A Recipe for Robbery (3 page)

“I
t's simple,” Gus said. He wiped a glop of mashed potato from his chin, missing half of it. “All we have to do is find the real perp before the cops do.”

Perp?
As in perpetrator of a million-dollar heist?

Did Gus actually believe the three of us could hunt down a mastermind criminal all by ourselves? His idea was way crazy. Too crazy—I knew that. But I wanted that reward money, and I couldn't stop the
boing, boing, boing
of my heartbeat.

Margaret gasped. “You really think we can prove Granny Goose didn't steal the locket?”

“How?” I whispered, as if the deal were sealed
and we were all of a sudden conspirators. “We're not exactly detectives, you know. It would take forever.”

“Nuh-uh,” Gus said. “There can't be that many suspects. The newspaper said it looked like an inside job—maybe even someone who knows the Grimstones. Bloomsberry's a small town.”

He tossed a cherry in the air and caught it in his mouth. “Granny Goose is innocent, and we can prove it. I'm really good at solving crimes. Actually, I just won an award for it.”

“Oh, yeah?” I said, eyeing him suspiciously. “Like what award?”

“The NSCCB mystery of the month. I beat out more than thirty thousand participants.”

“Oh…my…gosh.” Margaret fell against the back of the chair, her eyes lit up like disco balls. “You won
that?
I can't believe it. What month?”

“May. So now there's a eight percent chance I'll win NSCCBer of the year.”

I glanced from Gus to Margaret, then back at
Gus. It felt like I'd popped in on a meeting between a couple of cryptologists. “What the heck is NSPPB?”

“N-S-C-C-B,” Gus said. “The Not-So-Clueless Crime Busters.”

“It's the coolest online club ever,” Margaret said, still looking dazed by his news. “I just found out about it last week. I really want to join, but my mom won't let me. She says I'm on the computer too much.”

A tingly, nervous feeling fluttered around my stomach. Gus beat out thirty thousand participants in a crime-solving contest? Gosh, if that was the case, maybe he
could
find the heirloom thief—with Margaret's and my help, of course. It's not like the two of us were dumb bunnies. Besides, I didn't want Gus getting any big ideas about keeping more than his share of the reward money.

He folded his arms behind his head. “So. You guys want to go along with me or not?”

“I will if Lindy will,” Margaret said.

I looked at the locket again, my heart thumping, and pictured the front page of the
Bloomsberry
Sentinel
: L
OCAL
Y
OUNGSTERS
N
AB
H
EIRLOOM
T
HIEF
; D
IVVY
H
EFTY
R
EWARD
! Or even better: T
ALENTED
Y
OUNG
H
EROINE ON
H
ER
W
AY TO
T
ALLAHASSEE
; H
OPES TO
W
OW
G
OVERNOR WITH
F
LUTE
S
OLO
.

After overhearing my parents last night, I knew in my gut that winning the reward might be my only chance at band camp. I couldn't stand the thought of not going. The camp lasted two whole weeks, and practically everyone would be there, including Angel Grimstone. In fact, Angel hadn't stopped talking about camp ever since our teacher announced it. “I'm going to learn sixteenth notes and trills,” she'd bragged. “I'm getting a new flute before I go, too. Grammy says I'll win first chair for sure next year.”

Oooh—my blood boiled at the thought of it. I'd rather be appointed Granny Goose's recipe-tasting assistant than lose first chair to Angel Grimstone. And what if she got chosen for the governor's concert while I was home scrubbing toilets?

“Psst, Lindy.” Margaret rapped the table.
“Are you going to help find the thief or not?”

I'd just opened my mouth to say, “You bet,” when a giant stalk of broccoli approached us.

Uh-oh
. It was Officer Moore. I grabbed the locket and held it to my side, flicking its tiny clasp. If he saw it, everything would be ruined. He circled our table—real slow—all the way around, stopping next to me. He leaned down to fiddle with the cuff of his costume.

He nodded at me and smiled. I smiled back, trying to look nonchalant, as if it were just another average day in my boring life. He got up, tipped his flowered green hat at us, and left.

I sank back in my chair, still flicking the locket's clasp. It opened. I glanced down, and staring back up at me was the Princess Grimstone. Right there in the palm of my hand, smiling like a hyena and holding a flute to her mouth.

“Aaack!” I tossed the locket on the table.

Margaret picked it up, then clutched her neck and squealed, “Eew! It's Angel.”

“Let me see,” Gus said.

But right as Margaret started to hand it to him, one side of her face scrunched up like she had a gnat in her eye. She made some kind of weird hissing noise and winked at me about ten times. “Hide it!” she said, flinging the locket back across the table.

“What's wrong?” My heart started racing again. Was someone watching us?

The only person I saw nearby was a farmer-looking guy in overalls and a straw hat, the same guy Granny Goose had nearly run into earlier, right before she'd dished out her cucumbers to me. He trudged by our table slower than a snail, but he was staring at the newspaper in his hand and didn't seem to be paying any attention to us.

Something shuffled in the grass behind me, like footsteps.

“Hurry
up
,” Margaret whispered.

Next I heard giggles. Princess giggles.

“Oh, Lindeeee. Are you two going steady yet?”

More giggles. The Princess had her friends with her.

“Lindy and Gus, sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G.”

“Oh, look, Lindeeee. Gus is sitting next to Margaret. Aren't you jealous?”

A shower of giggle spit sprayed my neck.

What I wanted to do was grab Angel's nose and twist it into macaroni. But my parents were too close by; they'd see the fight for sure. So I snatched the locket before Angel saw it and stuffed it in my pocket. I watched her from the corner of my eye. She and her friends were doubled over, laughing their heads off and pointing at my supposed boyfriend. Margaret glared across the table at them. Not Gus, though. He sat stiff in his chair, staring straight ahead without even blinking. Nothing moved except his jaw; it kind of twitched. His brown cowlick stuck straight up, like he'd just been electrocuted.

I knew I should say something. But what? If I stood up for Gus, it might look like he really was
my boyfriend. So I got up, accidentally ramming my chair into the Princess, and went after another pink lemonade. I bought Gus one, too.

Luckily, Angel and her friends were gone when I got back. Unluckily, the Cucumber and the Carrot, followed by the Goose, were making a beeline for our table. My stomach went all woozy again, and this time it wasn't because of the secret in my pocket.

Sure enough, Mom took one look at my full plate and said, “Lindy, haven't you tried Mrs. Unger's dish yet?”

“Uh…”

The expression on Mom's face said, “Young lady, you'd better display the good manners I've crammed down your throat for the last eleven years, or else.” What came out of her mouth was a cheerful “Go ahead and try a bite, dear. Mrs. Unger wants some feedback on whether she should revise her recipe.”

Granny Goose stood by my side, watching…waiting…grinning.

I
couldn't stall any longer, because Mom's smile was getting thinner by the second. My chances of going to camp would get even worse if I made a scene. I jabbed a tiny piece of cucumber and ever so slowly guided it into my mouth. I gave it three good chews.

Oh, grossness.

I fought back a gag as the mushroom-flavored sludge coated my tongue. When I tried to swallow, it clung to the back of my throat like one of those sticky snot balls you get with a bad cold.

Granny Goose wrapped an arm around my shoulders. “Okay, honey. What's the verdict?”

“Um…eh…” I didn't dare tell her the truth; I'd never be allowed out in public again. “It's very unusual-tasting and…um…yes. It's perfect for the cook-off contest.” I washed down my lie with two huge swigs of lemonade.

Granny Goose hooted. “God love you, Ann,” she said to my mom, who of course was beaming by now. “What a doll of a daughter you've raised here. I'll tell you what. Now that I've got the green light from both of you and the Tarts, I'm good to go. I'm not so sure I need Chef François' sauce-making class after all.”

Mom looked surprised. “Sauce-making class? I didn't realize you were considering—”

“
Bonjour! Bonjour
, my wonderful Tarts.” A dark-haired man in a chef's hat and an apron flapped his arms at us from the courthouse steps. He blew a kiss our way, then shot across the lawn as if the seat of his pants was on fire. When he got to our table, he swept around me, Margaret, and Gus and went straight for Granny Goose. He stopped in front of her, grinning like
a fox, twirling the tips of his sleek black mustache.

“
Madame
,” the chef said, taking Granny Goose's hand. He puckered his lips and planted a noisy kiss on her knuckles, then turned to my mom and did the exact same thing. I wanted to barf on the spot, but Mom smiled politely at him, and Granny Goose giggled like a little kid.

“Aha!” François said. “The Carrot and the Cucumber—my two favorite Tarts, to be sure. You cannot hide your beauty behind these costumes. I would recognize you anywhere.”

He smiled again, flashing a mouthful of teeth that were whiter than my mom's sheets after soaking in bleach for an hour. “Aaah,” he said, “such a wonderful time we shared at the marvelous Mrs. Grimstone's this Tuesday, when I presented my soufflé demonstration for the Bloomsberry Tarts.

“And to you,
madame
,” he said to Granny Goose, “
merci! Merci!
Accept, please, my heartfelt gratitude for distributing those many fliers regarding tomorrow's
vegetable-carving extravaganza. I am forever indebted. How can I repay you?”

“No need for it,” Granny Goose said, shaking her head. “I was happy to help.”

François wagged his finger at her. “
Madame
, I am adamant. I must return the favor.”

“Well, if you insist, you can give me a report on the stewed cucumbers. Sorry I couldn't let you taste them this morning. I had to let that sauce set,” she said.

“Aha! I am already one footprint ahead of you, Mrs. Unger. I have just come from sampling your masterpiece. Magnificent!”

“Why, thank you, François,” Granny Goose said. “I'm glad you like—”

“However, I regret to inform you the dish is not magnificent enough to win this cook-off you spoke of.”

Granny Goose's face fell. “Well, darn. I'm sorry to hear that, but I guess you're the expert. I might have to rethink my entry.”

“No, no,
ma chère
. That is not necessary. Your
cucumbers simply need to be stewed in a less pungent sauce. And that is why I am here. I implore you, madame, to immediately enroll in my sauce class, so that you can achieve the flair, the creativity, to win this upcoming contest.”

“Well, heavens to Betsy,” Granny Goose said after another fit of giggling. “I'm sorry to break it to you, François, but I'm not sure I can.”

“What's that? You're not sure, you say? But you must.” He got down on one knee, ignoring her goose, which was strutting in circles around him, practically honking its head off. He took her hand again. His lips turned down, into a pout. “Otherwise,
ma chère
, it will hurt me gravely. Your refusal shall become the knife that is plunged into this chef's soufflé. Poof! My heart will deflate in sorrow.”

“Goodness gracious,” Granny Goose said. By now her cheeks were so pink she looked like a cucumber with a fever. “I certainly don't want to disappoint
you. And Lord knows I've just got to win that cook-off. Tell you what, I'll think it over.”

“Please, but yes, do that,” François said. “And beseech your fellow Tarts”—he winked at my mom—“to join you,
ma chère
. I will make room for them. I pledge that to you with sincere devotion.” He pulled off his chef's hat and bowed. And then, with a flurry of good-byes and air kisses, he spun away to join another group of Tarts.

“Heavens.” Mom fanned herself with a napkin. “What a charmer. He's certainly after you about that class, huh?”

“Yep. I'm tempted to follow him up on it, too. I know he's expensive, but the prize for that contest is twenty-five thousand dollars.”

“That's quite a payoff,” Mom said.

“Hot diggity, I'll say it is. And if I win, I'll put every cent of it to good use. I'm planning to expand the rescue service.”

Mom put her hand to her chest, smiling and nodding
as Granny Goose explained how she and her friends wanted to set up a bigger network of animal caregivers. “We'll need supplies, sturdy pens…the whole shebang. It's gonna take some bucks, that's for sure.”

“What a wonderful idea, Evelyn. Count me and David in for a contribution. We're quite lucky to have such caring people like you in this community.”

“Pshaw! I'm honored to do it; love every one of those animals, and we've got a boatload—gators, turtles, pelicans. You name it. Every type of injury, too. I'm telling you, Ann, it rips your heart out to see these magnificent creatures all smashed up and hurting, especially when it's us humans to blame.”

Listening to Granny Goose, I felt a sudden, overpowering rush of admiration mixed with pangs of worry for her. There was no doubt in my mind. Besides my need for the reward money, I wanted to help her out of this jam, even if it meant working side by side with Gus Kinnard.