Ben Winters - The Mystery of the Missing Everything

The folder currently open was marked boyer, tennyson isaac. Peeking out from beneath it was a second folder, the tab of which Bethesda glimpsed fleetingly as Mrs. Gingertee reached into the Boyer folder for the next form. The name that Bethesda read, upside-down, off the tab, was maslow, irene olivia.

Bethesda squinched up her face, thinking. Irene? Who was Irene?

Oh. Right. Reenie Maslow.

Irene, Reenie.

Holy Guacamole! Bethesda thought, and then said it—“Holy Guacamole!”—louder than she’d intended, causing Mrs. Gingertee to look up with a sour expression. “Young lady?”

“Sorry, sorry.” She exhaled. “But is Tenny almost done?”

Mrs. Gingertee wearily inspected the paper in front of her, flaking crusted pizza sauce off one corner with her fingernail. “I suppose so. For now . Tenny, I need you to get this sorted out with your mom or dad for tomorrow , okay? Otherwise we can’t—hey!”

Bethesda grabbed Tenny by the arm, so forcefully that she nearly toppled him, and together they dashed from the room.

“Come on!” she hollered. “You’re never going to believe this!”

Mrs. Gingertee watched the wooden door of the Main Office swing shut, and then produced a bottle of Pepto-Bismol from the top drawer of her enormous desk. “Welcome back, kid,” she muttered, and took a long swig.

“Bethesda, what the heck?” said Tenny, just outside the office door.

In one long exhale of a run-on sentence, Bethesda brought Tenny up to speed. She told him about the trophy theft, about the cancellation of the Taproot Valley trip, the tiny screw and the dots of red, the bang and the crash… and the other clue. Three little letters, inscribed like an artist’s signature in one small corner of the crime scene.

“IOM,” she concluded, leading him the five feet from the door of the Main Office to the Achievement Alcove. “Right there !” She pointed vigorously—and then froze, her face a mask of confusion.

“Um… Bethesda?”

She stared in horror at the Achievement Alcove. “It’s gone !”

Everything else was just as it had been. The cordon of duct tape and typewriter ribbon; the rickety wooden stand and the shattered glass case; the strange, bloodred splotches. All as it had been when Bethesda examined it last Wednesday… except for the letters. The letters were gone.

“Huh,” said Tenny.

Bethesda slipped under the typewriter ribbon and traced the back wall of the Alcove with her fingers. Maybe it was over here—maybe—wait…

“Bethesda? Would you mind joining me in my room for a quick chat?”

Bethesda turned to see Ms. Finkleman, dressed as always in a brown sweater and simple brown shoes, smiling pleasantly. But something in her tone of voice and the slight forward thrust of her chin suggested to Bethesda that this “quick chat” was not a casual invitation from a friend, but a direct order from a teacher.

Bethesda nodded mutely, her mind going a thousand miles an hour. What was going on here?

“Hello, Tennyson,” Ms. Finkleman added. “You may as well join us.”

H ere we go again , Ms. Finkleman thought, as she pulled the door of the music room closed behind her. Another day, another awkward conversation .

“Have you children had a chance to eat lunch yet?”

They had not, nor had Tenny brought his lunch, so they pulled up chairs around Ms. Finkleman’s desk and Bethesda gave him half of her pasta primavera, the latest of her father’s elaborate lunchtime concoctions. Ms. Finkleman additionally offered him a small container of seaweed salad, which Tenny politely but unambiguously declined.

“Dude, it’s just like old times. Like a reunion,” Tenny announced through a big messy bite of pasta. “Like when the Beatles played on that rooftop.”

Ms. Finkleman smiled. She knew exactly what he meant. Here was Tenny Boyer, his cheeks chipmunk-stuffed with pasta, slapping the flats of his hands on his thighs, air-drumming to music only he could hear; and here was Bethesda Fielding, uncapping a Snapple and peering around the Band and Chorus room with that unremitting, intense curiosity of hers.

It was kind of nice to be reunited with this particular pair of goofballs.

Enjoy the camaraderie while you can, Ida.

Ms. Finkleman swallowed her first bite of sushi and gave Bethesda the bad news.

“ You did it?”

“Let me be clear. I did not steal Pamela Preston’s gymnastics trophy.”

“But you erased the initials?”

“Yes. I did.”

Bethesda was flabbergasted. “Why would you do that?”

Ms. Finkleman ignored the question. “Furthermore, Bethesda, I need you to keep the information about the initials to yourself.”

“What?”

“I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it has to be.”

Bethesda pushed back a lock of red-brown hair that had fallen over her eyes. “I seriously don’t understand,” she protested. “I’m trying to solve a mystery here!”

“I know. And all I ask is that you proceed in your investigation as if those initials never existed. The same goes for you, Tennyson.”

“Huh? Sure,” he said. “I mean, I barely know what you guys are talking about.”

Bethesda’s confusion, meanwhile, was quickly turning to outrage. This was her investigation! What right did Ms. Finkleman have to order her around? “Hold on a sec. Wait, wait. This is an extremely significant clue.” She leaned forward, whispering urgently, trying to make her music teacher see the injustice of her request. “There is only one person in this school with the initials IOM.”

“I am aware,” Ms. Finkleman replied quietly, rolling slightly forward on the little wheels of her desk chair. “And that’s exactly why you’re going to ignore them. Reenie Maslow had nothing to do with this crime.”

“How do you know that?”

Ms. Finkleman sighed. “I’m sorry, Bethesda. You’ll just have to trust me on this.”

The music teacher put a piece of California roll in her mouth and looked away. Bethesda huffed and crossed her arms, shooting Tenny a scowling, “can you believe this?” look. But Tenny sat chewing a piece of garlic bread, gazing out the window with a glazed expression that Bethesda knew well; her friend was off in space somewhere, playing a guitar solo at Madison Square Garden or writing lyrics in his head.

Except, when Tenny swallowed his bite and broke his silence, it turned out he was paying attention after all—although what he said irritated Bethesda even further. “Huh. You know, Ms. Finkleman’s probably right.”

“What?”

“Wait. Just like, think about it. Why would somebody steal something and then sign their name to the crime scene? Don’t people who do bad stuff try not to get caught?”

“Well yeah, but…” But what?

“And, I mean, I don’t know this Reenie girl,” Tenny continued. “But why would she steal someone else’s trophy in the first place?”

“Excellent point,” said Ms. Finkleman. Bethesda felt outnumbered and a little betrayed. Tenny was supposed to be her mystery-solving right-hand man, not Ms. Finkleman’s!

“Here’s the thing, Bethesda,” Ms. Finkleman said softly, laying down her chopsticks in the empty plastic container. “Reenie is new at this school, and my impression is she’s not having such an easy time of it.”

Bethesda thought of Reenie by herself at lunch with a book propped in her lap; of Reenie sitting perfectly still when Dr. Capshaw announced a group project, while the other kids formed themselves into chatty little teams; of Reenie at the library on Friday, flushed and uncomfortable, overreacting and upset.