I read the bold print under a smiling photograph of François:
Voilà!
Who can sculpt roses from carrots?
Who can carve sailboats out of cucumbers?
It is me (yes, c’est moi!).
C’est François!
Come watch this renowned chef and esteemed vegetable sculptor create a masterpiece of gorgeous, edible art.
Friday, June 17. 1:00 P.M. at Simply Paris, downtown Bloomsberry.
Special festival price—only $35 per person.
I was still thinking of how I could ask more questions about Leonard, without sounding too nosy, when Gus spoke up. “Mrs. Unger, did François drop these fliers at your house this morning?”
I raised my eyebrows and looked at Margaret. François? Wait a minute, I remembered him and Granny Goose talking about fliers earlier. Maybe all the evidence didn’t point to Leonard.
“What’s that you said, honey?” Granny Goose’s face was buried in the bag again.
“I was just curious,” Gus said, raising his voice. “Since François is a chef and all, did he help you prepare any of your dishes this morning? Like, you know, maybe add an ingredient or two?”
She kept rooting through her bag, and when she finally answered, her voice sounded muffled. “Well, now that you ask, I wondered if he didn’t add a touch of pepper to my beet salad when I was out back. There.” She pulled out a key ring and grinned. “Found them.”
Margaret’s eyes sparkled with excitement. “You mean François was alone in your kitchen? All by himself with the cucum—”
“Hey! I’ve got an idea.” Gus winked at me and Margaret behind Granny Goose’s back and put his finger to his lips. “How about we find that hole in the fence and fix it for you, Mrs. Unger?”
“Now that’s one heck of a plan. I like the way you think, kid. Go ahead and take Pickles with you; she’ll lead you straight to it.”
I cringed when she said, “And while you’re at it, I’ll get out of this costume and whip us up some snacks.”
We’d just rounded the side of the house when Granny Goose called from the door. “I almost forgot, kids. Don’t mess with any of the caged critters back there, especially Hogjaw. He’s my snapper. Oh, and don’t let Charlie worry you. His pen’s certified by the Reptile Rescuers Association; he couldn’t get out if his life depended on it.”
I didn’t even stop to think about who she meant by Charlie, because one giant question was stuck in my brain: Who’d framed Granny Goose, Leonard or François?
“Ohmigosh,” Margaret said when the front door closed. “They both were here this morning. Now we’ve got two suspects.”
“We’ve hit pay dirt,” Gus said. “François was at the festival, too. He had a helping of her cukes. Maybe he was looking for something besides sauce flavor, know what I mean? If he was the one to find the locket and turn it in, then no one would suspect he stole it in the first place.”
“He was at Mrs. Grimstone’s on Tuesday for the soufflé demonstration, too,” Margaret said.
“You know what?” I said to Gus. “I think we should split up and follow them both. Margaret and I can go after François. You take Leonard.”
“Bad idea,” Gus said. “Classic mistake. NSCCB, guideline three: One step at a time, Sherlock. Guideline nine: There’s strength in numbers. We should stick together, scout around here first. Let’s try to get more info out of Granny Goose, like who went where in her house this morning, and was anyone else in her kitchen? But remember, we can’t let on to her what we’re after. That could blow everything.”
Margaret grinned, then ran her pinkie finger around her mouth. “My lips are sealed, Sherlock.”
I stood behind them, rolling my eyes. It seemed like in the last couple of hours, Margaret had gone along with every single NSCCB thing Gus said. What would happen if she joined that online club? Would she start hanging around Gus all the time, spouting off statistics and guidelines like he did?
Gus unlatched the gate. “Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.”
He pushed the gate open, and the very first thing I thought was that everything in Granny Goose’s yard looked out of the ordinary. In fact, it felt like we’d just been airlifted into Wild Florida Safari. Her yard, which stretched all the way back to a fence that separated it from Palmetto Pond, was filled with a jumbled assortment of animal pens and coops and cages. They were scattered throughout orange trees, coconut palms, and giant oaks.
A chicken squawked a greeting, and a pile of tabby cats stared sleepily at us from a nearby lawn chair. They rolled away from each other like balls of fuzzy yarn, stretching and yawning. Then one by one they jumped off the chair and curled around our legs, meowing as they followed us. We hadn’t gotten but a few steps farther before three ducks and a scruffy, limping pelican joined our parade.
We all traipsed after Pickles, winding our way around pens of skunks, rabbits, raccoons, opossums, a fox, and even a couple of snakes. The thick Florida air grew hotter and stickier by the second. I was seriously wishing for an icy cold drink when feathers rustled above us and something called, “Who cooks for you? Who-cooks-for-you-all?”
Margaret grabbed Gus’s arm. “What’s that?”
He pointed to the top of a giant oak tree. “Cool. It’s a barred owl. That’s their call: ‘who-cooks-for-you-all?’”
A huge pair of black eyes peered through clusters of Spanish moss. “Oooh,” Margaret cooed. “It’s so adorable. Look! See its little yellow beak? Hey, up there,” she called. “Who cooks for you, too?”
The owl called again, even louder. Margaret giggled, then Gus called back at the owl, and then Margaret busted up laughing, and…well, let’s face it, no way was I ever going to tear her attention away from that bird. Margaret had always been crazy for animals, ever since we were little kids, and it looked like Gus was, too. In fact, I wasn’t sure either of them remembered our original plan, the one our Not-So-Clueless Crime Buster had just laid out: Check for clues; ask Granny Goose more questions.
I left them standing under the tree cavorting with the owl, while I followed the ducks, the pelican, the cats, and the goose through a maze of flowering bushes.
That’s when I met Charlie.
Chapter 12
An Eggstremely Eggciting Discovery
I stood glued to my flip-flops, staring at a scaly three-legged alligator, sunning himself in a plastic wading pool. And then I must’ve yelped even louder than the barred owl, because Margaret and Gus, white-faced, came racing around the hibiscus plants. I stuck out my arm to stop them.
“What happened?” Gus said.
“G-Gator,” I said, still gasping for breath. “There…in the pool. Don’t get too close. You might wake him up.”
Margaret’s jaw dropped open. “You were right,” she said to Gus. “Granny Goose really does have a three-legged alligator.”
Gus scratched his head, blinking his eyes with astonishment. “Wow. I…uh…well, I kinda just made up that part about the three legs.”
Margaret nudged him and chortled. “You must have ESP or something.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it runs in my family. My dad says his uncle had…” Yada, yada, yada. On he went, and then they started talking about what might’ve happened to the gator’s leg, which led to a big zoology discussion about all the other injured wildlife in Granny Goose’s backyard, which meant that no further evidence was being discovered. I reminded them why we were there, and they both said, oh, yes, they’d get busy and scope out the backyard.
That left me—all by myself, never mind it’d been Gus’s big idea in the first place—to plug the opening in the fence. I did have company, though. Pickles and her friends paraded in circles around me as I stuffed rocks into the getaway hole.
“Well, that takes care of that,” I said to Pickles after shoving in the last rock. “Doesn’t look like you’ll be causing any more problems at the Grimstones’ for a while.”
I looked around for
Gus and Margaret, wondering if they’d found anything that could link us to who’d framed Granny Goose, like footprints, torn pieces of clothing, store receipts—the kinds of things TV detectives always search for. I spotted them up by the animal pens. Gus was pointing to Charlie’s pool, and both of them were laughing. It seemed as though they’d totally forgotten about our time crunch, because they sure weren’t in any rush.
But then, why should they be?
They weren’t the ones who desperately needed money for band camp. In fact, both of them had paid the fee weeks ago. As I watched them jabbering to the armadillo, I couldn’t help feeling a twinge of jealousy. For the tiniest instant, I wished it were one of them—preferably Gus—whose family couldn’t afford the band camp tuition.
I was still wiping the dirt and sand off my shorts when Granny Goose called from her deck. “Hey, kids, come on up for a bite to eat.”
Gus and Margaret tore across the yard and up the steps as if they hadn’t eaten in a couple of days. They didn’t even check on me; it was like they’d forgotten I existed.
Well, fine by me. Let them get stuck with sweet-and-sour brussels sprouts or mushroom caps stuffed with hominy grits. I couldn’t have cared less. I sat against the fence, petting the pelican and blending into the weeds, hoping Granny Goose would forget about me, too.
No such luck. When she called the second time, I groaned and headed toward her house.
I tromped across the yard and up the back steps, crossing my fingers that we could get some more information from her and praying she wouldn’t serve the leftover cucumbers. When I paused at the top of the steps to wait for Pickles, I noticed an enclosure jutting out from under the deck, right below me. It was surrounded by wire fencing. The pen was filled with aloe plants, cacti, and a miniature pond. A speckled turtle the size of a small boulder snoozed on a log inside it. It must be the snapper Granny Goose had mentioned.
As I turned for the door, something else in the pen caught my attention. I raced back down the steps and peered through the wire.
Uh-oh.
Okay. I may not have been a zoologist like Margaret or Gus, but I was 100 percent sure of one thing: Snapping turtles don’t lay golden eggs.
In fact, the egg in the pen looked suspiciously like the stolen ones Gus had described: miniature gold ovals, embedded with emeralds, made by some famous Russian guy named Pitaya.
I swallowed a gulp, checking over my shoulder. Coast clear, except for Pickles. She watched me curiously from the deck. I reached through the wire fence for the egg, but it was out of my grasp. The door to the pen was locked, and the fence was too high to climb over. I’d have to find a long stick, poke it through the wire, then nudge the egg out from under the log. Before I did that, though, I should check the turtle’s pen carefully. Maybe there were other heirlooms in there.
Aha! I saw something. It lay partially hidden under the aloe plant. I reached through the wire fence again and picked it up. Definitely not an heirloom. It was a small metal medallion with “Ford” inscribed on both sides. An unclosed jump ring dangled from a hole in the medallion; it must’ve fallen off someone’s key ring. I stuck it down in my pocket. “Collect all evidence, no matter how insignificant,” I’d heard Gus tell Margaret. It was guideline number five of the NSCCB.
Now for the egg. I found a stick near the deck and poked it through the wire. I was sweating all over by now, prodding at the egg, trying to loosen it. I’d just managed to work the tip of my stick between the egg and the log, when…
“CHOW’S COMIN’ UP!”
Chapter 13
Ducks in Diapers, Etc.
I leaped a foot off the ground, almost high enough to clear the top of the turtle pen. Holy cow! How long had Granny Goose been standing on the deck? Had she seen the egg? I plastered my arms to my sides and turned to face her.
Her gray hair was tied back with a bandanna, and she’d changed out of her cucumber costume into cutoff jeans and a turquoise T-shirt with sharks on the front that said “I dig wildlife, and I vote.” She leaned over the deck railing, her eyes bugged out like a grasshopper’s behind those thick glasses. We could’ve touched noses, she was that close.
“Whatcha think? Sure is a beauty, eh?”
“Think of wha-what?”
“The snapper, honey. I call him Hogjaw. Had him for a year. Bad-tempered, but he hasn’t managed to take my finger off yet.” She motioned me up the stairs. “Come on in. The boy—what’s his name?”
“You mean G-Gus?” I said through chattering teeth.
“That’s it—Gus. He tells me you kids like sardines.”
“He said what?”
“Said you all liked sardines. Kind of surprised me; I never cared a hoot for them as a kid. Anyway, I’m going to scoot back in here and rip into a can.” She held the door open while I trudged up the steps, my heart still pounding. One thing for certain, if we made it out of this house without dying of food poisoning, the first thing I’d do was wring Gus Kinnard’s neck.
I was making my way through the cluttered utility room, thinking how I could get Gus and Margaret outside when Margaret yelled at me from the kitchen. I poked my head through the doorway. Gus was fiddling with something on the counter and had his back to me. Margaret was sitting on the floor. When she saw me, she held a speckled brown diapered duck over her head. “Look. Isn’t this the most adorable thing you’ve ever seen? A duck wearing a diaper. Mrs. Unger showed me how to put it on her. And she says if Doris ever has ducklings, we can each have one. Wouldn’t you just love that?”
“Uh, yeah, that’d be great.” I waved frantically at her behind Granny Goose’s back, pointing to the door and mouthing, “Outside. I’ve…got…something…to…show…you.”
Margaret cracked up laughing. She must’ve thought I was pointing at Pickles, who’d just popped her head through a hinged flap on the door. “Oh, look. Pickles got in the house all by herself. Isn’t that cute? Did you put that little door in for her, Mrs. Unger?”
“Yep,” Granny Goose said, her head buried in the refrigerator. “It works like a doggie door. She’s in and out of here all the time. Gotta watch her, though. The little bugger’s not house-trained. If she runs loose without a diaper, I’ll likely have a mess on my hands.”
“I’ll put one on her.” Margaret jumped up from the floor and practically skipped to the pantry. “I’ll get the halter.” She was back in a flash, sitting on the kitchen floor again, before I had a chance to get her alone.
Gus set his cheese cutter down, popped a chunk of something in his mouth, then wiped his hands on his shirt. He wriggled his eyebrows at Margaret and me before turning to Granny Goose. “Mrs. Unger,” he said, “so what about this Leonard guy, anyway? When he was here this morning, did he get belligerent? I mean, did he actually follow you inside? Stomp around your, uh, kitchen, yelling about Pickles?”
“He was in here, all right, honey. But he didn’t get too mouthy with me. He knows I’ll give it right back.”
“Golly. You must’ve been really busy this morning, Mrs. Unger,” Margaret said, taking the lead from Gus. “Did you have lots of company, or was it just Leonard and François?”
Granny Goose rustled around her silverware drawer, answering Margaret as if nothing were unusual about all the questions. “Nope. They were the only two here, thank the stars. I was swamped.”
Gus grinned at Margaret, giving her the thumbs-up.
Since they were having such good luck getting information, I tried my hand. “Were Leonard or François out on your deck this morning?” I asked casually.
That got raised eyebrows and a “Why, yes, they were. Why do you ask, honey?” from Granny Goose, followed by a rapid head shake and a finger to the mouth from Gus.
Ignoring him, I said, “Oh, no reason, really. I just wondered if either of them wanted to look at your animals, maybe help you feed Hogjaw.”
“Nope. No one gets in those pens but me, period. For safety reasons.” She jiggled the keys hanging from her belt
loop. “I keep them all locked up.”
I didn’t get a chance to go into more details with Granny Goose about who could’ve done what around Hogjaw, because my question had set her off. She started talking about her animals, and nothing short of a hurricane could’ve stopped her. We learned that Olive the owl had an injured wing; Charlie the gator had been run over by a car (“He’s being transferred to a better-equipped reptile rescue in a couple of days,” she said); Hogjaw had been found on the road with a cracked shell; and Pelly’s feet had been injured when he’d landed on a piling with nails sticking out of it. “Poor little guy,” Granny Goose said. “The webbing on both feet had been torn to pieces.”
The more she talked about rescuing gators and owls and pelicans, the more I knew we were doing the right thing by helping her. But unless we could somehow get the egg out of the pen before Mrs. Grimstone sent the cops over, none of what we were doing would make one bit of difference.
I was mulling over the best way to accomplish that, when Granny Goose stuck four fingers between her teeth and let out an earsplitting whistle. “Didn’t mean to startle you, kids. That’s how I let Pickles know the chow’s on. She’ll pitch a fit if I don’t include her.”
Sure enough, it wasn’t but a couple of seconds before Pickles came bopping toward the table. Her diaper had already worked itself loose, and she had a silver spoon clamped between her bill.
“Hey, kids,” Granny Goose said. “My hands are full. Can somebody nab Pickles, please? She’s got my serving spoon.”
Gus darted across the room. “I’ll get her.” Pickles dodged him, heading for the hallway. Gus lunged. He grabbed the spoon and gave it to Granny Goose.
She snorted. “Honestly, what that goose won’t go after. Caught her with my watch yesterday. Now sit down, kids. It’s snack time.”
By now my anxiety over the egg was rumbling around my stomach like a giant burp. I tapped my foot a million miles an hour as Gus poured us each a tall glass of Papaya Surprise. I motioned to Margaret to sit next to me. I had to tell her, even if it meant whispering in front of—
A Recipe for Robbery Page 5