“Isn’t that the guy who hangs out near PetPlanet begging for money?” I ask Darvish.
“PUPAE,” he says. “Oh yeah, maybe.”
“He wanted to charge us fifty-nine ninety-nine to join his group?”
“I don’t remember. I was distracted by the firehouse tacos. And you getting cursed.”
I turn back to Holly Creskin. “You gave him fifty-nine ninety-nine to join that group?” I ask. “What would possess you?”
She laughs. “No, silly. My parents paid for it. They like animals, too. In fact, my dad is the presi—”
I cut her off. “So what if you know Talon Smithfield? Why would that make you giggle?” I am confused. It’s a sensation I’m experiencing a lot lately.
She giggles again.
“Because she likes him,” says Darvish.
At this, Holly Creskin dissolves afresh into peals of laughter that will not stop. She is now useless to me as a suspect.
I step off the table and walk away, leaving her to her giggle-fit.
Unknowingly, she has cleared herself of all suspicion.
Because murderers don’t giggle. They laugh maniacally. Everybody knows this.
21
I am at an emotional, spiritual, and metaphysical standstill.
I am no closer to figuring out why a rhino and a gorilla (and a shark) have had their lives in captivity cut tragically short.
I am no closer to ridding myself of these respective soot-covered, flea-bitten (and barnacle-encrusted) houseguests from the great beyond.
Since it is the weekend, I decide to do something about it. The one thing that will distract them from their predicament. The one thing that will distract me from the crushing stalemate in which I currently find myself.
Pizza party.
“Your best private room, my good man,” I say.
We are standing at the shoe desk of the BowlTastic. It is Middling Falls’ premier bowling and pizza destination. The guy behind the counter looks at me like I’ve lost my mind. It is a look that I have grown accustomed to over the years.
“A private room for one person?” the shoe man asks.
“Possibly,” I say evasively. I am veiled in a shroud of mystery and I prefer to keep it that way.
He takes a deep breath. “Whatever, kid. The birthday party room is empty today. You can sit in there. Order your food at the bar.”
As private accommodations go, these are a bit juvenile. And sad. There is a faded jungle mural on the wall. Papier-mâché toucans hang from the ceiling tiles. But it is private, so we are free to talk without me looking like a deranged loon.
Ridiculously, the BowlTastic does not stock rhino or gorilla food. So, I make the best selections I can with my compatriots in mind. I place the pizza before them. “Anchovies and spinach,” I say proudly. “They were fresh out of bananas, chicken food, and whatever rhinos eat.”
“Nah,” says Tater Tot. “I’m not hungry.”
“Me neither,” says Sea-Monkey, sighing. “I can go days without food. One time, I spent six months eating nothing but fire ants. Do you know how small a fire ant is? They’re tiny.”
The shark just continues to gnaw Sea-Monkey’s hindquarters.
Only Drumstick seems enthusiastic with my choice. “Thanks, buddy! Ooh, look! You got my favorite! Triangles!”
If I’d known that nobody else was going to eat, I’d have just gotten cheese. My consideration and self-sacrifice is wasted on this group.
I sit next to my small mountain of picked-off toppings. And chew my triangle. Drumstick pecks noisily at my side.
But the others have a faraway look. They gaze longingly at the poorly painted jungle mural.
Perhaps they are not spurning my consideration and self-sacrifice on purpose.
Perhaps they are just as sad to be here as I am vexed to have them here.
Perhaps they are not here by choice.
Perhaps an afterlife paradise of grassy plains and lush treetops (and undersea reefs) respectively awaits each of them.
Perhaps I am not the only one that has been cursed.
Darvish suspects that if we can solve the mystery surrounding their unnatural deaths, then their spirits will move on. If he is right, then they are stuck here. Doomed to the purgatory of Middling Falls. Until the unfinished business that tethers them here is complete.
So I’ve got to figure this out once and for all. Who would want to murder these guys?
I reach out and scratch Tater Tot behind her charred ear.
I rub Sea-Monkey’s eternally drenched fur.
I attach the pizza box to the end of a long broom and gently stroke the shark from a safe distance.
I put my arm around Drumstick’s two-dimensional neck.
“What are we doing, Rexxie?” asks Drumstick.
“Having a moment,” I say.
“Okay, buddy.”
We all stare at the jungle mural. And sigh.
22
A successful coup has transpired. My room has officially been taken over.
Darvish has commandeered my video-game console with a new game called Peanut Paradise. It involves a giant mouse setting traps for an elephant.
Apparently, it is all the rage among my age bracket. I wouldn’t know. I have had no mental capacity for video games lately. My brain, once a carefree and happy-go-lucky place, is now occupied with pondering the criminal nature of man against his four-legged brethren.
Tater Tot, Sea-Monkey, and Drumstick are all waiting for their turn. Which leaves no controller for me to use. And no room for me on my own bed.
I have been ousted.
“Rexxie, will you come in here, please?” My dad is calling from the other room. His tone is stern. It suggests he is not calling me to hand out Popsicles.
“Rexxie,” says Darvish. “Your dad is calling.”
“Don’t call me that,” I say. “I’ll be right back. Try to brainstorm some solutions while I’m gone.”
“I’ll come too,” says Drumstick. “In case he’s handing out Popsicles.” Despite his lack of a heartbeat, Drumstick is proving to be a loyal companion. Also, he seems to love people food.
My dad is a stay-at-home dad. He is the only stay-at-home dad I know. He says that is because he is enlightened. I don’t know what that means. But being enlightened seems to come with a wide array of hard work. Like cooking. And cleaning. So do not sign me up for being enlightened anytime soon.
At the moment, he is doing the laundry. And he does not look pleased.
“What is this, Rex?” he asks, holding up my soot-stained bedsheets. “Are these ashes?”
Oh boy. I don’t pretend to fully understand how all this works. I’m the only one who can see the ghost animals that have come to haunt me. But it seems that their ghostly side effects are occasionally apparent to others. Like the puddles that Sea-Monkey keeps leaving everywhere. Or the soot stains from my toasty rhino compatriot.
“Ah, yes,” I say, thinking on my feet. “Ashes. That may or may not be from a science project. Feel free to blame the Scientific Method.”
“Oh,” he says. “Well, be more careful next time.”
My dad’s interrogation methods are feeble. I bet good money that he doesn’t even have any thumbscrews in that laundry basket. You have to feel bad for the guy.
“How ya doing, pal?” he asks me. “You seem preoccupied lately.”
I pause, internally debating my response. My dad always says I can talk to him about anything. And, I confess, I could use some advice.
I could tell him that I’ve been cursed by the Grim Reaper. I could tell him that ghosts are real. I could tell him that a menagerie of dead animals is using my bedroom as their layover terminal to the great unknown. I could tell him that solving the cold-blooded murder of innocent creatures rests squarely on my humble shoulders.
But these are the types of ramblings that get you locked away in the booby hatch.
So I blame the old standby. “Just school stuff.” Classic.
I turn to go, but he stops me. “Speaking of schoolwork, how’s your research report coming?”
The hairs on my arms stand on end. I feel a chill go up my spine that has nothing to do with Drumstick rooting through the freezer nearby for Popsicles. Again, my father seems oblivious to the important things. He seems to be privy to my homework assignments but is blissfully unaware that our Popsicle supply is being pilfered right under his nose.
I clear my throat. “I’m sorry. What was that?”
“I saw the assignment sheet next to your backpack,” he says. “When I was cleaning your room.”
“Ah.” He is craftier than I have given him credit for. “You’ll be happy to know I have taken a very mature approach to the project.”
“Oh, good. I was worried you might sign up for the last presentation slot and put it off till the last second.”
I chortle vaguely. The man has no faith in me.
When I return to my room, it is clear that no brainstorming has occurred while I was away. Darvish is going on three hours of Peanut Paradise.
I decide to state the obvious.
“You may have a problem with addiction,” I say to him. “I hate to bring it up, but I think I need to address the elephant in the room.”
“Oh sure! You betcha!” says a chipper voice. “Address me! I’m standing right here!”
I turn. There is an actual elephant. In the room. It has a big, friendly grin plastered across its face.
But there’s a problem with this elephant. Other than its squeaky voice and the fact that it is in my house. This is not an elephant-shaped elephant. He has been squashed into a square shape. Like a cube. Four stubby little legs emerge from the bottom of the cube, pooled in green glowing mist.
I look over at Darvish. He is immersed in his game, unaware that a real-live dead elephant has entered the room while his eyes are glued to his fake video-game elephant.
That kid may have real problems.
23
It is clear we need a place free from distractions. A place where we can analyze the situation before us. We need to have a Meeting of the Minds.
And the old picnic table in the corner of the recess yard is perfect.
The picnic table is a death trap waiting to spring. It is a wreck of rotting wood and rusty nails. It is lousy with termites and tetanus. Hardly anyone ever goes near it. Which is exactly the kind of seclusion we require.
“Let the Meeting of the Minds commence,” I say, calling us to order.
“Spirit Summit,” corrects Darvish. “We agreed to call this a Spirit Summit.”
“But Meeting of the Minds sounds better.”
“We voted. You said Spirit Summit won.”
“Darvish is right,” says Tater Tot. “Play fair, now.”
“That’s right,” agrees Sea-Monkey. “I voted for Spirit Summit. I demand my voice be heard!”
“Mweetwoo!” mumbles the shark.
“I suggested GhostCon, but nobody liked that one,” chortles the elephant. “Which is fine! Spirit Summit is a nifty name, too.”
I must concede to the majority vote. Only the chicken voted with me. Even the cube-shaped elephant eventually voted for Spirit Summit. I am not sure I like this new elephant.
Yesterday, after I pried Darvish away from his video game, we got the elephant’s story. They say an elephant never forgets, but his recollections were murky. According to his sketchy account, he saw a shadowy figure open his enclosure. He followed a trail of peanuts into a big truck. The truck rumbled for a while, then stopped. Suddenly the walls started closing in like a trash compactor. The next thing he knew, he was dead and box-shaped.
“Sheesh,” said Tater Tot, grimacing. “I thought my death was nasty.”
“Yeah,” I agreed, looking over the box-shaped elephant. “That’s horrible.”
“That?” cried Sea-Monkey. “That’s nothing! I once slipped on a banana peel, fell off a cliff, and landed headfirst in a hollowed-out tree. I was cylinder-shaped for the next month! Being cube-shaped is a dream come true compared to that!”
The elephant just laughed it off. “Aw, it’s not so bad! I barely felt a thing. Maybe I blacked out in peanut-induced bliss. That sometimes happens. I love those little nuts, but boy, do they make me loopy! I’ll tell you this, though. Somebody was clearly out to get me. That’s when I knew I needed somebody like you to help me out! And here we all are!”
“And you didn’t see who it was?” I asked.
“Golly, I’m sorry. I wish I could help more. But it was dark. And I was very focused on the peanut situation.”
“I thought elephants were supposed to be smart.”
“We are!” he cried. “Super smart! I can do long division in my head! Which maybe makes it short division. Not sure. And don’t get me started on circus trivia! You’ll never get me to shut up!”
“Then why would you just follow a random trail of peanuts?”
He blushed and looked away. “What can I say? I like peanuts. I’m a victim of my own appetite.” As a result, I have named him Peanut. Trust me, it’s not exactly a compliment.
And now, twenty-four hours later, we still have no idea how our newest ghostly companion wound up in the shape he’s in.
I look at the group gathered around the picnic table. “I have called us together because far-reaching and eternity-altering issues are at hand.”
“I second the motion!” says the chicken.
I go on. “The kind of issues that require the utmost brainpower, maturity, and concentration.”
“Where are we supposed to find someone like that?” asks Darvish. “Do you think Sami Mulpepper would help?”
“Me, Darvish. I’m talking about me.”
“We’re doomed.”
“Objection!” says Drumstick.
“Sustained,” I say. “Now, what do we know?”
“I know nothing!” says Drumstick. Everyone ignores the chicken.
“Does anyone have any new information to share?” I ask.
“This gorilla snores,” says Tater Tot. “It’s totally wreaking havoc on my sleep cycle.”
“You think you’ve got problems?” says Sea-Monkey. “Try sleeping with a three-hundred-pound bull shark nibbling on your hindquarters!”
The shark just rolls his eyes.
“Does that hurt?” asks Peanut. “It looks like it hurts.”
“Naw,” says Sea-Monkey. “You know what hurts when they bite? Tsetse flies, that’s what. Those bites can sting for decades! This is nothing!”
“I see. I see.” Peanut nods. “Why does he keep hanging on like that?”
“How’s he supposed to get around?” asks the gorilla. “He doesn’t have legs, does he?”
“Good point. Good point.”
“I’ve got new information,” says Darvish. Thank goodness for that. Hearing every insipid thought that comes out of their ghost mouths is not the treat for the ears that you imagine it is. I was about to clonk some ghost heads together.
“Check this out.” Darvish flops this morning’s Middling Falls Daily Spew onto the table. On the front page is the headline ZOO’S MISSING INDIAN ELEPHANT FOUND AT CAR CRUSHING YARD.
“Car crusher?” I ask.
Darvish shudders. “Those giant car-squashing machines that they use at the junkyard. They turn old cars into little metal cubes.”
Yikes. So that’s how it happened. Whoever is behind this has a heart as black as a panther’s heinie. And for all I know, the panther’s heinie is the next one on the chopping block. I clench my fist and resolve to not let that happen to the panther’s heinie. Or any other creature’s heinie.
“Maybe we can get into the rhino cage or the elephant enclosure,” suggests Darvish. “To look for footprints or clues or something.”
I shake my head. “I told you, getting near the scene of the crime is impossible. They have the empty enclosures roped off. They are guarded by a surprisingly efficient hobbit. Honestly, Darvish, if you’re going to
be my sidekick, you’re going to have to listen more closely.”
“I’m not your sidekick.”
“Please stay on topic,” I remind him. “This is a Spirit Summit.”
“There has to be something that connects these animals together,” says Darvish.
So we brainstorm. Our brains collide in a hurricane of ideas. Our imaginations swirl in a vortex of possibilities. It is a true Meeting of the Minds. Or Spirit Summit. Or GhostCon. Or whatever.
Here are the things we come up with during our brainstorming session that Tater Tot, Sea-Monkey, and Peanut all have in common:
They all lived at the zoo.
A mysterious somebody opened all of their cages or enclosures before they met their untimely fate.
They are all mammals.
The shark is not a mammal. He insisted this be included in the list. But since his death seems to be a by-product of the gorilla’s murder and therefore unintentional, I rule it as irrelevant.
The elephant likes peanuts.
Beyond that, there seems to be no clear connection between them. Perhaps we need some better brains. None of these similarities seems important or grounds for death.
“What else do we know?” I ask.
“I know nothing!” says Drumstick. Everyone ignores the chicken.
“Well, I can tell you the TV crews are all over this,” says Darvish. “The news lady was interviewing the president of the zoo board last night.”
“And?”
“It’s in here.” He thumbs through the newspaper. “Here it is. ‘Timothy Creskin, the president of the zoo board, blames rusty locks for the tragic events. “This is a serious situation,” he stated firmly. “I plan to take legal action against the company that manufactures the gates. These animals escaped on their own and their deaths were a series of tragic but isolated accidents.”’”
“Accident, schmaccident,” says Tater Tot.
“He refuses to close the zoo,” says Darvish. “He assures the public that no foul play was involved.”
The Incredibly Dead Pets of Rex Dexter Page 7