“Hurry up,” Margaret whispered.
Next I heard giggles. Princess giggles.
“Oh, Lindeeee. Are you two going steady yet?”
More giggles. The Princess had her friends with her.
“Lindy and Gus, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”
“Oh, look, Lindeeee. Gus is sitting next to Margaret. Aren’t you jealous?”
A shower of giggle spit sprayed my neck.
What I wanted to do was grab Angel’s nose and twist it into macaroni. But my parents were too close by; they’d see the fight for sure. So I snatched the locket before Angel saw it and stuffed it in my pocket. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She and her friends were doubled over, laughing their heads off and pointing at my supposed boyfriend. Margaret glared across the table at them. Not Gus, though. He sat stiff in his chair, staring straight ahead without even blinking. Nothing moved except his jaw; it kind of twitched. His brown cowlick stuck straight up, like he’d just been electrocuted.
I knew I should say something. But what? If I stood up for Gus, it might look like he really was my boyfriend. So I got up, accidentally ramming my chair into the Princess, and went after another pink lemonade. I bought Gus one, too.
Luckily, Angel and her friends were gone when I got back. Unluckily, the Cucumber and the Carrot, followed by the Goose, were making a beeline for our table. My stomach went all woozy again, and this time it wasn’t because of the secret in my pocket.
Sure enough, Mom took one look at my full plate and said, “Lindy, haven’t you tried Mrs. Unger’s dish yet?”
“Uh…”
The expression on Mom’s face said, “Young lady, you’d better display the good manners I’ve crammed down your throat for the last eleven years, or else.” What came out of her mouth was a cheerful “Go ahead and try a bite, dear. Mrs. Unger wants some feedback on whether she should revise her recipe.”
Granny Goose stood by my side, watching…waiting…grinning.
Chapter 6
The French Connection
I couldn’t stall any longer, because Mom’s smile was getting thinner by the second. My chances of going to camp would get even worse if I made a scene. I jabbed a tiny piece of cucumber and ever so slowly guided it into my mouth. I gave it three good chews.
Oh, grossness.
I fought back a gag as the mushroom-flavored sludge coated my tongue. When I tried to swallow, it clung to the back of my throat like one of those sticky snot balls you get with a bad cold.
Granny Goose wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Okay, honey. What’s the verdict?”
“Um…eh…” I didn’t dare tell her the truth; I’d never be allowed out in public again. “It’s very unusual-tasting and…um…yes. It’s perfect for the cook-off contest.” I washed down my lie with two huge swigs of lemonade.
Granny Goose hooted. “God love you, Ann,” she said to my mom, who of course was beaming by now. “What a doll of a daughter you’ve raised here. I’ll tell you what. Now that I’ve got the green light from both of you and the Tarts, I’m good to go. I’m not so sure I need Chef François’ sauce-making class after all.”
Mom looked surprised. “Sauce-making class? I didn’t realize you were considering—”
“Bonjour! Bonjour, my wonderful Tarts.” A dark-haired man in a chef’s hat and an apron flapped his arms at us from the courthouse steps. He blew a kiss our way, then shot across the lawn as if the seat of his pants was on fire. When he got to our table, he swept around me, Margaret, and Gus and went straight for Granny Goose. He stopped in front of her, grinning like a fox, twirling the tips of his sleek black mustache.
“Madame,” the chef said, taking Granny Goose’s hand. He puckered his lips and planted a noisy kiss on her knuckles, then turned to my mom and did the exact same thing. I wanted to barf on the spot, but Mom smiled politely at him, and Granny Goose giggled like a little kid.
“Aha!” François said. “The Carrot and the Cucumber—my two favorite Tarts, to be sure. You cannot hide your beauty behind these costumes. I would recognize you anywhere.”
He smiled again, flashing a mouthful of teeth that were whiter than my mom’s sheets after soaking in bleach for an hour. “Aaah,” he said, “such a wonderful time we shared at the marvelous Mrs. Grimstone’s this Tuesday, when I presented my soufflé demonstration for the Bloomsberry Tarts.
“And to you, madame,” he said to Granny Goose, “merci! Merci! Accept, please, my heartfelt gratitude for distributing those many fliers regarding tomorrow’s vegetable-carving extravaganza. I am forever indebted. How can I repay you?”
“No need for it,” Granny Goose said, shaking her head. “I was happy to help.”
François wagged his finger at her. “Madame, I am adamant. I must return the favor.”
“Well, if you insist, you can give me a report on the stewed cucumbers. Sorry I couldn’t let you taste them this morning. I had to let that sauce set,” she said.
“Aha! I am already one footprint ahead of you, Mrs. Unger. I have just come from sampling your masterpiece. Magnificent!”
“Why, thank you, François,” Granny Goose said. “I’m glad you like—”
“However, I regret to inform you the dish is not magnificent enough to win this cook-off you spoke of.”
Granny Goose’s face fell. “Well, darn. I’m sorry to hear that, but I guess you’re the expert. I might have to rethink my entry.”
“No, no, ma chère. That is not necessary. Your cucumbers simply need to be stewed in a less pungent sauce. And that is why I am here. I implore you, madame, to immediately enroll in my sauce class, so that you can achieve the flair, the creativity, to win this upcoming contest.”
“Well, heavens to Betsy,” Granny Goose said after another fit of giggling. “I’m sorry to break it to you, François, but I’m not sure I can.”
“What’s that? You’re not sure, you say? But you must.” He got down on one knee, ignoring her goose, which was strutting in circles around him, practically honking its head off. He took her hand again. His lips turned down, into a pout. “Otherwise, ma chère, it will hurt me gravely. Your refusal shall become the knife that is plunged into this chef’s soufflé. Poof! My heart will deflate in sorrow.”
“Goodness gracious,” Granny Goose said. By now her cheeks were so pink she looked like a cucumber with a fever. “I certainly don’t want to disappoint you. And Lord knows I’ve just got to win that cook-off. Tell you what, I’ll think it over.”
“Please, but yes, do that,” François said. “And beseech your fellow Tarts”—he winked at my mom—“to join you, ma chère. I will make room for them. I pledge that to you with sincere devotion.” He pulled off his chef’s hat and bowed. And then, with a flurry of good-byes and air kisses, he spun away to join another group of Tarts.
“Heavens.” Mom fanned herself with a napkin. “What a charmer. He’s certainly after you about that class, huh?”
“Yep. I’m tempted to follow him up on it, too. I know he’s expensive, but the prize for that contest is twenty-five thousand dollars.”
“That’s quite a payoff,” Mom said.
“Hot diggity, I’ll say it is. And if I win, I’ll put every cent of it to good use. I’m planning to expand the rescue service.”
Mom put her hand to her chest, smiling and nodding as Granny Goose explained how she and her friends wanted to set up a bigger network of animal caregivers. “We’ll need supplies, sturdy pens…the whole shebang. It’s gonna take some bucks, that’s for sure.”
“What a wonderful idea, Evelyn. Count me and David in for a contribution. We’re quite lucky to have such caring people like you in this community.”
“Pshaw! I’m honored to do it; love every one of those animals, and we’ve got a boatload—gators, turtles, pelicans. You name it. Every type of injury, too. I’m telling you, Ann, it rips your heart out to see these magnificent creatures all smashed up and hurting, especially when it’s us humans to blame.”
&n
bsp; Listening to Granny Goose, I felt a sudden, overpowering rush of admiration mixed with pangs of worry for her. There was no doubt in my mind. Besides my need for the reward money, I wanted to help her out of this jam, even if it meant working side by side with Gus Kinnard.
Chapter 7
The Scene at the Scene of the Crime
As soon as Mom and Granny Goose took off across the courthouse lawn, Gus snapped his fingers. “Let’s get started.”
“Okay,” I said. “But I want to hide this locket first. It’s making me nervous.”
“Let’s take it to your garage, Lindy,” Margaret said. “It’s so messy in there we’ll find all kinds of places to put it.”
She was right about that. The garage was my dad’s territory, and he wasn’t what you would call a neat freak. But my heart still skipped a couple of beats because when I thought about it, hiding evidence seemed like risky business. “What if we can’t solve this in a few days? You guys will have to go with me to turn the locket back in. Promise?”
“I promise,” Margaret said.
Gus’s face turned solemn. “Sherlock’s honor. We’ll claim we found it on the festival grounds, just like you said before, and then we realized later it was a missing heirloom. Technically, that’s sort of the truth.”
“Okay,” I said, relieved to have that settled. “So after we hide it, then what?”
“Then we start investigating, figure out who framed Granny Goose,” Gus said.
“It might be someone with a grudge against her,” I said. “Someone who doesn’t like her rescue service.”
Gus shook his head. “Nah. Grudge crimes involving high-ticket thefts are rare—probably ten percent, tops. The motive is greed. The perp framed Granny Goose to take the heat off himself. He dropped the locket in the cukes, hoping whoever found it would make a big scene, turn it over to the cops. Then voilà! Granny Goose takes the rap, and the real thief is off the hook.”
Margaret scowled, plopping her hands on her hips. “One thing’s for sure, whoever did this is a totally heartless person.”
“Well, they are now anyway.” I pulled the locket from my pocket and grinned, then waved it in front of Margaret, waiting for her to laugh at my joke like she’d been laughing at every little thing Gus said. But she didn’t even crack a smile.
“We’ll need to get over to Granny Goose’s house soon, check things out, ask her some questions,” Gus said. “But first, we should start at the scene of the crime. We’ll have a ninety-eight percent chance of getting critical info there.”
“Wow,” Margaret said. “How do you know all this stuff?”
“NSCCB. It’s all about checking facts, calculating odds. That’s how I solved the May mystery.”
During the whole walk to my house Gus went on and on about NSCCB—yap, yap, yap about crime statistics and club guidelines and how he figured out this and that to win the contest. Margaret lapped every word of it up like she was spellbound, but by the time we opened my garage door, I was ready to cover my ears.
We wandered around for a couple of minutes, looking for the perfect hiding spot. Gus said we should definitely put it up high, on the top shelf of Dad’s tools. “Odds are ninety to one he won’t find it up there.”
Margaret agreed with him, of course, because she still couldn’t get over how he’d won crime buster of the month.
“No. That’s not the best place,” I said. Gus may have been a contest winner, but I knew my dad. I stuck the locket, still wrapped in its napkin, behind a container of Grubb’s grime remover. “It’ll be lots safer back here.” I felt superconfident about that, maybe 99 percent, because I’d never once in my life seen my dad clean grime off anything.
We were standing outside the garage, talking about what to do next, when I noticed the farmer-looking guy I’d seen at the festival. He still had the newspaper in his hand, but I didn’t think he was reading it. In fact, I got an eerie feeling he’d been watching us. He crossed the street, climbed into a rusty green pickup truck, and took off.
I started to mention it, but Gus interrupted my train of thought. “You guys ready to hit the crime scene?”
“Sure.” Margaret pulled a rubber band from her pocket and gathered her thick curls into a lopsided ponytail. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on a second,” I said. “I’ve got to check in with my mom first.” I found her upstairs changing out of her carrot costume.
She smiled when I asked if I could hang out with Gus and Margaret for the afternoon. “I’m tickled you two are warming up to him. You know, I saw his dad at the last PTA meeting, and he mentioned how lonely Gus has been since Antoinette’s death. Jack’s worried about him, says he doesn’t seem to have any friends and that kids tease him because he’s a bit of an egghead.”
Well, she had that right—the egghead part, anyway.
Mom checked her watch. “Remember to be home by three-thirty, and not a minute later. We’ve got a busy afternoon lined up. And remind me next year not to cochair this festival.”
I waved good-bye and bounded down the steps—two at a time—and that’s when I started feeling kind of bad about Gus. No wonder he was lonely. His mom had died in a car crash just last July, his only brother was away at college, and I’d heard Mom say his dad worked all the time. I made a silent vow to be nicer to Gus Kinnard.
About ten minutes later my vow got seriously tested.
“Wait a minute,” I said when Gus slipped through an open gate into Palmetto Estates, where the Grimstones lived. I read the sign over his head: WELCOME TO PALMETTO ESTATES: LUXURY LIVING AT ITS MOST EXQUISITE. WARNING! GATED COMMUNITY. RESIDENTS AND GUESTS ONLY. AREA PATROLLED BY SECURITY GUARDS. VIOLATORS PROSECUTED.
“Shouldn’t we find another way in or something?” I pointed to the surveillance camera.
Margaret chewed at a cuticle, looking around nervously. “Do you think someone’s watching us, you know, like from a guard tower?”
“Nah,” Gus said. “Don’t sweat it. My dad comes out here all the time to see the Grimstones; he’s their attorney. He says that fifty percent of the time there’s no guard on duty.”
After five more minutes of walking, Gus finally stopped us across the street from the Grimstones’. He pointed at the bright green hedge surrounding their front yard. It’d been clipped, shaved, buzzed, and styled into different sea creatures. “Cool, huh?” he said. “My dad says some famous artist from Miami does their shrubbery. He says they have the biggest flower garden he’s ever seen in their backyard, too.”
We crossed the street to the Grimstones’ property, then poked our heads between a bushy dolphin and a giant sea horse. Their house was huge, more like a mansion. A pebbled pathway lined with palm trees, flowering bushes, and mermaid fountains wound through the yard and up to a wraparound porch.
“The Sentinel said there wasn’t any sign of forced entry. That’s why the cops think the thief must be someone they know,” Gus said.
The front door opened. Margaret gasped. She dropped to the sidewalk, snagging her glasses on the sea horse. They bounced off my toe and landed under the dolphin. She dived after them, falling facedown on the concrete.
A shrill voice rang out from the door. “That is exactly what I told Howard. I said, ‘I will not hesitate to call the police at the first whiff of intruders around here, even if they are nothing more than children.’”
Chapter 8
Sly like Spies
I didn’t move a muscle. Gus stood next to me, frozen solid as a Popsicle. Margaret stayed sprawled on her stomach on the sidewalk. You would’ve thought she was dead, except her hand crept across the concrete and fumbled under the dolphin for her glasses.
A second person appeared on the porch. I stared at her for a second before recognizing the white-blond hair gelled into spikes, the leopard tank top and stretch pants, and the floppy leopard bag hanging off her shoulder. “Hey,” I whispered, “that’s Cricket from Shear Magic. What’s she doing here?”
Cricket headed down the
porch steps and around a pebbled path toward the driveway. “You know, Mrs. Grimstone,” she called over her shoulder, “if I were you, I’d have security out here patrolling twenty-four seven.”
“Believe me,” Mrs. Grimstone said from the porch, “I am considering it. And thank you again for returning my neck scarf, Cricket.” She patted her puffy auburn curls. “Now, about my hair…I’m not wild over that tint you used Tuesday. There’s still some irritation behind my ears, and I think the color should be deepened. I’m going to have you redo it tomorrow after my pedicure.”
“Uh…sure. I’ll see what I can do.” Cricket closed the door to her car and flicked an index finger in a quick wave to Mrs. Grimstone. “Take it easy.”
“That’s precisely what I intend to do. Howard and I are staying in for the day. No Tart activities for me, I’m afraid. I’m anxious to get a progress report from the police.” The front door closed behind her.
Cricket revved her motor a couple of times before backing out of the driveway.
I dodged around the corner of the hedge, pulling Margaret with me. We watched the car roll down the street.
“Hey,” Gus said. He’d wedged himself behind some bushes that ran alongside the Grimstones’ house and was pointing at a screened porch in the back. “That’s Mr. and Mrs. Grimstone. Let’s crawl back there. We might hear some details about the robbery.”
One by one, an army of goose bumps marched up my arms. My mom’s face flashed before my eyes: the same face she wore every time she nagged: “If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a hundred times. You must not act on impulse. Just because your friends try something, that doesn’t mean you should…” Blah, blah, blah.
But this was a special circumstance.
I checked out the thick, flowering bushes. No one could possibly see us in there. And it wasn’t as though we were doing anything really wrong, or bad. The way I saw it, we were the good guys. So what was the harm?
A Recipe for Robbery Page 3