by Barrie Summy
“Gauloises,” he says. “I carry zee cigarettes wiz me from la France.”
Why?
Now Chef L’Oeuf is grinding sugar into the big bowl. And the air reeks of sweetness and tobacco mixed together.
“Le sucre, the sugar, it must be très, très dissolvable,” he says. This leads to a megaboring lecture about refined sugar versus castor sugar and how I have to drizzle the sugar into the egg whites while beating. And how I’m aiming for egg foam. Next he’s cracking eggs on the side of the bowl and plopping the yolks into a little bowl and the whites into the big bowl while droning on about Gasparini, some pastry dude who invented meringue a million years ago. And how Marie Antoinette made hers with her own little hands.
The whole time the chef’s working and talking in half French, half English, the cigarette wags between his lips. Amazingly, the ash never plops on any food.
Then, in a moment of complete silence, he holds out these archaic hand beaters to me like he’s bequeathing the royal jewels. “Zee très, très special meringue beaters. To help you wiz your magic, Céline.”
I drizzle in sugar. I beat.
He leaves the kitchen to check on Luke and Junie.
I drizzle. I beat.
He returns and checks on Lindsey.
I drizzle. I beat.
He checks on me.
Nothing peaking.
“I forget zee music.” The chef pops a CD into a portable player and positions the speakers so that they’re blaring drumbeats and some flutish instrument right at my bowl.
I drizzle. I beat.
My arms and wrists and hands feel like they’re going to fall off and splatter right into the bowl of stubborn, flat egg whites.
I drizzle. I beat.
I am so achy that my entire upper body is going numb. Not to mention the three humongous blisters on my right foot that haven’t had a chance to heal.
The chef’s cell phone bursts into a Celine Dion song. Of course. “Allô.”
“One minute,” the chef says. “I need zee privacy.” He goes into the broom closet.
Like that’s not suspicious. I glance at Lindsey to make sure she’s still communing with her dough, prop my beaters up against the side of the bowl, crank the music volume to cover up the lack of beater noise, then tiptoe to the closet.
I press my ear to the door. Ouch. Obviously they don’t believe in whispering in France. I step back.
“Repeat, please,” Chef L’Oeuf says in his loud, French voice. “I cannot understand your strange accent.”
He’s making accent comments? Now, that’s just wrong.
“Oui, oui,” he says. “I will take both zee rhino meat and zee horn.”
Ack. Eek.
“Oui, oui, you will receive zee bigger percentage. Bien sûr. Zees is a très good deal for zee two of us.”
He’s talking to the poacher.
There’s a pause, and then he says, “Oui, oui, Thursday night is good. I need zee fresh meat for Friday.”
Ack. Help. The poacher’s going for it in two nights.
There’s another pause. “Just don’t tell them,” the chef says.
Clatter. Bang. Boom. Loud, scary sounds are happening in the dining area.
The chef bursts out of the closet. “I call you back. I call you back.”
His heavy footsteps thump past me. Then I hear him bang open the swinging door to the dining area. The sec the swinging door clangs shut, I unflatten myself from the wall and slowly close the closet door. A shiny object lies on the linoleum floor. The chef’s cell. In his panicky hurry, he must’ve dropped it.
I have to grab it. But I’m frozen. Of course. I try to lift my right foot. No go. I try to lift my left foot. No go. I am so sick of this freezing problem. The phone. The phone. I have to have it. It’s the key to the case. I think of cute little Ongava and the female crash and how they’re counting on me. I think of my mother and how horrible it would be to lose her again and how she’s counting on me.
And all those thoughts do the trick. I look around, acting all together and relaxed. Lindsey is punching her dough, really whomping it.
I dash over and snatch up the phone. While jabbing keypad buttons like I’m crazed, I dart back to my station.
What is with this phone? Where’s the Calls Received screen?
The swinging door opens, and the chef strides to the counter, shouting over his shoulder, “Luke, yooou touch nothing. Yooou moron. Joonie, don’t let him touch anything.”
Hands on hips, he stares around the area where he accidentally dropped his phone. He blinks. He opens the closet door and looks inside. Shaking his head, he slaps his pockets. “Céline?”
Yikes. Yikes. Yikes.
He’s steamrolling toward me.
I totally panic and sink the cell into my bowl. I’ll never get the poacher’s number off it now.
I drizzle. I beat.
“Deed you see my telephone?”
“Um, um, um.”
The chef looks in my bowl. His jaw drops. “Mon Dieu!”
Mon Dieu indeed. Beautiful, tall, snow white peaks rise proud and firm. Like mini-mountains, they point to the ceiling. They stand at attention. They’re perfect and gorgeous. I, Sherlock Holmes Baldwin, aka Céline Dion, have produced the meringue of all meringues.
“Lindsey!” Chef L’Oeuf calls. Then he waddles as quickly as he can to the door and shouts, “Luke! Joonie!”
Back by my side, he pats my head. “Céline, yooou are zee most talented sous-chef of meringue in the United States of America. Maybe even in la France.”
“Merci,” I say. “Thanks.”
“Good job, Céline,” Lindsey says.
Luke and Junie skid in.
“Way cool, dude.” Luke whistles.
“Incredible,” Junie says.
As we’re all oohing and aahing over my meringue brilliance, the peaks start swaying and gurgling and foaming. The tallest, most amazing peak slowly sinks, toppling with a plop. The other peaks follow suit. Then, from the depths of the dancing, bubbling mixture, a song warbles up. At first, it’s low and quiet, but in seconds, Céline Dion and some guy are belting out “Beauty and the Beast.”
Incoming call!
Like we planned this morning, Mom, Grandpa and me are having an evening debriefing session on Great-aunt Margaret’s porch. Junie’s with us too. I’m filling them in on my restaurant fiasco and getting the lowdown on what they learned about Damon.
“Why didn’t I stick the phone in my pocket?” I press my forehead onto the cool glass tabletop. “The bowl? What was I thinking? We could’ve had the poacher’s phone number. Maybe even his name too.”
“Sherry, you made a split-second decision,” Mom says. “It’s done. You can’t beat yourself up over it.”
“It could’ve been a restricted number,” Junie says to me, “which wouldn’t have given us any info.”
I hadn’t thought of that.
Buuurp.
Junie makes a grossed-out face.
That was a bijormous burp, for a small bird.
Grandpa’s on the stucco wall, flapping all bizarre, with one wing fluttering forward while the other’s swinging back. Very Claymation.
“You got the chef’s motive. He needs money to beat out Chef Poulet,” Mom says. “Thanks to you, we know Chef L’Oeuf is our man.”
Yeah, thanks to me, we know Chef L’Oeuf is our man. I straighten up, moving into proud mode.
“Most police work leads to a dead end,” Mom continues. “Take Grandpa and me today. We spent hours tailing Damon and then learned that legit funding came through for his movie. In fact, it was a lot of money, so he has no need to make money by killing the rhinos.”
Yeah, thanks to me, we know Chef L’Oeuf is our man. I flip my hair.
Junie’s watching me, all quizzical. I forget she can’t hear what my mom’s saying. I tell her about Damon getting a bunch of money for his movie.
“That’ll make Amber happy,” Junie says, “especially if it means
she gets more screen time and a line.”
Grandpa croaks out a bunch of gibberish and punctuates it with another scary burp.
“I’m very proud of Sherry too, Wilhelm,” Mom says.
Obviously, I rock. The cell phone thing was just a small miscalculation. I high-five Junie. I smile big across the table at Mom. Then I turn to flash an ear-to-ear grin at Grandpa.
He’s asleep, his little head tucked under his little wing. He snorts out a nasally snore.
“I’m worried about your grandfather. He must be exhausted,” Mom says. “Flapping from Phoenix and up to the Wild Animal Park was a long haul for him. Also, he’s been flying local reconnaissance, getting to know the lay of the land.”
“While he’s napping, what’s next for us?” I rub my shoulder. “A Jacuzzi sounds like the hot ticket after all that meringue beating.” I pretzel-twist down to massage my calf. “Plus, I hiked three million miles in sandals yesterday.”
Ignoring my pain, she says, “Is there any way you can spend more time at the restaurant? See if you uncover anything on the poacher’s identity?”
“No!” I screech. “I deep-sixed the chef’s cell in egg whites and sugar. Me and Junie hightailed it outta On the Bay so fast our heels were smoking. I’m never showing my face there again. Even if it’s the last restaurant open on Earth. And I only have dirt and worms to eat and my own saliva to drink.”
Junie’s also looking freaked at the idea of going back to the restaurant.
“I get it, Sherry.” Mom sighs. “Tell me about the phone call. All the details you can remember.”
All the details? I choose a few strands of hair and start twirling. Who knew there’d be a test? “Chef L’Oeuf wants the meat and the horn. I already told you that.” Twirl. Twirl. Twirl. “And he’ll give the poacher more money.”
“Anything else?”
I twirl a bunch more hair—like, half my head. Was there something else? Maybe. It’s kinda like trying to remember a dream. “Maybe.” I shake my head. “He coulda said more. But maybe not.”
“If you remember something, Sherry, tell me.” I bet Mom’s twirling her hair too. “Did Junie hear anything?”
“No, she wasn’t in the kitchen at the time.” I tell Junie, “My mom’s asking about the phone call.”
Junie nods. “That’s when I was stuck moving furniture.”
Hands behind her ears, Junie’s listening intently. She frowns with frustration. “I can’t hear a thing.”
“Sorry,” I say to her. To my mom, I say, “Where do we go next?”
“When you’re stuck in an investigation, always return to the scene of the crime,” Mom says.
I look up at Grandpa, snoring peacefully, claws gripping a branch. “What about Grandpa?”
“He needs his sleep,” Mom says. “Where’s Amber? She can drive you two to the Park. I’ll meet you there.”
I translate for Junie, who pulls out her cell. “There’s not much point in going now,” she says. “Doesn’t the Park close soon?”
See why she gets all As? The girl never takes a vacation from thinking.
Junie doesn’t even squeeze in “Hello” before Amber’s making lots of noise in her ear.
Junie says, “My bad. I didn’t know you were with someone, but Sherry and I need a ride to the Wild Animal Park tomorrow.”
More noise from Amber.
“I don’t need to play fair. I can rat you out about Sean Franklin’s bad older brother.”
More noise.
“Of course I know the Golden Rule.” Junie pauses. “What kind of deal?” Her voice is wary. She closes her eyes, listening. “Fine. I’ll do it.” She opens her eyes. “And you’ll take us to the Park tomorrow morning.” She disconnects.
I raise my eyebrows. “So?”
“I have to be an extra on the set tomorrow afternoon.”
“What? Why?”
“Apparently, I make Amber look good.”
“So, Junie,” I say, “we’re off detective duty till the morning.” In the snap of a finger, the blisters on my feet heal and my shoulder stops throbbing. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”
“Shopping!” we squeal together.
It’s Wednesday morning, and Amber is not in a good mood. Slamming my aunt’s pink Mary Kay car into drive, she scowls and mutters under her breath about babysitting and her ruined life. Anyway, that’s all I pick up from the backseat. Junie’s in front and is probably catching more of the muttering.
I ignore the tension in the car to admire my sweet new tank top. It’s turquoise + sea green and goes great with my floral skirt. If I ever score some Keflit, I will so match my aquarium. Junie discovered the tank top on a sale rack during last night’s shopping spree. Fifteen percent off. Junie loves percentages. For herself, she found silk-trimmed Bermuda shorts. Very Gap. And yay for parents who are pretty generous with vacay spending money.
About halfway up the highway to the Wild Animal Park, Junie decides to deal with Amber’s bad attitude. She winks at me, then pulls a small paper bag out of her purse. “Anyone for saltwater taffy?”
Amber stops scowling. “Sure.”
Junie hands her a Harry Potter candy.
Amber thinks she’s such a princess that she doesn’t even say thank you. She crumples the wrapper, drops it on the car floor and pops the candy into her mouth. She chews. Her face scrunches up. “Ewww. Yuck. Ewww. Yuck.” She bats at her mouth. “What is it?”
“Saltwater taffy,” Junie says, all innocent. “Gross-out–style.” She giggles. “Barf flavor.” She grabs her stomach, she’s laughing so hard.
Amber pulls over to the shoulder. “Yuck. Disgusting. Repulsive.” She rolls down the window and spits out the candy. “I’m doing a U-turn.”
Ack. No. I can’t let a cousin squabble get in the way of saving the rhinos. “You want a yummy one to get the taste out of your mouth?”
Swiping her hand across her mouth, Amber says, “I can’t trust you.”
“You can. I’m not the practical joker.” Which is completely true. Despite her incredible braininess, it’s Junie who loves a dumb practical joke.
In between laughs, Junie tosses me the bag, and I fish out a candy, which I hand to Amber. “Banana cream pie.”
With the edges of her teeth, Amber mouse-nibbles the tiniest of tastes. She chews for a sec. “This is excellent.” She chews for a minute. “What else do you have?”
“Caramel cheesecake, chocolate chip, tropical punch.”
“I’ll take them all.” Amber noses back onto the road. In the right direction.
I saved the day.
Once inside the Park, Amber follows me and Junie on the path to the rhino exhibit. She says, “We’re not staying long.”
Hordes of visitors are tramping past us.
“Why aren’t we going that way?” Amber asks.
Junie unfolds the map-and-events pamphlet. “Everyone’s headed to the bird show.”
As we’re rounding the curve, I see a bunch of old people clumped around the fence. I recognize Bald Man, in his wheelchair, and Tall Lavender Lady Vera towering over Arthur, owner of the beautiful, sparkling Keflit. Wow. These are serious rhino gazers. I point them out.
“I knew there wouldn’t be any cute guys,” Amber says. “Total waste of my morning.”
“How many cute guys do you need?” I ask.
“Seriously,” Junie says. “You’ve already got Rob and the pool-key guy here.”
“Like I only want one boyfriend at a time?” Amber rolls her eyes. “You two are so middle school.”
By now, we’re pretty close to the old people. They nudge each other, then shuffle away from us. Must be medication time again.
“They don’t act too happy to see you,” Amber says.
I’m about to respond, when who do I see trotting down the path? Gary. With his perfect wavy hair and wide shoulders, he’s even more adorable than I remembered.
His twinkling eyes land on Amber, Junie and me. Well, mostly on Amber
. Her eyes are twinkling too, enough to start a fire. And they’re definitely on him.
“Sherry, right?” Gary says, walking over.
Amber flips her hair and, with huge hip action, moves toward Gary. “I’m Amber.”
Yeesh. Could she be more obvious?
“Amber, aren’t you thirsty?” Junie asks. “Maybe Gary could show you where to get a drink?”
Gary has a dorky look on his face. “It is time for my break.”
“Perfect.” Like an octopus, Amber latches on to Gary’s elbow. “Thanks for looking out for me, little cousin.”
Out of the side of her mouth, Junie says to me, “It’ll be easier to look around without her.”
“Brilliant move, Detective Carter,” I reply under my breath.
“Gary!” Bald Man shouts grumpily. “Over here. We have questions.”
“I’ll catch you guys later,” Gary calls. Then he and Amber leave.
The old people huddle in a circle, mumbling and grumbling. They definitely need medication.
“So, we’re just nosing around, looking for anything odd?” Junie asks.
“Basically,” I say. “We really need my mother here.”
The words are barely out of my mouth when I get a whiff of coffee.
“Hi, Mom,” I say.
“That was close,” Mom says. “I thought I wasn’t going to find you. Grandpa’s feeling a little under the weather, so I came out on my own.”
“We better get started,” I say. “Amber won’t wanna be late for the movie thing this afternoon.”
“Sherry, you and I’ll start at opposite ends of the fence, then fan out,” Mom says. “Junie can go across the path and work back toward us. Look for anything unusual, anything out of the ordinary. This is your basic needle-in-a-haystack search.”
I pass the word on to Junie.
Dropping to my hands and knees, I pat the ground along the fence. I’m slowly crawling toward the old people, pretty hidden by all the small bushes and tall grasses.
Next to me, on the other side of the fence, there’s a snurgling sound and a distinct barnyard smell. Little Ongava’s scrounging up a snack. He shoots me a friendly look.
A cell phone rings. Arthur picks up. After he disconnects, there’s more huddling and mumbling and grumbling.