“Charge it to my room,” he said with his mouth full of raw shellfish. He bit into a hot dog. “Ugh. What’s this stuff on top?”
“Tartar sauce,” I said. “We ran out of pickle relish. And what’s tartar sauce except pickle relish and mayonnaise?”
“It’s disgusting is what it is.” He chomped on an onion ring. “Okay. That’s just cold, soggy, and repulsive. Now I need to wash that taste out of my mouth, too.”
He peeled open the burger bun to reveal my very well-done (okay, charred) meat patty. “Wow. Jimbo is way off his game today.”
“Actually, sir, the Banana Shack is under new management.”
“Really?” The guy sucked down a few more oysters. Since they were raw, my cooking couldn’t hurt them.
“Yes, sir. And we’ll be offering some brand-new menu selections. Do you like grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“What kind of cheese?”
“The orange kind in the plastic wrappers.”
“I liked Jimbo’s burgers better.”
“We all did….”
“Where’d he go?”
Instead of spinning a story, I decided to go with the honest answer.
“Um, jail.”
“What? Why?”
“We think he might’ve been involved in the theft of the Twittleham Tiara and a guest’s phone.”
“Jimbo?” He pried open another oyster. “No way. Jimbo’s a good guy. A righteous dude of the first degree, man.” He gulped the slick boogery gunk out of the shell. “If he isn’t here anymore, I might need to check out….”
“But we couldn’t let him stay. Not after we saw what he did.”
“You saw him steal the tiara?”
“Not exactly. But we have a video of him breaking into the British butler’s room.”
We couldn’t afford to lose any more guests, so I pulled out my phone and showed him the video clip I’d had Mr. Ortega forward to me.
“Wrong room,” he said, still chewing a rubbery lump of oyster.
“Excuse me?”
“Wrong. Room.”
“That was my food,” said the man in 228, gulping down another slip ’n’ slide oyster.
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure!” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Who forgets coconut shrimp, grouper nuggets, coconut-cashew-crusted mahimahi, sides of coleslaw and fries, with homemade key lime pie and cheesecake for dessert? Mmm-mmm. Memorable meal, man. On my top-ten list.”
“But why did Jimbo bang on the butler’s door?”
“Because I gave him the wrong room number.”
I waited for him to crack open another oyster and glug it down.
“See, I’m in 228. The butler was in 227. I couldn’t remember my number when I called down for room service, so I looked at my key fob, which I had accidentally dropped into my hot-fudge sundae the night before. I thought I’d licked it clean, but I hadn’t. Anyway, the eight sort of looked like a seven. I heard all that banging on the veranda and went out to apologize to Jimbo for giving him the wrong room number. He brought the food into my room, set me up here at the table. You want to see the key lime pie? I saved the crust in the mini-fridge….”
My stomach was starting to feel a little queasy.
“No thanks,” I told him. “I’m good.”
Fact: sometimes you need more than a quick video clip to see the whole picture. According to America’s Biggest Eater, two seconds after Mr. Ortega blocked the camera lens, Jimbo quit banging on the butler’s door and went into room 228.
The deputies had arrested the wrong guy.
And it was my fault.
I found Mom with a mountain of dirty linen in the laundry room and told her the news. She called the sheriff’s office in Largo.
“We made a horrible mistake,” she said to whoever was on the other end of the call. “Jimbo didn’t do it. No. We don’t know who did. We just know he didn’t. Is he there? Can I talk to him? Thanks.”
About a minute later, Jimbo must’ve picked up the phone in Largo.
“We’re so sorry, Jimbo,” said Mom. “We jumped to a very bad conclusion.”
Jimbo accepted Mom’s apology but said he needed to take “a little break” from work and that he might or might not come back.
“Indecision may or may not be my problem,” he told her. (That’s a line from a Jimmy Buffett song.)
“How are you and Gloria managing in the kitchen?” Mom asked after ending the call with Jimbo.
“Fine,” I said, because she had a worried look on her face. Well, more worried than usual. “We’re tweaking the menu, making it work.”
“Great,” Mom said with a sigh of relief. “I really appreciate it, P.T.”
I headed back to the Banana Shack, where Gloria was examining the wooden bushel we’d found all those raw oysters in. There was a tag on it.
“Jimbo didn’t do it,” I told her.
I filled her in on what I’d learned up in 228. The whole time I was telling the tale (adding in some pretty gross slurp noises to help paint the scene, because details are what make a story sparkle), Gloria wasn’t really paying attention. She kept staring at a tag dangling off the oyster basket.
“Interesting,” she mumbled when I finished.
“So,” I said, “we need a new suspect. I think we should talk to Lady Lilly again. Watching the video for the billionth time, I saw that flash of neon green racing out of the frame. Remember those bright green shorts Lilly was wearing? Boom! That was her!”
“Uh-huh,” Gloria said absentmindedly.
“Oh-kay. Why, exactly, are you more interested in that tag than in solving this crime?”
“Because oysters are perishable, P.T. They’re supposed to be kept refrigerated.”
“So?”
“So we found ours under the sink. Near the garbage. Their expiration date was last week!”
We decided to permanently remove oysters from the menu.
It was mostly Gloria’s idea.
“As your top business advisor,” she said, “I suggest that going forward we stick to our knitting, do what we do best, and take the raw bar items off the Banana Shack menu before the Wonderland brand name becomes synonymous with vomit and/or diarrhea.”
I checked my watch. It’d been about an hour since the guy in 228 had gobbled down his oyster gunk. If he was going to explode, it probably would’ve already happened. We’d dodged a bullet. Or something grosser.
“From now on,” I vowed, “we only serve simple snacks and grilled cheese sandwiches.” I snapped my fingers. “We should move the Morty D. Mouse statue over here. He’s holding that cheese wedge. Maybe change the name of the restaurant to Chucky Cheezy.”
Gloria shook her head. “Trademark issues, P.T. Trademark issues.”
While we were brainstorming our special of the day (I suggested Cool Ranch Doritos; Gloria countered with Reese’s Pieces), a sleek black sedan with tinted windows pulled into our parking lot. A man and woman in charcoal-gray business suits and sunglasses climbed out of the car and headed into the lobby.
“They look like spies,” said Gloria.
Grandpa came out of his workshop, looking upset.
“They’re from Disney!” he grumbled.
“What?” I said.
“Your mother called. Said I had to take over with the laundry because she had to talk to some very important visitors from Walt Disney World. Ha! You’d think she was in there with Mickey and Minnie. Sneaky little tourist-stealing rodents…”
Muttering under his breath, Grandpa headed off to the laundry room.
I flipped the sign hanging on one of the thatched-roofed restaurant’s bamboo poles from “Open” to “Closed.”
“Come on,” I said to Gloria. “We need to see what this is all about.”
We hurried into the lobby just as the two Disney suits were finishing up with Mom.
“In conclusion, Ms. Wilkie,” said the lady, “we are very eager to keep on schedule with
our new attraction inside Cinderella Castle.”
“If your cook will simply return the tiara,” said the man, “Lord and Lady Pettybone, as well as Walt Disney World, promise that no charges will be brought against him.”
“We have so many young fans eager to see the exhibit,” said the lady. “We’d really hate to disappoint them.”
“I wouldn’t!” said Grandpa.
His voice was sort of muffled because he was on the other side of the big glass windows, carrying a laundry basket filled with towels.
Mom rapped her knuckles on the glass, then flicked her wrist. Grandpa shuffled away.
“Look,” Mom said, turning back to the two Disney executives, “we’d love nothing better than to give His Lordship and Her Ladyship back their tiara. But despite what you may have heard on the radio, our cook didn’t steal it. Neither did our maid.”
The Disney lady looked puzzled. “Then why was the cook recently arrested?”
I raised my hand.
“Mostly because of me.”
“We really need to figure out who stole the tiara,” I said to Gloria after the Disney people left and Mom went upstairs to clean more rooms.
“So who’s at the top of our suspect list?” asked Gloria. “The disgruntled butler, Digby?”
I shook my head. “Lady Lilly. Digby told us how much she loves that tiara. Maybe she didn’t want to let it go. Maybe that’s why she was running out of frame in the video. Maybe we caught her trying to make her getaway!”
Gloria gave me an arched eyebrow. “Seriously?”
“Sure. What if she had the tiara tucked under her arm like a football and went running off to find a good place to hide it?”
Now both of Gloria’s eyebrows went up. “P.T., if I may, you’re usually more directionally accurate than that.”
“Huh? What does that mean?”
“Your theory is idiotic. Lilly Pettybone jammed a priceless diamond-and-pearl-studded tiara under her arm as if it were a football and hid it someplace? Where? In a garbage can?”
“Look,” I said, “we know Lilly lied to the butler at least once about locking the box. She’s definitely hiding something, even if it isn’t the Twittleham Tiara. We need to go talk to her again.”
“Fine. But let’s go around the back way. We might be able to avoid Mr. Conch and Veronica. They’re always lurking in the lobby.”
It was nearly three in the afternoon. The sun was beaming its way through the towering clouds. It was prime tanning and pool-dipping time. Gloria and I both figured Lilly would be regally lounging in her chair.
We were correct.
“Did you bring me more movie souvenirs?” Lilly asked eagerly.
“No,” I said, pulling out my phone. “We want to show you a video.”
“Brilliant. Is it Beach Party Surf Monkey?”
“No,” I said. “The DVD hasn’t dropped yet.”
“Look for it this fall,” added Gloria.
“This little movie stars somebody besides Pinky Nelligan and Cassie McGinty,” I told Lilly. “It stars you!”
I showed her the video.
“That green blur,” I said. “That’s you. Those are your neon-green shorts.”
“Quite right. I remember running past the servant carrying all that food.”
“Where were you going in such a hurry?” asked Gloria.
“Down to the sand sculpture exhibition. The team behind your motel had just set off their spectacular fireworks display. I didn’t want to miss it.”
“And where did you put the tiara before you ran out the door?” I asked.
“I told you. It was safely locked in its box in the butler’s room.”
“Was it?” I said. “Or were you still practicing your princess poses with it when your parents and Mr. Digby went to the art museum?”
Lilly bristled. “Excuse me, but you are not permitted to speak to me that way. I am the heir to the Pettybone family title. Now, if you two could kindly move, I would appreciate it. You’re blocking my sun.”
My phone dinged in my hand.
I had an incoming text.
Pinky Nelligan was back in town.
I grinned.
We weren’t done with Lady Lilly.
It was time to play the Pinky card!
In case you forgot, Pinky Nelligan is our middle school bud who became an instant movie star sensation when he took over the lead role in Beach Party Surf Monkey.
How’d a kid from St. Pete Beach land a major role in a big-budget Hollywood movie? Well, first the original star, singing sensation Aidan Tyler (who couldn’t act his way out of a paper bag), quit.
And then, like any good friend, I put in a word with the producers about my musically talented classmate Pinky.
So, yeah, he sort of owed me.
I texted Pinky back. Asked him to meet us at the Conch Reef Resort. He was poolside fifteen minutes later because he has a very speedy brand-new eighteen-gear Italian bicycle. You can buy that kind of stuff after you become a movie star.
“Oh, my gosh!” gasped Lady Lilly when Pinky strolled over to her chair. “You’re you!”
“Yeah,” said Pinky with the same wink he used in the movie. “I’m me.”
I’d tipped him off about what was going on. Pinky had been trailed around the pool by about fifteen fans, but he acted like he only had eyes for Lilly.
Gloria and I drifted over to join Pinky and his gaggle of adoring fans.
“Yo!” said Pinky as we locked hands in a dudely handshake. “P.T.! My main man. And Gloria O. The brains behind the operation. What’s shaking, you two?”
“Not much,” I said. “Just trying to find out what happened with some missing jewelry at the Wonderland.”
“To be specific,” said Gloria, “the Twittleham Tiara.”
Pinky leaned in and took Lilly’s hand. “Wow. I totally dig jewelry. Everybody in Hollywood does. Do you know anything about this missing tiara, Lady Lilly?”
She looked dazed, like she’d fainted even though she was wide awake.
“Why, yes,” she said. “I suppose I do. You see, Father and Mum wanted me to go to a dreary art museum with them. But I wanted to stay home and practice my proper princess posture.”
Pinky nodded sympathetically. “Of course you did. Posture is very important. Especially in the movies. Nobody wants to see you slump on the big screen.”
Lilly shivered and made a squiggly, dolphinish sound.
“Tell me more,” said Pinky.
“Well, Digby, our butler, agreed to leave the Twittleham Tiara unlocked. I guess I whined a little to convince him. I might’ve even threatened to hold my breath until I turned blue.”
“Hey,” said Pinky, “no judgments.”
“Pinky?”
“Yeah, Lilly?”
“You’re even dreamier in person than you are in the movies.”
“Right back at ya. Go on. What happened next?”
“I was having a grand time, pretending it was my coronation day! I paraded around Digby’s room, perfectly balancing the tiara on my head. I waved out the windows to my imaginary peasants below as if I were on the balcony at Buckingham Palace.”
“So how long did all this waving and prancing around take?” asked Gloria, who wasn’t as into girly-girl stuff as Lilly.
“Goodness, I don’t remember exactly. I was giving quite the rousing speech to Digby’s mirror when I heard the fireworks exploding down on the beach. I raced to the window and saw that sand sculptor waving up at me, inviting me to come down and join in the celebration!”
“So, Lilly,” said Pinky, reaching out to take both her hands in his. “You saw the fireworks.”
“That’s right.”
“You dashed out of the room.”
“Yes.”
“Were you still wearing the tiara?”
“Of course not.”
“Cool. So one final question: What did you do with it?”
“I suppose I tossed it on the sofa,” said L
illy.
“You tossed it on the sofa?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Well, I couldn’t very well wear it down to the beach, could I?”
“Of course you couldn’t,” said Pinky, playing the smiling good cop to my scowling bad cop.
“So you just chucked it on the couch?” I said.
“The couch in Digby’s sitting room had nice, plump cushions,” said Lilly. “It was a very soft landing.”
“Did you close the door when you left?” asked Gloria.
Lilly’s nose twitched a little. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?” said Pinky.
“Oh, Pinky. I was in a rush to join in the celebration on the beach.”
“Of course you were.”
“All I remember is dashing out the door. But I’m sure I closed it behind me. Otherwise the servant with the heavy food tray should’ve said something as I ran past him. It’s a servant’s duty to take care of any irregularities, such as open doors.”
“He’s not a servant,” said Gloria. “Jimbo’s a chef.”
“A chef I need to apologize to,” I said.
“Whatever for?” asked Lilly. It sounded like she’d never apologized for anything in her life.
Pinky let go of Lilly’s hands. He turned to me and Gloria. “You guys got everything you need?”
“No,” said Gloria. “Were the curtains still open when you left the butler’s room?”
“I suppose,” said Lady Lilly. “It was Digby’s room. If he wanted the curtains closed, he should’ve closed them himself.”
“So anybody strolling past the window to room 227 could’ve seen the sparkling tiara sitting there on the couch?”
“Only if they were nosey parkers, snooping into someone else’s private room—which, by the way, is extremely bad form.”
“Riiiight,” said Gloria. “Bad form.”
Pinky checked his phone.
Sandapalooza Shake-Up Page 9