, “is all about the artists who travel the coastline of this great nation, sculpting art out of sand. The geniuses we call”—I framed the air with my hands—“the sand hoppers!”

  “Aren’t those fleas?” said Travis.

  “No. They’re itinerant craftsme
n, moving from beach to beach, practicing their craft and sculpting their masterpieces.”

  Travis and Darryl looked at each other proudly.

  “Well,” said Darryl, “we are kind of special.”

  “We need someone to follow,” I said, looking around the beach at some of the other sculptures and the artists who created them. “Who to pick? So many artists to choose from.”

  “Do us!” said Darryl. “I always wanted to be on TV.”

  “I guess we are kind of special,” said Travis.

  “And that’s why America wants to get to know you better,” said Pinky, stepping forward, holding a microphone.

  “Let’s roll video,” I said.

  “Roll video!” echoed Gloria, acting as my assistant director.

  “Video is rolling!” announced Mr. Ortega.

  (We all learned a lot of movie lingo hanging out with the crew that shot Beach Party Surf Monkey.)

  “Tell us about this sculpture,” said Pinky with a wink. “He sure looks familiar.”

  “Because it’s your costar,” said Travis, “Surf Monkey himself. It is our crowning achievement. Best we’ve ever done at any sand sculpture competition.”

  Darryl giggled. “You can say that again.”

  After about fifteen more minutes of questions and answers, I called, “Cut!”

  “Cut!” cried Gloria.

  “That’s a cut,” said her dad.

  “Bee-yoo-tee-full!” said Grandpa.

  “When’s this going to be on TV?” asked Travis with a slightly worried look on his face.

  “Not anytime soon,” I told him. “We have to shoot a lot of B-roll of the sculptures. Edit. Mix in the music, add some sound effects, tweak the color—”

  Travis grinned. “Good. Take your time.”

  “Those were some good questions, Pinky,” said Darryl.

  “Thanks, man.”

  “And you guys gave great answers,” I said. “But…”

  “But what?” said Gloria.

  “What’s wrong, man?” asked Pinky.

  “Is there a problem?” said Grandpa.

  “Come on, kid,” said Travis. “Out with it.”

  “Something’s missing. It needs a little extra oomph. Like on Shark Tank when they give you the up-close-and-personal backstory. When they go to the entrepreneur’s home so you can take a behind-the-scenes peek at his or her everyday life and dreams…”

  Darryl nodded. “It’s awesome when they do that.”

  I kept going. “I wish we had a real behind-the-scenes feel for what it’s like to be a sand hopper. If only we could show America how and where these artistic geniuses live when they’re on the road…What kind of food is in their refrigerators? How many socks do they need to pack because they’re always getting sand in their shoes?”

  I took a deep breath.

  I’d baited my line.

  I just hoped the fish were biting.

  “You guys can film up in our room,” said Travis. “Just watch out for the dirty socks under the bed.”

  Travis tossed me the key to room 230—giving me all the permission I needed to go in and search for the missing tiara.

  This thing was going to work.

  “You want us to come up with you?” asked Darryl. “Point out a few things of interest? I have this one souvenir T-shirt from Myrtle Beach….”

  “We don’t mind showing you around up there,” said Travis. “Both of us don’t need to stay down here with the sculpture.”

  Oh-kay. I hadn’t thought about this little wrinkle. Everybody was staring at me. Grandpa, Gloria, Mr. Ortega, Pinky. Even a couple of kids licking drippy ice-cream cones.

  “Oh, yes you do need to stay,” I said. “Mr. Conch gave me a quick heads-up.”

  “About what?” asked Travis.

  “The best-in-show voting. They can’t close voting at five, tally everything up, and give out the trophies at five-thirty.”

  “So?”

  “So they’ve already counted up all the votes cast so far. You guys are like ten votes away from scoring the top trophy. Talk about a big, boffo ending for our documentary.” I framed the air again. “You two. Silhouetted against the setting sun. Holding yet another trophy in your hands…”

  “But that will only happen if you interface with your audience,” said Gloria. “In today’s highly competitive marketplace, you need to maximize customer contact and satisfaction.”

  Travis nodded. “We need to do some old-fashioned social networking. Face-to-face-style.”

  “Exactly,” said Gloria. “Win, baby, win.”

  “Oh, we’re planning on it,” said Darryl.

  The two sand sculptors knocked knuckles and went back to glad-handing and schmoozing every spectator who wandered by.

  I headed up to room 230 with my movie crew.

  We were after our own trophy: a diamond-studded tiara!

  “You kids go inside,” said Grandpa when we were on the balcony outside 230. “Mr. Ortega and I will stand guard out here.”

  “You have to believe in yourselves when you go in there, kids,” said Mr. Ortega. “You three can flat-out play!”

  “Riiight,” said Gloria. “Thanks for that, Dad. Open the door, P.T.”

  Just to be super official, I used the room key Travis had given me.

  Pinky, Gloria, and I went to work.

  We opened all the drawers in the dresser.

  We looked under both beds.

  And sort of wished we hadn’t.

  “Do all guys kick their dirty underpants under the bed?”

  “Well, they are called underpants,” I said.

  “Ewwww,” said Gloria. “Hurry up. Look somewhere else.”

  Pinky was checking out the closet.

  “Nothing in here, either, you guys,” he said.

  We searched for another ten minutes. We swapped places. Pinky checked under the beds. Gloria and I did the closet, the dressers, and the bathroom.

  Nothing.

  Except somebody needed to remind Darryl and Travis to occasionally flush their toilet. Seriously. Nobody wants to see that.

  “No wonder they didn’t mind us snooping around,” said Gloria after we made our fourth and final sweep through the room. “The tiara isn’t up here.”

  “Are you sure they stole it?” asked Pinky.

  “I used to be,” said Gloria.

  “I still am.” I went to the curtains and pulled back an edge.

  I could see Travis and Darryl working the crowd at their sand sculpture, probably telling everybody it was their “crowning achievement,” since that seemed to be their favorite way to describe their creation.

  Crowning achievement!

  Of course! That was why they’d slept down on the beach instead of in their room on Sunday night.

  They were protecting their buried treasure.

  “They definitely stole the tiara,” I told my friends. “We’re just looking for it in the wrong place.”

  “They hid it in plain sight,” I announced.

  “Huh?” said Pinky.

  “They buried the stolen tiara inside Poseidon’s crown! That’s why they were camping out down by the sculpture last night.”

  “They were?” said Gloria.

  “Yeah. I paid them a visit pretty close to midnight. They had a little fire, sleeping bags….”

  “Aren’t beach fires, like, illegal?” said Pinky.

  “So is tiara snatching,” I replied.

  I tapped on the glass and motioned for Grandpa and Mr. Ortega to join us inside the room.

  “What’s up?” said Grandpa. “Did you find the tiara?”

  “Yes and no,” I said.

  “So we’re calling an audible?” said Mr. Ortega. “Going with a change-up?”

  I had no idea what Mr. Ortega was talking about.

  “What’s our new plan, P.T.?” asked Gloria.

  “Okay. I think Travis stole the tiara from the butler’s room, buried it in his sand bucket, carried it down to
the beach, and hid it right where everybody could see it: on top of Poseidon’s head!”

  “Maybe this is why they’ve never been caught before!” said Gloria. “They always hid their loot inside their sand sculptures, where nobody thought to look.”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “They’ve done this sort of thing before?” asked Mr. Ortega.

  “We think so,” said Gloria. “For years, there’s been a string of unsolved burglaries at beach resorts where Travis and Darryl just happened to be competing in sand sculpture festivals.”

  “We need to lure Travis and Darryl away from the Surf Monkey sculpture,” I said.

  “Unfortunately,” said Gloria, “we just convinced them they had to stay with their masterpiece to glad-hand voters.”

  “Right. So we’re going to need something extremely powerful to tempt them away.”

  “What?” said Grandpa. “Some more BeDazzled headgear?”

  “No,” I said. “The best burgers on the beach.”

  “Um, nothing personal, kiddo, but you don’t make those so good.”

  “I know. That’s why I need to call Jimbo.”

  “Hey, man. What’s up? How are things in Wonderland?”

  Surprisingly, Jimbo sounded like his usual laid-back self when I called him at his apartment, which was just a mile or so away from the motel.

  “Terrible.”

  “Still losin’ business because someone who wasn’t me stole that tiara, huh?”

  “And because my cooking stinks.”

  “No worries. We can fix that, man. You just need a few lessons.”

  “No,” I said. “What I really need is a new brain.”

  “Huh?”

  “How could I ever think you’d steal something out of a guest’s room?”

  “Well, you had that video. I probably would’ve thought the same thing if I’d seen a clip of you banging on a door and digging in your pocket for a passkey. Or I might’ve thought, ‘Whoa, that dude really needs to use the bathroom, bad.’ ”