“Perfect! Now go make your first room service delivery of the day, Mr. Wilkie. And when you two finish your breakfasts, it’s time to turn up the heat. You need to go back out there and solve the case of the missing tiara.”
“But we don’t have any leads,” I told him as I picked up the tray.
“Then find some.”
“Fantastic idea, Dad,” said Gloria, rolling her eyes. “I wonder why we didn’t think of that.”
“Hey, if the guy from 228 could clear Jimbo,” he said, “maybe the folks in some of the other rooms could help you out, too.”
I stood there. Dumbfounded.
Mr. Ortega was absolutely right.
“There might’ve been other witnesses!” I said.
He shot me a finger pistol. “Hey, hey, Tampa Bay—it’s time to get to it!”
Right after our pancake breakfast (which, by the way, was delicious and which Mom loved), Gloria and I headed upstairs to the second floor.
We took a platter of scrapple samples with us.
First we went to room 231.
A bunch of college kids, maybe six, were sharing the room.
“Um, hi, I’m from the Banana Shack,” I announced when one of the sleepy-headed guys opened the door. “Were you here on Friday?”
“No,” the guy said with a yawn. “We checked in yesterday, after a buddy tweeted us about the free-night deal.”
That meant they couldn’t’ve seen anything the day the tiara disappeared, because they hadn’t been there.
“Well,” I said, “as part of our new promotion, you’re entitled to a free scrapple sample during your stay. Would you like yours now?”
“No. What I’d like is to go back to sleep. Do you know what time it is?”
“Yes, sir. We’re a full-service motel.” I looked at my watch. “The time is now—”
He shut the door in my face.
We had given room 230 to Travis and Darryl, because they were our sand-sculpting team (and they were still sleeping on the beach).
“We could try the rooms on the other side of the staircase, too,” said Gloria. “They might’ve seen something.”
“Definitely. But we still have three more on this side.”
“One more. I’m in 233. Dad’s in 234.”
“Which leaves us 232.”
I rapped my knuckles lightly on the door.
“Yes?” said a sweet and sunny voice on the other side. “Who is it?”
“Room service.”
“That’s very nice. But I didn’t order anything.”
“We’re giving away free samples of scrapple.”
Someone pulled back the curtain in the window near the door. It was Helen Nelson, the lady from Canada who always booked the same four-week vacation with us every year.
I waved at her.
She smiled and waved at me.
I waved back.
She waved back, too.
It could’ve gone on all day. Canadian people are very, very polite.
“We brought you scrapple!” I announced.
“Really?” said Ms. Nelson. “I’d love to play!”
She opened the door.
“Where’s the game board?” she asked when she saw that all I had was a plate of rectangular meat blocks.
I explained to her what scrapple was.
She didn’t want any.
Because, like I said, I explained to her what scrapple was.
“Can I ask you a couple questions?”
“Why certainly, Phineas.”
“Did you see anything suspicious out here on the balcony Friday?”
“You mean before those college kids moved into 229? Because I think one of those boys is sleeping on an inflatable hippopotamus pool float, and that’s very suspicious if you ask me.”
“Before that,” said Gloria. “Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”
“Just those Roman candles they shot off down at the Surf Monkey sand sculpture. I believe fireworks are forbidden on the beach….”
I nodded. “Our sand sculptors are from out of town. They don’t know all the rules.”
“Well, I’ll be sure to tell them. Especially that Travis. He sure is a cutie-patootie, eh?”
“Yes, ma’am. Did you see anything else, Ms. Nelson?”
“No. But since you’re here, Phineas…”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“I was wondering: could I change rooms, like that handsome young Travis and his friend did?”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re in 230 now, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“Well, Friday afternoon, not too long after his buddy set off the illegal fireworks down on the beach, I saw Travis coming out of room 227 with his bright blue sand bucket. If they’re happy with 230, I’d love to take over 227. It’s so much closer to the steps.”
“You saw Travis coming out of 227?” I said. “On Friday?”
“That’s right.”
I stood up on tiptoes and kissed Ms. Nelson on the cheek.
“Thank you!”
“For what?”
“Everything!”
Gloria and I raced to my room to retrieve the sand sample we’d swept into the plastic ice-bucket liner when we’d examined the butler’s room.
“This sand probably fell out of Travis’s bucket,” I said.
“While he was frantically scooping out a shallow hole to bury the Twittleham Tiara!” added Gloria.
She was right. A sand bucket would have made a fantastic portable hiding place for the jeweled tiara. Travis could have covered it up and waltzed back to his room without anyone asking any questions.
“But how do we link the sand we found in the room to Travis?” I puzzled out loud.
“If it’s heavy sand,” said Gloria, “that’ll tie it to one of the sand sculptures.”
I nodded, remembering that Travis and Darryl had told us the sculptors used a different kind of sand from what we’d find on the beach. It had a different texture and was thicker.
All the other sculptors were using what Travis had called “cheaper, inferior material.” Because the Michelsandgelo team had insisted on “first-class” sand, it’d be super easy to tie them to the sand we found in the butler’s room.
“If the sand in this bag matches the sand in the Surf Monkey sculpture, then we’ve got ’em!” I told Gloria. “No one else is using that type of sand.”
“True,” said Gloria. “But how do we get the tiara back?”
“One step at a time,” I said. “First we need to see if the sand matches.”
“And how are we going to do that?”
I snapped my fingers. “Ms. Carey!”
“Our science teacher?”
“We can put both sand samples under a microscope, like they do on the CSI shows with hairs and fibers. Make the match.”
“Today’s a holiday, P.T. The contest ends this afternoon. Travis and Darryl and all the other sand sculptors will be gone by the time we’re back in science class.”
“So we have to work fast.”
“School’s closed,” said Gloria. “That’s why we aren’t there.”
“Good thing science never takes a holiday,” I said, reminding Gloria of Ms. Carey’s speech to us on Friday.
“Okay,” said Gloria, her confidence clearly building. “This might work. Maybe.”
She took a long, thoughtful pause.
“But what?” I asked.
“Well, not to be a buzzkill, but who’s going to extract a sand sample from the Surf Monkey sculpture without Travis and Darryl getting suspicious? If they figure out we’re onto them, they may bolt.”
“And take the tiara with them.”
“Exactly. I’m sorry, P.T., but we may need to go back and sharpen our pencils, rethink this. Maybe we should call the police.”
“Um, I don’t think we should do that.”
“Why not?”
“Because they basically told Mom not to call them a
nymore after we made the mistake with Jimbo.”
“But if we have proof…”
“We don’t. All we have right now is a plastic bag with a tablespoon of sand in it.”
“So what are our next steps?”
I snapped my fingers. Again.
“Chunky Funky Monkey delivery!”
“Huh?”
“We take Travis and Darryl an early lunch.”
“Oh-kay. But how, exactly, does taking them sandwiches get us our sand?”
“Easy,” I told her. “I can be extremely clumsy when I put my mind to it. I have a feeling I might drop the tray—right on Surf Monkey and Poseidon!”
We hit the Banana Shack and loaded up a tray with two sandwiches, a couple of bags of chips, soda cans, and empty paper cups.
Those paper cups were the most important part of the meal.
“Hi, guys,” I said merrily when we arrived at the Surf Monkey sand sculpture. “Who’s hungry for lunch?”
“Lunch?” said Darryl. “It’s only ten o’clock. Nobody eats lunch before noon.”
I raised the tray to show Travis the gooey sandwiches.
His nose started twitching. Darryl’s, too.
It’s hard to resist the alluring scent of chocolate, banana, peanut butter, and cream cheese all melted together in grilled deliciousness.
Darryl reached for a sandwich.
I raised the tray an inch or two, tilting it at a thirty-degree angle. My geometry teacher would’ve been proud.
The plates and chip bags and soda cans and waxy cups slid downhill and tumbled off the edge of the tray.
“Whoops!”
I fake flinched and dumped the whole load.
“My bad.”
“Let me help you clean up that mess,” said Gloria.
We dropped to our knees and pretended to clean up.
What we were really doing was scooping up heavy-sand samples in that pair of paper cups.
While we were down on our knees, I couldn’t help noticing that both Travis and Darryl were wearing leather tool belts full of sharp, pointy objects they could’ve used to pick the lock on room 227—if Lady Lilly hadn’t just left the door wide open for them when she went running down to the beach to catch the fireworks display.
Wait a second, I thought. Were the Roman candles a coincidence?
Maybe Travis had seen Lady Lilly parading around in the room, wearing the tiara. With all those sparkling diamonds, it sure seemed like it would catch your eye, even all the way down on the beach.
Especially if you had binoculars to spy on the cook and guests up at the motel, like Travis did.
I figured he went upstairs and waited for Darryl to light the fireworks, hoping they would lure Lilly out of the room, which, of course, they did!
“So, um, do you guys still want the, uh, sandy sandwiches?” I asked when we had everything back on the tray.
“No thanks,” said Travis. “But we’ll take those two sodas.”
“Sure.” I tossed him both cans.
By the way, they were hot.
So I was pretty sure that with the added shaking from the tumble and toss, they’d explode the instant Travis and Darryl popped them open.
Fact: you say mean stuff about my mother, sooner or later you’re gonna get an exploding geyser of hot, sticky soda—right in your face.
“You two are officially my favorite science students of all time!” gushed Ms. Carey as she led us down the middle school’s deserted hallways to the science lab. “No one has ever asked to borrow a microscope on a school holiday.”
“Well, it’s kind of a CSI game we’re playing,” I said.
“Oh, I love those crime scene investigator shows. Las Vegas, Miami, New York. I watch ’em all. Love the science.”
“Us too,” I said.
“So what are we working with?” asked Ms. Carey. “Carpet fibers? Grass clippings?”
“Sand.”
“Oh. CSI: Beach Patrol!”
“Exactly.”
“We need to do a side-by-side comparison of two sand samples under the microscope,” said Gloria.
We set up two microscopes and took turns eyeballing the evidence.
(By the way, sand looks unbelievably awesome under a microscope! You should try it.)
They were exactly the same. The sand from the butler’s room matched the sand from the Surf Monkey sculpture! We’d connected the sand sculptors to the scene of the crime.
We thanked Ms. Carey and headed back to the Wonderland on our bikes.
“We need more evidence,” said Gloria. “What do we know about the two sand sculptors? Anything?”
“I hung out with Travis a little,” I admitted.
“What did you learn?”
“That he’s very handsome and very charming and can spin a good story.”
“I’m not with you on the charming,” said Gloria.
“Yeah, me neither. Not anymore. He also told me he used to be the top sand sculptor in all of Florida twelve years ago. But then he had to leave. The heat down here was too much for him.”
The instant I said it, I realized what Travis had meant.
He hadn’t been complaining about Florida’s hot temperatures and high humidity.
He was worried about “the heat.”
That’s what bad guys always call the cops on TV shows!
Gloria and I hit the computer in the business center, which is really just the coffee room where we set out pastries for breakfast.
Nobody—except, of course, Gloria Ortega—has ever come to the Wonderland hoping to do business. But we do have a computer and a printer. Sometimes the printer even has paper in it. Sometimes.
After some random Googling, we dug up a string of articles from twelve years ago about “mysterious disappearances” and “unexplained thefts” taking place in hotels and motels near sand sculpture festival sites in Florida. Wallets, credit cards, jewelry, and expensive electronic gear were all reported missing.
One article we found, from a newspaper in Fort Myers, Florida, said:
Several guests at the hotel where the thefts took place reported seeing a man wearing cargo shorts, a tool belt, and a floppy sun hat “lurking” near rooms where the burglaries occurred. The man was later identified as Travis Shelton, a master sculptor who bills himself as “the Great Sandini.” Shelton was a contestant in the American Sand Sculpting Championships taking place over the weekend on Fort Myers Beach. The sheriff’s office found no evidence to implicate Shelton in the thefts, and reports that the investigation into the matter is ongoing.
“No wonder Travis quit competing in Florida,” I said after reading the article. “The heat was definitely on.”
“So why, after twelve years, did he decide to come back?” asked Gloria.
“I dunno. Maybe because Mr. Conch invited him. Maybe Travis and Darryl don’t charge as much as other master sculptors. Maybe they’re cheap, like that sand Mr. Conch wanted everybody to use.”
“And maybe,” said Gloria, “Travis and Darryl can afford to be cheap because they make their real money stealing stuff out of rooms. An interesting business model.”
We did some more Googling to see if there had been any reported thefts in hotels and motels near sand sculpture competitions in the Carolinas and California, the places where Travis had said he’d been competing over the past decade.
There had been.
“We need to search room 230. And we need to search it soon, because those guys are going to pull out of here at five-thirty—right after the closing ceremonies.”
“Slight problem,” said Gloria.
“What?”
“We can’t search their rooms before they check out—not without a search warrant.”
“We can if they let us.”
“Huh?”
“If Darryl and Travis give us permission, we can poke around their room all we want.”
“And how, exactly, is that going to happen?”
“I have an idea.”
“Is it a good one?”
“Definitely. But we’re going to need help.”
“From who?”
The pieces of the puzzle were still sliding into place in my head. But a pretty solid plan was starting to take shape.
“Pinky,” I said.
“No problem,” said Gloria.
“We also need the fanciest video camera your dad has up in his room.”
“How about a refurbished Sony PMW-300K1 XDCAM HD camcorder? He uses it sometimes to grab footage at games and practices.”
“Works for me.” I took a deep breath. “We also need Grandpa.”
“Easy-peasy,” said Gloria.
“Maybe not today.”
“Why?”
“I kind of broke his heart last night.”
I didn’t know what to expect when Gloria and I got to Grandpa’s workshop.
“Go ahead,” said Gloria. “Knock on the door.”
“He might be sleeping.”
“No, P.T. He wakes up at six every morning.”
“But what if—”
“Just knock!”
I did.
“Who is it?”
“Me,” I said.
“And me,” said Gloria.
“Oh. Me-me. Come in, come in. No. Wait. Hang on. First I have to hide this priceless diamond tiara my grandson thinks I stole from those Twittleham twits.”
I pushed open the door.
“Hey, Grandpa,” I said.
“Hello, Phineas.” He was standing in front of the giant hot dog statue. “You ever wonder why a hot dog would squirt ketchup on his head?”
“I think it’s his shampoo.”
“For what? A hot dog is bald. It doesn’t have hair. Maybe ketchup is like sunscreen in Hot Dog Land. Or cologne. Maybe all the hot dog ladies dig a hot dog dude who smells like tomatoes mixed with corn syrup.”
Gloria chuckled. Me too.
“Grandpa?” I said.
“Yes, P.T.?”
“I’m sorry.”
Sandapalooza Shake-Up Page 11