Ben Winters - The Mystery of the Missing Everything

“So, were you here?”

“Um… hmm. Was I? Yes. I was.”

A grin danced across Bethesda’s face, and she forced herself to recompose her Serious Mystery Solver Expression. “So, did you see or hear anything out of the ordinary? Maybe around five forty-five?” That was the time Ms. Pinn-Darvish was out walking her dog… pig… whatever.

For a full thirty seconds, Mr. Darlington said nothing. First he stared out the window. Then he took his glasses off and put them on again, and then he climbed off the step stool and settled behind his desk.

“Mr. Darlington?”

Finally, the science teacher cleared his throat and spoke very quickly.

“Sorry, Bethesda. I was only here till four.”

“Four?” Bethesda’s heart sank.

“Yes, four at the latest. I stayed after school to pack up my robot, which took about an hour. So, yes, I’d say I was gone by four. And since I don’t have a key, of course, once I was gone, I couldn’t come back in.”

Shoot. If Mr. Darlington was gone by four, he couldn’t have seen anyone smashing any trophy cases at five forty-five.

“Your robot?” Bethesda asked anyway; if someone says they have a robot, you sort of have to follow up. But Bethesda only half-listened to Mr. Darlington’s explanation, taking a few perfunctory notes in the Sock-Snow. He and his sixth graders had been constructing a mechanical person named Mary Bot Lincoln: “the world’s first pencil-sharpening, can-opening, weather-predicting person-shaped classroom companion,” as he proudly described her. Last week, Principal Van Vreeland had granted Mr. Darlington’s request that Mary Bot, once finished, could be displayed in the Achievement Alcove.

“But last Monday morning, Principal Van Vreeland changed her mind.” Mr. Darlington sighed. “She told me that now that space would be used to display Pamela’s trophy. So I was here after school, taking the old girl apart.”

For one confused moment, Bethesda looked up sharply, thinking Mr. Darlington had been taking Principal Van Vreeland apart. Now that would have been a mystery.

“Señoritas? Por favor?”

Third period on Mondays meant Spanish with Señorita Tutwiler; she was slowly circulating through the room, trying to keep her estudiantes focused on their two-paragraph translations. But, as was par for the course these days, people had other things on their minds.

“So,” said a girl named Lindsey Deming, inching forward and whispering to Bethesda in this kind of not-nice-but-pretending-to-be-nice voice she had, “How’s the mystery-solving going, Nancy Drew?” Bethesda whispered back, “Har-dee-har,” but the kids sitting around them totally cracked up—including, Bethesda noticed with irritation, Reenie Maslow.

“Come on, guys. She’s just trying to help. Right, Sherlock?” said Pamela innocently, with a sly little grin. “I mean, Bethesda.”

“I—”

“Bethesda! Pamela! Please!” clucked Señorita Tutwiler, hands planted on her hips. Bethesda mumbled, “Sorry,” but Pamela looked right at the teacher, tilted her head, and as if by magic, summoned tears to tremble in her eyes.

“I’m really, really sorry,” she said in a quavering voice. “It’s just that I’m still so upset about my trophy….”

Señorita Tutwiler half-closed her eyes and raised a hand to her heart, the very picture of sympathy. “ No te preocupes ,” she said soothingly, patting Pamela gently on the cheek. “Never mind.”

Oh, come on! thought Bethesda.

Bethesda’s mood brightened considerably halfway through fourth period. Mr. Darlington was in front of the class, reading from page three of his ridiculously overcomplicated, seven-page instruction sheet for the weather-system project, when it hit her. Bethesda’s interview with Mr. Darlington hadn’t been a waste of time… far from it! She’d gleaned a crucial clue. On Monday morning, Principal Van Vreeland told Mr. Darlington there was no longer any room to display his beloved robot. And why not? Because of the giant trophy that would be taking its place in the Achievement Alcove.

By Monday night, that trophy was gone.

Why, Dr. Watson, don’t you see it? Bethesda asked herself in the haughty English accent of Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Darlington has a motive.

After science ended, Bethesda decided to stop by the Main Office before lunch to share her intriguing insight with her Man on the Inside. But she forgot about Mr. Darlington, forgot about Jasper, forgot about the robot and the whole thing the moment she opened the office door—because, right beside Mrs. Gingertee’s desk, she ran smack-dab into Tenny Boyer.

“Hey, dude,” said Tenny.

Bethesda never thought she’d be so happy to hear two words, especially when one of them was “dude.”

“Tenny!?” she yelped, delightedly pronouncing his name as half exclamation and half question. “What are you doing here?”

“Well, you know.” Tenny smiled a lopsided smile. “I’m back.”

“And better than ever!” Bethesda immediately replied. In Bethesda’s family, that’s what you said whenever anyone came back from anywhere, whether it was a weeklong business trip, or a trip to the mall. Tenny laughed. “I don’t know about that.”

“But, I mean—what are you doing here?” she said again.

“Well, it’s kind of… I mean…,” he said, and trailed off in a shrug, running a hand through his mess of brown curls. Bethesda spied his iPod earbuds emerging in an ungainly tangle from the blue-hooded sweatshirt he always wore. “It’s kind of a long story.”

Bethesda beamed at him. Good ol’ Tenny Boyer! She had really only gotten to know him halfway through last school year, when they were thrown together by the strange deal Ms. Finkleman had invented to save both the Choral Corral and Tenny’s Social Studies grade. That effort had not gone so great, which was how Tenny ended up at St. Francis Xavier Young Men’s Education and Socialization Academy.

Except here he was before her very eyes, smiling awkwardly, lifting one foot to scratch the calf of the other with his toe.

Bethesda chucked him on the shoulder. “Well, anyway, who cares why. You’re back!”

“Ahem,” said Mrs. Gingertee. She didn’t clear her throat, she actually said the word “ahem,” two sharp syllables suggesting that she had more dignity than to go around pretending to clear her throat. “He’s not back yet.”

She tapped one formidable fingertip on the thick manila folder, overstuffed with papers, that sat heavily on her desk. “This paperwork is a disaster, young man, and until we’ve got it straightened out you’re no more a student here than my uncle Roger.”

“Huh?” said Tenny.

Mrs. Gingertee sighed and pulled out the first of the sheets. “This is the transfer document from St. Francis. Section C is blank, for some reason, and we’re missing a signature here, here, and here….”

Bethesda could hardly believe her luck. Tenny was back! The fates had sent her the perfect assistant! This mystery was toast! While Mrs. Gingertee grumbled her way through the paperwork, Bethesda shifted back and forth on her feet, anxious to fill Tenny in on the investigation so far.

“This form is in blue ink. Black is preferable.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“And this one is in… please tell me this isn’t colored pencil.”

“Oh. Whoops.”

Bethesda discreetly eyeballed Mrs. Gingertee’s giant metal desk, which was something of an institution at Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School, much like Mrs. Gingertee herself. The desk was a big, battered monolith, half as long as the whole Main Office, of the same rusted-iron color and solidity as a battleship. Only rarely was Mrs. Gingertee spotted anywhere but seated behind it, rolling around in a three-foot radius upon her gun-gray, orthopedically optimized chair. On the desk at present, beside a humongous jar of jellybeans, was a dull green Swingline stapler; a photograph of seven unsmiling grandchildren in matching hideous denim overalls; and papers—lots and lots of papers. Neatly printed sheets, various manila files, tardy slips and excuse letters, beat-up orange interoffice envelopes, and folders of all kinds.