by Matthew Ward
“Why, of course, dear!” Rita replied, before Arthur’s father could object. She turned and slid open a door behind her to reveal a rack of strange-looking garments. “Just put on one of our patent-pending Saurian Suits and you can move freely from room to room.”
When Abigail had put on the tough, padded suit over her clothes and placed the steel-visored helmet on her head, she looked like a cross between a deep-sea diver and a knight in armor.
“You’re all set!” said Rita. “Now, even with the suit on, you might want to steer clear of Ramón, our Mexican beaded lizard. He’s been a bit cranky lately and we’re all out of anti-venom—and he just happens to be the Most Venomous Lizard on Earth. Oh, and do mind the Komodo dragon; Ridgely’s weekly feeding isn’t until tomorrow and he’s chewed through another one of his muzzles, so you might not want to get too close to his mouth. . . . But other than that—enjoy!”
Arthur watched nervously as Abigail stepped through the sliding door that led to the first compartment. He had yet to be convinced his first reaction to the Lizard Lounge had not been the appropriate one. Despite their darling outfits—or perhaps because of them—the building’s inhabitants still made him exceedingly uneasy. As his sister frolicked from one chamber to another, Arthur couldn’t shake the fear that the next lizard would be the one to attack.
He looked over to his father and found him breathing heavily and wiping the back of his neck in between frequent glances to the floor and ceiling. It seemed he was nervous about the lizards too.
Meanwhile, Rita Goldwin continued to enlighten her guests about the fascinating world of show lizards. “. . . Which is why the current judging system in the Jaws and Claws category needs a serious overhaul,” she concluded, pausing for the first time in several minutes.
Arthur’s father clapped his hands together. “Well then,” he blurted in a breathy voice. “This has all been very informative, Mr. and Mrs. Goldwin, but I’m sure we could all use some fresh air now.” He mopped his brow again, then cupped his hands to his mouth and called out toward the Komodo dragon enclosure, “Abigail—time to go!”
Rex turned to him with a sly smile. “A bit cramped for you in here is it, Charlie? I see some things never change. . . .”
Mr. Whipple’s face froze.
“I must say,” Rex continued, “it’s refreshing for us mere mortals to see that even an icon like the great Charles Whipple has some sort of weakness—though I’d hardly call it that. No—I’d say you’re just more sensitive to your surroundings than most men, wouldn’t you, Charlie?”
Arthur’s father looked as if he might collapse or explode—or both—at any moment. But before Mr. Whipple could do either of these things, Rex simply said, “Very well. We’ve seen enough of the Lizard Lounge, haven’t we? I’m sure Rita could go on forever about her precious pets, but we’ve still got one more stop on the tour before dinner. So let’s get back to the house, shall we?”
Mr. Whipple exhaled. Abigail exited the inner chambers and grudgingly removed her Saurian Suit, and soon the party had made its way back out into the night air. Mr. Whipple’s color and demeanor returned to normal.
As the Lizard Lounge faded from view, Arthur was finally able to relax. He’d convinced himself a house full of lethal lizards could lead to nothing but calamity, and he was glad to have been mistaken.
• • •
“And here we have the crown jewel of our humble home,” Rex announced as he ushered the group through a vault-like door. “The Goldwin family trophy room!”
Arthur and his family were met by a spectacular sight. Golden cups and statuettes spun on motorized pedestals, shimmering under the chamber’s accented lighting. Plexiglass display cases housed hundreds of record-breaking artifacts and vast collections, while video screens looped footage of the Goldwins’ record-setting endeavors.
As much as Arthur hated to admit it, the Whipple family’s trophy room looked almost ancient in comparison.
“Please, feel free to browse,” Rex grinned as he joined his guests. “But be warned: all the cases are thoroughly theft-proof, so don’t get any ideas!”
The party dispersed throughout the room, and Arthur marveled at the Goldwins’ unique array of awards. In a display case entitled “The Perfect Teeth of the Goldwin Men,” six sets of chomping dentures, cast from the mouths of Rowan, Radley, Randolf, Rodney, Rupert, Roland, and Rex clacked in time to “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.” The adjacent exhibit, entitled “The Goldwins: More International Beauty Pageant Wins than Any Other Family,” displayed spinning beauty queen crowns from each of the Goldwin women—with the exception of Ruby.
“Very proud of all our ladies,” said Rex Goldwin, stepping up alongside Arthur. “Though I’m afraid Ruby’s record breaking history is rather limited. With so many children, of course, one of them is bound to fall through the cracks. But one out of twelve ain’t bad, eh?”
Arthur chuckled uneasily and stepped away from the host. He glanced behind him to the doorway, where Ruby stood brooding against the wall. The instant their eyes met, Ruby’s darted away, finding a nearby section of floor to rest on.
Arthur couldn’t help but be reminded of a certain unanswered question—and recognized a rare opportunity to solve it. If he ever hoped to uncover the mysterious world record Ruby had claimed to hold at their first meeting, surely this was the place to look.
He turned with new purpose to the next display. There, a battered pair of boxing gloves dangled over a photo of Roland Goldwin with his fist in the face of some poor, unrecognizable boy. The accompanying plaque read: MOST PUNCHES LANDED IN A SINGLE MATCH. Beside it, Arthur was surprised to find that Roland’s brother Rupert also held the record for Most Punches Landed in a Single Match, but in ice hockey rather than boxing. More surprising still was that—according to the following exhibit—little Rowena held the same distinction in junior badminton.
Arthur made a mental note not to cross any of the three preceding Goldwins, then continued his search.
In the next display case, a riding crop and tennis racquet had been positioned to form an X between a pair of framed photographs. Each of the photos contained a handsome young man posing in a different sport-themed scenario—the boy on the left standing in a stable, holding a riding crop, while the boy on the right held a tennis racquet against his shoulder and sat on a locker room bench. Sharing the same perfect skin and teeth and the same expertly styled sandy-blond hair, the two boys were identical in appearance, apart from the contrasting colors of their sleeveless pullovers. So similar was their appearance, in fact, that Arthur might have assumed both photos were of the same person, had the accompanying plaques not specified otherwise.
Just then, Arthur was joined by his mother and several of his younger siblings as Rita Goldwin herded them forward.
“Oh yes,” the hostess beamed, gesturing to the display, “these are the twins! Have I mentioned they’re traveling the world right now on the Clapford Fellowship?”
“Very impressive,” nodded Mrs. Whipple.
“Yes, well, Rayford and Royston have always excelled in the realm of academia. Truly, the only thing that can match their aptitude for academic study is their knack for sport—which led to their recruitment by the Ardmore Academy before they were even five years old. Here’s Rayford’s world record for Fastest Furlong on Horseback—and Royston’s record for Fastest Tennis Serve Ever Recorded. Goodness, I do miss them sometimes. . . .” She stroked the photographs with a far-off look in her eye, before blinking it away. “Oh my,” she said, “I’ve done it again.” Always going on about my own children and never inquiring after the children of others—how rude of me. . . . So, tell me Lizzie—how many of your children have been selected by elite schools to spend their lives traveling the world on academic and athletic scholarships?”
“Oh,” said Mrs. Whipple, slightly taken aback, “well, Abigail spent a semester in Saskatchewan last year
living with a family of wolves through the Canadian Lupine Exchange Program. . . .”
“Oh yes,” Rita cut in, shifting her gaze to Abigail and overenunciating her words, “that must have been so much fun for you, Abbie! You got to live with the puppy dogs, didn’t you?”
Abigail looked up with a confused yet polite expression.
Rita turned back to Mrs. Whipple and whispered, “It really is adorable she doesn’t realize how disgusting that is. Honestly, what a good mother you are for letting her think that wandering the wilderness with those beasts is anything like world travel!”
Though Mrs. Whipple could have gone on to mention Franklin’s stint with the Royal Naval Academy, or Cordelia’s apprenticeship at the Institute for Medical and Architectural Research, or Henry’s YesterGear sponsorship, she instead said nothing and simply smiled.
“Ah, well,” said Rita, “so much more to see, Lizzie. Have you had a chance to view Randolf’s trophies for Fastest Trophy Polishing?”
As his mother was whisked away again by the hostess, Arthur turned to look for Ruby, but found she was no longer in the room. He then discovered a half-open door where he’d last seen her standing and peeked inside.
An angular indoor fountain spouted from the center of the dim, candle-lit chamber. There, on the fountain’s outer ledge, reading an old cloth-bound book, sat Ruby. Arthur stepped inside.
“Done gawking?” said Ruby without looking up from her book.
“What? No,” said Arthur. “I was just, um . . .” His voice trailed off. “So,” he said a moment later, taking a seat a few feet from her on the fountain’s edge, “what’s that you’re reading?”
“Poise and Poisonousness,” she replied. “One of the last novels Joss Langston wrote before her untimely death. I’m just at the part where Elsie discovers Mr. Billowy has selfishly sullied her sister’s honor, and decides to even the score by stirring arsenic into his cognac while he’s out dancing a quadrille.”
Arthur grimaced.
Apparently sensing his unease, Ruby added, “You’ve heard of Joss Langston—Crime and Credulousness? Corpse and Culpability? Southanger Cemetery?”
“Not really.”
“Classic Victorian noir. Some of the finest femmes fatales ever to wield a cleaver while wearing a corset. I just finished Lass and Laceration, and I’m moving on to Manslaughter Park as soon as I get through this one.”
“Hmm,” said Arthur. “Sounds, um, engrossing. So what is this place anyway?”
“The reflection room,” she said. “Rita saw it in a magazine I think. ‘No modern home is complete without a room in which to relax and reflect on one’s unity with the universe’ or some such. Doesn’t get much use.” Ruby paused, looking up from her book for the first time. She dipped her hand in the fountain and let the water drain through her fingers. “But perhaps we should do a bit of reflecting of our own,” she said cryptically. She closed her book and set it beside her on the ledge, then walked to the doorway. Peering cautiously out into the trophy room, she quietly shut the door.
“So,” she said, turning back to Arthur, “what are we to do with our investigation now? You know, now that Sammy’s been seen alive?”
“Hmm?” said Arthur. “Oh, right—the investigation. I’ve been meaning to—”
“I mean,” Ruby cut in as she sat herself back down, “I was thrilled to see him on the front page of The Record, clearly not dead, and I wanted to believe he was innocent—but this skipping-town business, without a word to anyone. . . . It’s a bit hard to swallow, don’t you think?”
“I know,” replied Arthur, unable to conceal a sudden smirk. “If only there were some way to know for sure he was telling the truth. . . .”
He then slipped Sammy’s note out of his pocket and handed it to Ruby.
“What’s this?” she said.
“Read it.”
Ruby unfolded the paper. She hadn’t held it open for two seconds before she exclaimed, “What? Where did you get this?”
Arthur glanced to the door to make sure it was still closed, then whispered, “It was delivered to me inside a belated birthday cake the day after the Current Champion sank.”
“And you’re just showing it to me now?” Ruby shot back.
“I tried to call you all this week,” Arthur explained, “but the boy answering the phone said you’d just be a minute, only to leave me waiting for hours every time.”
“Sounds like Rupert’s idea of a joke,” Ruby said with a scowl.
“I nearly achieved the Longest Time to Hold a Telephone Line at one point,” Arthur added, “but it went dead at thirteen and a half hours, just ten minutes short of the record.”
“Yep,” said Ruby. “That’s Rupert all right.”
She returned to Sammy’s letter. When she had finished reading, she looked up at Arthur and smiled. “I told you he was grateful.”
Ruby handed Sammy’s note back to Arthur, then scrunched up her face. “So, if Sammy didn’t put the poison in the galley, then who did? Either Smudge is completely crooked and planting evidence, or someone else managed to get it aboard the ship that night.”
“But who? Besides Inspector Smudge and the Execution Squad, it was only our two families and the ship’s crew who ever set foot aboard the Current Champion, as far as I know.”
“Well,” scowled Ruby. “I wouldn’t put it past Smudge or the Execution Squad, for starters.” Then, with a nod to the trophy room door she muttered, “Or anyone in my family, really. . . . And how well do you know the crew?”
“Not very well, I guess,” Arthur admitted. “Besides the regular staff, we hire an assortment of sailors and deckhands off the docks to handle the rigging and whatnot.”
“And is it possible one of them might have accepted a bribe from the giant and the dwarf—Messrs. Overkill and Undercut—to plant the poison?”
“I guess so. They are a bit of a salty bunch, come to think of it.”
“They usually are,” Ruby nodded. “And as the ship is now a permanent addition to the sea floor—and the physical evidence is in the possession of Inspector Smudge, I’m afraid we’ve come to a bit of a stall here. It seems we’ll have to find some other way to track down our culprits. Any ideas?”
“Well, I’ve already tried contacting the Unsafe Sports Committee to see if the giant and the dwarf turned up in any of their photographs or film footage, but they were too busy fighting the lawsuits from this year’s Showdown to be of any help. So, I don’t think we’ll get anywhere that way either. But we’ve got to come up with something, wouldn’t you say? So we’re not just sitting on our hands, waiting for our villains to make their next move?”
“Indeed, Detective Whipple,” Ruby replied. “Anything less would simply be bad police work. How’s tomorrow for a comprehensive case meeting?”
“Well, I’m attempting the record for Balancing Most Wine Glasses on Chin tomorrow morning, but as soon as that’s over, I’ve got the rest of the day free.”
Ruby couldn’t help but roll her eyes ever so slightly at Arthur’s mention of the record attempt. “Fine,” she said. “We’ll rendezvous at the Undertakers’ Graveyard at noon.”
“Hang on,” Arthur protested, “can’t we pick somewhere—”
“I am having a meeting in a graveyard one way or another,” Ruby said firmly. “I still haven’t forgiven you for the last time you had one without me. Be thankful I’m not demanding we meet at midnight.”
“Very well then,” Arthur sighed. “I’ll—”
Just then, the door burst open and Ruby’s mother poked her head through the doorway.
“Come on, you two,” she said. “We know you have no interest in trophies and awards, but that’s no reason to be antisocial. I’m sure the Whipples don’t want their underachieving son dragged down any further by your influence, dear.”
“Of course they don’t,
” said Ruby.
After Rita had escorted the two of them back into the trophy room, Rex gathered the rest of the group. “All right, then,” he declared, “I think we’ve sufficiently exhausted the anteroom now. . . .”
“Anteroom?” puzzled Mr. Whipple. “But I thought—”
“Oh, no,” Rex replied. “This is merely the entryway. The main trophy chamber is just through there. . . .”
The Whipples followed their host through yet another plastic portal to find themselves in a huge circular room. Every inch of its high, curving wall was covered with sparkling plaques.
Arthur gaped at the sight. Reminded of his earlier mission, he took a deep breath and set about scanning each new award, hoping to finally locate the one with Ruby’s name on it.
“My, my,” said Mr. Whipple after a stretch of dumbfounded silence. “This is almost as big as our own wall of plaques back home—isn’t it, children?”
Rex turned to him and smiled. “Right you are, Charlie. Your record for Largest Wall of Plaques in a Family Residence is indeed safe for the time being.”
Arthur’s father put on an unmistakably proud face—but their host hadn’t finished.
“Yes, we realized early on that one wall simply would not be enough for us. . . .”
Rex pressed a button in a concealed panel to his right, and the curving wall of plaques split down the center and slid open to reveal: a second wall of plaques. This in itself was easily enough to wipe the smirk off Mr. Whipple’s face, but as soon as the first wall had come to a halt, the second wall split apart as well, unveiling yet another plaque-covered wall behind it.
The Whipples’ jaws dropped.
Hopelessly overwhelmed, Arthur officially called off his search. It would take hours to read so many plaques. If he was going to discover Ruby’s secret world record, it would not be like this.
“Yes, yes,” Mr. Whipple said a moment later. “Three walls of plaques—a clever gimmick to be sure. But what of it? Clearly, most of these awards have not even been officially certified, seeing as you only broke your thousandth record a few weeks ago at the Birthday Extravaganza.”