A Recipe for Robbery

by Marybeth Kelsey

  I dropped to the ground. Margaret followed, even though she looked more scared than I’d ever seen her. We clawed our way through the thick, scratchy bushes, batting mosquitoes and no-see-ums from our faces. Once we were within a couple of feet of the porch, Gus put his finger to his lips. The sound of ice clinking in glasses and muffled voices floated out through the screen.

  I cocked my head, straining to hear the conversation.

  “That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you, Howard. If you would let me complete a sentence without interrupting—thank you very much—you might understand what I’m talking about.”

  “Sorry. Go ahead,” a man mumbled.

  “I’m sorry, too, dear. I didn’t mean to snap; it’s just that I’m so terribly distraught over this. What I was saying is, the detective instructed me to think things over, to recall anything out of the ordinary.”

  Mumble, mumble.

  Mrs. Grimstone continued. “You remember, don’t you, that the Bloomsberry Tarts were here two days ago for François Pouppière’s presentation.”

  “Who’s Francine Poop-hair?”

  “Poo-pee-air! Fran-swa Pouppière. For heaven’s sake, Howard, I’ve already told you—François owns Simply Paris, that quaint little restaurant downtown. He was gracious enough to give a demonstration on soufflés this Tuesday right here in our kitchen. If you weren’t always out of town on business, you’d remember these details.”

  Then came sniffles and Mr. Grimstone again. “There, there,” he said. “I understand your anxiety over this.”

  “Thank you, Howard. Now as I was saying…” Mrs. Grimstone continued, her voice fading in and out. I didn’t have a clear view of her, but I could tell she was pacing the porch. “To my knowledge, only one of the Tarts left the kitchen. She was gone for several minutes, certainly enough time to enter our upstairs study. Oh! If only I hadn’t laid those pieces out to be appraised. I’m absolutely sick.”

  My cheeks tingled with excitement. I couldn’t believe our luck. We were actually listening to the inside scoop about the heist, straight from Mrs. Grimstone’s mouth. If we could only get a suspect’s name, a description even.

  “She followed François around like a puppy, asking him the most ludicrous questions about mushroom paste.”

  Mushroom paste? My ears perked up, like antennae. Margaret nudged me, a worried look on her face.

  “Oh. You mean…” Another mumble from Mr. Grimstone.

  “No, Howard. I am talking about that character who lives across the pond. It’s her goose that’s been wreaking havoc in this yard. I’ve got a hunch she’s our thief, and I am most certainly calling the—”

  Margaret clutched my arm.

  “Did she just say what I thought she did?” I whispered. “That she’s going to call—”

  “The cops!” Margaret squealed. “She’s going to call the cops on Granny Goose. Ohmigosh. What should we do?”

  “We got some good info here, just like I thought,” Gus said. “Let’s head over to Granny Goose’s, see if she’s home. We’ve got to piece some things together.”

  We shot back through the bushes until we’d reached the front corner of the house. We were just getting ready to crawl into the sunlight when an odd-sounding honk stopped us.

  Pickles!

  She honked again and sped across the lawn, straight for us. She dropped a worn duct-taped wallet from her bill, then wriggled between the branches and squatted on my lap. Not a second later a muddy work boot landed on the wallet, inches from my knee.

  “Where the heck’s that duck?” a man grumbled. “I’m gonna get rid of that pest if it’s the last thing I do.”

  I clamped my teeth and held tight to Pickles, praying she wouldn’t give us away. I poked a couple of branches aside and peered up through the white flowers.

  My heart flipped like a pancake when I saw the straw hat, rumpled overalls and dirty T-shirt. I recognized this guy, all right: the farmer-looking man from the festival. The same guy who’d walked by the garage while we were hiding the locket.

  A burly hand yanked the leaves back. “Okay, miss,” the man said. He stared straight at me. “Hand it over.”

  Chapter 9

  A Grim Encounter

  The man’s hawk eyes blazed in the sunlight. “You heard me. Give it here,” he grumbled.

  The locket! Had he seen me with it?

  “Uh…I, uh…don’t…” My mouth went dry.

  “I said to give that ver-mit here.”

  “What ver-mit?” I squeaked.

  “The bird. It’s got my wallet.”

  “Oh. You mean Pickles.” I handed the goose to Margaret and pushed myself up through the flowers. “Um…excuse me, sir, but Pickles doesn’t have your wallet.”

  “Heck he don’t. Just took off with it. I saw it myself.”

  “Uh, sir. You’re standing on your wallet.”

  He snatched it off the ground, glaring at me the whole time. “I still want the duck.”

  “Actually,” Gus said, hopping up beside me, “it’s a goose, not a duck. And we’ve been looking all over for her. We’re here to take her home.”

  “Nuh-uh. That bird ain’t goin’ nowhere except the pound. Been out here doin’ its business in my gardenias, and I ain’t gonna stand for it.” He reached for Pickles, but she pecked at him.

  He drew his hand back. “Forget the pound. I’m gonna fry that darn thing up for supper.”

  “Oh, no!” Margaret jumped up. “You can’t cook this goose. She’s innocent. We’ll take her home, we promise.” She squeezed Pickles against her chest, causing another honk, and this time it was louder than a car horn.

  “What’s the racket out there?”

  I whipped my head around. We were standing several feet from the porch, but I could still see Mrs. Grimstone’s nose flattened against the screen. “What is it you’ve got there, Leonard?” she yelled. “That wretched goose again?”

  “Worse than that, Mrs. Grimstone. You’ve got trespassers.”

  “Trespassers? Hold on to them, for God’s sake. We’ll be right there.”

  I gulped. Sweat poured from my forehead, my armpits, my neck. Even my ears. What if this Leonard guy knew about the locket? What if he said something to Mrs. Grimstone?

  Five seconds later she rounded the back corner of her house. She charged across the lawn on her high-heeled sandals, stopping in front of me. A chubby man with sweaty pink skin and damp circles under each armpit panted after her. He fanned himself with an unlit cigar.

  Mrs. Grimstone stood with her hands on her hips, staring at us like we were blobs of swamp scum. “Well, well. What have we here?”

  “Say they’re after the goose, ma’am,” Leonard said.

  “That’s right,” I said, my knees quivering. “We’ll take her right home.”

  “And why should we relinquish this goose to you?” Mrs. Grimstone said. “We’ve had a continuous problem with it, and I’m ready to turn it over to animal control. Call security, Howard.”

  “Now, Hazel, calm down for a minute,” Mr. Grimstone said. He took a couple of steps back, chewing on his cigar as he looked us over. “We’ve got enough to deal with here. Why not let these youngsters take it home? They look like responsible kids.”

  “Oh, we are,” I said.

  “Really and truly,” Margaret said. “We’ll get Pickles off your hands right away.”

  Gus checked his watch. “Actually, we’re running late. We’d better get going. Nice to meet you, everyone.”

  Mr. Grimstone pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Likewise. And take care of that goose.”

  As we edged toward the sidewalk, Mrs. Grimstone said, “I want you children to remember this is a gated community. In the future, I’d appreciate your not romping through here without an invitation. Oh, and Leonard, will you run to the nursery for some colorful annuals to place around my three-tiered fountain, please? It’s looking bare.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “One more thing,”
she said, as he jingled the keys in his pocket. “I’ll need you to get an earlier start this Monday. These gardenias should be pruned. They’re an absolute sight.”

  “I’ll be here,” he said, but he looked about as happy as someone who just got told he had five whopper cavities. He glanced at me again, and something about that look, like we were in on the same secret, nearly fried the freckles off my face.

  Chapter 10

  Just the Facts, Please

  A rusty green truck rattled by us on our way out of Palmetto Estates. Leonard was driving. Pickles bobbed her head frantically, honking at him from Margaret’s arms.

  “Shhh,” Margaret said, stroking Pickles’s ruffled feathers. “If you don’t watch out, he’ll cook you for dinner.”

  I nodded, not doubting that possibility at all. I’d been thinking about Leonard since we’d left the Grimstones, and I had a couple of suspicions. “That guy was at the Tarts’ table before Granny Goose dished out the cucumbers,” I told Margaret.

  “You’re right. I remember his straw hat.”

  “And then he came by our table when I had the locket out. He even walked by my house right after we hid it. I saw him.”

  “Could’ve been a tail,” Gus muttered, as if he were thinking aloud. “Twenty percent odds, maybe.”

  “It’s like he was following us, like he knew I had the locket,” I said.

  “Ohmigosh,” Margaret said breathlessly. “He even works for the Grimstones. Maybe he’s the one trying to frame Gran—”

  “Yep. A definite possibility,” Gus muttered again. “Seventy-five percent of all property thefts are perpetrated by someone close to the victim.”

  “So you agree?” I said to Margaret. “You think Leonard’s the—”

  “Nope,” Gus said. “Too soon to make assumptions. We don’t have enough on him. What we need are cold, hard facts.” He held up one finger. “Guideline number one, NSCCB: ‘Never jump to conclusions. Stick to the facts.’”

  Margaret nodded. “I read that on the Web site.”

  “You want facts,” I said, about a hair more than irritated with Gus. “I’ll give you facts. One, Leonard’s poor. He drives a ratty old truck and holds his wallet together with duct tape. Two, he doesn’t like Mrs. Grimstone very much. Three, since Leonard works for the Grimstones, he must’ve known all about the heirlooms. I bet he even has a key to their house.”

  “Those aren’t facts,” Gus said. “Those are motives.”

  We kept walking as we argued over facts and motives and what Gus called circumstantial evidence—“it plays a key role in about forty percent of solved crimes,” he said—and by the time we made it out of Palmetto Estates, I grudgingly realized he was right. We still needed more information about Leonard before declaring him the thief.

  Gus’s plan was to scope out Granny Goose’s and get details of everything that’d happened early that morning, without tipping her off about what we were up to. “Remember, mum’s the word. That’s guideline number six of—”

  “NSCCB,” Margaret said along with him. She jabbed his side and laughed.

  When we got to Granny Goose’s, Margaret ran up the porch steps and rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang again. Still nothing.

  Gus took off to check the backyard while I peered through the porch window, looking for any signs of activity. I thought I heard a duck quacking inside, but I couldn’t see past the birdcages in the window. I ran out to the front yard and looked down the street again.

  “Nothing out back but a bunch of animals,” Gus yelled from the side of the house.

  “They’ve already arrested her. That’s why she’s not here,” Margaret announced. She stood white-faced at the top of the porch steps, holding Pickles. “Do you realize this poor little goose could be homeless? She could die of starvation.”

  Her eyes misted up, and then she planted a noisy kiss on Pickles’s bill. One thing I knew for sure: if Granny Goose really had been arrested, Pickles would end up in a crib beside Margaret’s bed. She’d probably be waddling after us to school every day next fall, too, and sitting in the audience during our band concerts. No way would Margaret let her get taken to the pound, because next to Granny Goose, Margaret’s got the softest heart of anyone I know. She can’t even stand to see a dried-up worm on the sidewalk.

  “Nah,” Gus said. “She’s probably still at the festival. Even if Mrs. Grimstone has called the cops, they couldn’t have booked Granny Goose yet. They don’t work that fast. What they’ll do is take a statement from her, then get a search warrant if there’s evidence or probable cause.”

  We decided to wait on the porch a while longer for Granny Goose, but after several minutes I remembered my mom’s instructions. I asked Gus the time.

  “A quarter to three. Why?”

  “I’ve got to be home at three-thirty. I have to help my mom peel and chop cucumbers.”

  “For the cucumber smoothie booth?” Margaret asked.

  “Yeah, I have to have them all done tonight.”

  “I can’t believe you’re getting stuck with that job,” she said. “Your mom makes you do the craziest things.”

  “I know, and it’s going to take me three whole hours, at least. Geesh. Whoever dreamed up the dumb idea of a cucumber smoothie booth anyway?” I sighed, dreading the thought of all the peeling and dicing that awaited me.

  “Actually,” Gus said, “my mom did. She made up the recipe a few years ago, when she was president of the Tarts’ club. The booth makes a lot of money.” His face flushed, and then he ducked behind the swing. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his nose against Granny Goose’s window.

  I swallowed a gulp, wishing I could snap my fingers and magically suck my words back in. “Oh. Uh…sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t know that.” Margaret nudged me, and I glanced over my shoulder again at Gus, feeling terrible.

  I didn’t know what was running through his mind, but I couldn’t help wondering how it must feel to all of a sudden not have a mom in your life. No one fussing over the little details, like whether you’d flossed between all your teeth or if you had clean sheets and plenty of blankets on your bed or if every one of the twenty-five library books got returned on time.

  I looked sideways at Margaret, and I could tell by the frozen frown on her face that she felt as bad as I did. It was as if a thick cloud had covered the porch, muffling everything but the soft thump of my heartbeat. Gus was still peering in the window, and I couldn’t think of one thing to say to make him feel better. I sat perfectly still beside Margaret, wondering how long the uneasy silence would go on.

  Finally I leaned over the back of the swing and said, “Uh, we only got one measly suspect here so far. What do you think we should do next?”

  “That’s just what I was going to ask,” Margaret said.

  He turned to face us. Still feeling a little nervous, I gave him a weak smile. He grinned back, then Margaret smiled, and all of a sudden it was like the old Gus had kicked into action.

  He circled the swing, and we’d just started reviewing our circumstantial evidence again when a familiar-looking cucumber called from the sidewalk.

  Chapter 11

  Who Framed Granny Goose?

  “Well, hot diggity,” Granny Goose said. “Look who’s here. You must be back for seconds.”

  We rushed to the lawn to greet her and explain how we’d found Pickles at the Grimstones’ house.

  She scowled when we told her about Leonard. Wagging a finger in her goose’s face, she said, “Shame on you. Can’t I leave you alone for half an hour? And don’t give me that sassy look, young lady. It’s the second time today you’ve gotten that scallywag’s bowels in an uproar. The next time you’ll end up on his table with a fork in your rump.”

  I elbowed Margaret. “Uh, Mrs. Unger, did you say this is the second time today Leonard saw Pickles? What happened the first time?”

  “Same old, same old, honey. She got out and crossed the pond to their yard. He brought her back her
e in a huff. Claimed she was tearing up the flower garden.”

  “Was that this morning?” Gus said.

  “Yep. Wanted to talk to me about plugging the hole in my fence. Says the Grimstones are fed up with Pickles getting loose. I didn’t have time to hash it out with him, though. I was in a hurry. Had three dishes to get ready for the festival.

  “Besides,” she said, winking at us, “I’d rather wrestle a crocodile than make small talk with Leonard Snout.”

  “He’s not very friendly, huh?” Margaret said.

  “You’ve got that right, honey. He’s had a bee up his boxers ever since he lost the family farm last year. Can’t reason with him.”

  “He lost his farm?” I said. “How’d that happen?”

  “Mismanagement, pure and simple. Couldn’t pay the bills, so he went bankrupt. Anyway, the man’s got a green thumb, so I guess that’s why the Grimstones hired him as their flower gardener.”

  Good thing Granny Goose is a big talker, I thought, because we’d just learned another whopper of a motive for Leonard.

  We followed her back up the porch steps to her locked front door. By now my brain was whirling faster than the spin cycle on Mom’s washing machine. I felt sure Leonard was our man. He had motives, several of them. He’d been lurking around the Tarts’ tent, maybe even spying on me. And he’d been at Granny Goose’s this morning. I still had more questions regarding that bit of news, but I didn’t want to tip her off about anything.

  Granny Goose set her food dishes on the swing and peeked inside her mailbox. “Humph,” she muttered. “Where the heck did I put those keys?” She lifted the doormat. Nothing there, so she had us check under every single flower pot on the porch.

  “Well if that doesn’t beat all.” She dug through her shoulder bag, pulling out a checkbook, a wad of Kleenex, and a handful of papers.

  “Look.” Margaret pointed to a leaflet Granny Goose was holding. “Isn’t that the chef?”

  “That’s him all right, honey. He brought a stack of these fliers over today, had me running all over the place, handing them out.”