The Mystery of the Missing Everything

by Ben H. Winters

  People kept stopping him, anyway.

  “Mr. Boyer? Returned to the fold, I see.” Mr. Melville planted himself in Tenny’s path, his thick white eyebrows raised sarcastically. “Will wonders never cease?”

  “What?” Reluctantly, Tenny pressed Pause and took out his earbuds. “Oh. Yeah. Totally.”

  “Though I suspect I might feel less enthusiastic if I had you in my class.” Mr. Melville chortled. Tenny put his music back on.

  “Tenny? What’s up, man!” hollered Ezra McClellan, intercepting him with a hand raised to slap five. “You back?”

  “Uh . . .” Music off. Earbuds out. Five slapped. “Yeah.”

  “Sweet! So—”

  Earbuds back in. Music cranked back up. Out of the corner of his eye Tenny saw Ezra huddle with Tucker Wilson, both of them pointing over at him. Ordinarily the sight, with Tucker so big and Ezra so small, would be comical. But this was exactly the sort of thing Tenny was afraid of, exactly what had made his spleen hurt this morning. Tucker was the kind of kid who was always saying crazy stuff about people. Once he’d told Tenny, in all seriousness, that Lindsey’s mother was a CIA agent assigned to keep tabs on Violet’s mother, who was an international assassin.

  Tenny didn’t want to think what Tucker and Ezra, and everyone else, would be saying about him; he had left school, and now he was back, and that would be a subject of conversation, no doubt. Clutching his lunch in its brown paper bag, Tenny Boyer headed for the one place at Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School he knew he’d be totally comfortable: Ms. Finkleman’s room.

  “Ah! Bethesda!” chirped Mr. Ferrars.

  She had found her Man on the Inside in the Main Office, squatting in front of the little refrigerator next to Mrs. Gingertee’s desk. “Can I offer you some lunch? I make my own cottage cheese, you know.”

  “No, thank you,” said Bethesda, gesturing at her lunch bag.

  “And how is Mary Todd Lincoln’s very own private detective getting on thus far?” Mr. Ferrars was so happy to see her, Bethesda knew, because he was the one person in school as desperate as she was for a break in the case. And now she knew why.

  “Well, I actually have quite an intriguing lead I’m following today,” she said, and he looked up eagerly. “It has to do with you, actually. You and your play.”

  The assistant principal’s knuckles went white, and he slowly closed the door of the little fridge.

  “Step this way, won’t you?”

  Chapter 18

  Nine Keys

  “First of all, it is not a ‘play.’ The Mikado is an operetta, and there is a world of difference. Do you understand?”

  Bethesda did not understand at all, but nodded as if she did, so he would skip ahead to the good part. The assistant principal sat behind his flimsy wooden desk, twisting his thin fingers anxiously. “I had hoped this wouldn’t come up. I really had. Just wishful thinking, really—sheer bootless self-deception. I can’t do it, Bethesda! I can’t tell her the truth! She’ll box me up and ship me off to work somewhere horrible! Like a coal mine! Or an elementary school!”

  Bethesda leaned eagerly toward Jasper. “What truth are you talking about, Mr. Ferrars?”

  “After-school activities like drama and athletic teams, as you know, have direct access to their respective domains: the auditorium, the gymnasium, or the playing fields. But anyone needing access to the main section of the school is supposed to be let in personally. Principal Van Vreeland leaves every day by three thirty. So who do you think is responsible for letting in all these people?”

  “You?”

  “Me. But I have a life outside these doors, you know! A community-theater production of The Mikado is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a bass-baritone such as myself! So for the three weeks of rehearsal and performance, beginning two Fridays ago, I—I . . .”

  He paused and took a deep breath. Bethesda remained silent, riveted.

  “I took a risk. I made a few copies of the front-door key. Each person given one understood they were to share their key with no one, and to tell no one of its existence.”

  Mr. Ferrars shifted in his chair, sighing woefully, while Bethesda formulated her next question. “And, okay, so, keys, and so—” Slow down, she chided herself. Put the words in order. “You said there were a few keys. How many exactly?”

  Mr. Ferrars cradled his forehead in his hand and sighed. “Eight.”

  “Eight keys?”

  “Eight keys, including mine.”

  Mr. Ferrars wouldn’t let Bethesda write down the names, but it wasn’t hard to memorize the list. The names tumbled about in her head as she left the main office and made her way to her locker.

  Guy Ficker

  Natasha Belinsky

  Lisa Deckter

  Pamela Preston

  Kevin McKelvey

  Ms. Ida Finkleman

  Mr. Hank Darlington

  Assistant Principal Jasper Ferrars

  And then there was Janitor Steve. Jasper hadn’t made him a key, but as the school custodian, he carried one on his key ring. A total of nine people, then, had the key. Five kids and four adults. Nine names . . . no! Nine suspects. And some of them were already under suspicion. This was too exciting!

  “Tenny! Hey!”

  Perfect timing. Just as she turned down Hallway C, Bethesda spotted her assistant detective emerging from the Band and Chorus room. “I have a major breakthrough!”

  “Huh?”

  Bethesda plucked the earbuds from Tenny’s ears. “A breakthrough? In our mystery?”

  “Oh. Right. Totally.”

  Bethesda paused, the earbuds dangling limply from her hands, while Tenny looked back at her absently. Had he somehow forgotten they were solving a mystery together? As they walked together up the steps to the eighth-grade lockers, and she explained about the keys, Bethesda observed Tenny. She had this strange, troubled feeling, like her old friend was here, but not really. Like even though he had reenrolled at Mary Todd Lincoln, in some weird way Tenny was just as much missing as Pamela Preston’s gymnastics trophy.

  And what—did he have lunch with Ms. Finkleman every day now?

  Chapter 19

  One Song Can Change the World

  “Leadership is about three things. Snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.”

  That’s the advice Chester Hu’s cousin, Ilene, had emailed him last night. Chester had printed the email, and now he pulled it out—the single page of printer paper a wrinkled mess from having been read and reread all day long—and read it one more time.

  As Chester stood beneath the oak tree overhanging the picnic tables, waiting for the others to arrive, he repeated Ilene’s mantra to himself: “snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.” Ilene was in college, where she was the president of her sorority, vice president of the Association of Premed Students, and the founder of a charity group that fed hungry kittens or something. Chester’s mom was always talking about Ilene, how he should look up to her and ask her questions or whatever. Last night was the first time Chester had actually done so. Ever since he’d had the best idea of his life in Ms. Pinn-Darvish’s class on Monday, he’d been alternately superexcited about it and superscared, because doing it right meant putting together a team of people and convincing them to help.

  So Chester emailed Ilene and asked for advice. In an extremely supportive two-paragraph reply, above an automatic-signature graphic of an adorable hungry kitten, Ilene explained techniques like “ask, don’t insist” and “make it seem like the other person’s idea.” But really, she said, it all came down to snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.

  Which is why, when Rory Daas arrived at the picnic benches a minute later, looking annoyed not to be heading to Game Stop as he usually did on Wednesday afternoons, he immediately said, “Sweet! Snacks!” and plopped down to start eating the Scorchin’ Habanero Doritos Chester had provided.

  And why when Marisol Pierce slowly walked up, still depressed about Taproot Valley, Ches
ter turned on his best positive-reinforcement voice and said, “Don’t even worry about it, Marisol! Everything is going to be fine!” He didn’t know if she believed him, but she definitely smiled, and it was the first time anyone had seen Marisol smile since Principal Van Vreeland’s announcement.

  “Okay, everyone!” chirped Chester, when at last his whole team had arrived. (“Greet everyone enthusi-astically,” said Ilene’s email. “Take charge.”) “So, first of all, thanks for coming.” As he spoke, Chester scanned the group, looking at each of them in turn.

  “What? What is it?” said Natasha suddenly. “Is there something on my face?”

  “No, no,” Chester apologized. “I was just, um, making eye contact. Sorry.”

  Rory had another big handful of Doritos. Kevin McKelvey raised his hand. “Chester, is this going to take long? I’m in the middle of learning Mozart’s concerto in E-flat. It’s kind of a bear.” Kevin, also known as the Piano Kid, was Mary Todd Lincoln’s resident musical prodigy, who’d been playing sonatas since before he could walk, and spent most afternoons either at home or holed up in the Band and Chorus room, practicing piano.

  Pamela Preston’s blond curls bobbled slightly as she nodded her agreement with Kevin. “I’m supposed to be meeting Lisa and Bessie in the gym. We have another tournament this weekend. If my mother feels the emotional stress won’t be too much for me.” Pamela sighed dramatically and took a sip from her seltzer bottle, and Natasha squeezed her shoulder.

  “Totally understand,” said Chester. “I’ll try to be quick. I have gathered all of you—Kevin, Suzie, Rory, Pamela, Marisol, Victor, Todd, Natasha, and . . . wait. Braxton, what are you doing here?”

  “Oh. Sorry,” said Braxton Lashey. “I heard there were going to be snacks.”

  “Okay, well, stick around, I guess.”

  And then Chester revealed his plan.

  When he was done, to his great relief, no one laughed. No one looked at him like he was stupid or crazy or just a total doofus, not worth listening to. They nodded as he spoke, and asked him questions. Rory stopped eating the snacks, got out a notebook, and started making notes. Braxton took the bowl and ate Scorchin’ Habanero Doritos till his hands were stained bright orange, looking up every once in a while to say, “This sounds awesome, man.”

  And it did sound awesome.

  First, they would write a song—a beautiful, powerful, heartbreaker of an anthem, about how their outdoor education trip had been cruelly taken away from them. Then they would post that song on the internet, along with a website address where sympathetic people could make monetary donations.

  “The thing is, the school only pays for half the trip,” Chester concluded. “Our parents already paid for the rest. This group right here, this small but incredibly talented group”—Positive reinforcement! Positive reinforcement!—“can, with a single song, earn back the missing money.”

  “It’s a phenomenal idea, Chester,” said Kevin. “I love it.” Rory, the best creative writer in the eighth grade, was already scribbling song lyrics in his notebook; Marisol, an amazing artist, was doing sketches for the big murals that would be backdrops for some parts of the video. Todd Spolin, who Chester had asked to play guitar in the video, was scrunching up his face, practicing his strained guitar-hero expressions they all remembered from last year’s Choral Corral.

  “Are you sure a song is best?” asked Pamela, her head angled thoughtfully to one side. “Maybe I should make a dramatic speech instead? I can cry on demand, you know.”

  “Good thought, Pamela,” Chester positive-reinforced. “But I think a song is key. One song can change the world, people. Like ‘Happy Birthday.’ Just imagine how sad everyone’s birthdays were before that.”

  They set to work, sketching out the song, figuring out details, making a schedule. They decided that the song should start off all soft and tinkly, like it was going to be a ballad or a slow jam, but then turn into a big rock-out. Pamela declared that she would need to be lit from behind, “so my hair looks golden, like gossamer.” Suzie ran to check out a laptop from Mr. Muhammed, and by the time Chester finished asking her how long she’d need to build the website, she was done. Rory suggested that for the video to go viral, there would need to be some hilarious part, “like maybe there should be someone in a bear costume who falls down a flight of stairs.”

  “Ooh! Ooh!” said Braxton enthusiastically. “I’ll do that!”

  There were only two moments in the entire meeting that interrupted what Ilene’s email called the “positive flow.” The first came when Natasha, who Chester had put in charge of choreography, said, “Wait, you guys. Tenny Boyer is back. Maybe we should get him to play guitar.”

  “Perfect,” said Chester. But then Todd snorted angrily and sneered at Natasha. “Oh, what, so then I wouldn’t be in it anymore?”

  “That’s not what I meant, Todd,” Natasha said.

  “So, what did you mean?”

  “Nothing! God, Todd!”

  Pamela rolled her eyes. “What is with you two, lately?”

  Todd muttered, “Forget it,” and turned back to helping Rory with his lyrics. This was all very odd: Todd, Natasha, and Pamela were usually supertight, which is part of the reason Chester had invited all three. He decided to skip the Tenny Boyer issue, for the moment.

  The second moment that interrupted the positive flow, fortunately, didn’t come until right at the end of the meeting. They were discussing whether or how to get hold of a smoke cannon for the video’s big final moment, when Victor Glebe raised his hand for the first time. Chester grinned as he pointed at him—Victor, after all, was his best friend, and he hadn’t said anything so far. He’d just been sitting on the bench farthest from the big tree, arms crossed and face blank, not even eating one of the coconut donuts Chester had brought special for him.

  Victor didn’t have a suggestion, but a question.

  “Do we know exactly how much money it is?” he asked solemnly.

  “What?” said Chester.

  “To make up what Principal Van Vreeland took away. What’s the total?”

  “Oh. Uh . . .” Chester fumbled from his pocket a second piece of paper, the one on which Mrs. Gingertee had written down the amount for him. “Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

  “Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars,” Victor repeated slowly, rising from his seat on the bench. “Four thousand, seven hundred and thirty-six dollars.”

  “Victor?” Chester said, but his friend was already walking away.

  What’s his problem? Chester wondered. But there was no time to worry about it now: Marisol was busily sketching for the mural, Rory’s notebook was brimming with couplets, and Kevin had already hopped up, ready to head for the old Steinway in the Band and Chorus room.

  “All right, folks,” Chester said, flashing everyone a big thumbs-up. “Let’s do it.”

  Chapter 20

  World’s #1 Principal

  The next morning, Principal Isabel Van Vreeland did the same thing she had done every morning since the trophy’s disappearance. She stopped on her way to her office to stare, with a mixture of melancholy and horror, into the Achievement Alcove. There it was, the broken glass case atop the rickety wooden stand, where her beloved trophy had ever-so-briefly stood. The longer she stared, the tighter became her grip on her World’s #1 Principal travel mug, the one she had bought herself off eBay last year for her birthday.

  “Stop right there.”

  “Oh. Good morning, ma’am.”

  She turned on Assistant Principal Ferrars, who had literally been tiptoeing past her, clearly hoping she wouldn’t ask him what she was about to ask.

  “So. How is the mystery solving going?”

  His eyes flickered and darted up and down the hall as he stammered a reply. “Oh, you know . . . getting there.”

  “Getting there?” Principal Van Vreeland squeezed her mug so hard that coffee trembled and spluttered out the top.

  He fl
inched and nodded.

  “There’s a student helping me. Bethesda Fielding? In the eighth grade? She’s quite enterprising, really. She has this, um, special notebook . . .”

  “Well, that’s fantastic, Jasper,” Principal Van Vreeland said, her voice curdling with sarcasm. “Just so long as you’ve got a twelve-year-old working the case.”

  As Jasper scurried off, Principal Van Vreeland turned her gaze back into the Achievement Alcove and took a slow, bitter sip from her World’s #1 Principal mug. She had a sneaking suspicion that Jasper knew something he wasn’t telling her. In fact, she had a sneaking suspicion that a lot of people knew a lot of things they weren’t telling her. Instead of helping her get to the bottom of this, and get her precious trophy back, all everyone did was moan and groan about their precious extracurricular activities. Children looked at her all day long with those nauseating puppy-dog eyes of theirs. The teachers had sent that pesty Ms. Finkleman again to ask her to change her mind.

  Well, guess what, folks. You want me to make things better around here? Too bad. They’re about to get a lot worse.

  Chapter 21

  “Watching the Detectives”

  “So Sergeant Moose says, ‘this trail of banana peels can only mean one thing.’ And Wellington goes, ‘Really, my antlered friend? I think it would behoove you to think again!’”

  “Dad?”

  Bethesda was itching to get to work, but her father had started telling Tenny stories from Wellington Wolf, and once he started it was nearly impossible to get him to stop.

  “Get it? He’s already behooved! He’s a moose!”

  “Dad?”

  “And it’s not Bubbles the Baboon they find, after all. It’s Wellington’s arch-nemesis, Fiendish Fox, in a baboon costume!”

  “Whoa,” said Tenny, wide-eyed. “That’s crazy.”

  “Yes. Crazy.” Bethesda had seen the episode in question (Episode 19, “A Barrel Full of Monkey Business!”) and heard her father describe it many times before. Bethesda’s father clapped Tenny on the shoulder, sighing with pleasure. “Wellington was right again!”