Who Done It?

by Jon Scieszka

  Embarrassing? Utterly. In every way. But I’m completely innocent, I swear. Or almost completely. I did feed him some raw cheese that was definitely not FDA approved. And it made him really happy. At least I have that.

  (Regarding her absence on the esteemed guest list, and the presence of a certain item in the pocket of her blue jeans. Which is easily explained. And totally not suspicious.)

  You ever hear of a red herring? It’s this thing authors use. According to Wikipedia (and let’s be honest, that’s all any author worth her salt uses for research), it’s “a figurative expression in which a clue or piece of information is or is intended to be misleading, or distracting from the actual question.” In a mystery novel, a red herring is a suspect, planted in the middle of things, and so clearly guilty that the reader would never suspect the real killer.

  I’m the red herring, which means I’m most definitely not guilty. You can’t be a red herring and be the actual killer. But see, I’m the only one here who’s not actually on the guest list. I swear to you, that’s just some kind of a technical difficulty. I heard that Lauren Myracle was in charge of typing up the guest list because Herman was too lazy to do it himself, but she passed the buck to Jon Scieszka, who probably couldn’t read Herman’s handwriting anyway.

  Because here’s the thing: I don’t hate Herman. He hates me. I could care less about him.

  It all goes back to this conference we were both at, this swanky affair in Manhattan where he was regaling a table full of would-be writers with a bunch of bizarre stories. He’s an editor, you know, so he could have been talking about varieties of buttered toast, and they would have hung onto every word. But did he talk about toast? No. He was telling tall tales, boasting about the silliest things, and no one was the wiser. As I walked up, Herman was spinning a tale about his week at a dude ranch, where he went cow tipping.

  And therein lies the problem. Because a girl like me, a girl who grew up on a dairy farm and once was tripped by her own cow and fell face first into a mud puddle, I know cow tipping’s just not possible. A guy like Herman, what with his office facing the Statue of Liberty and his MetroCard and shiny black shoes; he didn’t know what I knew.

  And so, in front of scores of admirers, I called his bluff. I asked him how he tipped the cow. And he told me it was sleeping, and he snuck up on it. And I asked him, right then and there, if he knew the difference between a horse and a cow. Because see, he was thinking of a horse. Cows sleep lying down. When everyone realized what I had shown—that Herman was a big, fat, sniveling liar—they walked away, and Herman spent the rest of the night glaring at me from across the room.

  So see, what I’m saying is I don’t hate Herman. He hates me. Just because I had a Swiss Army Knife in my pocket doesn’t mean I was going to use it on him. Like I said, I grew up on a dairy farm. I showed cows at the County Fair. Girls like me, well, we carry Swiss Army Knives everywhere we go.

  Like I said, Lauren was in charge of typing up the guest list. Maybe she’s the one who turned me into a red herring, to take the heat off her. You ask me, you should be looking a little closer at her.

  The history of pickles in North America is a fascinating one. I will tell you about it at some length. Yes, I will!

  When all this unpleasantness is over.

  It is well known among my Facebook friends and Twitter followers that I am an amateur cook of some enthusiasm. I have tried my hand at pickling myself. Yes! Carrots, cauliflower, green beans. I have pickled them at home. I have boiled Mason jars and pulled them out of bubbling water with tongs. I have given holiday gifts of homemade pickles, tied with shiny green ribbons.

  Something less commonly known about me is that I have written a book entitled Pickles and You: Insights from the Heart. It’s not a history of pickles in North America. I told you I would get to that another time. It is about the way pickles make us feel. It is a how- to guide for understanding the deeper meaning of pickles in your life.

  I know that’s not the kind of book I usually write. I write amusing novels for young people, full of cute toys and invisible friends. Yes! But I think my Facebook friends and Twitter followers are ready for my pickles. I think they are primed, in fact, for me to release upon them my full understanding. There is a whole chapter on pickle juice.

  The manuscript of Pickles and You is nearly completed. Mr. Mildew and I had lunch about it last week. We ate pickled onions and stinky cheese on rye toast at an eatery on the Lower East Side. Ask the waiter if you don’t believe me. Mr. Mildew paid with a credit card. That’s evidence!

  I imagine you did not realize the party venue, the factory in which Mr. Mildew planned his big announcement, was a producer not of cucumber pickles—that common pickle that non-pickle-eaters think of as pickles—but of specialty pickles. Specialty pickles! It’s true.

  Sadly, these pickles are now lost to the ravages of time. I have only read about them in my favorite publication, the magazine Pickle History. (Do you know that magazine? It is indispensible.)

  Anyway, Pickle History describes the beetroot pickles of the now-abandoned factory in which Mr. Mildew’s murder occurred as “flavored with a dash of cardamom, a touch of sesame oil, and large doses of piquant mystery.” It likewise describes the apricot pickles as “orange globes of fire.”

  Yet the factory closed down, some four years ago. I have done an extensive search for remaining evidence of its products, all to no avail. It seems anyone who owned a bottle of these pickles has eaten them up.

  At the time of Mr. Mildew’s demise, I was in my apartment kitchen with four bottles of rice vinegar, some unusual chili peppers, a large box of apricots, and enormous quantities of salt. I was trying to recreate the orange globes of fire to create a climactic ending for Pickles and You.

  Mr. Mildew had informed me that the book lacked drama. In fact, he dared to suggest I publish it under a pen name. A pen name. The very idea. Do you think I am the sort of author to use a pen name?

  However, none of that means Mildew didn’t have faith in my project. No! That man could eat more pickled onions than anyone I’ve ever met.

  My neighbor, Mrs. Emerson, knocked on my door and complained about the smell from the rice vinegar and the cooking apricots. You could ask her all about it if she hadn’t died the next morning. Very sad, very sad.

  But some other neighbors complained as well. I have no doubt you can ask around and find someone who will confirm my alibi.

  INTERVIEW WITH SUSPECT / TIME: 21:50

  NOTES: Suspect was observed attempting to wheel a fourteen-foot cannon out the back door of the Old Abandoned Pickle Factory when apprehended.

  You guys. This…is not how it looks. I know how it looks, okay? I know exactly how it looks, and I want to tell you that how it looks and what it is are two very different things.

  First of all…okay, first of all, this cannon has been in my family for four hundred years. My family were pirates. I come from a very long line of pirates. Perhaps the longest line of pirates ever assembled into a line. And to a pirate, a cannon is like…well, you know how cowboys have horses? Well, pirates have cannons. It’s the same thing. I mean, you can’t ride a cannon, but it’s mostly the same thing. And unlike horses, cannons don’t die. The family cannon gets passed down. And while I’ve never been in the pirate trade, it doesn’t mean I can’t respect my family tradition of taking our cannon with us wherever we go.

  His name is Mr. Hinkles, by the way, and I’d appreciate it if you don’t touch him.

  (Noise on recording indicates that a copy of How to Fire a Cannon was found on the suspect’s person.)

  Oh that. Look, people send me things. When you have a cannon, people give you a lot of cannon-related gifts. When I was a kid, I had to make my own cannon for my Barbie, because they don’t make a Barbie Cannon. I made it out of a toilet paper tube and a can. It looked awesome.

  (Noise on recording indicates that a cannonball was found in the suspect’s purse.)

  Mr. Hinkles has to eat. Th
at’s his dinner. What are you, a monster? No, I don’t think you need to question me further, as a matter of fact. Look.…

  (Suspect began to sing.)

  Oh, I’m a pirate look at me

  I float around on the great big sea

  Got my cannon I bring for fun

  It’s a decoration and not a gun …

  Oh, a jolly, jolly pirate, been to France!

  Now I do my pirate dance!

  (Suspect began doing what can only be described as a crude soft-shoe with loose jazz hands, then broke off running. Was apprehended two minutes later while hiding, very poorly, behind a small, potted plant. Released shortly thereafter due to lack of evidence that suspect had any idea how the cannon actually worked.)

  I didn’t kill Herman Mildew. But you know what? When you find the guy who did do it, give me a call so I can come down here and shake him by the hand. Herman Q. Mildew was an odious, selfish, cowardly excuse for a man, a destroyer of dreams, a breaker of hearts. He has been dead to me for years. Let me tell you a story.…

  It was so many summers ago. I was a naïve, young writer, romping through New York City and searching for my next big love story. I just didn’t expect to star in it myself. I was sitting in the quiet café where I worked, tapping away on my laptop when I should have been working, looking longingly out of the dirty window and waiting for my muse. But instead of being struck by inspiration, I was bashed in the head by a moldy muffin. I turned to seek the origin of the blueberry-studded missile and that’s when I saw him. Tall, handsome, cheekbones you could slice bread with. He told me his name was Herman and I knew it was love. We spent our days in the café, talking about the future, when I would be a successful writer and he would be my glorious publisher, and after hours, we danced on the streets of the Lower East Side, raced each other across the Brooklyn Bridge, and kissed on Soho street corners. Those were the most wonderful weeks of my life.

  Then, one day, my laptop was stolen while I was handing out an apple bran muffin. I was mad but not so much. I could buy a new computer; only my one true love was irreplaceable. But Herman, my Herman, had already moved on to another passion. The next day, I arrived at the café to find him missing. The manager told me he just hadn’t shown up for his shift and sent me outside to talk to “the others.” I should have known. “The others” were a gaggle of young, literary-minded ladies, all with a yen for my Herman and a missing laptop. I ran away, unable to face the facts. A few months later, sad and heartbroken, I was browsing in a bookstore when I saw it. The first novel from Herman Q. Mildew press. There was a photo but it didn’t look like him; he was bent and cruel and mean. But inside, the words were familiar, every single syllable taken from my stolen laptop.

  From that day on, I couldn’t write another word. I ended up dividing my time between my apartment and a place called the Brooklyn Superhero Supply Company. Ask them; they’ll tell you where I was when he was killed.

  I never heard from Mildew again. Not until I got the invitation to the party at the Pickle Factory and I had half a mind not to show. I also had half a mind to turn up with a semi-automatic or a rusty breadknife and make him regret stealing my work and breaking my heart. But it looks like someone got there before me. Good for them, I say. Good for them.

  Where have I been the past few hours? I can explain. Believe me. But first, let me tell you that I am truly heartbroken to hear of Mr. Mildew’s demise. He was so kind to invite me to this party. He even called me his “favorite Vermonter” on the invitation. It’s our little joke, you see, because even though I live in Vermont, the people born here are the only ones allowed to claim the “er” status.

  Mr. Mildew knew all this because he visited me recently during fair season. He came all the way from New York. He said he loved our cheese—the stinkier the better—and cows. The cow part was a bit odd. “Do you know they have the most wonderful toenails?” he asked me on our way to a local fair. I did not. “I’m fond of toenails,” he added wistfully. I started to explain that cows have hooves not toenails, but he turned to stare out the window at the fall foliage, silently cutting me off. Well, I try not to judge. Cows are sweet, gentle souls. I think their best quality is their big, beautiful eyes. But I suppose their hooves are perfectly admirable as well.

  Mr. Mildew was very particular about being sure to visit me during fair season. He fancied himself a cheese judge on the fair circuit. Unfortunately, he had trouble convincing the local committees to let a non-Vermonter on board. You know, I think we bonded over that, being treated as outsiders and all. I think the two of us are true Vermonters at heart. I mean were. Poor Mr. Mildew!

  After he was refused as a stinky cheese judge, I admit things got a little strange. That’s when Mr. Mildew shifted his focus to hooves. He said that care of cow hooves was taken very seriously by the young 4-H members who showed their cows at the fairs. He said that one of his lifelong dreams was to become a hoof trimmer. And then he whispered, “Toe-nails, big beautiful toenails.…” under his breath.

  You can imagine how disappointed Mr. Mildew was when every kid he approached with his hoof trimmer turned him away. I don’t think it helped that Mr. Mildew wore a paisley scarf that covered his face. All you could see were the dark shades of his sunglasses through one opening in the scarf. He never took either off, even at night. You know, I realize I don’t even know what Mr. Mildew looked like! How sad.

  Anyway, at this point, Mr. Mildew seemed extremely discouraged. I tried to suggest that the fairs had lots of other things to offer too—fried dough, candy apples, fresh cider, maple sugar candy. But he waved me away. I think he was crying.

  But I suppose you’re not here to listen to all that. You want to know why I was late to the party, right? Late enough to make me a prime suspect? There’s a simple explanation. Like I said, when Mr. Mildew invited me to the party, I was very honored. Especially after my state had treated him so…unkindly. So, I went to the country store near my house and ordered five pounds of their stinkiest cheese. And then, well, I suppose they’ll find out eventually, I snuck over to my neighbor’s dairy farm and…yes. I collected some hoof shavings—toenails—for Mr. Mildew. Obviously, no one wanted to sit anywhere near me on the train from White River Junction. I wrapped the cheese in thirty-nine layers of plastic wrap but the stink still escaped. Eventually, several people complained to the conductor. And that’s why I’m late! I got kicked off the train in White Plains. I had to take seventeen different taxis to get here because none of the drivers lasted more than a few minutes. I offered them bribes and everything! But no one wanted signed copies of my books. I suppose the stench won out. You don’t want a copy, do you? I suppose not. Paper is so good at absorbing odors. Don’t ask me what I’m going to do with all these stinky cheese books.

  Anyway, I’m sure if you called the taxi service they’ll vouch for me. But don’t give them my number, all right? I’m afraid they might charge me to replace all their pine tree air fresheners.

  First of all, I don’t like pickles, so the smell of this place turns my stomach. Seriously, the air is so thick with brine that my back teeth are floating in the stuff. It kind of reminds me of the way I feel when I think of Herman Mildew. Yes, I’m speaking ill of the deceased. I always spoke ill of him when he was alive. Why should I change now?

  It has been said that an editor’s job is to separate the wheat from the chaff. Herman Mildew took this one step further. He separated the wheat from the chaff, and then published the chaff. He notoriously asked an author to cut seventy pages from a manuscript only later to reject it because it was “too thin.” Another writer he compelled to change “hard” to “difficult” and back to “hard” again so many times that the poor man abandoned his career, shaved his head, and joined a monastery. Herman Mildew could wreak more havoc and destruction with a blue pencil than most people could with a flamethrower.

  I’m not surprised somebody killed him. I’m just saying it couldn’t have been me.

  I don’t dispute my doorma
n’s statement that I left my building at six thirty last night and didn’t return until after ten. Tuesday is my weekly appointment with Dr. Balthazar. If you’d bothered to listen to a renowned genius, and not a slack-jawed troglodyte who opens doors for a living, I’m sure Dr. B. would have described in glowing terms the progress we’ve been making on my various personality disorders. Emile Balthazar, PhD (University of Trinidad and Tobago, College of Herbology and Acupuncture)—New York’s “Albert Schweitzer of the Isolation Tank”—has connected my anger management problem to a number of key factors throughout my life: my parents’ withholding of my pacifier at the impressionable age of seven; my fear of two of the four Teletubbies; my inability to distinguish subconscious memories of the birth canal from conscious ones of the Panama Canal; and, most recently, my unmanaged anger at a certain chaff-publishing editor, who (although I didn’t kill him) more than deserved his fate.

  In Dr. B’s miraculous sensory-deprivation tank, suspended in viscous liquid heated to exactly ninety-eight-point-six degrees, all that mental ballast falls away, and I’m free. Here, Balthazar argues in his memoir I Am Not a Quack, a patient is removed entirely from the physical world, and his psyche can be observed in the absence of any outside influence or interference. Thanks to revolutionary synaptic sensors developed by Dr. B himself, I now understand that much of my recent frantic brain activity has been taking the form of revenge fantasies starring Herman Mildew. It’s certainly nothing cruel or sadistic. Mostly, I order pizzas to be delivered to his apartment, or remove his name from the National Do Not Call Registry. Some of the dreams involve dog poop or itching powder, others simply a length of piano wire. One features handcuffs, fire ants, and maple syrup. And let’s not forget that oldie but goodie: a dart gun and a seed of uranium-235.…