A Recipe for Robbery (5 page)

T
he man's hawk eyes blazed in the sunlight. “You heard me. Give it here,” he grumbled.

The locket! Had he seen me with it?

“Uh…I, uh…don't…” My mouth went dry.

“I said to give that ver-mit here.”

“What ver-mit?” I squeaked.

“The bird. It's got my wallet.”

“Oh. You mean Pickles.” I handed the goose to Margaret and pushed myself up through the flowers. “Um…excuse me, sir, but Pickles doesn't have your wallet.”

“Heck he don't. Just took off with it. I saw it myself.”

“Uh, sir. You're standing on your wallet.”

He snatched it off the ground, glaring at me the whole time. “I still want the duck.”

“Actually,” Gus said, hopping up beside me, “it's a goose, not a duck. And we've been looking all over for her. We're here to take her home.”

“Nuh-uh. That bird ain't goin' nowhere except the pound. Been out here doin' its business in my gardenias, and I ain't gonna stand for it.” He reached for Pickles, but she pecked at him.

He drew his hand back. “Forget the pound. I'm gonna fry that darn thing up for supper.”

“Oh, no!” Margaret jumped up. “You can't cook this goose. She's innocent. We'll take her home, we promise.” She squeezed Pickles against her chest, causing another honk, and this time it was louder than a car horn.

“What's the racket out there?”

I whipped my head around. We were standing several feet from the porch, but I could still see
Mrs. Grimstone's nose flattened against the screen. “What is it you've got there, Leonard?” she yelled. “That wretched goose again?”

“Worse than that, Mrs. Grimstone. You've got trespassers.”

“Trespassers? Hold on to them, for God's sake. We'll be right there.”

I gulped. Sweat poured from my forehead, my armpits, my neck. Even my ears. What if this Leonard guy knew about the locket? What if he said something to Mrs. Grimstone?

Five seconds later she rounded the back corner of her house. She charged across the lawn on her high-heeled sandals, stopping in front of me. A chubby man with sweaty pink skin and damp circles under each armpit panted after her. He fanned himself with an unlit cigar.

Mrs. Grimstone stood with her hands on her hips, staring at us like we were blobs of swamp scum. “Well, well. What have we here?”

“Say they're after the goose, ma'am,” Leonard said.

“That's right,” I said, my knees quivering. “We'll take her right home.”

“And why should we relinquish this goose to you?” Mrs. Grimstone said. “We've had a continuous problem with it, and I'm ready to turn it over to animal control. Call security, Howard.”

“Now, Hazel, calm down for a minute,” Mr. Grimstone said. He took a couple of steps back, chewing on his cigar as he looked us over. “We've got enough to deal with here. Why not let these youngsters take it home? They look like responsible kids.”

“Oh, we are,” I said.

“Really and truly,” Margaret said. “We'll get Pickles off your hands right away.”

Gus checked his watch. “Actually, we're running late. We'd better get going. Nice to meet you, everyone.”

Mr. Grimstone pulled the cigar out of his mouth. “Likewise. And take care of that goose.”

As we edged toward the sidewalk, Mrs. Grimstone said, “I want you children to remember this is a gated community. In the future, I'd appreciate your not romping through here without an invitation. Oh, and Leonard, will you run to the nursery for some colorful annuals to place around my three-tiered fountain, please? It's looking bare.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“One more thing,” she said, as he jingled the keys in his pocket. “I'll need you to get an earlier start this Monday. These gardenias should be pruned. They're an absolute sight.”

“I'll be here,” he said, but he looked about as happy as someone who just got told he had five whopper cavities. He glanced at me again, and something about that look, like we were in on the same secret, nearly fried the freckles off my face.

A
rusty green truck rattled by us on our way out of Palmetto Estates. Leonard was driving. Pickles bobbed her head frantically, honking at him from Margaret's arms.

“Shhh,” Margaret said, stroking Pickles's ruffled feathers. “If you don't watch out, he'll cook you for dinner.”

I nodded, not doubting that possibility at all. I'd been thinking about Leonard since we'd left the Grimstones, and I had a couple of suspicions. “That guy was at the Tarts' table before Granny Goose dished out the cucumbers,” I told Margaret.

“You're right. I remember his straw hat.”

“And then he came by our table when I had the locket out. He even walked by my house right after we hid it. I saw him.”

“Could've been a tail,” Gus muttered, as if he were thinking aloud. “Twenty percent odds, maybe.”

“It's like he was following us, like he knew I had the locket,” I said.

“Ohmigosh,” Margaret said breathlessly. “He even works for the Grimstones. Maybe he's the one trying to frame Gran—”

“Yep. A definite possibility,” Gus muttered again. “Seventy-five percent of all property thefts are perpetrated by someone close to the victim.”

“So you agree?” I said to Margaret. “You think Leonard's the—”

“Nope,” Gus said. “Too soon to make assumptions. We don't have enough on him. What we need are cold, hard facts.” He held up one finger. “Guideline number one, NSCCB: ‘Never jump to conclusions. Stick to the facts.'”

Margaret nodded. “I read that on the Web site.”

“You want facts,” I said, about a hair more than irritated with Gus. “I'll give you facts. One, Leonard's poor. He drives a ratty old truck and holds his wallet together with duct tape. Two, he doesn't like Mrs. Grimstone very much. Three, since Leonard works for the Grimstones, he must've known all about the heirlooms. I bet he even has a key to their house.”

“Those aren't facts,” Gus said. “Those are motives.”

We kept walking as we argued over facts and motives and what Gus called circumstantial evidence—“it plays a key role in about forty percent of solved crimes,” he said—and by the time we made it out of Palmetto Estates, I grudgingly realized he was right. We still needed more information about Leonard before declaring him the thief.

Gus's plan was to scope out Granny Goose's and get details of everything that'd happened early that morning, without tipping her off about what we were
up to. “Remember, mum's the word. That's guideline number six of—”

“NSCCB,” Margaret said along with him. She jabbed his side and laughed.

When we got to Granny Goose's, Margaret ran up the porch steps and rang the doorbell. No answer. She rang again. Still nothing.

Gus took off to check the backyard while I peered through the porch window, looking for any signs of activity. I thought I heard a duck quacking inside, but I couldn't see past the birdcages in the window. I ran out to the front yard and looked down the street again.

“Nothing out back but a bunch of animals,” Gus yelled from the side of the house.

“They've already arrested her. That's why she's not here,” Margaret announced. She stood white-faced at the top of the porch steps, holding Pickles. “Do you realize this poor little goose could be homeless? She could die of starvation.”

Her eyes misted up, and then she planted a noisy
kiss on Pickles's bill. One thing I knew for sure: if Granny Goose really had been arrested, Pickles would end up in a crib beside Margaret's bed. She'd probably be waddling after us to school every day next fall, too, and sitting in the audience during our band concerts. No way would Margaret let her get taken to the pound, because next to Granny Goose, Margaret's got the softest heart of anyone I know. She can't even stand to see a dried-up worm on the sidewalk.

“Nah,” Gus said. “She's probably still at the festival. Even if Mrs. Grimstone has called the cops, they couldn't have booked Granny Goose yet. They don't work that fast. What they'll do is take a statement from her, then get a search warrant if there's evidence or probable cause.”

We decided to wait on the porch a while longer for Granny Goose, but after several minutes I remembered my mom's instructions. I asked Gus the time.

“A quarter to three. Why?”

“I've got to be home at three-thirty. I have to help my mom peel and chop cucumbers.”

“For the cucumber smoothie booth?” Margaret asked.

“Yeah, I have to have them all done tonight.”

“I can't believe you're getting stuck with that job,” she said. “Your mom makes you do the craziest things.”

“I know, and it's going to take me three whole hours, at least. Geesh. Whoever dreamed up the dumb idea of a cucumber smoothie booth anyway?” I sighed, dreading the thought of all the peeling and dicing that awaited me.

“Actually,” Gus said, “my mom did. She made up the recipe a few years ago, when she was president of the Tarts' club. The booth makes a lot of money.” His face flushed, and then he ducked behind the swing. He cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his nose against Granny Goose's window.

I swallowed a gulp, wishing I could snap my fingers and magically suck my words back in. “Oh. Uh…sorry,” I muttered. “I didn't know that.”
Margaret nudged me, and I glanced over my shoulder again at Gus, feeling terrible.

I didn't know what was running through his mind, but I couldn't help wondering how it must feel to all of a sudden not have a mom in your life. No one fussing over the little details, like whether you'd flossed between
all
your teeth or if you had clean sheets and plenty of blankets on your bed or if every one of the twenty-five library books got returned on time.

I looked sideways at Margaret, and I could tell by the frozen frown on her face that she felt as bad as I did. It was as if a thick cloud had covered the porch, muffling everything but the soft thump of my heartbeat. Gus was still peering in the window, and I couldn't think of one thing to say to make him feel better. I sat perfectly still beside Margaret, wondering how long the uneasy silence would go on.

Finally I leaned over the back of the swing and said, “Uh, we only got one measly suspect here so far.
What do you think we should do next?”

“That's just what I was going to ask,” Margaret said.

He turned to face us. Still feeling a little nervous, I gave him a weak smile. He grinned back, then Margaret smiled, and all of a sudden it was like the old Gus had kicked into action.

He circled the swing, and we'd just started reviewing our circumstantial evidence again when a familiar-looking cucumber called from the sidewalk.

“W
ell, hot diggity,” Granny Goose said. “Look who's here. You must be back for seconds.”

We rushed to the lawn to greet her and explain how we'd found Pickles at the Grimstones' house.

She scowled when we told her about Leonard. Wagging a finger in her goose's face, she said, “Shame on you. Can't I leave you alone for half an hour? And don't give me that sassy look, young lady. It's the second time today you've gotten that scallywag's bowels in an uproar. The next time you'll end up on his table with a fork in your rump.”

I elbowed Margaret. “Uh, Mrs. Unger, did you say
this is the
second
time today Leonard saw Pickles? What happened the first time?”

“Same old, same old, honey. She got out and crossed the pond to their yard. He brought her back here in a huff. Claimed she was tearing up the flower garden.”

“Was that this morning?” Gus said.

“Yep. Wanted to talk to me about plugging the hole in my fence. Says the Grimstones are fed up with Pickles getting loose. I didn't have time to hash it out with him, though. I was in a hurry. Had three dishes to get ready for the festival.

“Besides,” she said, winking at us, “I'd rather wrestle a crocodile than make small talk with Leonard Snout.”

“He's not very friendly, huh?” Margaret said.

“You've got that right, honey. He's had a bee up his boxers ever since he lost the family farm last year. Can't reason with him.”

“He lost his farm?” I said. “How'd that happen?”

“Mismanagement, pure and simple. Couldn't pay the bills, so he went bankrupt. Anyway, the man's got a green thumb, so I guess that's why the Grimstones hired him as their flower gardener.”

Good thing Granny Goose is a big talker, I thought, because we'd just learned another whopper of a motive for Leonard.

We followed her back up the porch steps to her locked front door. By now my brain was whirling faster than the spin cycle on Mom's washing machine. I felt sure Leonard was our man. He had motives, several of them. He'd been lurking around the Tarts' tent, maybe even spying on me. And he'd been at Granny Goose's this morning. I still had more questions regarding that bit of news, but I didn't want to tip her off about anything.

Granny Goose set her food dishes on the swing and peeked inside her mailbox. “Humph,” she muttered. “Where the heck did I put those keys?” She lifted the doormat. Nothing there, so she had us check under every single flower pot on the porch.

“Well if that doesn't beat all.” She dug through her shoulder bag, pulling out a checkbook, a wad of Kleenex, and a handful of papers.

“Look.” Margaret pointed to a leaflet Granny Goose was holding. “Isn't that the chef?”

“That's him all right, honey. He brought a stack of these fliers over today, had me running all over the place, handing them out.”

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.