by Eric Bower
“Well, I was a little bit distracted.”
“By what?” she asked as her brow furrowed. “By pie? You were distracted by pie again, weren’t you? You’re always distracted by pie.”
She was right.
“I don’t remember,” I lied. “But I’m sure that someone else must have seen you dressed in two different outfits as well. That should be enough to set her free, right Deputy Buddy?”
Deputy Buddy frowned.
“I’m afraid not, kid. My dad will need more proof than that. He’s pretty upset right now. He really loved that pen.”
The three of us sat there and tried our best to think of a solution, when suddenly Rose had a brain sneeze of her own.
“Idea!” she cried out as she jumped, then flushed with embarrassment.“Umm, excuse me. I don’t know what came over me. What about the baking contest sign-in sheet from the fair? Every person who entered a pie, tart, or cake into the contest needed to sign the sign-in sheet, which gave them an entry number and a place to put their dessert on the table. If W.B. is right, and another person showed up pretending to be me, then my name will appear on the sign-in sheet twice! And it will also show which one of us baked the exploding pie!”
“That’s brilliant, Rose!” I cried, and then I started to do our family happy dance.
I was about three seconds into the happy dance before Deputy Buddy came up behind me, and began to slap me on the back as hard as he could.
“What are you doing?” I gasped as I flopped onto the floor.
His face turned bright red.
“Oh. Sorry, kid. I thought you were choking.”
A few hours later, Deputy Buddy Graham returned to the jailhouse. He was panting and sweaty as he wiped his face with his handkerchief. He had left the jailhouse to look for answers, specifically the answer to what had happened to the sign-in sheet from the Pitchfork Fair.
While the person who had posed as Rose had stolen her face and her voice with the help of my parents’ invention, they likely hadn’t studied her well enough to perfectly copy her signature. All that we had to do was compare the two signatures, and we’d be able to spot the fake. That might not be enough evidence to make the rest of the town believe that she was innocent (the people in Pitchfork were famous for the grudges they held. In fact they still held a terrible grudge against England—not for the Revolutionary War from over a hundred years ago, but because they found it terribly confusing that the English referred to cookies as biscuits. “What in tarnation do they call biscuits then? Kumquats?” a typical Pitchfork townsperson would ask with a sneer), but hopefully it would be enough to convince Sheriff Graham to release Rose. We figured that everyone else would be convinced once my parents realized that their invention had been used for evil, and then gave the entire town a demonstration of what a villain could do with the Doppelgänger Device.
“Well, I have good news, and I have bad news, and I have some news that’s neither good nor bad,” Buddy said. “Which would you like to hear first?”
“Good news!” cried Rose.
“News that’s neither good nor bad!” I cried.
Buddy ignored me and spoke to Rose.
“The good news, is that I know where the baking contest sign-in sheet is. It wasn’t destroyed, so there is evidence that someone entered a pie while pretending to be you.”
Rose and I cheered. I started to do the happy dance again, but stopped when I saw Rose quickly shake her head. Apparently, she wasn’t willing to do the family happy dance in front of her new friend. Like I said, it can be rather embarrassing. I used to find it humiliating when my parents would do it in front of other people, but then I realized that being happy and joyful was more important than what other people thought.
I was about to comment on this, when I happened to notice that Deputy Buddy was smiling doofily at Rose. And she was smiling doofily back at him. In fact, they both kept making doofy faces at each other, and I began to wonder if something was going on that I wasn’t aware of. Like maybe a gas leak.
“So what’s the bad news?” she asked.
Deputy Graham’s doofy grin was quickly replaced by a frown (which was still pretty doofy looking).
“The bad news,” he said, “. . . is that it’s at the Pitchfork Desert Dump.”
“Oh.”
“Oh.”
“Yeah.”
That wasn’t bad news. That was very bad news.
The Pitchfork Desert Dump was where all the garbage from town was shipped. It was a large, fenced-in part of the desert located in Northern Arizona Territory. Once a month, the town would pay people to pack up carriages filled to the brim with the town’s trash, and travel up north to drop it off at the dump. I had never been there before, but I’d heard it was one of the foulest places on the planet. There were rumored to be at least a thousand rats living there, rats that had formed their own rat town, known as Ratville, with their own rat mayor, rat sheriff, rat deputies, rat criminals, and even a little rat tailor to sew all their little rat clothes. That was probably just a schoolhouse story, but you have to admit it’s a pretty cute one. Maybe people wouldn’t find rats as gross if rats simply wore pants.
It would only take a few hours to reach the dump on horseback, but the real trouble started once you got there. According to the father of one of my classmates, the dump was completely unorganized. The people who were paid to haul the trash up there would simply toss it wherever there was room, sign their names to the dump record book, and then turn around and come back home. Garbage from yesterday would be mixed in with garbage from ten years ago, so no one knew where anything was.
There were also people who regularly traveled to the dump in order to rummage through the trash in search of things to sell, making an even bigger mess. My father used to enjoy driving his horseless carriage up to the dump to search for parts that he could use for his inventions, until one day he brought home a large cushioned chair that had a family of raccoons living inside. The raccoons were very kind to my father, however they hissed at my mother, scratched up the furniture, made terrible messes in the kitchen, and one of them managed to lock Aunt Dorcas outside while she was wearing only her bloomers. Ever since then, my mother had forbidden him to pick up anything from the dump. She had also forbidden raccoons from coming into the house, though my father would still try to sneak one in from time to time.
I asked Buddy if he knew who had taken the trash up to the dump last. If they could remember where they had left the most recent collection of garbage, maybe it wouldn’t be quite as difficult to find.
Buddy’s face turned even redder than his hair.
“Actually,” he said in a quiet voice, “I was one of the people who took the last batch of trash to the dump. And I can’t remember where we put it. I can’t imagine any of us would. Everything sort of looks the same up there, just really dirty, and smelly, and . . . dumpy.”
I could tell by the look on Rose’s face that she was incredibly disappointed. She was trying to stay calm, but it must have been upsetting for her to know that she might be locked up in jail for good, with no one but a sleeping deputy, doofy Buddy Graham, and a few mice to keep her company.
“But,” Deputy Buddy said quickly, “that doesn’t mean that I won’t try! I’m going to go to the dump right now and find that piece of paper! I don’t care if it takes me all year to find it! I don’t care if I have to dig through every bag of trash that’s up there. I’ll find it, and clear your good name, Rose. I promise.”
“Thank you, Buddy,” said Rose with a grin. “I know that you will. I have faith in you. Everything’s going to be alright. We’re going to beat this. We’re going to show everyone the truth. And don’t you dare do that stupid dance, W.B.”
“Well, look who’s too good for the happy dance all of a sudden . . .” I muttered.
Deputy Buddy grabbed his hat and rushed to the do
or, but before he could step outside, Rose called out to him.
“Buddy!”
He turned around and looked at Rose, his eyes shining in a funny sort of way that almost looked like tears. I looked at Rose and saw that her eyes were shining too.
As I’ve said before, I’m no detective, but I could tell that something strange was going on between them, and I was going to get to the bottom of it. Maybe they both had the same thing for lunch, and it was making them sick.
But then my stomach rumbled, and I thought of pie, and I forgot all about Rose and Buddy’s doofy looks.
See, that’s why I rarely get to the bottom of things. Because of pie.
“Yes, Rose?” Buddy said. “What is it?”
“Please be careful.”
That seemed like a silly thing for her to say, considering the circumstances. Buddy was going to the Pitchfork Desert Dump to search for a piece of paper, not to fight a group of armed bandits. The worse thing he’d encounter up there would be all of those rats—though come to think of it, his famous father Sheriff Graham regularly had tough battles with skunks—battles which he always seemed to lose. If Buddy was as good a peace officer as his father, then maybe he would need a bit of luck, especially if the rats of Ratville were organized in their attacks.
“I’m always careful,” Buddy told her with a grin, before taking a step forward and walking right into the wall beside the open doorway.
As he burned with embarrassment and rubbed his sore nose, I suddenly remembered that he had a third piece of news for us.
“What? Oh, you mean the news that isn’t really good or bad?” Buddy asked when I brought it up. “Well, the people who used to volunteer to deliver all of the town’s trash to the dump have refused to do it anymore, because the smell up there is now so terrible. Mayor Thornberry said he would be willing to pay me double to haul the trash up there on my own. So I guess it’s good that I’ll be making some extra money, though it’s not so good that I’ll have to take at least two baths afterwards to get the stink off me.”
“Is it really worth it?” Rose said as she made a face.
Buddy shrugged.
“It’s not that bad. Last time, I just put a clothespin over my nose while I dumped the trash and signed the record books, and then I quickly rode back home. I only passed out once or twice while I was there.”
Wait a minute. Records? A new and terrible smell? Brain sneeze!
“Idea!”
Buddy’s final piece of news didn’t sound particularly interesting to Rose, but I found it to be very interesting, and also very useful. My brain had made a connection, and then it came up with ideas for proving both that Rose was innocent of her crimes, and also that I was the real W.B.!
I wasn’t certain that my ideas would work, but I had to take a chance on them. Otherwise, I’d probably end up starving on the streets.
In fact, I already felt as though I was starving.
I was so hungry that I was getting dizzy.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d felt so hungry.
It seemed as though I hadn’t eaten in weeks, maybe even months . . .
“Buddy?” Rose said slowly. “Before you leave, can you please take W.B. to your house and give him something to eat? He’s staring at his hand as though it’s a ham sandwich.”
I Keep an Egg in My Closet, and You’ll Never Guess Why
I had a plan.
My favorite part of a plan has always been the end part. And by “the end part,” I mean when the plan has already been completed, and it turned out to be a wonderful success.
My least favorite part of a plan is the part where you actually have to do it. I wish that I could just skip that part, so I could get right to the part where you’re sitting around a table with your friends, toasting each other with ice cream, and patting each other on the back for a job well done.
But unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t allow you to skip the unpleasant parts and go right to the parts with ice cream. I don’t know why. If someone had asked me to design life, I would have made it without all of the pesky problems and obstacles and troubles, and I would have added a lot of extra time for ice cream and naps. But unfortunately, no one bothered to ask me.
But unfortunately, life doesn’t work that way. It doesn’t allow you to skip the unpleasant parts and go right to the parts with ice cream. I don’t know why. If someone had asked me to design life, I would have made it without all of the pesky problems and obstacles and troubles, and I would have added a lot of extra time for ice cream and naps. But unfortunately, no one bothered to ask me.
I had mentioned all of that to Rose a few weeks earlier, and she told me that I was the laziest person she’d ever met. And if I hadn’t been so sleepy from the three servings of ice cream I’d eaten that day, I would have given her a piece of my mind.
After I had gone to Buddy’s house, taken a bath, and had a large bowl of beef stew, he loaned me a clean pair of clothes to wear, and then he headed to the Pitchfork Desert Dump to search for the lost sign-in sheet.
He was also kind enough to let me have the last of the fried chicken and chocolate cake he had stored in his cupboard.
Well, to be perfectly honest, he didn’t exactly tell me that I could have the chicken and cake, not with his actual words. But his body language spoke louder than his words, and when he tipped his cap to me and told me to lock up when I was done, I could tell what he really meant was, “and if you really want some cake and fried chicken, W.B. my good friend, then gosh darn it, I think you should eat whatever’s left in my cupboard.”
Life is much better when you listen to people’s body language instead of just their words. And Rose says I’m not people smart . . .
I crept carefully over the sand dunes of the Pitchfork Desert until I spotted the Baron Estate. It looked just like it normally did. Very Baron-y and Estate-y. My family was probably inside eating lunch. M, P, Aunt Dorcas, and little W.B., all seated around the table in the kitchen.
How I hated that little W.B., that chubby faker with his terrible haircut and impressive horseback riding skills. I couldn’t wait to expose him for the fraud he was. And then M and P would feel terrible about chasing me with brooms and pots and spoons.
The clothes that Buddy Graham had lent me were all much too large. I had to roll up the shirt sleeves and pant legs, and use a length of rope as a belt to keep the trousers from falling to the ground. But they were all light brown, which was a perfect color for sneaking around the desert. I actually covered myself in sticky sap and rolled around in the sand in order to fully blend in with my surroundings. It didn’t feel particularly good, and I also ended up with some bugs and lizards stuck to me as well, but it was a great way to camouflage myself. My parents were very clever, and I was guessing that the person who was posing as me was quite clever too, so if I wanted to sneak into the Baron Estate, I was going to have to be clever as well. That way, I’d catch them all by surprise. And it would be a great surprise.
No one ever expects W.B. to be clever.
I crawled until I reached the white picket fence surrounding the Baron Estate. As I crawled, I took the time to appreciate the beauty of our home, which was surrounded by trees and greenery, even though it was in the middle of the dry and sandy Pitchfork Desert.
Several years ago, my mother had invented a special chemical that produced a practically endless supply of nutrients and moisture, which allowed us to grow things which otherwise wouldn’t have survived a day in the dryness and heat. Like the lush trees and bushes, as well as the wide variety of fruits and vegetables growing in our garden. Our gardens were prettier and greener than all of the gardens we had visited as we traveled around the world, even the ones that received rain almost year round. It’s funny how I never took the time to appreciate it before. Maybe there was an upside to a faker using my parents’ inventio
n to pose as me. It made me appreciate the little things in my life that I took for granted.
I crawled all the way to the row of green bushes surrounding the work garage, bushes which made for an excellent hiding place. I then peeked through the windows.
The work garage was empty. That probably meant my parents were still in the kitchen having lunch. I wondered what they were eating. Maybe I could sneak in there and quietly make myself a sandwich to give me energy, and while I was at it, I could swipe a piece of cake or two, and maybe a few—no! Food would have to come later. I had a job to do, and I needed to get my hands on the Doppelgänger Device as quickly as possible.
I crept around to the back door of the work garage and tried to open it.
It was locked. I frowned. My parents usually only locked their work garage at night, though if the fake W.B. had warned them that there was someone who’d been sneaking around the Baron Estate, then it would make sense for them to take extra precautions. In fact, I’d actually counted on them taking some extra precautions, which was why I knew exactly what I had to do next.
I had a Plan B. I’d never had a Plan B before. Normally I just had a Plan A, and then if Plan A failed, I would run around screaming until everything sorted itself out. But not this time. This time, I was prepared.
I sat there, hidden in the bushes, and waited for the front door of the house to open. I knew that it would open soon. I checked the pocket-watch that Buddy had lent me (alright, he hadn’t actually said that I could borrow it, but his body language told me that it would be fine), and as soon as the watch struck noon, the front door opened, and Aunt Dorcas stepped outside.
“Alright, everyone! I’m meeting Madge and the girls at the teashop! I’ll be home in time for supper!” she called into the house, her shrill voice echoing like a dying bird falling from the sky. She shut the door and waddled her way down to the desert path leading to Pitchfork.
Aunt Dorcas always visited her friends at the teashop on Saturdays, Sundays, Mondays, and Wednesdays. It was something that I could always count on, like the sun rising, the earth turning, and my stomach rumbling. It was because of how predictable my aunt was that I’d been able to successfully come up with a Plan B for breaking into the Baron Estate.