by Stuart Gibbs
“Where’s what?” I asked. “The candy? I already told you I didn’t steal that.”
“This isn’t only about candy anymore and you know it.”
“Actually, I don’t.”
Marge fixed her piggy little eyes on me. “Eleanor Elephant’s Ice Cream Eatery was broken into last night. Sixteen gallons of assorted flavors were stolen, including Cheetah Chocolate, Monkey Mint Chip, and Rhino Raspberry Swirl.”
“And you think I stole that, too? What would I do with sixteen gallons of ice cream?”
“Eat it.”
“I can’t eat sixteen gallons of ice cream!”
“If I thought you could eat that much ice cream at once, I wouldn’t be here looking for it, would I? I know you stashed it somewhere. But I assure you, I will find it. And when I do, you’re getting shipped off to juvenile hall.” Marge stomped down the short hallway and went into my bedroom.
I followed and found her tossing my clothes aside. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for the stolen merchandise.”
“In my bedroom?”
“It’s cold enough in here to keep ice cream.”
I couldn’t argue with that. “Marge, if you talk to Chief Hoenekker, he’ll tell you I was with him until midnight last night. . . .”
“I’m well aware of that.”
“So you think that, after all that, I went back to FunJungle and robbed the ice cream stand?”
“I don’t think anything.”
“No kidding.”
Marge tossed aside a handful of shirts and wheeled on me. “I know you did this. What better time to commit a crime than right after you’ve been with security? You might have everyone else here fooled with your goody-two-shoes act, but not me.”
I sagged against the doorjamb. “Why are you so determined to get me arrested?”
“Because it’s my job. I’m supposed to root out trouble at FunJungle—and you’re trouble.”
“No, I’m not.”
“You’re not the one who jammed porcupine quills in the seat of my security vehicle?”
“No,” I said, although it was a lie. Not only had I placed the quills pointy-end up in her cart, but I’d also surreptitiously recorded her sitting on them and then posted it on YouTube.
Marge glared at me. “It took the doctor an hour to dig those out of my behind.”
“Well, it probably took him a while to find them. He had a big area to search.”
“That does it!” Marge pounded across the room toward me, as menacing as any of the gaurs had been the night before. She backed me into a corner and stabbed a thick finger into my chest. “I have had it with you, Fitzroy! One way or another, I am going to catch you one of these days, and when I do, I am going to wipe that smug little smile off your face for good! You are a nuisance, a pest, and an all-around bad egg!”
“And you’re a bully,” I said.
Marge reared back as though she’d been slapped. “What’d you call me?”
“A bully. You’re even worse than Vance Jessup. He was only a dumb teenager trying to make himself feel good by picking on smaller kids. You’re an adult and you’re doing the same thing. You’ve always been after me.” I’d never really thought of Marge in these terms until I’d said the words, but as I spoke, I realized I was right. “There’s no evidence that I broke into that candy store or that ice cream shop, but you’re determined to pin it on me anyhow, just like you were with the theft of the koala.”
For a brief moment, it looked as though I might have actually gotten through to Marge. A glimmer of understanding flashed in her eyes. But then it was gone, replaced by anger again. “There might not be any evidence now, but if it’s out there, I assure you, I’ll find it.” She turned away and went back to ransacking my room.
I started to protest, but as I watched Marge flinging my clothes about, I was struck by a thought. “Did you take pictures of the ice cream shop after the break-in?”
“Of course. Procurement of photographic evidence is standard procedure.”
“Can I see them?”
Marge turned back to me. Somehow she’d managed to get a dirty sock of mine perched on her shoulder, but she didn’t even notice. “You already know what it looks like. You did it.”
“So?”
Marge considered that for a moment, then dug her phone out and brought up the photos. “Fine. Want to see the damage you did? Here you go.” She slapped the phone into my hands. “You try to erase any of those pictures, though, and I’ll arrest you for tampering with evidence.”
I examined the photos closely. Like the candy store, the ice cream shop hadn’t merely been burglarized; it had practically been destroyed. Once again, the front window had been shattered by having a trash can pitched through it. The floor was strewn with broken glass and garbage. The glass freezer cases that held the ice cream had been busted as well.
I found a photo that showed the garbage can lying on its side. It was one of the big metal ones that were all over FunJungle. (J.J. McCracken had insisted on having one every twenty feet; he had research stating that the basic theme-park tourist was so lazy, if they had to walk any farther to get to a garbage can, they’d end up simply dropping the trash on the ground.) The can was more than three feet tall with a solar compactor built into it.
A thought occurred to me. “Marge, this garbage can is huge. You really think that I could throw it through a plate-glass window?”
Marge began to argue, then stopped, her mouth half open, as she realized I had a point. “Maybe. It’s only a trash can.”
“I’ll bet it weighs a hundred pounds. I can’t lift a hundred pounds.”
Marge narrowed her eyes. “Maybe you had help, then. Like that friend of yours who’s always hanging around with you. Paco?”
“Xavier?”
“That’s the one! He looks like he likes candy and ice cream. And that’d explain why the contraband isn’t here: It’s at his place!”
I gaped at Marge, stunned that she’d managed to take a solid piece of evidence that I was innocent and implicate my best friend with it as well. “Xavier didn’t help me with this! No one did!”
“Aha!” Marge cried. “So you admit you did it!”
“No! Think about this!” I held up her phone, displaying her own picture of the destroyed ice cream store to her. “If I really wanted to get away with stealing all this ice cream, I wouldn’t leave such a huge mess behind. In fact, I’d try to not make a mess at all so no one would even know I’d broken in. Here the ice cream hasn’t only been stolen. All the furniture has been knocked over. And the freezer’s been smashed open, even though there’s no lock on it.”
Marge chewed her lip, actually trying to think. It looked like it wasn’t easy for her. But then, Marge didn’t have much practice at thinking. “What’s your point?”
“This wasn’t about getting candy or ice cream. It was about vandalism.”
“So, you and your pal vandalized the place. That’s still a crime.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re trouble. Like I said.”
“You think that, after all the commotion last night, I came back here and called Xavier, then had him come down to the park so we could trash the ice cream place, and then we both went home and pretended to go to sleep?”
“Maybe you decided to make it look like a bunch of vandals to cover up the fact that you really wanted all the ice cream.”
“Or maybe someone else did it besides me. An adult. Someone who could actually lift that giant trash can and throw it.”
“And why would an adult do that?”
“I don’t know.”
Marge snorted in disgust, then returned to searching my room, opening the cabinets of my dresser, as if I might have actually hidden sixteen gallons of ice cream there.
I was annoyed at myself for not having a better answer for her. It felt like there was something important I was overlooking about the thefts, something that would help
make sense of them, but to my frustration, I couldn’t figure out what it was. I wondered if I was still tired from the events of the day before.
“Why don’t you check the video from the park?” I asked.
“I already told you, there weren’t any cameras aimed at the concessions.”
“But there’s cameras everywhere else, right? There are thousands in the park. If you look through the footage from around the ice cream place, you ought to be able to find someone heading there in the middle of the night.”
“You think it didn’t occur to me to check the other cameras?” Marge demanded. “I’m not an idiot.”
That’s news to me, I thought, but I didn’t say it. I’d already antagonized Marge enough. Instead, I asked, “So why haven’t you done it?”
“Because I don’t have the authority, thanks to you. Now that I’m not in charge of security anymore, I have to file a requisition for someone to comb through the footage—and right now everyone’s focused on this whole rhino thing instead. They’re checking all the camera feeds for any sign of the hunter from last night, so I have to wait in line. Apparently, these rhinos are higher priority than my case.”
“Well, someone is trying to kill them,” I pointed out.
“And I’m dealing with the theft and destruction of official FunJungle property. Rest assured, though, when my time comes, I’m gonna give that footage a good, hard look. And if I find you anywhere even close to that ice cream shop around the time of the crime, I’m gonna have you in juvenile hall so fast, it’ll make your head spin.”
“And if you see someone else instead?”
Marge rolled her eyes. “That’ll be the day.”
Obviously, I wasn’t going to talk any sense into her. And I didn’t feel like waiting around for her to search the whole trailer. Our home wasn’t big, but if Marge wanted to be thorough, she could still end up wasting a lot of my time. So when she got down on her hands and knees to search under my bed, I quietly backed out of my room and slipped out of the trailer.
The keys to Marge’s golf cart were dangling in the ignition. I removed them and flung them into the woods. It was antagonistic and immature, but, I figured, you had to fight back against bullies any way you could. Besides, Marge could use more exercise.
I was twenty yards away from the house before Marge even noticed I was gone. Her voice suddenly boomed through Lakeside Estates, loud enough to startle birds into flight. “Teddy! Get back here! I’m not done with you yet!”
I didn’t even look back. Instead, I picked up my pace, ducking through the woods toward FunJungle.
Behind me, I could hear the door bang as Marge stormed out of our trailer. “This isn’t over, Teddy!” she yelled after me. “I’ll get you if it’s the last thing I ever do!”
THE HOSPITAL
Mom wasn’t at her office at Monkey Mountain. Kyle Reims, a young primatologist, was there instead. Kyle was still in college at the University of Texas, taking a semester off to do research on baboons; Mom was letting him use a spare desk in her office. He was tall and gangly, with hair that flopped down over his eyes. “Your mom’s ankle was bothering her,” he told me. “So she went to have Doc check it out.”
Doc Deakin was FunJungle’s head veterinarian. FunJungle had an actual doctor on staff—and a full medical clinic, given that the closest hospital was forty-five minutes away—but Mom and Dad both thought the doctor wasn’t nearly as qualified as Doc. After all, Doc was one of the best vets in the world, while FunJungle’s doctor had barely graduated from medical school.
“How long ago did she leave?” I asked.
Kyle checked his watch. “An hour at most. She’s probably still there. Her ankle was looking pretty bad.”
“Like how?”
“All purple and swollen. Hey, if you see Doc while you’re there, could you tell him to call me? I think Bababoonie needs to see him.”
Bababoonie was the alpha male gelada baboon. He was pretty scary as far as monkeys went. Baboons have serious fangs, and Bababoonie was always baring his at people, like he was a monkey vampire.
“Is that what Doc was here about last night?” I asked.
“No. He was here for one of the orangutans. Pancake, I think. He wasn’t feeling good.”
I glanced at Mom’s desk. Her computer could access the security system, allowing Mom to bring up the feeds from any camera at Monkey Mountain. This meant she could watch any primate she wanted to without the animal knowing it was being watched. The feed for the backstage area of the orangutan exhibit was on her screen. I figured Mom must have been using it to check on Pancake before she decided to go see Doc.
Pancake was the only orangutan in the backstage area. It was easy to recognize him because he had a shock of orange hair that always stood up on top of his head, making him look like a perpetually frightened cartoon character. The rest of the orangs were on display in their exhibit. FunJungle went to a lot of effort to make sure this happened, because guests didn’t like looking at empty exhibits. (“It’s like paying for a museum and seeing only blank walls,” J.J. had groused. “So make sure it doesn’t happen.”) All the exhibits at Monkey Mountain had been designed to be extremely comfortable and stimulating, with plenty of things to play on and the heat cranked up to tropical rain forest temperatures. The orangutan habitat had tons of plants, a waterfall, and a jungle gym of fake trees. The backstage area wasn’t quite as nice to look at, but there was a great deal to stimulate the apes there, too: ropes to climb, cardboard boxes to shred, big plastic balls to throw around. Pancake wasn’t playing with any of it, which was unusual. He was only eight years old and was normally a whirlwind of energy, bouncing off the walls. Today, however, he was merely lolling on a pile of burlap bags.
“What’s wrong with him?” I asked.
Kyle shrugged. “I don’t deal with orangs. I’m the baboon guy.”
I got the impression that he wanted to do other things besides talk to me, so I said good-bye and headed across FunJungle to find my mother.
It was now nine thirty, only half an hour until FunJungle opened for the day. There were lots of employees out now, making sure the park looked perfect.
I passed the wreckage of the Gorilla Grill. Pete Thwacker was there, watching a small bulldozer knock over the remaining walls.
“Getting ready to build the new restaurant?” I asked.
“No,” Pete replied. “I’m only having this knocked down.”
“Wait. You’re making the mess worse?”
“We’re enhancing the viewer experience,” Pete corrected. “According to an exit survey we conducted yesterday, some of our guests were disappointed by the stampede scene. Apparently, there wasn’t as much destruction as they’d hoped for.”
“Half the restaurant was destroyed!”
“Yes. You’d think that a herd of elephants would have trampled the whole thing. But they didn’t. It only looked damaged, rather than totaled. And if you don’t meet the guests’ expectations, that’s a problem.”
“So the elephant stampede wreckage didn’t look enough like elephant stampede wreckage?”
“Exactly! Frankly, I would have preferred to do this more authentically. But J.J. is simply refusing to let me stampede the elephants again. In fact, he wouldn’t even let them do their morning walk today. Apparently, he thinks it could be dangerous.” Pete sighed and shook his head sadly.
“I would have thought you’d approve of that,” I said.
“Well, I certainly don’t want anyone getting hurt, but at the same time, you have to give the public what they want.” Pete scratched his chin thoughtfully. “There must be some way to convince him to do this.”
“Convince J.J. to let a herd of elephants destroy more of his park?”
“Well, not a lot more of it, of course. But some. He’s never liked the Cajun restaurant here. Maybe I could convince him to let the elephants trample that. That’d be a win-win for everyone.”
I shook my head. “If the elephants can’t
walk around the park in the morning, how are they supposed to get enough exercise?”
Pete’s trademark grin spread across his face. “Hey, that’s a great angle. The elephants’ own health and well-being! I’ll use that to get them out here again . . . and who knows? Maybe some more magic will happen.”
I winced, afraid I’d just given Pete a good argument that would lead to more trouble.
“Hey,” he said. “How’s Lakeside Estates?”
“It’s terrible.”
Pete’s smile faltered. “Oh, come now. It’s much better than the last place you lived.”
“It’s exactly the same as the last place we lived. Only now we have a big mud pit beside the house, no neighbors, and no running water.”
“They haven’t hooked up your water yet?”
“No.”
“Well, I’m sure they will soon. In the meantime, it could be fun. You guys all lived in a tent when you were in Africa, right? You didn’t have water then. So now it’s kind of like a trip down memory lane.”
“We had to poop in the bushes in Africa. You want us to start doing that here?”
Pete made a face of disgust. “Er . . . no. Come to think of it, scratch the whole memory lane thing. I’ll make sure someone from plumbing gets out there today.” There was a crash nearby as a wall collapsed. Pete turned to the bulldozer driver and desperately signaled him to stop. “Whoa! That’s too much! I need this to look like elephants did it, not a wrecking crew!” He ran over to explain his artistic vision, and I continued on my way.
We hadn’t really pooped in the bushes in Africa. We’d had a solar-powered composting pit toilet, but Pete didn’t have to know that.
I stopped at Eleanor Elephant’s Ice Cream Eatery next. Unlike the stampeded Gorilla Grill, this site had been cleaned up quickly. (I’d heard Carly Cougar’s Candy Counter had been cleaned up too.) Either Pete Thwacker didn’t know this was happening, or he’d decided that a smash-and-grab robbery site wasn’t nearly as good for luring tourists as stampede wreckage. A crew of workmen was already fitting the windows with replacement glass. By the time the park opened, the shop would look good as new. It was ruined as a crime scene, however. All evidence had been swept away. FunJungle’s sanitation crew was loading the last of the debris onto a flatbed truck; there were dozens of trash bags full of it. Two men were struggling to lift the trash can that had been thrown through the window on board.