A Recipe for Robbery (8 page)

A
gooey lake of spilled smoothie covered our booth counter. It dribbled into the money box—
drip, drip, drip
—and coated my mom's master festival schedule.

Henry's T-shirt and shorts were soaked, and our line had grown to at least ten grim-faced, restless customers.

I'd barely managed to get things under control and whip up another blender of drinks before my mom showed back up. “I need you to run an errand, Lindy,” she said, and for once I didn't care what it involved. By then I was so sticky and hot and tired
of looking at cucumbers, I would've gladly cleaned a whole row of Porta Potties.

“Evelyn left something on her front porch,” Mom said. “She'll be working the Tarts' tent until tonight and won't have time to run back for it, so I offered your services.”

Go to Granny Goose's? My heart fluttered. Maybe, just maybe, her back gate would be unlocked and I could take care of that egg. “Uh, sure. What does she want?”

“She needs you to grab the gym bag on her porch. Evidently, François left it at her house yesterday.”

François' gym bag?
Wow. This was getting even better. Suppose I found another heirloom inside it, or some secret correspondence between him and Leonard. I took off in an excited rush, but I wasn't a block away before my adrenaline fizzled out. I couldn't quit thinking that once again Margaret and Gus—my supposed partners—weren't with me, and once again I was operating by myself.

When I got to Granny Goose's, I hurried to her
back gate. Still locked. It didn't look like we'd ever get in there, at least until the Festival was over. But that might be way too late, especially after what Mrs. Grimstone had said about calling the police.

I swallowed my disappointment and headed up the porch steps. François' bag was sitting next to the front door. With trembling hands, I unzipped and emptied it onto the porch floor. Here's what I found:

• Merlin's Moustache Wax: “Works like Magic for that Sleek, Sexy Look.”
  
• A tube of BriteSmile toothpaste and a toothbrush.
  
• About twenty-five of the fliers advertising his vegetable carving show.
  
• About one hundred fliers advertising a special breakfast on Saturday.
  
• A plain white T-shirt.
  
• A pair of slinky gold boxer shorts with a swirly
  F
  stitched on them.
  

Drat. Not one tiny piece of evidence. Feeling even more discouraged, I stuffed everything back in the
bag and took off down Citrus Grove. Cricket was outside the same house we'd seen her at yesterday, pulling some bags out of her car trunk. “Hey,” she said. “Back again, eh? You're sure spending a lot of time in the neighborhood these days.”

She pulled off her sunglasses and stared at me.

“Oh,” I answered with a nervous giggle, “I'm just running an errand for Granny Goo—I mean Mrs. Unger. Um…do you live here?”

“Last time I checked. Hey, are you okay, kid? You look a little freaked out.”

“I'm fine. Really. Just in kind of a hurry.”

“Wait a minute. You aren't after that goose of hers, are you?” Cricket looked up and down the sidewalk before backing against her car. “I can't stand that thing. It tried to bite me yesterday.”

“I'm not looking for Pickles. It's…well, I'm…”

I'm not sure what made me keep talking. Maybe it was the way Cricket seemed so hip and cool and unadultish, or maybe the thought that
she had inside information about the heirloom theft. After all, she knew Mrs. Grimstone; she'd even been at her house yesterday, talking about the crime.

Cricket tilted her head and looked at me expectantly, so I went on. “Do you know anything about the heirloom robbery?”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Like what?”

“Well, uh…. do you know if…uh…” Just say it, Lindy. I took a deep breath. “Does Mrs. Grimstone really think Mrs. Unger stole those heirlooms? Has she called the cops?”

“Oh, now I get it. You kids are playing detective.”

I fidgeted with François' bag, feeling a hot blush creep up my cheeks.

“We kind of accidentally overheard something.”

“Okay, what gives here, Libby?”

“Lindy. My name's Lindy. And nothing gives. I'm just worried about Mrs. Unger. My friends and I know she can't be the thief. From what we've found—
I mean, from what we, uh,
think
, someone else must've done it.”

Cricket's dark red lips parted into a curious smile. She opened a SureFresh wintergreen mint container and popped one in her mouth, watching me the whole time. “You got any other suspects?”

“Well,” I said, lowering my voice, “the Grimstones' gardener is a little mysterious, don't you think?” I was hoping my confidential attitude would get her to talk. Maybe she'd seen Leonard snooping around the Grimstones' and suspected he was up to something.

“You got that right,” Cricket said. “It wouldn't shock me one bit if that creep and the goose lady are in on it to—never mind. Forget I said that. Just stay out of it, okay? I don't want to see you kids get hurt.”

“What about Mrs. Grimstone? What does she think?”

“Look, I'm not at liberty to discuss anything Mrs. Grimstone confides in me, seeing as how I'm her
personal hairstylist and all. That would be a breach of confidence.”

I nodded, trying for an “oh-yes-I-totally-comprehend-what-you're-saying” look, even though I wasn't real clear on her point. It's not like I was asking if Mrs. Grimstone dyed her hair or wore false eyelashes.

Cricket put her hands on her hips. She studied me for several seconds, making me squirm in my flip-flops. So much for my thinking she was unadultish. I could already hear the lecture working its way up her voice box.

“Listen,” she said, “I'm not trying to be the bad guy here. But I'm warning you, if I see you kids snooping around where you could get hurt, I'll have a little discussion with your mother at her hair appointment this coming Monday. Got it?”

Oh, yeah. I got it all right. Cricket was going to rat on me. I backed away from her, muttering, “We'll stay out of trouble. I promise.” I hurried back down Citrus Grove, hoping that by Monday she'd have forgotten our encounter.

Margaret and Gus were waiting behind the smoothie stand when I got back.

Mom took François' bag from me. “Thanks for going after this, sweetie. You can deliver it to Simply Paris in a minute, but first, I have another favor to ask.” She handed me some festival tickets. “I'm parched, and these smoothies don't begin to quench my thirst. Can you get me a lemon shake-up? And then you'll be free until three o'clock, I promise.”

As soon as we took off, I told Margaret and Gus how I'd checked inside François' gym bag, and about my conversation with Cricket.

Did they praise me? Did either of them say, “Wow! Great investigating, Lindy”? Nope. Just a couple of surprised looks and maybe an “ooh” or two from Margaret. And then Gus barked out a bunch of statistics and crime lingo about perps and patsies and buncos. He went on and on about what we should do next, not even asking my opinion, even though I'm the one who'd found every single piece of evidence so
far. But what really bugged me was the way Margaret agreed with everything he said, as if he were one of the Hardy Boys or something. It went like this:

Gus: “Here's the thing”—blah, blah, blah…

Margaret: “Great idea”—yada, yada, yada…

Gus: “And another thing”—blah, blah, blah…

Margaret: “Great idea”—yada, yada, yada…

Me: Nothing. Because I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

I was ready to yell, “Let me say something here, please,” when a noise crackled from the loudspeakers, like teeth scraping over metal. It was the Cucumber Princess, onstage with a swarm of kids from school. She had the microphone up to her mouth, and she must've had the volume set on full blast, because when she screeched, “Oh, lookie, lookie. Here comes Lindy Loopy with her true love, Snoopy,” you could've heard her all the way in North Dakota.

A
ngel's voice blared from the loudspeakers again, even louder this time. “Oh, puh-leeeze, Lindy Loopy. Give your sexy-phone player a great big kiss for us.” She doubled up over the mike, cackling.

You could've roasted a marshmallow over my cheeks. Gus stood between Margaret and me, stiff and silent. I was pretty sure that like me, he'd stopped breathing.

“Ignore her,” Margaret whispered.

I yanked my shoulders back and took a step toward the stage.

“Come on, Lindy,” Margaret said under her breath.
She tugged my arm. “Let's go. Don't get in a fight with her. Remember the trouble you got in last time?”

I did remember—a trip to the principal's office, to be exact—and I should've taken Margaret's advice. But she wasn't the one who'd just been totally mortified by Angel Grimstone.

The words flew out of my mouth before I could stop them.

“Ha-ha! That's pretty funny, especially since
you're
the one who wanted him to squeak along in your stupid trio. That must mean it's
you
, not me, who's got the crush on him!”

Oh, no. Had I just shouted that? In front of all those people? The blood drained from my face. I felt dizzy, sick to my stomach. I stole a peek at Gus from the corner of my eye. His face looked white and sad and twitchy, like he'd just lost his best friend.

He backed away from us.

“Don't go,” Margaret said. “Lindy didn't mean it.”
Her eyes flashed with anger when she said, “Did you?”

I shook my head and sputtered a few no's and sorry's, but I couldn't bring myself to look at him again. I felt too bad.

“You can't leave,” Margaret said as Gus took another backward step. “We haven't figured out who”—she checked over her shoulder before dropping her voice—“you-know-what.”

“Never mind,” Gus said. “Forget it. You guys can solve it without me.”

“But what about the show tomorrow?” Margaret said. “I don't want to play a duet with Angel.”

“I told Mr. Austin I'd do it, so I'll be there,” Gus said, and then he was gone.

“Where's Gussy going, Lindy?” Angel yelled from the stage. “Did you have a fight?”

On a normal day, I would've snatched her tiara and stomped it into tinfoil. But this wasn't a normal day, and there were way too many people around. So I said something lame like “Ho-ho-ho. You're a regular
comedian,” and Margaret said, “Shut up, Angel,” and then the two of us wove our way through the crowd, away from the stage.

Margaret kept scanning the lawn, looking for Gus. “I don't see him anywhere.”

I shrugged, trying to act like it wasn't a big deal. “Maybe he went after a balloon hat or something.”

“No, he's gone, and I don't blame him. How come you treated him like that, anyway?”

“Me? It's not my fault. Angel's the one who started it. I just didn't want everyone to think he's my boyfriend.”

Little splotches of red dotted Margaret's cheeks. “Gosh, Lindy. Just because you don't want him for a boyfriend doesn't mean you can't be nice to him. He's lots of fun. And he's really smart, too.”

“At least he
thinks
he's smart.”

“He
is
smart.” Margaret plunked her hands on her hips. “You know what? I think you're jealous because Gus is figuring out everything about the heirlooms before you do.”

“Are you kidding? I'm the one who found all the evidence, not Gus.”

“But he's the only one who knows what to do with it. I wish he was still here. We'll never solve this without him.” She kicked at a cluster of pebbles, then plopped down on the street curb.

I didn't say it, but I was starting to think the same thing. And in a weird kind of way, I already missed Gus. Maybe I'd grown attached to his corny sense of humor, or that funny-looking cowlick, or the way he was always quoting NSCCB facts. But now I'd gone and totally screwed things up, and he'd probably never speak to me again.

A
fter delivering Mom's drink and picking up the gym bag, Margaret and I headed for Simply Paris. We'd walked only a half block or so before she said, “You've got to call him, you know. You've got to apologize.”

I nodded, but I had a sinking feeling in my gut, the kind you get after realizing you've messed up every single percentage problem on the big math test, and you've already turned it in. Because some things you just can't go back and fix.

And how, exactly, would I phrase an apology to Gus?

“Please forgive me. I'm really truly sorry I said that…”

Or…“It's all Angel's fault, you know…”

Or maybe something kind of casual, like…“Yo. Chill, dude. It's really no big—”

“Watch out, Lindy!” Margaret yanked my arm, saving me from a face-to-face crash with François Pouppière. Actually, it wasn't the real François; it was a life-size wooden cutout of him, standing in the middle of the sidewalk. He was holding a sign that said:

B
LOOMSBERRIANS
…
HURRAY
! I
T'S YOUR LUCKY DAY
!

M
EET
F
RANÇOIS, THE CHEF BEHIND THE SMILE

AND VEGETABLE SCULPTOR EXTRAORDINAIRE
!

E
NJOY A COOL DRINK AT
S
IMPLY
P
ARIS
,

W
HILE THE AMAZING
F
RANÇOIS DEMONSTRATES HOW TO
:

DICE, SLICE,
AND
FLEURETTE!!

T
ODAY AT
1:00
P.M
.

S
PECIAL FESTIVAL PRICE
: O
NLY
$35
PER GUEST

 

At least twenty old ladies were gathered outside the restaurant, yakking away as they waited for the doors to open.

Margaret and I made our way through them and turned down the alley, following a strong scent of garlic and onion toward the Simply Paris kitchen. Accordion music blared from an open window, along with clattering pots and pans and people talking. I was all set to knock on the kitchen door, yet feeling nervous about facing François, when a voice blasted through the window. “ARRETEZ-VOUS! HALT! CEASE EVERYTHING—
IMMEDIATEMENT
!”

All the noise, even the accordion music, stopped. Margaret clutched my wrist. We flattened ourselves against the outside of the building, right under the window.

“
Intrus!
” François said. “Yes, an intrusion…into my private office…
Mon Dieu
, it's an outrage!
Jamais
—never, I announce—will I tolerate such insubordination. Whosoever is the culprit,
montrezvous!
Speak up, I say.”

Dead silence inside. All I heard was Margaret's and my heavy breathing.

“Very well”—François went on—“if no one is to admit the guilt, I shall establish a dire warning. From this very moment and hereafter, the first employee who dares enter my office without permission is terminated from Simply Paris employment.” It sounded like he slammed something onto a counter, and then the music came back on.

“Now back to work, back to work,” François sang out. “
Immédiatement
, if you please. I have cucumbers to carve.”

I wiped my brow, still dazed by his outburst. “Jeez,” I whispered, “I sure wouldn't want to be the person who ever got caught in his office.”

“Me either.” Margaret's eyes were wide with alarm. She nodded at the gym bag. “Let's just leave that, okay?” We set it outside the screen door and hurried toward the far end of the Simply Paris patio, where our alley intersected with another, next to a small parking lot.

We were talking about how unpredictable
François seemed—mad as a hatter one minute, all kissy-kissy the next—when Margaret pointed to a shiny red convertible in the parking lot. The license tag said “#1 François.” “That's his car. Gus and I saw it out here yesterday.”

I ambled over to the car. The convertible top was down. Books and papers were strewn across the seats.

“What're you doing?” Margaret said as I leaned over the side and into the backseat. “Be careful. What if he comes outside?”

“He's got a bunch of stuff in here. We might find some evidence.”

Margaret checked over her shoulder, then inched toward the car. “You can't go through his stuff. That's against the law.”

“Well, it's way more against the law to steal heirlooms and frame an innocent person,” I said. “And that's exactly what François is guilty of. I even heard him talking about the Pitaya, remember?”

I picked up a stack of papers, causing her to throw her hands over her mouth and squeak like a mouse. A small black notebook fell onto the seat. Etched in silver on the cover, it said “Daily Planner of François Pouppière.”