Ben Winters - The Mystery of the Missing Everything

“No, thank you,” said Bethesda, gesturing at her lunch bag.

“And how is Mary Todd Lincoln’s very own private detective getting on thus far?” Mr. Ferrars was so happy to see her, Bethesda knew, because he was the one person in school as desperate as she was for a break in the case. And now she knew why.

“Well, I actually have quite an intriguing lead I’m following today,” she said, and he looked up eagerly. “It has to do with you, actually. You and your play.”

The assistant principal’s knuckles went white, and he slowly closed the door of the little fridge.

“Step this way, won’t you?”

“First of all, it is not a ‘play.’ The Mikado is an operetta, and there is a world of difference. Do you understand?”

Bethesda did not understand at all, but nodded as if she did, so he would skip ahead to the good part. The assistant principal sat behind his flimsy wooden desk, twisting his thin fingers anxiously. “I had hoped this wouldn’t come up. I really had. Just wishful thinking, really—sheer bootless self-deception. I can’t do it, Bethesda! I can’t tell her the truth! She’ll box me up and ship me off to work somewhere horrible! Like a coal mine! Or an elementary school!”

Bethesda leaned eagerly toward Jasper. “What truth are you talking about, Mr. Ferrars?”

“After-school activities like drama and athletic teams, as you know, have direct access to their respective domains: the auditorium, the gymnasium, or the playing fields. But anyone needing access to the main section of the school is supposed to be let in personally. Principal Van Vreeland leaves every day by three thirty. So who do you think is responsible for letting in all these people?”

“You?”

“ Me. But I have a life outside these doors, you know! A community-theater production of The Mikado is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for a bass-baritone such as myself! So for the three weeks of rehearsal and performance, beginning two Fridays ago, I—I…”

He paused and took a deep breath. Bethesda remained silent, riveted.

“I took a risk. I made a few copies of the front-door key. Each person given one understood they were to share their key with no one, and to tell no one of its existence.”

Mr. Ferrars shifted in his chair, sighing woefully, while Bethesda formulated her next question. “And, okay, so, keys, and so—” Slow down, she chided herself . Put the words in order. “You said there were a few keys. How many exactly?”

Mr. Ferrars cradled his forehead in his hand and sighed. “Eight.”

“Eight keys?”

“Eight keys, including mine.”

Mr. Ferrars wouldn’t let Bethesda write down the names, but it wasn’t hard to memorize the list. The names tumbled about in her head as she left the main office and made her way to her locker.

Guy Ficker

Natasha Belinsky

Lisa Deckter

Pamela Preston

Kevin McKelvey

Ms. Ida Finkleman

Mr. Hank Darlington

Assistant Principal Jasper Ferrars

And then there was Janitor Steve. Jasper hadn’t made him a key, but as the school custodian, he carried one on his key ring. A total of nine people, then, had the key. Five kids and four adults. Nine names… no! Nine suspects . And some of them were already under suspicion. This was too exciting!

“Tenny! Hey!”

Perfect timing. Just as she turned down Hallway C, Bethesda spotted her assistant detective emerging from the Band and Chorus room. “I have a major breakthrough!”

“Huh?”

Bethesda plucked the earbuds from Tenny’s ears. “A breakthrough? In our mystery?”

“Oh. Right. Totally.”

Bethesda paused, the earbuds dangling limply from her hands, while Tenny looked back at her absently. Had he somehow forgotten they were solving a mystery together? As they walked together up the steps to the eighth-grade lockers, and she explained about the keys, Bethesda observed Tenny. She had this strange, troubled feeling, like her old friend was here, but not really. Like even though he had reenrolled at Mary Todd Lincoln, in some weird way Tenny was just as much missing as Pamela Preston’s gymnastics trophy.

And what—did he have lunch with Ms. Finkleman every day now?

“Leadership is about three things. Snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.”

That’s the advice Chester Hu’s cousin, Ilene, had emailed him last night. Chester had printed the email, and now he pulled it out—the single page of printer paper a wrinkled mess from having been read and reread all day long—and read it one more time.

As Chester stood beneath the oak tree overhanging the picnic tables, waiting for the others to arrive, he repeated Ilene’s mantra to himself: “snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.” Ilene was in college, where she was the president of her sorority, vice president of the Association of Premed Students, and the founder of a charity group that fed hungry kittens or something. Chester’s mom was always talking about Ilene, how he should look up to her and ask her questions or whatever. Last night was the first time Chester had actually done so. Ever since he’d had the best idea of his life in Ms. Pinn-Darvish’s class on Monday, he’d been alternately superexcited about it and superscared, because doing it right meant putting together a team of people and convincing them to help.

So Chester emailed Ilene and asked for advice. In an extremely supportive two-paragraph reply, above an automatic-signature graphic of an adorable hungry kitten, Ilene explained techniques like “ask, don’t insist” and “make it seem like the other person’s idea.” But really, she said, it all came down to snacks, eye contact, and positive reinforcement.

Which is why, when Rory Daas arrived at the picnic benches a minute later, looking annoyed not to be heading to Game Stop as he usually did on Wednesday afternoons, he immediately said, “Sweet! Snacks!” and plopped down to start eating the Scorchin’ Habanero Doritos Chester had provided.

And why when Marisol Pierce slowly walked up, still depressed about Taproot Valley, Chester turned on his best positive-reinforcement voice and said, “Don’t even worry about it, Marisol! Everything is going to be fine!” He didn’t know if she believed him, but she definitely smiled, and it was the first time anyone had seen Marisol smile since Principal Van Vreeland’s announcement.

“Okay, everyone!” chirped Chester, when at last his whole team had arrived. (“Greet everyone enthusi-astically,” said Ilene’s email. “Take charge.”) “So, first of all, thanks for coming.” As he spoke, Chester scanned the group, looking at each of them in turn.

“What? What is it?” said Natasha suddenly. “Is there something on my face?”

“No, no,” Chester apologized. “I was just, um, making eye contact. Sorry.”

Rory had another big handful of Doritos. Kevin McKelvey raised his hand. “Chester, is this going to take long? I’m in the middle of learning Mozart’s concerto in E-flat. It’s kind of a bear.” Kevin, also known as the Piano Kid, was Mary Todd Lincoln’s resident musical prodigy, who’d been playing sonatas since before he could walk, and spent most afternoons either at home or holed up in the Band and Chorus room, practicing piano.

Pamela Preston’s blond curls bobbled slightly as she nodded her agreement with Kevin. “I’m supposed to be meeting Lisa and Bessie in the gym. We have another tournament this weekend. If my mother feels the emotional stress won’t be too much for me.” Pamela sighed dramatically and took a sip from her seltzer bottle, and Natasha squeezed her shoulder.