little publicity.
And a detective must always be mindful of
publicity.
So I will wait until morning.
But as I check my pockets for the cash to
buy Total’s bonbons, I find only the debit card.
And that I can no longer use.
I shall have to borrow change from Molly
Moskins,
I say to myself.
Surely she’ll extort all
my blankets for this.
So I turn back.
And walk back down the alley.
And approach the blue door.
And realize I have no key.
This is what I get for rushing out of the
room so quickly
, I say to myself.
Curse that stu-
pid bear and the felon Molly Moskins!
Their
selfish, extortionist ways have caused me to for-
get both the cash and my key!
So I walk back the length of the alley and
around the corner of the hotel. And enter
through the revolving front door.
Which is okay.
For it is late.
And there is no doorman.
And there is no desk clerk.
And I am safe.
And so I walk across the broad lobby of
the Drakonian toward the elevator bank.
And past the gift shop.
Where I remember a conversation.
The one I had with Molly.
About the lotion.
That she bought here.
And how she most likely paid for it.
With a debit card.
“Timmy Failure,” says a police officer,
“you’re coming with me.”
I will say one thing for Molly Moskins.
And that is that the girl definitely did not
want to get caught.
For when she heard the police coming, she
was no longer an in-law, but an outlaw, as she
bolted out of the hotel room and into the hall-
way, seizing a housekeeping cart and swinging
it sideways to block her pursuer’s approach.
And down the back staircase she went.
Leading police on a chase through much
of downtown Chicago.
A chase that went past our fancy restaurant.
And around the costume store.
And into the giant bookstore that Molly
was so intrigued by on our walk.
Where Molly ran up and down the aisles,
pulling down shelves of used books to block
her path.
Through
ANTHROPOLOGY
and
ZOOLOGY.
And
BIOLOGY
and
PHYSIOLOGY.
And
ASTROLOGY
and
TECHNOLOGY.
All without apology.
Until she fell audibly.
In the row marked
CRIMINOLOGY.
I am grounded for six months.
No detective agency.
No leaving home.
And per the demand of Molly’s parents, no
having any contact with her again.
The only exception to all of this is school.
It is the one place I can go. And it is the one
place I don’t want to go.
And as bad as it sounds, the punishment
was almost much worse.
That is, until I was saved by mitigating
circumstances.
“Mitigating circumstances” is detective
talk for something that saves your rear end.
And that something was a note given to
my mother when everyone was searching for
me.
And it said, simply:
And it was signed in that bold and unmis-
takable handwriting that I had learned to
know so well.
For as it turns out, the least articulate
human in all of my cross-country adventures
And had been screaming it all along.
But my mother still did not understand.
And neither did anyone else.
So it is then that Molly’s little brother pro-
duced something I had been looking for since
my fancy dinner with Molly in Chicago.
The E-Z Daze memo.
Of which he had not only the part I showed
you before:
But the part I cut out as well.
Both of which he took when they fell out of
my detective log.
And which, when all taped together, looked
like this:
And now you know everything.
When my mother learned I was in police cus-
tody, she and Doorman Dave drove straight
there.
And when she met me at the police sta-
tion, she hugged me for what felt like forever.
And then yelled at me for longer.
Weeks have since passed and she has not
spoken to me again.
And somehow I like it better when she is
yelling.
So when she comes to me on a Saturday
morning and says, “Let’s take a drive,” I know
there is more to it than that.
And so we drive for hours in silence until
we get to the ocean.
And getting out of the car, she holds my
hand as we cross a two-lane highway and
climb down the steep bluff to the sand.
And there we sit at the water’s edge,
staring out at the whitecapped ocean.
Until she finally breaks the silence.
“I just didn’t know how to tell you,” she
says. “And I blew it. I really blew it.”
She looks over at me.
“And I will never forgive myself for how
you found out. Never. And all I can do now
is be as honest with you as possible. Explain
everything to you. As I should have done from
the start.”
I push the wet sand in front of me with my
feet, forming a small wall between me and the
surf.
“I’m so sorry,” she says.
I pack my seawall tightly.
“Timmy, I don’t expect you to say a lot, but
it would be nice if you could say something.”
So I look up from my construction project
and say something.
“Everything was fine in that old woman’s
life until her crazy husband poked a guy with
that pitchfork.”
My mother stares at me.
“What? What guy?” she asks. “Timmy,
what are you talking about?”
I push more sand with my feet, enlarging
the seawall.
“It’s a painting,” I answer. “In Chicago.
It’s of a couple. I think they’re farmers.”
“Okay,” she says. “But what does this have
to do with anything?”
I pick up wet sand with my hands and glop
it atop the wall.
“The woman in the painting was having a
wonderful life,” I answer. “Then she decided
to get married to some farmer. Probably had a
big wedding with lots of hot dogs and everyone
was happy.”
“Hot dogs?” asks my mother.
“I think he was a pig farmer,” I answer. “I
don’t know. I’m a detective, not an art critic.
The point is that she thought everything was
going to be okay. But it wa
sn’t. Because then
the old guy bought a pitchfork and, bingo-
bango, the whole thing went south.”
“Timmy, first off, Dave is not a
—”
“Hold on,” I continue. “Please. Because
then there’s the really old guy
—”
“
You
hold on,” she interrupts. “Who are
we talking about now?”
“Different guy. But his name’s Peter. I met
him at the hotel. He has a walker, he’s very
old, and he can’t windsurf.”
“And what does
he
have to do with
anything?”
“He was in Chicago with his wife. And
they’ve been married for a hundred years.
And he says marriage is bad. So you should
probably call him before you make any rash
decisions.”
“Okay, Timmy, I think I under
—”
“And
then . . .
” I cut her off, slowing down
for emphasis. “Then there’s Molly’s dad. You
saw that guy for yourself. Did that look fun?
Did he look like Mr. Good Times? Mr. Happy
Face? Mr. Toodly Doodly?”
“Timmy,” my mother says, “I get it.”
“Do you?
”
I ask, slapping more sand onto
my seawall.
“I do,” she says, reaching out her arms
toward me.
“Then do you realize you’re ruining every-
thing?”
I ask.
She grabs me and pulls me into her chest,
just as the tide crests over the wall I have
built.
“My poor polar bear,” I mutter into her
shoulder, my voice muffled by her sweater.
“How will he get along with Dave? And what
about the agency? Dave knows hardly
any-
thing
about it. And what about a detective’s
strange hours? He knows
nothing
about that.”
“Shhhh,” my mother says as she rocks me
back and forth, the tide wetting my feet.
“And what if he starts liking
maps
?” I
add. “Or
pitchforks
? Or starts wearing funny
hats? Have you
seen
that thing Mr. Moskins
wears?”
A small wave washes away my seawall,
creeping up the sand and around my mother.
“You’re sitting in water,” I mumble.
“Timmy,” she says, gently holding my
head in the warm nook between her jaw and
shoulder, “I don’t know what’s going to hap-
pen next. None of us do. But whatever it is,
whether it’s here or in Chicago, you have me.
And I have you.”
“And we have the bear,” I add. “I know he
ran up some outrageous hotel bills, but still.”
“Yes, the bear, too,” she says. “And believe
me, we’re going to talk about those bills.”
“Good luck,” I answer. “The polar bear
has a very bad attitude.”
We stand and walk higher up the beach
onto the dry sand.
Where the sound of the surf grows quiet.
“So you’re not getting married?” I ask.
“And we’re not moving to Chicago?”
She kneels, her eyes even with mine.
“I’m still getting married,” she answers.
I look down.
“But we’re not sure about the move. Not
yet, anyway. We have to make sure Dave likes
his new job before I uproot both you and me
and we move out there to a whole new city.”
“That’s wise,” I answer, glancing up again.
“Chicago has men with pitchforks. And giant
beans.”
“I haven’t heard about the beans,” she
replies. “But it’s okay. We have months to
decide. It’s not like we’re going to get married
tomorrow. And in that time, Dave can see how
he likes his new job.”
“He’ll hate it,” I answer. “The big city is a
lonely place filled with buses and guys named
Emilio and girls who smell like grapes. Believe
me, I know.”
She takes my hand and we walk back to
the car.
“I know you know,” she says as I get into
the car. “And if you ever do anything like that
again, you’ll have a lot more to worry about
than girls who smell like grapes.”
“It was quite malodorous,” I answer as she
gets into the driver’s seat.
“Timmy,” she says, glancing back over the
front seat with that cold stare I’ve been seeing
for weeks. “I’m serious.”
“I know,” I answer.
And as my mother drives, I stare straight
ahead.
And see a large bug explode across the
windshield of our car.
“Oooh,” I say. “Fireworks.”
And there are even more fireworks at the next
meeting of YIP YAP.
“Nothing fits in my closet!” screams the
peace-loving Toody Tululu to the other board
members.
Confusing everyone.
“It’s too small! It can’t fit my shoes! It can’t
fit my skirts! It can’t fit my hair scrunchies!
And what does my mother do? She gets me a
dresser! A
small
dresser! And that didn’t help
at all! I need a new room! I need a new dresser!
And I need it now or I’m gonna punch some-
one in the head!”
“Order! Order!” cries the sergeant-at-arms,
Rollo Tookus. “Please, Toody Tululu. No vio-
lence! This is a meeting conducted per parlia-
mentary rules.”
“Okay, fine,” says Toody. “All in favor of
punching someone in the head, say ‘Aye’!”
“Aye,” answers Vice President Nunzio
Benedici, idly shoving grapes up his nose.
“Okay, everyone stop right there,” declares
Rollo. “First, what does any of this have to do
with YIP YAP?”
“What does that matter?” replies Toody
Tululu. “I have nowhere to put my hair
scrunchies.”
“Aye,” says Nunzio again.
“So today I am officially forming a new
charitable organization dedicated to raising
money for remodeling my room,” announces
Toody. “It’s called Remodel Everything And
Repurchase Entirely New Dresser.”
Which, when Toody reveals the sign, forms
an unfortunate acronym.
“All in favor of our new charitable group,
say ‘Aye,’
” says Toody.
“Aye,” answers Nunzio.
“No, no, no!” cries Rollo. “We are not
forming a new group dedicated to remodeling
Toody Tululu’s bedroom! We don’t even have
enough people to vote. Molly’s not here.”
“Where’s Molly?” asks Nunzio.
“She’s still grounded, Nunzio,” replies
Rollo. “She can only go to classes, and that’s
it.”
Nu
nzio shoves another grape up his nose.
“But more importantly,” continues Rollo,
“what about YIP YAP? Now that all our mon-
ey’s gone, are we just gonna give up on poor
Yergi Plimkin?”
“Oh,” says Toody. “About that whole trea-
sury thing.”
“What about it?” asks Rollo.
Toody clears her throat before answering.
“I know what happened to the money.”
“I know what happened to the money!” I shout,
gallantly kicking in the door of the YIP YAP
meeting.
“Timmy, what are you doing?” asks Rollo.
“This is a private meeting.”
“Yeah, private,” echoes Nunzio.
“Wrong,” I tell Nunzio. “This room is on
school grounds. Plus your sergeant-at-arms
has hired me as a consultant.”
Everyone stares at Rollo.
“Well . . .” says Rollo. “I just, uh . . .”
Impervious, I march to the front of the room,
my bright-red scarf waving nobly in my wake.
And I climb atop the podium.
“What do you think you’re doing?” asks
Toody.
“Behold!” I shout to the awestruck crowd.
“You are all about to be witnesses to greatness.”
Nunzio stops shoving grapes up his nose.
“The Evil One hath robbed you blind!” I
shout into a megaphone.
“Who?” asks Nunzio.
“The Evil One,” I answer. “A.k.a. the
Weevil Bun, the One Whose Name Shall Not
Be Uttered, the Beast, the Center of Evil in
the Universe, the Thing from the Underworld,
Satan, the Worldwide Enemy of Da Goodness
In Everything, the Wedgie, the Bad-Eyed Lady
of the Lowlands, the Damsel of Darkness, the
Mistress of Malevolence.”
“Corrina Corrina,” adds Rollo.
“Oh,” answers Nunzio.
“I have no idea what’s going on,” says
Toody.
“Which is why I am here to explain,” I
answer valiantly.
“Do you really need the megaphone?” asks
Rollo. “There are only four of us in the room.”