Fiendish Deeds (8 page)

Except he was now dressed like a complete fool.

A
jester! The agency had told him he was to be a wandering minstrel, not some capering fool! The outrage!

And who was this little creep? He shot the boy an awful glare that caused the bells on his pointy hat to ring out merrily.

“Mr. Phipps, it’s me! Morris M. Mealey, conceiver of the Misty Mermaid Water Park!”

It was all coming back to Phipps now. The contest at the elementary school. Darlington, City of the Future. The self-important little bootlicker with the bowl cut.

Actually, it had been a no-brainer. The Mealey kid had had the only idea they could use, although Phipps had to admit to being partial to the young wit who depicted UFOs laying waste to the area.

He considered for a moment pretending to be someone else, but doubted it would discourage the boy.

“Morris,” he finally acknowledged with a stiff smile.

“I didn’t realize you were a performer, Mr. Phipps!”

“Only on special occasions.”

The special occasion in question was last week’s blowing a month’s salary on a horse named Cindy’s Pride. And how proud Cindy must have felt, as her mighty stallion thundered over the finish line, his jockey left facedown on the far side of the track!

Gambling—or speculating, as Phipps liked to think of it—was an ugly addiction that he just couldn’t shake. Which was unfortunate since he considered gamblers a despicable bunch.
Can’t you bet on your own talents, you pathetic cowards?
he had wondered, sneering at the screaming spectators before finally tearing his own worthless bet into tiny pieces.

Now he was about to be thrown out of his apartment unless he came up with the rent within a week. It was ridiculous! He was only a couple months late, three at the most. Didn’t the landlord realize who he was, and the number of crooked city inspectors and rabid fire marshals he had on speed-dial?

Apparently not. So he needed a gig. Unfortunately, there wasn’t a lot of call for avant-garde multi-instrumentalists these days, nor aging punk rockers.

“We do need a wandering minstrel to sing ‘Happy Birthday’ at Kiddy Kingdom,” the agency said over the phone. “The usual guy is getting laser eye surgery tomorrow. It’s ten performances total, standard day rate. Interested? Oh, it says here you must be able to provide your medieval-style instrument, like a lute, whatever that is. Got anything that passes for one?”

Passes for one?
How insulting! He now opened the case, revealing a beautiful instrument handmade by his own father, a perfect replica of a lute from 1675. No one in this vomit-inducing building was fit to glance at its lustrous finish, he felt, much less be within earshot of its dulcet tones. He’d been forced to make another agonizing trip up the hill for it, finding it among the many other instruments in their dust-caked cases at the back of the derelict shop. As he left, he had pulled the fading for sale sign from the window and tossed it on the floor.

“Whoa, nice guitar, Mr. Phipps,” said Morris. “I play a bit of saxophone, actually—”

“It is not a
guitar
,” snapped Phipps as he lay its case against the wall beside Joy’s chair. “It is a lute. Now would you please excuse me?”

Joy and Morris watched as Phipps waded through the sea of children wearing the grim expression of a sewer worker up to his belt buckle in human waste. He approached one of the teenage employees, who pointed him toward Lucy.

“What a guy, that Mr. Phipps,” Morris said to Joy. “He’s Mayor MacBrayne’s right-hand man, you know. I spoke to him backstage a bit after assembly. He even said I was a natural politician, the way I
fill the air with words
.” Morris grinned. “I just love the vision this administration has for Darlington. I was even thinking of maybe heading up the mayor’s youth wing to help him campaign for re-election, whenever that is. Are you interested?”

“Interested? In what?”

Morris laughed. “Duh—in becoming a member of Minors for Mayor MacBrayne, of course! I know it’s a mouthful, so I was thinking of shortening it to the Triple M’s.”

Joy shot him the most withering look she could muster from her vast collection of expressions conveying repulsion. “I’m not joining your stupid club, kid, or anything like it,” she said incredulously. “In fact, I happen to think Mayor MacBrayne is a big fat jerk!”

Morris staggered backward as if he’d been slapped. “Wait a second, missy—this big fat jerk, as you call him, is only building a fantastic attraction right on your doorstep!”

“I don’t care!” shouted Joy. “The stupid water park—
your water park
—is going to destroy Spooking Bog!”

“Spooking Bog?” Morris looked confused. “Wait, is that where they’re going to be building it?”

“Yes!”

“Classic!” Morris laughed. “That’s the perfect spot! What geniuses! Hey, c’mon, it’s time for the cake.”

Morris trotted off toward the crowd forming around Lucy as Joy trembled with frustration at missing the opportunity to choke him by his tie. Phipps stood plucking his lute beside Lucy as a huge, frighteningly aflame birthday cake approached.

“
Happy birthday to you
,” Phipps began singing with a melodious voice. Everyone joined in—a hesitant off-key murmur that grew louder and louder with each passing second until it became so painfully noisy and tuneless it sounded like Lucy was being serenaded by a choir of zombies clambering to eat her.

“
Happy birthday, dear Lucy, happy birthday to you
…”

Joy sat fuming. She had to get out of there. Where was Byron? She spotted him, hopping up and down, trying to get a view of Lucy blowing out the gathering fireball that was reducing her cake to a pool of bubbling icing. A cheer erupted as a sudden puff of acrid black smoke rose above the line of heads.

Cake, then presents—this was going to take forever! Joy growled to herself, thinking of the boy’s smug little face again.
“Classic!”
He didn’t care about destroying Spooking Bog, not one bit. And neither would anyone. It was just a bunch of dead trees they drove by.

Joy stared into space, imagining bulldozers tearing through the bog, wrenching up ancient trees and crushing poor Ernesto under their steely tracks. Then she pictured cement trucks barfing load after load over the gaping hole, and towering cranes, an obscene forest of them, hoisting plastic tubes into place for the sunscreen-stinking masses to slide on.

It made her want to scream.

“Did you get a piece?”

It was Louden Primrose.

“Huh?” asked Joy, recoiling. He held out a Styrofoam plate with a thick wedge of cake slathered in pink icing. “Um, no.” She felt her neck burning from embarrassment.

“Well, then take this one before the little brats eat it all.” He handed her the plate and a plastic fork. “It’s not bad actually, compared to last year’s at least.”

“Thanks,” said Joy. Louden shuffled awkwardly, waiting for her to take a bite. Joy sliced through the gooey icing and scooped up a spongy forkful. The sickly sweetness made her face clench as she took a bite, sending electric jolts across her tooth enamel. She was then overcome with the sensation that all the moisture was being sucked from her brain.

“Mmm, good,” she managed.

Louden smiled and shrugged, heading off to hand out more. Joy sat stunned, polishing off the rest of the disgusting cake just in case he came back. With a groan, she put the empty plate under her chair. She needed milk or water. She would have drunk any liquid, even gasoline at that point, but there was no way she was going over to the frenzy at the refreshment table.

“Byron!” she barked as he wandered aimlessly within range. He had given up trying to squeeze through a wall of elbows to watch Lucy open her gifts—it was simply impenetrable. “Byron!”

“What?” he asked dejectedly.

“Get me a drink. Anything, so long as it is wet.”

Hands in his cords, Byron slunk off toward the refreshments. He was acting weird lately, Joy thought. And not his normal weird—there was something deeply odd about his behavior.

“Excuse me,” said a voice. “I need to get my case.” Joy looked up. It was the fool—Mr. Phipps, the mayor’s right-hand man, as that obnoxious Morris kid had called him. She shuddered.

It wasn’t that he was ugly, although he certainly wasn’t handsome with his bony face and bulging Adam’s apple, blue-black hair, and almost colorless eyes. Up close, she noticed his ears were rimmed with holes—empty piercings—looking like two rounds of cheese nibbled by mice.

But what struck her most was how different he looked, completely unlike the other grown-ups she came across in Darlington. Like he came from another place—another time—entirely.

Joy found herself suddenly addressing him.

“Did you know,” said Joy, clearing her throat, “that Spooking Bog is a very rare and precious ecosystem?”

Phipps crouched by the case, which he had opened, revealing a blue plush velvet interior. He glanced at Joy with disinterest. “Is it?”

“Yes. It’s also the home to many unusual species, including snapping turtles that weigh up to seventy-five pounds.”

“Fascinating,” Phipps answered as he gently laid the lute inside and began cleaning the strings and body with a soft-looking cloth. He then suddenly stopped and turned toward her. “You’re not one of those tree-hugging types, are you?”

“No,” said Joy unsurely.

“That’s good, because once they’re on your case, all your hate mail starts reeking of patchouli, which is something I just couldn’t handle at the moment.”

Joy stared back in bewilderment.

“Sorry. What I meant to say is that I don’t quite follow your interest in Spooking Bog,” he said with a wide smile. “It is really just a muddy hole, nothing more. And there are plenty of other muddy holes like it where the big turtles can live.”

“So it’s true you’re going to build some mermaid park there.”

Phipps raised his eyebrows. “Now, that’s something I can’t comment on at this stage, um—what is your name, young lady?”

“Joy.”

“Joy,” he repeated with amusement, looking at her darkly serious face. “Well, Joy, I will say this: There are a lot of wonderful things coming soon to Darlington, all of which are much more fun than an icky old bog. Did you know you have the privilege of living in one of the best-kept secrets in the country? Sure, Darlington’s a bit small now, but it’s only getting bigger and better! By the time you are all grown up, it will be an amazing place!”

“I don’t live in Darlington. I live in Spooking,” replied Joy proudly.

Hearing this, Phipps laughed. It suddenly reminded Joy of a giggling boy she’d once caught pulling the wings off a butterfly.

“Spooking, eh?” said Phipps, closing the spring locks of the case with a snap. He turned, still crouching, and looked at her with his icy blue eyes, studying her face, her hair, and her clothes, it seemed. A shiver tore down Joy’s spine. “Okay then, young friend, perhaps you do deserve another explanation. Do you know what a legacy is?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

“It’s something left behind by dead people.”

“Impressive,” he said smiling. “Spooking girls are certainly clever these days.”

Joy shrugged. “I learned it from my father—he’s a lawyer.”

“I see! Well, yes, that’s the best kind of legacy, young lady, made up of valuable things like money and property and titles and so forth. And sometimes there’s another kind of legacy, an unwelcome sort handed down to unfortunate future generations who don’t want or deserve any part of it. But let’s talk about happy legacies, the kind your father handles. Do you have any siblings, may I ask?”

“A brother,” Joy answered automatically.

“And what street do you live on, up there in Spooking?”

“Bellevue,” she answered, this time lying.

“A fine street! And I imagine you must live in a big old house then.”

“I guess.”

“Well, did you ever think how one day that house will be yours? It will—it’s the legacy your parents will leave to you. Isn’t that amazing?”

Joy imagined having the house all to herself. She’d be just like Melody Huxley! With a stab of guilt she then remembered Byron and how her parents would be dead.

“But if things stay as they are, that will never happen,” Phipps added darkly. “Your house will crumble into dust long before, along with all the other houses in the neighborhood. And you’ll have to move then, except no one will give you even a penny for such a terrible mess. In the end, you and your brother will be left with nothing. Your parents’ precious legacy will become completely worthless.

“But what if in the meantime, some wonderful new attraction gets built there?” Phipps continued brightly. “Some sort of big exciting project that brings thousands and thousands of visitors to the area? Like a water park, for instance! Then people will pay a lot of money for a property like yours, no matter what condition it is in. Because the land itself will become valuable! More valuable than your house even, which they could always knock down to build something new. And what happens then? Well, you and your brother will be rich, of course! And then you can move anywhere in the whole world and do anything you please!”