“No. You would’ve given me the benefit of the doubt. Because everybody who works at the Wonderland is family. And that’s what families do: they stick up for each other.”
There was a long pause.
I think I heard Mr. Ortega sniffle behind me. He’s a pretty emotional guy, especially for a super-macho sports reporter.
“Dude?” said Jimbo. “Are you, like, trying to apologize?”
“Yeah. I’ve been doing a lot of that lately.”
“Well, P.T.,” said Jimbo, “we all make mistakes. That’s why most pencils have erasers on ’em.”
“Can you come back to the Banana Shack and whip up a couple of your Surf Monkey burgers? Can you do it, like, right now?”
“Man, you must really be hungry.”
“They’re not for me. They’re for the two guys we think really stole the tiara.”
“For real? And you want me to make these two dudes a hot lunch? Wow. When you had me arrested, I didn’t even get a cold order of fries to go.”
“I know, but—”
“Aw, I’m just messin’ with you, man. I’ll be right over. Just need to remember where I put my shoes….”
“Great. Oh, can you stop by the grocery store on the way? We’re out of beef. And hamburger buns. We need pickles, too….”
Jimbo laughed and said he’d be firing up the grill in “two shakes of a bunny’s tail.” I figured it would really take him like thirty minutes.
Which was perfect.
“Now I need to call Jack Alberto,” I said.
“Who’s he?” asked Grandpa.
“Friend of ours from school,” said Pinky.
“He has a metal detector,” said Gloria.
“One of those wands you wave over the sand to find buried treasure?” asked Mr. Ortega.
I grinned. “Exactly. I figure our missing tiara has to have some kind of metal in it to hold all those diamonds and pearls in place.”
I speed-dialed Jack.
“You need me anymore?” asked Pinky. “I’m supposed to do this interview thing for my new movie….”
“We’re good,” I said. “Thanks for everything.”
We fist-bumped. So did he and Gloria.
“So long, Pinky,” said Grandpa.
“Hasta la vista, baby,” said Mr. Ortega.
“Hey,” said Pinky, “I should use that line in my next flick!”
He left. Jack answered his phone.
“Hey, Jack? P. T. Wilkie,” I said.
“Hey, P.T. What’s up?”
“We need you to bring your metal detector to our beach.”
“Cool. Did you guys bury some coins, like I suggested?”
“Nope. Something better.”
“Do I get to keep it when I find it?”
“Um, not exactly. But we’ll give you a trophy. And a free burger.”
There was a pause.
“And one for Nate,” said Jack.
“Your little brother?”
“Yo, if I don’t get to keep the buried treasure…”
“Fine. Two burgers. With fries. Plus a Sproke.”
“Cherry Sprokes. For both of us.”
“Fine.”
“Deal!”
* * *
Jimbo made it to the motel first. He was hugging two huge sacks of groceries, which he set down on a table when Mom came out of the laundry room carrying another basket of clean linen.
“Jimmy,” said Mom. “It’s great to see you again.”
“Ditto,” said Jimbo, shooting Mom a wink.
“We’re all so sorry about—”
Jimbo held up his hand. “I know. P.T. told me. Repeatedly. But if you folks need help, I’m your man. We’re family, Wanda.”
“What’s in the bags?”
“Burger stuff.”
“Did we run out of meat?”
“Yep. Just like at the Happy Ox. Remember?”
“How could I forget? I was a waitress, you were the lead line cook…”
“And I sent you over to that burger joint next door to pick up a crate of their frozen quarter-pound patties. I cooked ’em up, made ’em look fancy with parsley sprigs, and swore it was chopped sirloin! Good times.”
“Yeah,” said Mom.
Then she laughed, something I hadn’t seen her do all weekend long.
“Well,” said Jimbo, “I’d better fire up the grill.”
“Thanks for coming back, Jimmy.”
“You’re welcome, Wanda.”
Jimbo hauled his groceries behind the Banana Shack bar and went to work.
“So,” I said to Mom, “is that why you hired Jimbo to be our chef? You knew him when you were waitressing?”
“Yeah,” she said with a far-off look in her eye. “Back in the day.”
“Cool. And, Mom?”
“Yeah, hon?”
“Everything’s going to be okay. I promise.”
“Great. Then maybe Clara will come back and help me make all those beds upstairs.”
Mom hauled the heavy laundry basket up to the second floor.
Jimbo slapped the first burger patties on the grill.
“Mmm,” said Grandpa, coming out of his workshop with Mr. Ortega and the pair of oscillating fans I’d asked them to dig up. “Those burgers smell delicious.”
“Indeed they do,” added Mr. Ortega.
“Jimbo, can you make me one with a slice of bologna on top instead of bacon strips?” Grandpa asked. “We could call it a bologna cheeseburger!”
“Fer sure, Walt. No problemo. It would pair nicely with a cold can of Cel-Ray.”
“Don’t I know it!”
“Hey, you guys!”
Jack and his younger brother Nate came around the corner, toting their metal-detecting gear.
“Sorry we’re late,” said Jack. “Dad had trouble fitting the X15 into his trunk.”
“I told him it had to go in sideways,” said Nate. “Duh.”
“So, P.T., the entire team is on the field,” said Mr. Ortega. “Burgers are sizzling on the grill. Who throws the first ball?”
“You and Gloria,” I said. “I need you guys to rig up those fans.”
“On it,” said Gloria and her dad.
“Point them toward the Gulf,” I instructed. “I want to bombard the beach with the irresistible aroma of juicy charbroiled beef!”
“It’ll make everybody drool,” said Grandpa, sniffing the meaty perfume already wafting on the breeze. “My mouth is watering so much I think my tongue is turning into a Slip ’N Slide!”
“Well, you and Mr. Ortega get first dibs on the burgers,” I said.
“Oooh,” said Grandpa. “I like this plan. Do we get to eat our burgers first, too?”
“Of course. But not until after you’re down on the beach, offering to take over the crowd-schmoozing duties for Darryl and Travis while they come up to grab their free burgers from Jimbo.”
“Got it,” said Grandpa. “They see our burgers, they smell the ones sizzling on the grill—boom! They abandon their posts. What’re you kids going to do on the beach while the two schnooks are up here?”
I grinned. “We’re going treasure hunting with Jack and Nate!”
As predicted, a minute after Grandpa and Mr. Ortega traipsed down to the beach, Travis and Darryl came hiking up to the Banana Shack, their noses wiggling as they sniffed the burger-scented air.
“Hey, dudes!” called Jimbo, casually aiming one of the fans so it would send some more grill smoke straight over to Travis and Darryl. “Can I interest you two in a free Surf Monkey burger?”
“You bet,” said Travis. “We smelled ’em all the way down on the beach.”
“Is that a fact?” said Jimbo. “Well, like my grandmother used to say, paint me green and call me a pickle.”
Jimbo cranked up the volume on his steel drum music, just like I’d asked him to. It would drown out any noise we might make down on the beach when we started scanning the Poseidon sand sculpture with Jack’s metal detector.
And when we ripped the crown off the Greek sea god’s head.
“You guys on a break?” Jimbo asked.
“Yeah,” said Darryl as he and Travis sat on adjoining barstools. “The old man and the TV guy are down on the beach, dealing with our fans.”
“Here you go, boys,” said Jimbo, sliding plates onto the counter. “You want fries?”
Travis and Darryl nodded. They couldn’t say yes, because both their mouths were full of mashed meat. I could tell that Jimbo had made their burgers extra large so they’d be extra sloppy and take longer to scarf down.
While they ate, Jack, Nate, Gloria, and I tiptoed away from the Banana Shack with the X15.
We had some metal to detect.
We hurried down to the Surf Monkey display.
Grandpa and Mr. Ortega were, of course, already there—talking to Mr. Conch. A crowd of spectators strolled past, admiring Travis and Darryl’s craftsmanship.
“What’s Mr. Conch doing there?” asked Gloria.
“I don’t know,” I told her. “Probably telling people not to vote for us. Come on. It’s showtime!”
I took up a position right in front of the massive Poseidon statue. Jack’s metal detector thrummed in my hands.
“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” I announced, “for years, my friends and I have combed these beaches with our metal detectors, searching for buried treasure.”
“Because you’re nerds!” boomed Mr. Conch. “It’s true. Sad, but true.”
“You’re right, Mr. Conch,” I said. “Sad. Because for years, my friends and I have found nothing on this beach with our metal detectors besides a few toy cars, a couple nickels, and an empty tuna can. But today, ladies and gentlemen, is our lucky day. Treasure has returned to St. Pete Beach!”
“Where is it?” shouted a kid.
“In this imported sand!” I pointed to the sand sculpture behind me.
Mr. Conch laughed. “What are you talking about, Petey? You sound as goofy as your crackpot grandfather!”
“I’m right here, Ed,” said Grandpa. “I can hear you, you know.”
“So? What’s with all the treasure talk?”
“It’s very simple, Mr. Conch,” I said. “Thanks to you and the St. Pete Beach Lodging Association, this sand behind me came from beaches unknown. Beaches that have not yet been combed. Beaches where pirates probably buried treasure chests full of gold doubloons, diamonds, pearls, and other crown jewels! Just watch!”
I quickly swung the metal detector up to Poseidon’s crown, keeping my eyes locked on the meter in the handgrip.
The needle didn’t swing.
The detector didn’t beep.
There wasn’t anything metal on top of the sea god’s head.
I couldn’t believe it.
I was wrong again.
Or was I?
Because when I lowered the metal detector to the ground, down to the base of the statue, it started pinging like crazy!
“What do you think you’re doing, kid?”
Travis was back. Darryl, too.
The two of them were charging down the sloping beach.
Jimbo was right behind them.
He leapt forward and tackled Darryl.
“Get away from my masterpiece!” shouted Travis, wiping his greasy hands on his shorts.
Meanwhile, Jimbo sat on the squirming Darryl and kept him pinned to the sand. The more Darryl swung his arms and legs, the deeper he snow-angeled himself into the beach.
Jimbo had taken one angry artiste out of the equation. We just had to deal with Travis.
As soon as all the shouting had started, Mr. Conch had slipped away.
I raised the metal detector as if it were a baseball bat, and lined up a shot to bust up Surf Monkey’s board.
“Whoa!” said Jack, grabbing the thing out of my hands. “That’s a very sensitive electronic instrument. You can’t bang stuff with it.”
Smirking, Travis strutted closer.
“Step away from the sand sculpture, son. You knock it down, you won’t win best in show. That might be what your motel needs to make people forget your bad cooking and your maid’s sticky fingers. So I’ll only say this one more time: step away from my masterpiece.”
I laughed.
“This sand sculpture doesn’t belong to you, Mr. Shelton.”
Travis gave me a “How did you know my last name?” look.
“We paid you to build it for us. So guess what? We can turn it into a giant sand piñata if we want to! Because avast and ahoy, me hearties, there’s buried treasure inside it!”
I dropped to my knees and started digging.
“Awesome!” said Jack. “You took my idea and made it even better! You hid treasures inside the sand sculpture! This is so cool!”
He swung the metal detector across Surf Monkey’s feet.
“There’s something down there! Something big!”
Now all the spectators in the crowd fell to their knees and started tearing apart the sand sculpture.
Travis couldn’t take it.
“You little brats! Leave my sand alone!”
Grandpa and Mr. Ortega blocked his lunge forward.
“Uh-uh-uh,” said Grandpa. “We paid ten thousand dollars for that sand sculpture, Mr. Michelsandgelo. The kids can tear it up if they want to.”
“B-b-but…”
“FYI,” added Mr. Ortega, puffing up his chest, “before I was a sportscaster, I was a professional athlete. I can still bench-press…you!”
“Stop them!” shouted Travis. “Those brats are destroying a priceless work of art. Do something!”
“You know, Travis,” said Grandpa, “maybe you’re right. Maybe we should do something. Manny? How about you call the cops? Their number is 911.”
“Good idea,” said Mr. Ortega, pulling out his phone.
“Oh, wait,” said Grandpa. “I forgot. The deputies are already here. Because the lodging association asked the Pinellas County Sheriff’s Office to help us handle crowd control.”
Two sheriff’s deputies strolled up the beach.
“What’s going on, Walt?” asked one.
“You know me, Brian,” said Grandpa. “Just having a little wacky fun in the sun. Why build a sand castle if you can’t knock it down?”
Travis didn’t even try to contradict Grandpa. He did, however, try to take a step backward and disappear.
That was when Mr. Ortega grabbed hold of him by the arm.
I clawed at the sand like a dog in a hurry to hide its bone.
Jack swept my sand hole with his detector. I heard pings beeping closer and closer together.
“Three more inches!” Jack shouted.
I kept scooping out sand.
My fingertips snagged the hard edge of something bumpy.
It wasn’t a seashell or a can of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda.
It was the Twittleham Tiara!
The sheriff’s deputies detained Travis and Darryl while we waited for Lord Pettybone to join us at the sand heap formerly known as Surf Monkey and Poseidon.
Gloria and her dad raced up to their rooms to retrieve his video camera. I texted Mom to let her know what was going on.
She texted back that she had to make a quick call first and then she’d be right down.
I wanted Mr. Ortega to record some new video clips when His Lordship arrived. Grandpa volunteered to head over to the Conch Reef Resort and summon the royal family out of their royal suite.
Meanwhile, Jimbo went back to the Banana Shack to make everybody celebratory cheeseburgers.
Grandpa escorted the Pettybone family across the beach to what was left of our sand sculpture exhibit. Digby, the butler, was behind them, holding up a mammoth umbrella for shade.
People in the crowd snapped photographs.
The royal family gave them all one of those royal lightbulb-changer backward waves.
Mr. Ortega stood by with the camcorder propped on his shoulder.
“Oh, my,” gasped La
dy Lilly. “Whatever happened to Surf Monkey and Poseidon?”
“They had to go,” I said, pointing to the tiara sitting in the hole where Surf Monkey’s waves used to be. “They were covering up the truth.”
“That’s it!” cried Lady Lilly. “My tiara!”
“Huzzah!” exclaimed His Lordship.
“Brilliant!” added his wife.
“Well played,” said Digby. “Well played, indeed.”
“That’s a positive ID,” declared one of the sheriff’s deputies. “Give us your wrists, gentlemen.”
Travis and Darryl, who were kneeling in the sand, tucked their hands behind their butts so the sheriff’s deputies could handcuff them.
“Well done, Deputies,” said Lord Pettybone. “Well done, indeed!”
“It wasn’t us,” said one of the deputies. “Young P. T. Wilkie here cracked the case.”
“Is that true?” asked Lady Pettybone.
“It wasn’t just me,” I told her. “A whole lot of people worked together to clear Clara’s good name. Why, you might ask? Because family looks out for family!”
Mom joined us. Clara was with her.
“You remember Mrs. Rodriguez,” Gloria said to Lord Pettybone. She leaned in. “Don’t you?”
He dropped his chin a little. “N’yes. Indeed I do.”
“You said some pretty mean stuff about her,” I reminded him.
“N’yes. Frightfully sorry about all that.”
“You said it on TV.”
“N’yes. I suppose I did.”
I nodded toward Mr. Ortega and his camera.
“Want to take it all back? On TV?”
“Indubitably.”
“Huh?”
“That means yes, P.T.,” Gloria whispered.
“Oh. Cool. Mr. Ortega? Roll video!”
Then Mr. Ortega pulled the trigger. “Hey, hey, Tampa Bay. Let’s get to it!”
“Aaaaand…action!” I pointed at Lord Snootypants.
“Um, hello, this is Lord Pettybone, Marquess of Herferrshire.”
Sandapalooza Shake-Up Page 13
