The Most Marvellous Spelling Bee Mystery

by Deborah Abela

  Mrs Kapoor linked arms with her husband. ‘You two catch up while we check in.’

  It was then that Rajish saw something out of the corner of his eye. Or more precisely, someone. ‘Oh no, she’s here.’

  ‘Who?’ India followed his stare. ‘Oh. She’s back.’

  Through the doors of the Royal Windsor Hotel strode Summer Millicent Ernestine Beauregard-Champion.

  She moved as if she were in a shampoo commercial. Her dress shimmered and her blonde curls bounced and swished. Summer thought it was very important to make an impression every time she entered a room.

  And this was no exception.

  India and Rajish had met Summer during the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee, where she made it clear she was superior to everyone, especially India.

  ‘Do you think she’s changed?’ Rajish watched as the doorman bowed and welcomed her inside.

  ‘Maybe.’ India was hopeful, especially as Summer seemed to soften by the end of the Bee and they’d almost become friends.

  Summer sailed by the doorman without saying thank you, while a young woman behind her juggled boxes and bags, hurrying to keep up.

  India sighed. ‘Or maybe not.’

  Summer stopped in the centre of the foyer and tucked her sunglasses on top of her luxurious curls. She scanned the room to make sure most people had seen her entrance.

  When she saw India, her supremely confident pose wilted a little and was replaced by a small, hopeful smile.

  ‘Is she smiling at us?’ Rajish looked behind him, just to be sure.

  India nodded. ‘I think so.’

  Summer resumed her more self-assured manner and sashayed towards them.

  ‘Rajish! India!’ she cried as if they were old friends. ‘It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘It is?’ India was wary.

  Summer threw her head back and laughed. ‘Of course it is. Australia’s top three spellers back together, ready to take on the world!’

  There was an awkward pause.

  Rajish studied her face carefully. ‘What have you done with the real Summer? The one who wasn’t all that nice to –’

  ‘She’s gone,’ Summer interrupted, eager not to be reminded. ‘I mean, I’m here but …’ She dropped the fake smile. ‘I’m sorry if I was a little … difficult last time, but I was hoping we could start afresh.’

  ‘Start afresh?’ Rajish rubbed his chin.

  India followed his lead. ‘We’ll have to think about it.’

  ‘Oh …’ Summer looked disappointed.

  They let her linger a few seconds. ‘Okay,’ Rajish decided. ‘I’ve thought about it.’ He flashed his sparkling smile. ‘That would be fine.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I agree,’ India said. ‘We had a bumpy start last time, but that’s no reason we can’t be friends now.’

  ‘Awesome!’ Summer squealed, which was something she never did, and quickly composed herself. ‘I mean, excellent.’

  Just then, something else extraordinary happened.

  A man and a woman dressed in lycra tights and matching T-shirts that read Beaut Butts and Guts burst into the hotel. The woman placed a speaker on the grand piano, to the horror of the pianist, and high-energy music blared as they began to perform synchronised aerobic moves.

  ‘Are you tired of feeling fat?’ the man cried. ‘Do you wish you could have muscles like these?’ He flexed his sizeable arms. ‘Are you searching for the real you trapped beneath all that flab?’

  India noticed a girl with long plaits and glasses tiptoe into the hotel and slip behind a potted palm tree.

  ‘Well, today is your lucky day,’ the woman added with exaggerated glee, ‘because we here at Beaut Butts and Guts have come to help. With our specially designed exercise program, you’ll have your ideal body in weeks! No butt is too big; no gut is too flabby.’

  The girl peeked out from between the palm fronds.

  The music became faster as the woman cart-wheeled away from the man. She turned and ran towards him, leaping into his arms like an Olympic gymnast. They announced victoriously, ‘We’ve got the butts and guts for you!’

  The music came to an uplifting finish. The two stood like a weirdly composed statue. No-one moved except for the girl behind the pot plant, who melted to the floor in a pool of embarrassment.

  There was a strained silence until a lone person clapped.

  ‘Thank you.’ The man put the woman on the floor and they took a bow. ‘We’re Jenny and Terry Trifle, and we’re here to help.’ He zeroed in on a woman eating a chocolate bar. ‘Ma’am, you look like you could use Beaut Butts and Guts.’

  They moved through the crowd, handing out business cards with broad smiles plastered on their tanned faces. The girl behind the plant cradled her head in her hands. India decided she was going to introduce herself when an unforeseen event unfolded.

  It happened like this.

  High above them, the rope from the Spelling Bee banner had frayed after more than 50 years of swaying from the ceiling of the Royal Windsor Hotel. And now those frayed strands were beginning to weaken. One by one they snapped, and the banner began to sag.

  But no-one noticed.

  Not yet.

  The weight of the sagging banner meant the strands broke even faster, until the last few finally gave way. The banner crumpled like a torn parachute and rippled towards the ground.

  A handful of guests and staff looked up. Some called out. Most dived out of the way. Except for Terry and Jenny Trifle, who were busy talking about butts and guts. When the woman with the chocolate bar backed away from Mr Trifle, he thought she was just shy or intimidated by his impressively muscly biceps – he was wrong. She wanted to avoid what was most certainly going to happen next.

  The man in the cardigan beside the young boy saw it all unfolding clearly.

  ‘Wait here,’ he said before running towards Nanna Flo, who was tipping a bowl of apples into her handbag, oblivious of the danger. Seconds before the heavy banner reached the ground, he swept her off her feet and scooped her out of the way.

  Mr Trifle finally looked up. His only words were, ‘Oh no,’ before he and Mrs Trifle were smothered in the many folds of the Spelling Bee banner.

  ‘Help!’ Mrs Trifle was furious that their perfect entrance had been so thoroughly ruined.

  Mr O’Malley and the hotel staff were hurrying to their rescue when Nanna Flo realised she was in the arms of a stranger. And holding the empty bowl of apples. ‘Is this always how you say hello?’

  The man placed her on the ground. ‘I used to be a fireman.’ He shrugged apologetically. ‘Acting fast in a crisis was part of the job.’

  ‘Which is lucky for me,’ Nanna Flo said and then did something the Wimples had never seen her do: she giggled.

  Mrs Trifle screeched from beneath the banner. ‘Get this off me.’ Her arms flailed, making it harder for the hotel staff to untangle her.

  ‘Coming, darling,’ Mr Trifle promised with a muffled cry. ‘I’ll save you, pumpkin.’

  India saw the girl with the plaits and glasses slowly emerge from behind the pot plant – her head bowed, her shoulders slumped, and her face a picture of pure misery.

  It had been many months since a less confident India had competed in the Stupendously Spectacular Spelling Bee. Back then, even the idea of being with strangers would make her break out in goosebumps and her stomach twist into a nauseous knot.

  Entering the Bee had helped India face her fears, and, to her surprise, not feel nearly as sick. She even enjoyed it – in the end.

  But standing in their suite in the Royal Windsor Hotel, about to meet the other contestants, some of those earlier feelings came back – feelings of being an ordinary girl from a small country town who didn’t belong. It made her pulse quicken and her head spin.

  ‘How do I look?’

  India was wearing white pants with a white cheesecloth top that was her mother’s.

  ‘You look perfect!’ Dad kissed her on the forehead.
‘But you could be wearing a potato sack and my answer would still be the same.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad, but I know you’re fibbing.’

  ‘It’s true!’ Mum said. ‘You dressed as a sack of potatoes at the Yungabilla Show when you were five and won first prize.’

  ‘That proves it!’ Nanna Flo looked at her watch. ‘You’d better go – you don’t want to be late.’

  India didn’t move. ‘Is everything okay?’ Dad asked carefully.

  ‘I don’t really know how to talk to strangers.’

  ‘We can help with that,’ Mum said. ‘First thing is to smile. It makes everyone feel better.’

  ‘Then tell them your name and where you’re from,’ Boo added.

  ‘Find something you have in common,’ Dad suggested. ‘That always worked when I was a journo.’

  ‘Try to make them laugh,’ Nanna Flo said. ‘People love a good laugh.’

  India hoped she could remember her family’s advice.

  ‘But mostly,’ Mum said, ‘be yourself and everyone will see how charming you are.’

  ‘You are charming,’ Boo agreed.

  ‘You’ll charm the pants off them,’ Dad said.

  ‘Anyone who isn’t charmed is a pickle,’ Nanna Flo declared.

  India smiled. Once again her family lifted her spirits just as they were about to tumble.

  Until what Dad said next: ‘Plus, they won’t all be strangers. Rajish will be there.’

  ‘Rajish?’ India’s heart lurched again, as if she were suddenly on a ship that hit a huge wave.

  ‘Yes.’ Dad frowned. ‘Your friend. Remember?’

  ‘Of course I remember.’ India’s overzealous laugh made the rest of the Wimples frown too. ‘Nanna’s right; I’d better go.’

  As the Wimples waved her off and the elevator doors slid shut, India hoped she wouldn’t freeze or say anything silly or have nothing to say at all.

  Moments later, the doors opened and a short, stout woman carrying a clipboard stepped inside. She wore all black, with a helmet of black hair and a miserable pout, as if she’d just received some really disappointing news. If everything about Mr O’Malley was sprightly, everything about this woman was most definitely not.

  Around her neck was a name tag: Esmerelda Stomp, Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee Director.

  India remembered her family’s advice, took a steadying breath and gave it a shot.

  She offered a smile but immediately worried that it came out more as a grimace, so she tried the next step: the introduction. ‘I’m India Wimple from Australia.’

  Esmerelda, who was focussed on her clipboard, offered a small grunt.

  India tried Dad’s advice: she needed to find something they had in common.

  ‘It must be a dream job working on a competition that inspires children all over the world.’

  Esmerelda slowly turned to India. Her stare was so cold that the temperature in the elevator seemed to drop. ‘Listen, kid, don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t like spelling bees, or children. I fell into this job when the previous director went on holiday and never came back. I’m not sure why I didn’t do the same.’

  Esmerelda’s face was chiselled with a seriousness that made India wonder if she’d ever smiled in her life.

  ‘In fact, I wouldn’t mind if the Bee was cancelled. No more pushy brats with their even pushier parents thinking their kids are the bee’s knees. No more tantrums or tears when they lose and no more runaway egos when they win. Gives me indigestion just thinking about it.’

  ‘Spelling bees can be very stressful,’ India argued.

  ‘Stressful? When I was a kid you almost had to lose a limb before adults paid you any attention, and even then you weren’t allowed to cry.’

  ‘That seems a bit cruel.’ India hoped they’d reach the foyer soon.

  ‘Toughened us up. Prepared us for all the rotten things that would happen in life.’ Esmerelda raised an eyebrow. ‘And the rotten jobs we’d be stuck with.’

  She glanced up as if she were staring out an imaginary window. ‘I should have been a pig farmer, like I planned. Cute snouts and curly tails. Spelling Bee director? A dream job? Pah!’

  Ping!

  The doors opened and Esmerelda stomped out without another word, leaving India with the feeling that she’d been dropped into a pile of snow. She hadn’t even got to the part about making the woman laugh. She rubbed her arms to warm them up and stepped into the busy foyer, which was bubbling with music and the excited murmurings and laughter of its guests.

  Ping!

  Another elevator opened beside her, and the Trifles swaggered out in matching black tracksuits and fluorescent yellow trainers. The young girl with plaits crept out behind them.

  Mr Trifle was munching on a strip of beef jerky. ‘This Spelling Bee thingamabob is very impressive.’ He scanned the packed foyer with a satisfied grin.

  ‘Yes,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘We’re very proud of you, Molly.’

  Holly looked over her shoulder in case her mum really was talking to someone called Molly. ‘Me?’

  ‘Of course! Look at all these people hoping their kid is going to win, when we know it’s going to be you.’

  Holly smiled. Her mum had never once said anything nice to her, but here she was telling her she was proud.

  Maybe being at the Most Marvellous International Spelling Bee would make them closer after all. Maybe their time together would prove that, even though she wasn’t like Gertrude and Benedict, they were still a family, and that was something to be cherished. That was the kind of story that often happened in the books she’d read.

  Maybe it was going to happen to her, too.

  Mrs Trifle rubbed her hands together. ‘Not only will you collect that prize money, but the publicity is going to bring in a flood of new customers … and a very tidy profit for Beaut Butts and Guts.’

  ‘What?’ Holly didn’t even try to hide her disappointment.

  ‘This place is a goldmine.’ Mrs Trifle flung out her arms. ‘Just look at all these sagging arms and flabby bellies.’

  Holly desperately wished her mother would lower her voice.

  ‘The poor level of fitness is magnificent.’ Mr Trifle beamed.

  Holly tugged at the ends of her plaits, worried that she was about to be sick all over her parents’ tracksuits and trainers.

  ‘But most of the spellers are from overseas,’ Holly argued. ‘They won’t want to sign up to a gym in Canada.’

  ‘It’s not a gym, Molly,’ Mrs Trifle hissed. ‘It’s a fitness and beauty emporium, which will one day be worldwide, but until then people can sign up for online classes and buy our stylish work-out gear, personalised squat routines and a wide range of healthy snacks.’

  Mr Trifle waved his beef jerky, which Holly thought smelled like an old leather shoe. ‘Like the Beaut Butts and Guts Protein-packed Jerky, made from the finest strips of beef and dried to perfection. Who can resist that?’ He threw the remaining piece in his mouth. ‘Mmmm-mmm. De-wicious,’ he mumbled before struggling to swallow. ‘You brought us here, sweetheart, and made it all possible.’

  Holly was regretting that fact with each passing moment.

  She stared at her parents, who were wide-eyed with glee at the prospect of so much money within tantalising reach. Her whole body sank in misery.

  ‘Stand up straight,’ Mrs Trifle ordered. ‘Why do you slouch all the time? It’s like you’re trying to hide from something.’

  Holly did as she was told, even though hiding from her family sounded like the perfect idea.

  ‘You’re a Trifle, and that’s something to be proud of. Especially when you look at all these out-of-shape, roly-poly porkers in need of our help.’

  Holly’s skin prickled with fear. She hoped no-one could hear what her parents were saying.

  Mrs Trifle took a stack of business cards from her bum bag.

  ‘Please.’ Holly tried to stop her. ‘Maybe this isn’t a good time.’

  ‘Ah, b
ut you see, Molly, that’s where you’re wrong,’ Mrs Trifle said. ‘That’s why we’re the parents and you’re the child. This is the perfect time. As people stuff a cream puff or hot dog in their mouth, we’ll innocently walk up beside them and make them feel so horribly guilty that they’ll sign up on the spot.’

  And as it happened so many times in Holly’s life, just as she thought her parents couldn’t get any more embarrassing, her mother began star jumping.

  ‘Go and play with the other children,’ she ordered as she bounced. ‘You might even make a friend.’

  ‘A friend?’

  ‘Yes, a friend, but focus on the podgy ones so you can help drum up business.’ She stopped star jumping and turned to Mr Trifle. ‘Ready, darling?’

  ‘Ready.’ He kissed his daughter on the head. ‘Have fun.’

  As they strode headlong into the crowd, Holly remembered the dinner: ‘Don’t forget to wear white.’

  Holly wasn’t very tall, but being with her parents often made her feel even smaller. She wanted to slink back to her room and was about to step into the elevator when she heard a voice behind her.

  ‘Are you okay?’ It was India.

  Holly nodded as she watched her parents approach another victim. ‘They mean well. They can just be a little,’ she struggled to find the right word, ‘fixated sometimes.’

  The foyer buzzed with people and pooches, laughing and barking. Holly stood in the middle of it all, as if she didn’t belong.

  India knew exactly how that felt.

  This time she was determined to make her family’s friendship advice work.

  She smiled. ‘I’m India, from Australia.’

  ‘I’m Holly, from Canada.’

  It’s going well so far, India thought. Now I need to find something we have in common.

  ‘It’s strange, isn’t it? How being here can be so exciting and so terrifying at the same time?’

  Holly’s eyes widened. ‘You feel that too?’

  ‘Most of the time I waver between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw up.’

  Holly laughed. ‘I thought it was just me.’