Ben Winters - The Mystery of the Missing Everything

They laughed about Janitor Steve and the vengeful spirit of Little Ronnie Farnsworth, until something occurred to Bethesda. What if the custodian was making the whole thing up? Maybe to deflect suspicion, because he was the one who did it?

“Totally possible,” said Tenny. “I gotta tell you, that guy is a whole mystery just himself.”

Then Bethesda told Tenny about Lisa Deckter’s confession, about her interview with Kevin and what the Piano Kid had overheard—the mysterious pair in the chorus room, singing their strange, silly, catchy song.

“Yeah,” Tenny said. “But how do you know Kevin is telling the truth?”

“What, you think he made it up? Could he even do that?”

“Dude,” said Tenny, shrugging. “Of course he could! He’s Kevin McKelvey. He could make up a whole opera if he wanted to.”

And that was that. It was 3:47, and they’d gone over everything there was to go over. Tenny snapped a twig off the big oak tree and fiddled it around in his palms. Bethesda took a deep sip of her Lime-Orange Snapple and slipped a rubber band around their heavily annotated stack of index cards. She snuck a glance at her friend, and her mind jumped to the other mystery: Why had Tenny returned from St. Francis Xavier?

Possibility #1: He flunked out.

This seemed a bit farfetched. Sure, Tenny wasn’t the greatest student in the world, but could a person really flunk out after only three weeks?

“I should probably jet,” Tenny said suddenly, flicking away the broken twig. “I haven’t even started this book for Capshaw. What is it? Animal Crackers? ”

“Farm.”

“ Farm Crackers? Really?”

Hmm. Maybe it’s not that farfetched .

Possibility #2: Tenny was so nostalgic for Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School, he had to come back.

As Tenny and Bethesda rose from the picnic bench, Principal Van Vreeland burst from the building, with Jasper scurrying fretfully at her side. “Is that a smile on your face, young lady?” she demanded, jabbing an angry finger toward Bethesda. “No smiling! No happiness! No one is permitted to be happy until my trophy is returned.” As they stormed past on their way to the parking lot, Principal Van Vreeland glared, and Jasper gave Bethesda a furtive, pleading look.

Okay, so Possibility #2 is pretty unlikely, too.

“All right, so, what’s the story?” Tenny asked as he dug his iPod out of his bag. “Where are we with this investigation?”

“Unfortunately,” Bethesda answered, “we’re at the part where I have to interrogate Pamela Preston.”

“I’m at the mall,” said Pamela tartly, when Bethesda called her on Saturday morning at 10:45. “By all means, come on by.”

So Bethesda Fielding, Master Detective, unchained her blue Schwinn and rode to Pilverton Mall. She walked past the movie theater and the video arcade; she walked past the Arthur Treacher’s Fish & Chips and the Sbarro’s Pizza in the Food Court, smiling in passing at Chef Pilverton with his big wooden rolling pin; she walked past the Build-a-Bear Workshop and the H&M. She found Pamela Preston just where she said she would be: shopping with Natasha at Brace Yourself, a tiny store on the second floor that sold only bracelets.

Bethesda’s theory about Pamela Preston had been simmering in her head for over two weeks now, bubbling away quietly like a pot of her father’s chili. There was nothing left to do but confront her and see what happens. The worse thing she can do is laugh at me , Bethesda thought. Which, as it turned out, was exactly what happened.

“Oh my god, Pam, that is so cute on you!”

“You’re right. It is.”

Pamela was modeling a pink-and-black bracelet, studying her own arm in the mirror while Natasha oohed and aahed appreciatively. Bethesda muttered argle bargle under her breath—she would have preferred to talk to this particular suspect alone. Of course Bethesda had to interrogate Natasha, too, but one thing at a time, right? At least Todd Spolin, who usually traveled with Pamela and Natasha in a little pack, was nowhere to be seen.

“Ah. Detective Fielding,” said Pamela, her voice lightly glazed with sarcasm, as she worked the pink-and-black bracelet over her hand and replaced it with something jangly and silver. “How can I help you?”

Pamela smirked, and Natasha shifted uncomfortably, looking like she wished she were somewhere else.

“Well, okay,” Bethesda began. “Pam, do you remember when we were on the Hustlin’ Pancakes?”

“Of course.”

When they were six and seven, and still close friends, Bethesda and Pamela had both been star defensemen on the soccer team sponsored by a popular local diner. “And do you remember the time I twisted my ankle and they had to call off the whole game because I was so hurt? And do you remember how, afterward, my dad took us all out for root beer floats, to make me feel better?”

“I love root beer,” Natasha said softly, and smiled awkwardly.

“The truth is—” Bethesda continued, but Pamela cut her off.

“Ooh… the truth is, the great Bethesda Fielding faked it! Tsk, tsk.” Bethesda winced. Pamela was too smart—she could already see where Bethesda was going. “So, what, you think I stole my own trophy? To get attention ?”

“Um… that’s not exactly what I’m saying.” In fact, it was. That was exactly what she was saying. “I just mean—”

That’s when Pamela laughed at Bethesda, tilting her head back to let out a long, pretty laugh, like a tinkle of sleigh bells. “You caught me!” she cried out between giggles. “I did it! Oh, have mercy on me!”

“Pamela.”

But she kept right on laughing. Natasha laughed, too, but falteringly, like she didn’t really understand what they were laughing about. Bethesda just stood there, looking around the store as the waves of mocking laughter washed over her. This unpleasant interlude was at last interrupted by the high school junior who worked at the store.

“Excuse me? Aren’t you that girl who got her trophy stolen?”

Pamela nodded, immediately dropping the laughter and putting back on the tearful, vulnerable expression she’d been wearing for three weeks.

“Oh, wow. I’m so sorry. That bracelet is totally on the house.”

“Aw, thank you so much.”

Pamela winked brazenly at Bethesda, took Natasha by the arm, and swept out of the store in a cloud of lilac perfume, her new bracelet glittering on her arm. Bethesda sighed, toying idly with the racks of bracelets. Did Pamela really think her theory was as stupid as she acted? Or did she want Bethesda to feel foolish, because she really did steal her own trophy?

“Hey. You.” The high school girl crossed her arms and scowled. “You gonna buy something or what?”

“Napkin? Napkin? Has everyone got a napkin?”

Melvin Schwartz, Shelly and Suzie’s dad, bustled around the room, trying desperately to keep things as tidy as possible. It was Monday night, and they were all there, the whole original “Save Taproot Valley” crew plus Shelly, all crowded into Mr. Schwartz’s home office while Suzie futzed with the big desktop computer. They stood in a loose semicircle, five feet back from the desk, because Mr. Schwartz allowed absolutely, positively no snacking near the computer, and there were, naturally, a ton of snacks on hand for the world premiere of “Save Taproot Valley.” Not only had Mrs. Schwartz baked snickerdoodles, but Chester, ever mindful of Cousin Ilene’s advice, had brought three boxes of Entenmann’s apple pies and a dozen Capri Suns.