“I’m sorry about your angel in the polka-dot scarf, Grandpa,” I said.
“She was no angel, P.T. She was just giving me the old razzle-dazzle.”
We slapped stinky pink disks of pressed meat on spongy bread, fart-squirted it with swirls of yellow mustard, and topped the mess off with another slab of soft white bread. We wrapped six sandwiches in wax paper (two for each of us was Grandpa’s dinner plan), packed them in a brown paper sack, and grabbed a cold six-pack of Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda from the fridge, too.
We dashed out to Grandpa’s wood-paneled surfer-mobile. Well, Gloria and I dashed. Grandpa more or less ambled. He also burped some more.
“We should probably tell your mother where we’re going,” said Grandpa when he climbed behind the wheel.
I shook my head. “Bad idea.”
“How so?”
“Mom’s the grown-up in the family, remember?”
“Right. And it would be totally irresponsible of me to drive you kids to a wild-animal park after dark.”
“Correct.”
“P.T.? You picked the right man for the job.”
He cranked the ignition.
We were off on another adventure.
We cruised across the Pinellas Bayway, took the ramp for I-275 north, and headed across the three-mile-long Gandy Bridge spanning the bay between St. Petersburg and Tampa. Since we had at least twenty more minutes of driving to do, I told Grandpa everything.
About the Miami Palm Tree Hotel heist. About Stanley and Sidney Sneemer. About Sheila holding the hot loot.
I told Grandpa how she had double-crossed Stanley because she’d had a crush on Sidney. How Stanley had snitched out both of them. How Sheila had hidden the jewels in the train, then died behind bars in the state pen before anybody discovered where she’d stashed the loot. How Stanley and Sidney had just gotten out of jail. How they had Wonder World postcards with clues scribbled across the back. How the clues had led us to the Wonder World Express train.
When I was finished, he said, “Good detective work, kiddos. Does anybody else know about this?”
“Not yet,” I said. “We sent Big Irv, the detective who’s been working the case for the insurance company, off on a wild-goose chase with Smilin’ Sam.”
“And P.T. sent the Sneemer brothers to Dollywood,” added Gloria.
I shrugged. “They might enjoy the Barnstormer roller coaster. I know I did.”
“So we have the jewels all to ourselves?” asked Grandpa.
“Yep,” I said. “And we can cash them in for a one-hundred-and-fifty-thousand-dollar reward!”
“I like the sound of that,” said Grandpa. “We can use it to pay off the bank loan!”
“Exactly,” I said. “But first we have to find where Sheila hid the jewels on the train.”
“We also have to avoid being eaten alive by lions,” added Gloria.
“Right. That, too.”
We parked near the entrance to Wild Cat Safariland.
There was only one other car in the gravel parking lot. It was near a gate that I figured was the employee entrance to the animal sanctuary. That meant at least one person (maybe a security guard or a lion tamer) was still on the property.
All the signs out front were dark. The place had closed hours earlier.
“That car probably belongs to somebody we don’t want to bump into,” I whispered as we quietly made our way toward the gloomy entrance. The only light came from the flickering fluorescent tube inside an ancient vending machine. “There’s probably a security guard on patrol.”
“There’s your security guard,” Gloria whispered back. “In his cage!”
The caged lion gave us a warning growl.
“How many large cats live here?” asked Grandpa, who was toting our sandwich bag.
“Several hundred.” Yes, I’d read the whole brochure.
Since the train had just been shipped to Safari-land, we wouldn’t find it waiting for us at Catmandu Junction, or whatever they’d eventually call their loading depot. There weren’t any train tracks ringing the property yet, either. We were basically looking for a needle in a haystack where all the hay smelled like a litter box somebody should’ve scooped out weeks before.
We slipped under the chain draped across the entry and moved into the animal sanctuary, treading very carefully along the asphalt trails winding through the cat enclosures.
Fortunately, the moon was bright, so we could see where we were going and who was staring at us with glassy eyes: all sorts of rumbling, grumbling lions and tigers and cheetahs and jaguars and panthers (which, by the way, would be very hard to see in the dark if their eyeballs didn’t glow like bicycle reflectors). Some of the cats were pacing in their pens. Others swatted at us with paws the size of catchers’ mitts. A couple roared. Several stretched open their jaws so we could check out their glistening dental work. Their teeth were shinier than Mr. Ortega’s.
“Anybody else hungry?” said Grandpa when we reached a cluster of picnic tables.
“Are you serious?” I asked.
“No, I’m starving. I haven’t had my dinner yet.”
He sat down. Popped open another Cel-Ray soda. Unwrapped a sandwich. Gloria and I just stood there, rolling our eyes in disbelief.
“I’m sorry,” said Grandpa. “I have to watch my blood sugar. If I don’t eat—”
A nearby lion roared.
We whipped around. The big beast was frantically sniffing the air. What can I say? Bologna is one of the stinkiest deli meats ever invented. It’s right up there with liverwurst.
“Sorry, kitty,” said Grandpa, smacking his lips. “This is my supper.”
I heard the squeak of rusty metal behind us.
“What does y’all think you’re doin’ back here?”
A bright beacon spotlighted Grandpa as he licked yellow mustard off his fingers.
A scrawny man in a filthy safari suit and a Tampa Bay Rays baseball cap trained his flashlight on us. He stood in front of a tiger cage with a gate that didn’t look completely locked or even closed. The man took a step forward and spit out a gob of something brown.
“I asked you what you was doin’, old-timer.”
“Eating my supper,” said Grandpa.
“Oh. Did ya bring a sam’wich for me?”
“I was just tucking me in an ornery tiger,” said the skinny man in the safari costume, tugging on the bill of his baseball cap. “That’ll work up your appetite somethin’ fierce.”
He looked to be maybe forty-some years old. He also looked like he didn’t shave on a regular basis. Judging from the scroll of stitching over his chest pocket, his name was Bob.
“Um, Bob, I think you forgot to shut that ornery tiger’s cage there,” I said, gesturing toward the chain-link fence behind him.
“You tryin’ to tell me how to do my job, son?”
“No, sir. I just…”
Bob worked his nose through the air like the lion had done when it first smelled Grandpa’s bologna.
“That bologna you’re eatin’ there, pops?”
“Yes, sir,” said Grandpa, wadding up his wax paper. “We have Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda, too.”
Bob squinted. “Dr. Who’s what?”
“Dr. Brown’s Cel-Ray soda.”
“What’s it taste like?”
“Celery,” said Grandpa.
“Shoot. Who’d want to drink a sodie that tastes like a salad?”
“Grandpa,” I said. “And cats. Well, my cat. Cheeseball. The smell of celery drives her nuts.” I reached into the supermarket sack to pull out another wrapped sandwich. “Here you go, Bob. We brought several.”
“Thank you kindly.” He took the sandwich. “But we’re closed. Y’all can’t be having a picnic out here till tomorrow.”
“Well, Bob,” I said, “we’re really here for the train.”
“What train?”
“The one you guys rented from Grandpa,” I said.
“You’re a used-train dealer
, pops?”
Grandpa laughed. “Not usually. Just for today.”
“You see,” I said, acting even politer than I had on TV, “my grandfather, Walt Wilkie—”
“No way!” said Bob. “You’re the Walt Wilkie? From Walt Wilkie’s Wonder World?”
Grandpa stood up and straightened his clothes a little. “Yes. Have we met?”
“Yes, sir,” said Bob. “But I cain’t blame you for not rememberin’. I was knee-high to a grass-hopper at the time. Only eight or nine years old. Me and my family came to Wonder World for your bicentennial celebration. Had our picture taken with that big ol’ smilin’ Uncle Sam feller. Sir, you even let me twirl a sparkler. Best vacation we ever had.”
“Why, thank you,” said Grandpa. “It was my pleasure to create memories for you and your family.” He took a slight bow.
“Remember the train?” I asked.
“Sure do. Chugged around the park all the way to Happy Town, where there was all these mechanical clown dolls. I remember they moved and waved and juggled and such. It was kind of creepy.”
“We changed the clowns to glow-in-the-dark unicorns in 1977,” said Grandpa.
Bob nodded. “Smart move. Unicorns ain’t half as creepy as clowns.”
“Well, now you guys have the Wonder World train right here at Wild Cat Safariland,” I said. “We shipped it over this afternoon.”
“Is that so? I reckon if it just come in, they probably put it in storage. Back yonder in that there Quonset hut we got.”
“Can you take us to the train?” I asked. “I lost something on it.”
Bob took off his baseball cap and scratched his head. “Huh?”
His Tampa Bay Rays hat gave me an idea for my next story.
“You see, sir, for years, that old ride-on train was just collecting dust and cobwebs in Grandpa’s workshop. I sort of used it as a hiding place for my prized possessions. But I made a small mistake: I forgot to tell Grandpa.”
“So,” said Gloria, catching on to where I was going with this, “if you don’t mind, Bob, we’d like to search the train to see if P.T. can find his prized possession. Since Safariland is only renting the train, it is technically still property of the Wonderland Motel and—”
“Uh-huh,” said Bob, spitting out another wet gob the color of melted chocolate. “What exactly did you lose, Petey?”
Fortunately, I’ve been a Rays fan since forever. I had the details I needed to sell another bit.
“My mint-condition 2006 Bowman Draft Picks Chrome Evan Longoria card!”
Bob nearly lost his jaw. “No way. Longoria weren’t even called up to Tampa Bay till 2008. You have his draft pick card? Dang. That’s worth more than his rookie card.”
“I know!” I gushed. “That’s why I need to find it.”
“If you do,” said Bob, “can I hold it? Maybe take a selfie?”
“You bet.”
“Then come on, son. Follow me. We have a train to catch!”
Bob took us to a building that looked like a half-buried semicircle made out of corrugated steel. It had two wide-open entrances: one at the front, one at the back.
Bob flicked a switch, lights thumped on, and there it was: the Wonder World Express!
“Woo-hoo!” said Gloria. “We found it.”
“Where’s your baseball card, Petey?” asked Bob.
“Actually,” said Gloria, “his name is P.T.”
“Huh?”
“Never mind.”
“So,” said Grandpa, studying the engine, passenger cars, and caboose that made up the train, “where do you think she hid them?”
“Who hid what?” said Bob, who thought we were looking for a single baseball card.
“My sister,” I said, even though I don’t have one. “She, uh, always sneaks into Grandpa’s workshop and finds the stuff I hide so she can re-hide it somewhere else.”
Bob shook his head. “Sisters. Am I right?”
“You sure are,” said Gloria.
“So now,” I said, “we need to search the whole train! Because even though I know I hid my baseball card in the smokestack—”
“Dang, son. You hid a mint-condition 2006 Evan Longoria card inside a smokestack?” Bob sounded horrified.
“It’s laminated,” I assured him. “And sealed inside a ziplock bag.”
Bob nodded. “All righty, then.”
“We might be a while,” I told him. “Maybe you should go enjoy your sandwich.”
“Reckon I might do that. But don’t forget, Petey: I want that selfie. Me and Evan Longoria.”
“You’ve got it, sir!”
“Want a soda?” asked Grandpa, offering him a can of Cel-Ray.
“No thanks. I only eat celery when it’s acting like a canoe for my pimento cheese.”
Bob strolled out of the Quonset hut to enjoy his bologna on white bread at one of the picnic tables.
When he was gone, the three of us split up and started our search. Since Grandpa knew more about the train’s engine than anybody else did, he checked every nook and cranny of the locomotive. Gloria and I worked together in the passenger cars. We pulled up seat cushions. Checked out all the corners. We even crawled under the carriages to see if something was hidden underneath or strapped to the wheels.
We were at it for fifteen, maybe twenty, minutes.
We found nothing—except some antique kernels of shriveled popcorn and some clever squirrel’s stash of nuts.
“The jewels have to be in the caboose,” I said.
“Or,” said Gloria, “Miss Sheila ‘Boom-Boom’ Bailey is laughing at us all right now. You, me, your grandfather, Sidney, Stanley—even Big Irv.”
We pried up the cushions on the two bench seats facing each other in the caboose. Their lids were on hinges.
“Excellent hiding places,” said Gloria. She reached inside her seat and found Grandpa’s rumpled and sweat-stained engineer’s cap.
“Eureka!” said Grandpa, wiping the grease off his hands with a rag he’d found. “I’ve been looking for that.”
“What’ve you got on your side, P.T.?” asked Gloria.
I shined my iPhone flashlight around inside the empty cabinet under the backseat of the caboose.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s like an empty toy chest. It would’ve been so easy for Sheila to flip up this seat and…”
My light hit something.
A crumpled paper bag.
“Hang on. There’s a bag back here.”
“Grab it!” said Gloria.
I did. I was so excited my fingers wouldn’t work. I was fumbling with the flaps, trying to work it open.
“What’s inside?” Grandpa asked eagerly.
Finally, I rolled the bag open. Stuck my hand inside.
And wished I hadn’t.
“Gross,” I mumbled.
It was one of Grandpa’s bologna-and-yellow-mustard-on-white-bread sandwiches. The bread had black mold splotches on it. And the pink meat had shriveled up and turned kind of green. The mustard had long since evaporated. The thing had to be two, maybe three, years old.
“I’ve been looking for that, too,” said Grandpa.
I dropped the bag into the rectangular box and let the cushioned lid slam so I could sit down in the caboose and pout.
“The jewels aren’t here,” I said. “Maybe they never were.”
While I was moping, I finally saw the light.
Actually, I saw the lanterns. Four of them. One on every corner of the caboose. The glass globes were frosted stoplight red.
“Are there lightbulbs inside those lanterns?” I asked.
“No,” said Grandpa. “I never went in for the whole blinking-light business. This is a train, not a Christmas tree.”
In other words, the globes were empty.
I climbed out and started unscrewing the glass shades from their metal bases.
Three of the lanterns were empty.
But the last one I unscrewed?
There was a rusty-hinged Band-
Aid box inside it.
When I popped the metal lid on the Band-Aid box, I saw a folded-over envelope stuffed with something.
“Is it the jewels?” asked Gloria.
“I’m not sure.” I worked the envelope out of the tight tin container. “It’s motel stationery, like we used to have in all the desks at the Wonderland,” I said, examining the envelope. “It’s from the Miami Palm Tree Hotel!”
“That’s where they stole the jewelry!” exclaimed Gloria.
“Open it, P.T.,” urged Grandpa. “Open it! Hurry!”
I slid the Band-Aid box into my back pocket and tried to rip open the envelope.
“She sealed it up with packing tape,” I said as I struggled to tear the thing open.
“Give it to me,” said Gloria.
I handed her the envelope. She ripped it open. With her teeth.
Gloria gasped.
“Is it?” I asked.
Gloria nodded.
“Really?” said Grandpa.
And Gloria just smiled. “Hold out your hand, P.T.”
I did.
And sparkling jewelry tumbled out of the torn envelope like peanut M&M’S pouring out of the bag.
“We need to get out of here,” I said. “Now!”
“Bob is going to be so disappointed that you didn’t show him your baseball card,” said Gloria.
“With this much loot,” I said, jiggling the clinking jewelry in my hand, “I’ll buy him two of his own.”
“Careful, P.T.,” said Grandpa. “Put that stuff somewhere safe.”
“Good point.” I did as Grandpa suggested while he and Gloria screwed the lamp covers back onto their brackets. I folded over the envelope from the Miami Palm Tree Hotel and tossed it into the brown paper sack with the remaining sandwiches and Cel-Ray soda cans.
We were all set to leave.
And, of course, that’s when Bob came back.
With Big Irv.
“Eh, heh, heh, heh. Hello, little man.”
I wiggle-waggled my fingers at him. “Hey there.” I turned to Bob. “Well, we couldn’t find my baseball card. Guess my sister swiped it. Thanks for letting us look. Buh-bye.”
Home Sweet Motel Page 13