by Doug Cornett
Shanks mentioned that the ducks could have come from the sewer, and there was the interesting fact of the manhole cover in the yard. But that didn’t explain the fish and random ducks in the tree. Mister E, I thought, where did you come from?
I was only about a quarter of the way through mowing the lawn, and already my arms were starting to feel like wet ropes. I had an urge to ride my bike to the hardware store and yell, “You know what I respect? The lawn! What a great lawn! What a green lawn! What a respectable lawn!” But my dad would never fall for that. “Finish the job,” he’d say. And then he’d probably add another item to my list of things to do.
I caught a glimpse of my dog, Ronald, staring at me from the window. I thought I detected pity in his eyes. Ronald…now there was a reasonable guy. He was an old boxer with a droopy white face like melting vanilla ice cream. He only ever moved when it was time to eat, and even then he preferred to have his meals delivered directly to his face. Aside from the action-figure incident and one or two poor decisions involving certain bodily functions and the living room rug, he was probably the most level-headed member of the Marconi household. If I told him about the ducks, he wouldn’t be surprised at all.
Ronald’s ears pricked up and his head tilted to the side. I whirled around and saw a chubby squirrel snacking on an acorn in the tree directly behind me. At least you belong in a tree, I thought, not like that fish. The fish, the fish. If only we knew where it came from….An idea hit me; I knew what we needed to do!
I pulled out my phone and dashed off a text to Peephole and Shanks.
Calling the One and Onlys! Meet at HQ in 30. We need to snag the fish in the tree!
I stopped pushing the mower—I’d finish this job later in the day—and turned for the house, already formulating a plan in my head. My phone chimed with a text. Shanks replied with an emoji of a fish. Peephole sent a smiley face, and maybe it was just me, but it looked a little nauseous.
“The fish could be the key to the whole mystery,” I said to Peephole and Shanks. The three of us were hunkered down at our headquarters at the edge of the Bell Woods. “Remember that day in science class when we learned about ecosystems, and how every animal exists in an environment that supports it?”
Shanks nodded, but Peephole was staring uneasily at the overgrown field, mentally preparing himself for coming face to face with a dead fish. I knew he was very concerned about the bacteria that a decaying fish might have, because he was wearing safety goggles that were too big for his face and bulky winter gloves. He looked like a deep-sea diver at the North Pole.
“So that means that if we can identify what kind of fish it is, then we can maybe figure out where it came from. And if we can figure out where the fish is from, then we’ll know where the ducks are from.”
“On a scale of one to barf, how stinky do you think a dead fish is?” Peephole asked gravely.
“I’m not sure,” I said, “but probably closer to barf.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Shanks said, “because only one of us needs to get the fish. And since I’m the best tree climber, that’ll be me.”
“So that leaves Paul and me on lookout?” Peephole asked hopefully.
“Not lookout. Distraction. I can’t just waltz into Babbage’s backyard and climb his tree. He’ll see me. He’ll come out. He’ll want to know what I’m doing. Your job is to distract him.”
“How are we supposed to do that?” Peephole asked.
“We’ll knock on his door,” I suggested. “When he answers, we’ll talk to him.”
“About what? The weather? ‘Gee, hi, Mr. Babbage. Say, how about this wacky weather we’re having? I can’t remember the last time it rained ducks.’ ”
“How about this? We’re going door to door and asking if anyone’s seen your lost cat.”
Peephole thought about this. “Not bad. It could work. What color is it?”
“The cat? Uh, how about black?”
“Paul, I would never have a black cat. I’m scared of them.”
“Well, then, it’s orange.”
“An orange cat? What is this, a Dr. Seuss book?”
Shanks interrupted impatiently. “Your cat is a fluffy white Persian with a fluorescent green collar that has a little bell attached to it. His name is Mel, but he only answers to ‘Kitty’ and he likes bacon and snuggling and standing in front of the television when reruns of SpongeBob SquarePants are on. He’s your best friend and you love him and you just want to know if Mr. Babbage has seen him.”
Peephole squinted, filing it all away in his photographic memory, and gave a swift bob of his head. “Got it.”
We rode our bikes to Babbage’s house. Peephole and I dismounted and marched directly up the front walk to Mr. Babbage’s door. Shanks splintered off to the side of the house, according to our plan. When she was in position behind a big bush, she flashed us a thumbs-up.
“Let me do the talking,” I whispered. “Maybe we can find out more about the ducks.” I reached up to press the doorbell, but before I could, the door swung open and Mr. Babbage, again in his red silk bathrobe, frowned down at us.
“Yes?” he grunted.
Peephole and I stared up at him, struck by his appearance. His thin black hair, which was usually so carefully combed to the side, was poking out in all directions. His eyes had a weary look, like he hadn’t slept a wink since the duckies showed up. Odd music drifted out from inside the house, a choir of voices whose singing was interrupted occasionally by sharp whoops and hollers, as if one by one the choir members were having ice-cold water dumped on their heads.
“Hello, Mr. Babbage,” Peephole blurted, surprising me so much that I glanced over at him. He was still wearing the safety goggles and winter gloves. “We’re knocking on your door because my cat, SpongeBob, has lost his bacon and I’m wondering if you’ve seen it.”
I winced, trying to maintain a friendly smile.
“No, I mean…my cat’s name is Mel, not SpongeBob. He likes to watch SpongeBob, but he doesn’t really understand what’s going on. I mean, that’s not important….”
“Son,” Mr. Babbage broke in, “why are you wearing goggles and gloves?”
“Oh, these?” Peephole’s voice wavered. “These are safety precautions. You see, my cat is very dangerous. He likes to bite hands and faces. He’s an orange cat who likes to…no…he’s a white cat….Well, he used to be orange, but now he’s white and…”
Without moving my head, I looked over to where Shanks was hiding. No sign of her, which meant she was already in the backyard, retrieving the fish.
“What my friend means to say,” I cut in, hoping to save the visit before Babbage slammed the door on us, “is that he’s lost his cat. It’s white. It’s fluffy. Have you seen it?”
Babbage shifted his eyes to me, and he seemed grateful that I had said something that made sense. The voices behind him droned and then whooped, droned and then whooped. The whoops were getting higher-pitched, so maybe the water was getting colder.
Babbage noted the confusion on my face. “My music,” he said, fumbling in his bathrobe pocket for a small remote, which he pressed. The music stopped. “I know it’s loud, but it’s therapeutic. It helps us relax.” He ran a delicate finger across the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, kids, but we haven’t seen anything all day. But, then, we haven’t been outside, either.”
“We?” I asked.
“Calvin Coolidge and me.” Mr. Babbage creaked the door open enough for us to see into the living room, where his little white dog was curled on the sofa, its face half buried in its paws. “Cal and I have been a little on edge today. Haven’t we, Cal?”
Cal let out a growly flutter of a response, then turned away.
“Because of the ducks?” I asked.
Babbage’s and Cal’s faces snapped quickly to me, startled.
“I saw them yesterday morning,” I continued. “We all did. I mean”—I caught myself, gesturing over to Peephole—“we both did.”
The mere mention of the duckies seemed to make Babbage stiffen with fear. He slowly reached a finger into his mouth and bit down on the nail, shifting his tense gaze between Peephole and me. “Yes, well,” he said finally, “it was quite the spectacle, wasn’t it? It may have been a bundle of fun for the neighborhood, but it’s been heck on wheels for Calvin and me.” He shot a sympathetic glance to Calvin Coolidge on the sofa, who returned the same look to his master. “You see, Cal and I, we’re a couple of nervous Nellies. And we don’t appreciate uninvited visitors.”
I withered a little at the obvious jab, but Peephole didn’t seem to notice. “I understand completely,” he said, with genuine concern in his voice. “Do the police have any leads on the case?”
Babbage let out a joyless chirp of a laugh. “The police aren’t the least bit concerned with it. Apparently, there are more important things happening in Bellwood, though I can’t imagine what.” He waved his hand dismissively. “But it doesn’t matter. I know exactly who put the ducks in my yard.”
“You do?” I said, glancing at Peephole in excitement, but he was staring at the bush at the side of the house, where Shanks had reappeared, dangling a zip-up plastic bag with the fish in it. Shanks was grinning widely, swishing the bag back and forth with a nauseating wet slap of a noise. Peephole’s eyes followed the fish like it was a hypnotist’s gold watch. I elbowed him, but he wouldn’t snap out of it.
“What is it?” Babbage asked, poking his head out the front door just as Shanks ducked back out of sight behind the bush.
“Nothing!” I spat out. “We thought we saw Mel the cat, but it was just a…uh…bush. Anyway, you were saying that you think you know who is responsible for the duckies?”
Babbage stepped back into the house and grimaced. “Pocus—my neighbor.” He almost coughed the words, jerking a thumb to indicate the house to his right. At the sound of the name, Calvin Coolidge ripped out a mean little bark. Peephole did, too. “Why they allow that little monster around children I’ll never understand.”
“You’re telling me,” Peephole said.
“You’re saying Mr. Pocus put the ducks in your yard? Why would he do that?” I asked.
“Head games, my young friends,” Babbage replied, tapping his forehead with his index finger. “He’s trying to rattle us before the Triple B this weekend. He knows that we’re preparing our secret recipe, and he’ll do anything to sabotage our work. Because that man has always had it out for us, hasn’t he, Cal?”
Cal groaned in agreement.
“You see, the only thing he cares about are his tomato plants. He spends all spring and summer in his backyard, swooning over them. He clips them, he waters them, he even sings to them.”
Peephole nodded enthusiastically. “Most teachers have a framed picture of their families, or maybe Abraham Lincoln, on their desks. Mr. Pocus had a photo of a tomato.”
“If you ask me, it’s downright bizarre,” Babbage continued. “A few years ago, he got it into his head that Cal was going over there and…and…relieving himself on his tomatoes, if you catch my meaning. He had the audacity to accuse my best friend of such an undignified act.” I looked over at Calvin Coolidge, and it may have just been me, but I thought he was looking a little guilty. “I told Pocus in no uncertain terms that he was dead wrong. And then you know what he said? He said maybe it was me who had soiled his tomatoes. Well, that was about all I could handle, and the two of us got into a shouting match. Quite a sight for the neighbors, I’m sure. Shortly after that, Pocus built that ridiculous fence between our yards, and we haven’t spoken since. You know what? I’m glad the barrier is there. I don’t even want to see his silly tomatoes.”
“Wow,” I said, shaking my head in disbelief. “That’s quite a feud between you two. But Pocus is the chief taster in the Triple B. If he wanted to sabotage your chances, couldn’t he just give the trophy to someone else?”
Babbage dismissed my question with a curt shake of his head. “Some things are sacred, my young friends. As loathsome as Pocus is, he has too much respect for the Triple B to crown a false winner. In fact, the year before I entered for the first time, Pocus declared that none of the entries were worthy of winning the trophy.” It was true. My parents still talked about the year the Triple B had no wiener winner. They used it as motivation to make their recipes “Pocus-worthy.”
“The truth is,” Babbage continued, “Pocus knows that my sausages are simply the best.” An obvious hint of pride came into his voice when he talked about the Triple B. After all, he was the reigning champion of the last five Bonanzas, which made him a celebrity in our town. And that right there tells you a lot about Bellwood. “It kills him every year to do it, yet he has no choice but to declare me the winner.”
I guess some things are more important than rivalries. And bratwurst is one of them.
“Why the ducks?” Peephole asked. “What does it mean?”
Babbage tossed his hands up. “I admit, I’m a bit puzzled by that. When they first appeared, I didn’t know what to make of them at all. But the more I think about it, the more certain I am that Pocus is behind it. He knows that Cal and I are delicate creatures and that we don’t handle stress well. It’s a perfect crime, if you think about it, because it’s not a crime. Nobody would suspect him, and if they did, what could they do about it? All he wants to do is declare me the loser of the Triple B, but he knows he can’t do that unless my bratwurst is not up to snuff.” He narrowed his eyes, and his expression took on a more determined edge. “He’s made a big mistake if he thinks he can get away with this. You know what Sir Isaac Newton said….”
I bit my lip and tried to remember our science lesson on Isaac Newton. Science was after lunch, so sometimes I was a little sleepy.
“Ouch! Who threw this apple at me?” Peephole said, chuckling, but Babbage didn’t crack a smile.
It came to me: “For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction.”
“That’s right,” Babbage said, pointing at me. “What goes around comes around.”
Just then a helicopter thundered by overhead. Peephole covered his ears against the noise.
Babbage’s face soured, and he muttered something that got lost in all the roaring.
“What was that?” I asked when the helicopter had passed.
Babbage sniffed twice. “Do I smell fish?”
Shanks had been edging closer to the front door to hear Babbage’s story, but now she darted back behind the bush with the tree fish.
“Oh, uh, that’s us,” I said. “We were looking for the cat in the garbage….Well, speaking of Mel, we’d better keep looking for him!” I grabbed Peephole by the arm and wheeled around, and together we bounded down the front walk. “Thanks for the chat, Mr. Babbage!” I called over my shoulder. “And thanks to Cal, too!”
I could hear the ice-water choir crank up again as we hopped on our bikes and pedaled back toward our headquarters. Meanwhile, Shanks had cut through Babbage’s yard and looped around his house; she met us in the road just as a police car cruised past us, going the opposite direction. Officer Portnoy was in the driver’s seat, and though I gave him a quick wave, he kept his eyes focused on the road ahead of him. Safety comes first.
The One and Onlys were buzzing with energy, loaded with fresh leads and a real piece of evidence, which was swinging back and forth from Shanks’s handlebars in its slimy plastic bag.
“We’re going to crack this case soon!” Shanks hollered. “I can taste it.”
“And I can smell it,” Peephole whined, steering his bike uneasily with one gloved hand while the other plugged his nose.
Back at our headquarters, we sat in a circle under the lean-to, the bagged fish resting in front of us like a Ouija board
. Even through the plastic bag, its pungent stench wafted up to our noses.
“I’m never having sushi again,” I said.
“That’s good,” Peephole replied. “Consuming raw fish is a great way to pick up a variety of food-borne illnesses.”
“So…what do we do with it?” Shanks asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe we should name it.”
“Name the fish? But it’s dead,” Peephole said.
“It’s dead now,” I replied. “It wasn’t always dead. If you got a fish from the pet store, you’d have to name it, wouldn’t you?”
Peephole cocked his head. “Not necessarily. You have to name dogs and cats. Fish are a gray area.”
“Well, I feel bad for it,” I said. “This poor fish was probably just doing normal fish things, hanging out with fish friends, living its fish life, when all of a sudden—whammo!—something happened, and it ended up hanging upside down from a tree in Babbage’s backyard.”
“How about ‘Tina Fish’?” Shanks suggested.
“She looks like a Tina,” I agreed. “So where did you come from, Tina Fish? And how come you ended up in Babbage’s tree?”
“Babbage sounds pretty sure Mr. Pocus is behind this,” Shanks said. “And the two of them definitely have bad blood. But…”
“You’re not convinced it was Mr. Pocus, are you?” I asked.
“Nope,” she confirmed. “The duckies…they’re too…weird. If Mr. Pocus wanted to get even with Babbage for what he thought he did to his tomatoes, there are so many ways to do it. Ways that make a lot more sense.”
“Don’t underestimate Mr. Pocus’s ability to be evil,” Peephole said bitterly, “even if it’s a weird kind of evil. I bet it was him.”
I could see in his eyes the entire year of grief Mr. Pocus had given him. That kind of torment doesn’t just go away. “Should we do surveillance on his house?” I asked.