Who Done It?

by Jon Scieszka

  If only I’d had time to think, I’m nearly sure I wouldn’t have lost my head. But my aunt walked in carrying a paper bag of groceries under each arm. Her head stuck out over the tops, as if it had been removed from the rest of her body. It was unnerving, the way it turned back and forth, surveying the scene. She saw the blown out bulbs and the gun in my hand and before I knew what had happened it was too late.

  “The Sasquatch did it!” I screamed.

  My aunt dropped the grocery bags and let the contents pour out all over the tile floor. She marched over to the couch, ripped the squirt gun from my hand, opened the patio door, and threw it outside. I didn’t stay long enough to see whether the jars of peanut butter and mayo had broken open. I was already down the hall and into my room with the door shut behind me.

  I wasn’t afraid of my aunt or what she would say to my parents when they got home.

  I was afraid of what was coming down the mountain.

  On a good day, the mountain cast its black shadow over my room by three o’clock in the afternoon, but in the dead of winter, I only saw the sun until a quarter past one. It was on exactly that kind of day that I found myself trying to extract tiny pieces of glass from a thick layer of shag carpet. It was 2:30 P.M. and the sun had already long been hidden. While I cleaned up the mess, I wondered what kind of awful doom the Sasquatch had planned for me as he lumbered down the canyon, his hairy knuckles dragging in the dirt as he went. Would he use his mastery of ancient-mountain-magic to make all my fingers fall off? Or maybe I’d turn to stone in my sleep. I hoped he’d go easy on me and take the decoy I’d long since set up for just such a predicament. My cat, Snuggles, who I deeply distrusted and took no enjoyment in, was a creature for whom I faked total adoration. Maybe, in the end, I could trick a Sasquatch into ridding me of a cat who liked to cough up fur balls on my pillow.

  At dinner, I pushed crunchy green bean casserole back and forth on my plate. It was my last meal, a thoroughly depressing plate of slop, and I sat there wishing for two all-beef patties, special sauce, lettuce, cheese, pickles, onions—all on a sesame seed bun. And some fries. I went directly to my room post-casserole, hungry and afraid, hoping against all hope that the Sasquatch would go easy on me.

  I lured Snuggles into my room an hour later, said my goodnights to everyone in the house, and did what any kid in my situation would have done: I got into the closet with my baseball bat and shut the door. The middle of the door was made of slats, so I could see out as Snuggles jumped on my bed, coughed up something wet and hairy, and settled in on my pillow.

  An hour passed.

  I heard my parents and my aunt go to their rooms for the night. My brother took the couch, which he loved, because he stayed up late and watched Benny Hill reruns at eleven thirty. Sometimes they showed naked ladies on that show. It was a big deal.

  By midnight I was slumped over in the corner of my closet wishing I could trade places with my cat. And that’s when I heard the sound of the Sasquatch getting closer. Sasquatches are denser than normal creatures. A lot of people don’t know that, but it’s true. If it were like a human or an ape, a ten-foot Sasquatch might weigh, at the outside, a thousand pounds. And that would be a really fat one. But a ten-foot Sasquatch weighs roughly the same as a ’67 Ford pickup truck loaded with boulders. That’s why you can hear them coming. When they walk, it’s like a series of little earthquakes.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  Boom.

  I took a deep breath, held the bat like I was ready for a home run swing, and peeked through the slats.

  Snuggles jumped off the bed and started meowing at the window.

  Yes! I thought. What a decoy! No Sasquatch can resist a snuggly companion he can cook for breakfast!

  The window fogged white in the moonlight as the Sasquatch breathed heavily. He leaned closer and I saw his eyes, glowing and fierce, darting around the room in search of the bad kid who had blamed him for shooting out light bulbs.

  Come on, I thought, gripping the bat so hard my knuckles turned white. Take the cat.

  Instead, he reached one wooly hand up and slid the window open. I’d left it unlocked for two reasons: one, he’d be way too big to crawl through anyway; and two, if he were going to reach down and grab a cat, he’d need to get his long arm inside my room.

  My heart was pounding like an Indian war drum as the Sasquatch hand entered the room. He was holding something, and as the giant hand moved, I realized it was a gun. It struck me as a little bit unusual that he’d shoot me dead, but then I remembered that Sasquatches are smarter then they look. He was going to murder me in my own room and make it look like my aunt or my headless uncle had done it out of spite.

  The gun turned on the cat, and for a split second I felt sorry for it. Then the Sasquatch started firing, and I realized one more thing about Sasquatches that most people don’t know: they have a sense of humor. It was squirting Snuggles with my squirt gun, a relentless barrage of water that drove my cat under the bed, but only after it darted back and forth helplessly for a good five seconds. It was hilarious.

  The Sasquatch laughed, low and slow just like you’d expect, then he turned the gun in my direction and sprayed the slats until all the water ran out. I was drenched in liquid shrapnel by the time he was done, but I was alive and so was Snuggles. The Sasquatch dropped the empty weapon on my floor and slid the window shut, then started the long walk back up the mountain.

  I checked for all my limbs and found I was still in one piece. No terrible mountain magic! The cat came out from under the bed and I gleefully picked it up and threw it out the window.

  It had been a very, very close call, and I knew one thing for certain: he’d let me off easy. If I ever invoked his name again for something I’d done, I was a goner for sure.

  I say all that to tell you this:

  I haven’t got an alibi. I have no idea where I was on the night Mildew was snuffed out. I might have been golfing. If I was on one of his legendary deadlines, I was probably watching a movie or playing pinball. I honestly don’t remember. But then again, I don’t need an alibi, because you know what I’m about to say and the terrible weight of each and every word.

  I could not have killed Mildew.

  The Sasquatch did it!

  Seriously with this?

  I can’t believe after everything we’ve been through you’d even think for one nanosecond that I’d be capable of killing Herman Mildew. True, it was his fault I was evicted and ended up sleeping on the street. But that summer was unusually cool and dry for New York City. I was enjoying all the refreshing outdoor time. And when you get evicted from your rent-controlled, three-bedroom, 2,320 square-foot apartment in the West Village that was only $435 a month, really, it’s a gift. Do you have any idea how long it took to clean that place?

  You’re probably wondering why I got evicted. Herman Mildew made a promise he didn’t keep. He told me that if I wrote a teen novel featuring vampires, death, and magic, he’d turn it into the next mega bestseller. He was going to make my big New York dreams come true. But he gave me a deadline. An insane deadline. I had two months to hand in a polished six-hundred-page manuscript. My memories of chugging crazy quantities of Red Bull, throwing screaming tantrums, and blasting Led Zeppelin at three in the morning are blurry. Let’s just say the neighbors weren’t having it. Next thing I knew, my time was up, the manuscript was only half done, and I was out on the street.

  But it was all good. This is New York, where anything is possible and dreams come true. As any Manhattan real estate broker will tell you, you have to make sacrifices for location. So I was feeling groovy about my new digs in an abandoned cheese warehouse under the Fifty-ninth Street Bridge. First off, free rent, so yay. Plus I had access to the bathroom at the YMCA across the street. The handiest first-floor squatter, Bartholomew, even hooked me up with some bootleg electricity and a mini fridge. The mini fridge didn’t have a freezer, but freezers are so overrated. I mean, ice? Really?

  I was re
ading the gigantic bestseller Rabbit Stew by the light of a cactus lamp I found in the dumpster when Herman Mildew burst in, all skipping a jump rope, his watermelon-shaped head bobbing. His jump rope was purple and sparkly. Like, what, did he steal it from an eight-year-old girl or something? Even more annoying than his rope jumping was his interest in knitting. You could totally tell he knitted the bright green poncho he was wearing himself. It was all scraggly. The hem was crooked. It looked awful.

  I was like, “It’s not easy being green, Hermie.”

  “Where’s my manuscript?” he demanded. He’d kindly extended my deadline.

  “In a safe place. Let’s go get it.”

  Hot gossip around the warehouse was that the staff of Late Night with David Letterman used to party there back in the day. Somehow, that ninety-ton hydraulic press Dave used to crush watermelons in ended up on the roof. You could totally imagine a certain someone’s watermelon-shaped head being crushed the same way. But, you know, only if he deserved it.

  We went up to the roof. There was no manuscript. There was only a ninety-ton hydraulic press.

  Memories of my previous life rushed in. My big New York dreams I wanted so desperately to come true. Friends who took showers. My massive apartment. Heat. Ice. But of course I just wanted to show him the view. It completely takes your breath away.

  I did not direct HM toward the booby trap Bartholomew rigged. I did not crush him like he crushed my dreams. And I certainly did not toss his mangled body off the roof.

  I mean, seriously?

  Note: The following is writer/procrastinator Elizabeth Craft’s interior monologue as she waits her turn to be interrogated in the case of the dead Mr. Mildew:

  Ohgodohgodohgod. They think I did it. They found that Mr. Mildew death threat I posted on the Internet. As I sit here in this pickle factory like a caged animal, they have people searching my apartment. People who have no doubt already found my secret stash of Justin Bieber and Zac Efron photos. I know a forty-year-old woman hoarding pictures of teen idols is creepy…but is it illegal? Why oh why didn’t I spend my online time researching such legal matters instead of perusing Mindy Kaling’s blog? (Sidenote to self: purchase Mindy-recommended L’Or Celeste Starry Loose Powder if I ever get out of this pickle factory.)

  And what about my candy collection? I swore to my nutritionist that I would stop eating sugar, wheat, dairy, meat, and anything that might contain mercury. But a woman can’t exist on black beans alone. I need those Nerds. And the Starbursts are practically medicinal. HELL-O hypoglycemia! As for the empty In-N-Out bags stuffed underneath my bed, I’m down to one Double-Double a week. Plus an order of fries. That’s not so bad. Is it? Is it? Who am I kidding …? It’s terrible. From now on, I promise I’ll only eat healthy fast food. Like Subway. I’m talking the six-inch oven-roasted chicken sandwiches, not the meatball subs I’ve been know to consume in the past…SHIT!

  If they found my Justin and Zac pics, and my candy collection, they probably also took a look at what I have saved on DVR. Which includes Keeping Up with the Kardashians and Kourtney and Kim Take New York and Finding Sarah. It doesn’t matter that I’ve never actually watched the show about the Duchess of York. It’s there. Waiting. And I don’t delete it. Will it be a mitigating factor that those shows are clearly treadmill viewing only …? No. They don’t care. They’re out for blood.

  Oh lord. I just had a horrible thought. If they’re looking on my computer for that Mr. Mildew death threat, then they’re obviously going to check the emails in my Save folder. It’s not fair! Those emails were never sent for a reason. They are the ravings of a madwoman after too many Nerds. Ohgodohgodohgod. They’re gonna nail me for the email I wrote to my grade school gym teacher. Although…I will maintain in any court of law that it is her fault I not only detest but fear team sports. It’s because of her I have a mental block against knowing exactly where the halfback is supposed to stand during a field hockey game. Even hearing the words “wind sprint” sends a chill down my spine.

  Damn these detectives for turning over every metaphoric rock in my world. I should be allowed to hide my shame with dignity. Death threat against Mr. Mildew aside, I’m not hurting any—

  Here, Elizabeth Craft’s interior monologue is interrupted by an approaching investigator:

  Investigator: Ms. Craft?

  Elizabeth: (tremulous) Yes?

  Investigator: There’s been a mistake. Your name shouldn’t have been on the list. You’re free to go.

  Elizabeth: (big sigh of relief) Thank you, sir. Not that I was worried. Not at all. I’m an open book. Yep. No secrets here—

  Investigator: Ms. Craft?

  Elizabeth: (perky) Yes, sir?

  Investigator: The Justin and Zac photos are pathetic.

  And with that insight, writer/procrastinator Elizabeth Craft went off to write yet another un-sendable email to her grade school gym teacher.

  Darlings,

  Why would I ever want to harm such a dear man? I, for one, am a close personal friend to my editors, yes! And dear Herman was one of my very best friends. Why, we went to Cannes together, and to Rio, for my latest book. We had to do some very important research concerning cocktails and cabana boys. The last time I saw Herman we were kiss-kissing at a fashion show. He looked a bit pale and chubby in his last-season suit, but no matter. I allowed the paparazzi to take our photograph nonetheless.

  Of course, I should add that Herman always did pay my advances with discount coupons to department stores, and that when I was forced to use them, I would be told that the coupons were not only expired, they were fake. There were other…shall we say…minor irritations.… He would insist that I stop sending my latest novels on ivory stationery with pink ink. He claimed he was allergic to the perfume the pages were soaked with!

  When I came to New York for our annual editor-and-writer lunch, I was decked out for the usual three-martini tête-à-tête at Michael’s, only to discover we would be dining alfresco in front of Gray’s Papaya. I did not realize papaya juice had such a frozen consistency, or that it tasted a bit like cough medicine. Although the hot dogs, I must admit, were divine. (The Pigeon was right about that one.)

  So where was I the night Herman went missing? And why was my hair in disarray and my clothes splattered with dark red spots? It is simply the latest fashion, my dear. Deshabille is very “in” right now, and yes, red UNDER the fingernails is trés trés chic as well. My hair? It looks as if it has been pulled in many different directions? And the black eye? As if I was in a fight and pummeling a very short round editor for a long time until he finally collapsed in a heart attack? But no, mes chères. This again is just the latest trend. “Fright wig” is very in right now, and a fake black eye will be gracing the red carpets and the fashion pages very soon.

  No, I don’t know where he is or what happened to dear Herman Mildew. I do hope he’s all right and that he has lost a bit of weight. He’s been looking a bit puffy, poor man. Perhaps he should do a cleanse. Now please excuse me, I need to lie down a bit. My eye is starting to throb—no no, it’s just an allergy to makeup.

  Thank you & ciao!

  I did not kill Herman Mildew. I mean, psssht—I write cheerful fiction. Most of my book covers are bubble-gum pink, lavender, sparkly with glitter foil. Ah-bviously it was someone else here in this pickle factory. Someone like.…

  Lemony Snicket? Squee! Lemony Snicket is here!!! And ooh! There’s Mo Willems!!! Fangurl squee!

  Wait! No squee-ing. This is a serious situation. Just like the time, not so long ago, that Herman called me into his office to discuss another serious situation.…

  “Julia,” Herman said. “It’s time for you to write something different for us. Something edgier, something darker. Less ‘tween-y.’ ”

  “Omg!!! I totes can do that!” I said. Then I had a troublesome thought. “Is there a concern about my book sales?”

  “I don’t care about your book sales. I care about me. I can’t take it anymore!” He pointed a gnarled
finger at his wall. “Look at your section of my bookshelf!”

  “I know, yay!” I perked up.

  “That’s not what I meant! All that pink and purple.…” Herman shuddered. His office décor was early medieval torture chamber, so I thought my books added a welcome touch of whimsy. “Your sparkly reader mail alone is enough to kill me!”

  “They’re written in glitter gel pens,” I pointed out. “Doesn’t that just melt your heart?”

  “Heart?! You mean that thing your readers dot their i’s with?” he grumbled. “And what’s with the exclamation points? Why do they have to put three, four, seventeen exclamation points after a sentence?”

  “They’re showing enthusiasm and love!!!” I was getting offended. “My readers are intelligent and sparkly tweens.”

  “What the hell is a tween anyway?” he shouted. “And while we’re on that topic, what’s that high-pitched spastic squealing noise they make when they see you at book signings? It makes my ears bleed. I need a break, DeVillers!”

  “Okay, okay!” I threw up my hands. “What should I write?”

  “Edgy,” Herman snarled. “Push the limits. Blood. Gore. Brutal death. Swear words.”

  He spun his chair around, pointedly facing the stuffed taxidermy heads of picture-book animals hanging on the wall behind him. Elephant and Piggie, giant pangolins of Madagascar and hey, wait a second—that new one wasn’t an animal. It looked an awful lot like E. Lockhart. Gulp.

  “Edgy. OR ELSE,” Herman hissed. “Do I make myself clear, Julia?”

  “Clear as the lip gloss my character wears when she has her first kiss with a hottie,” I stammered. “K-thx-bye!”