The Fantastic Family Whipple (34 page)

“What?” cried Arthur.

At that moment, a tiny figure stepped out from behind the gravestone.

A rush of horror gripped Arthur as he realized: it was a dwarf.

“Ahh!” the boy shrieked—then swung his butterfly net at the dwarf’s head and bolted in the opposite direction.

Before he could make his escape, however, Arthur’s toe caught on the corner of an unearthed coffin lid—and he was sent crashing to the ground, barely six feet away.

Fumbling for his lantern, Arthur rolled onto his back and began scouring the shadows for the dwarf’s giant companion. He knew he had but a moment before the towering brute emerged and came forth to destroy him.

And yet, as the boy lay clutching his lantern, paralyzed with fright, no such person appeared.

“Ow!” cried the dwarf, stumbling forward as he rubbed the side of his head.

“D-don’t come any closer!” Arthur warned, brandishing his butterfly net. “I haven’t forgotten how to use this!”

“Argh,” the little man groaned, feeling his scalp for a lump. “Why’d you do that?”

In the lantern’s light, Arthur examined his tiny adversary. Dressed in a dark suit with an ascot tie, he had tan skin and thick, silvery hair. The boy couldn’t quite place it, but he felt as though he had seen the man’s face before.

“I’m—I’m sorry if I hurt you, sir,” Arthur said cautiously. “I—I thought you were the dwarf who’s been terrorizing my family. Well, I mean—
are
you the dwarf who’s been terrorizing my family?”

“I should’ve known,” sighed the dwarf, shaking his head. “Seems our dear co-presidents were right about something for once in their lives: you really could use some exceptional-size sensitivity training.”

“Wait,” said Arthur. “Co-presidents? As in Stuart and Brian? Of the GGDG?” It was then Arthur remembered the tan-faced, silver-haired, deep-voiced dwarf standing on his chair in the GGDG boardroom, being rebuked by the tiny co-president. “Hang on,” he blurted, “you’re—”

“Thornton Lowe—at your service,” said the dwarf, and, stepping forward, offered the boy his hand.

Arthur promptly accepted it and, with a bit of huffing and puffing on both their parts, staggered to his feet. “Thank you, Mr. Lowe,” said the boy. “Now, um, just to be clear—and I’m sorry if I’m showing poor exceptional-size sensitivity here, but I can’t help but feel I’ve had run-ins with an extraordinary number of dwarves lately, and I’m just a bit confused. So, anyhow—you’re sure you’re not trying to harm my family in any way?”

“Quite the contrary,” replied the dwarf, rubbing his head again. “I thought I was clear about that on the telephone.”

“Yes, I guess you were,” Arthur nodded. “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Lowe. I really am sorry about the head. Afraid it’s
got me a little on edge, this place. I mean, honestly—what ever made you want to meet
here
?”

Mr. Lowe’s brow wrinkled. “What exactly are you trying to say? That you don’t like the Undertakers’ Graveyard? Now, I might be able to forgive the unprovoked brutality, but if you think I’ll let you insult this sacred ground, well, then you are sorely—”

“Oh no, no—it’s not that,” Arthur lied. “It’s lovely, really, the graveyard. I just, um, wondered if you might have a particular connection to it or something—that’s all.”

“Oh. Hmm,” said the dwarf, his expression softening. “Well, yes—as a matter of fact I do. You see, apart from serving on the board of the GGDG, I happen to be director of Lowe and Sons Funeral Company. Started by my great-great-great grandfather, Obediah Digby Lowe—Dr. Doornail himself. Perhaps you saw his statue?”

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur nodded. “I knew that name sounded familiar.”

“Yep,” Mr. Lowe continued. “Always been one of my favorite places, this. All the greats are laid here. Philip Valtz. Justin Hume. Solomon Kroker. They just don’t bury ’em like they used to, do they?”

“I guess not,” shrugged the boy.

“Nope. Come here whenever I get the chance, just to clear my head—and commune with the icons of undertaking’s past. You’re lucky you live so close;
you
can visit anytime you like! I’d move out here in a heartbeat, myself—but there just aren’t enough people dying in the countryside,
I’m afraid. Nope—apart from a lucky outbreak of swine flu here and there—it’s much better for business in the city.”

“Hmm,” said Arthur, his queasiness returning slightly. “Makes sense, I guess…. But, um, well—what was it you called me here to tell me? Something about the Cake Catastrophe case, was it?”

“Oh, right—of course,” Mr. Lowe chuckled. “Get me talking about undertaking, and I’ll rattle on for days. But we’ve got graver matters to discuss, haven’t we?”

A devilish grin formed across the dwarf’s lips.

“We have?” Arthur gulped.

Mr. Lowe nodded. “So, let’s see here. Where to begin? Ah yes. The election. As you may have deduced from your little visit to the GGDG, I recently ran for the office of co-president, against Brian Carmine, the dwarf you had the pleasure of meeting yesterday, along with his giant crony, Stuart Fisch. Pleasant chap, that Carmine—wouldn’t you say?”

“No,” said Arthur. “I don’t think I would.”

“Well, that’s only because he’s a snidey, self-important little tapeworm. But we shouldn’t hold that against him, should we?”

“Hmm,” said Arthur. “I take it you don’t like him very much.”

“Like him? Oh, I
like
him all right—as a potential customer for Lowe and Sons. Why, there’s nobody I’d like to work with more. Indeed, I would consider it my honor, and a boon to the whole exceptional-size community—as well
as every other community—to get him behind my doors. A couple of tyrants, Carmine and Fisch. Silence anybody who speaks out against them or tries to paint any of our members in a less than favorable light. Why, with his ties to the Dwarven Brotherhood, Carmine’s really nothing more than a gangster with a gavel. Constantly having me followed by his criminal cronies to make sure I don’t speak out of turn. Good thing I managed to give them the slip tonight. They’d no doubt beat us both to a bloody pulp for what I’m about to tell you….”

Up until that moment, Arthur had been feeling fairly comfortable with his present situation, despite the grim surroundings—but now all of his prior uneasiness came rushing back. “They would?” he said, his eyes unconsciously searching the shadows again.

“Oh, most definitely,” Mr. Lowe nodded casually. “Now where was I? Ah yes. The election. Right. So, anyway—on the night I was outvoted by that no-good cockroach, I took myself off to the Mountain and Molehill, the local dwarf/giant tavern, to drown my sorrows. Must have been the day after your family’s Cake Catastrophe, because it was all over the news that night.
Whipple Chef Bakes Birthday Bomb
, they were all saying. So, there I am, minding my own business, trying to forget I’d just lost the vote to a talking termite, and the dwarf at the table next to me tries to strike up a conversation. Clearly had one too many, this fellow—and by one too many, I mean: one drink total. Doesn’t take much for us little folk, you understand. Honestly, if it weren’t for the giants, the Mountain and
Molehill would barely break even. But anyhow, he leans over to me and says, ‘Funny about that exploding birthday cake, isn’t it, friend?’ Now, as I’ve mentioned, I was in a bit of a bad temper, so I reply, ‘How should I know? I wasn’t there.’ ‘Ah,’ he says, ‘but
I
was.’ ‘Were you?’ I say. ‘Are you a friend of the Whipples, then?’ ‘
Friend?
’ he scoffs. ‘To those simpletons? Hardly. No, no—my associate and I attended as part of the, um,
entertainment
.’ At this, he gestures to the corner behind him and the huge giant seated there in the shadows, who I had previously failed to notice. ‘Say no more,’ I reply. ‘It’s our lot in life, us exceptional sizes. Never invited anywhere unless it’s to be put onstage and gawked at, are we?’ ‘Oh no,’ he says. ‘I assure you, friend—it was
us
running the show this time. Why, with only a few simple improvements to that silly family’s birthday cake, we orchestrated the main attraction itself. And though we may have been dressed as clowns, it was
us
doing the gawking—at all those screaming fools running for their lives.’ Now at this point, the drink is really doing its work on me, and I can hardly follow him. ‘What was that now?’ I say. ‘I don’t quite understand. Do you mean you were on the Whipple party-planning committee or something?’ At this, he gets rather snippy and says, ‘What I mean is:
we
blew up the Whipple birthday cake. But don’t think you’ll ever read about us in the papers; we’ve already succeeded in stitching up the Whipples’ poor half-witted chef—so we’ll never be blamed for any of it.’ By this time, I’ve had about enough. ‘Goodness,’ I say. ‘And to think I’ve been seated next to a criminal mastermind all this time. Well, I’d best be off now. Good luck in all
your future sabotage plots. Sounds like you’re off to a smashing start.’ And with that, I got up and left.”

Arthur’s mouth hung open. He could scarcely believe all he had just heard. “And—and what happened next?” he spluttered. “Did you see where they went?”

“No,” said the dwarf, shaking his head. “That was it. I went home, poured myself an ill-considered second drink and promptly passed out. I’ve been back to the Mountain and Molehill many times since, I’m sorry to say—but I’ve never seen those two again.”

“Well,” said Arthur, “let’s see here: a giant and a dwarf, dressed as clowns, who claim to have blown up my family’s birthday cake, and pinned it on our chef. Yep. I’m pretty sure these are our guys. So, what exactly did they look like?”

“Didn’t get much of a look, I’m afraid. Rather a minimalist lighting scheme they’ve got at the Mountain and Molehill.”

“Hmm,” the boy sighed. “And you didn’t happen to catch either of their names?”

“Afraid not. Really didn’t think much of it at the time—there’d been no mention of a dwarf or a giant even being suspected in the Whipple Cake Catastrophe. Seemed he was just after a bit of attention, this fellow—and, well, the way we dwarves get treated by you average sizes, I could hardly blame him, could I? But when you and your friends came sniffing about the GGDG office yesterday, looking for a dwarf and a giant in connection with your family’s recent
mishaps, it struck me this fellow might have been telling the truth—and my conscience would no longer allow me to remain silent…. Not to mention I’d give anything just to see that worm, Carmine, squirm a bit. If he wants to be co-president, let
him
deal with the public outrage when two of our members are charged with sabotage and attempted murder!”

“Ah,” said Arthur with a nod. “Well, you know, whatever the reason, I’m really glad you came forward with this. Although, if what you say is true about Mr. Carmine, aren’t you worried he might have you—well, you know—
silenced
?”

“Ha!” snapped Mr. Lowe. “Let him try it! We undertakers don’t scare so easily. What’s the worst he can do—kill me? Death is how I make my living; I don’t fear death—I welcome it….”

There was a sudden howl of wind, followed by what sounded like the eerie cry of some nearby nocturnal creature, and Arthur couldn’t stop his spine from tingling.

He was just about to chalk it up to some deluxe add-on feature from the cemetery gate factory, when he looked up at the towering stone monument to his right—and saw the call’s actual source.

There, leaning over the column’s top edge, two tiny human faces looked down at him, while a pair of hefty wooden mallets glinted beside them in the moonlight.

Arthur hardly had time to yell “Look out!” before the two dwarves had leapt from their perch and were flying at the boy and the undertaker with weapons raised.

In a fit of terror, Arthur dropped his lantern and gripped his butterfly net at both ends, just in time to block the first dwarf’s hammer—which was nearly as long as its wielder was tall. Funny as the pairing appeared, however, the crushing force of the dwarf’s blow was no laughing matter.

“Mr. Carmine says hello!” the second dwarf cried as he swung his mallet at Mr. Lowe.

The little undertaker dodged to one side, causing his attacker to overextend himself.

“Send him my regards!” Mr. Lowe cried back, and on the last syllable, punched the man in the mouth before he could raise his mallet again.

Seeing his partner hurt, the first dwarf turned back to Arthur with a menacing snarl.

Similar to his partner’s, the dwarf’s thick, tattooed arms, rolled-sleeved shirt, and greasy dungarees suggested a rough career in either the circus or rail industries, or possibly in the circus rail industry. Incidentally, it was the workers from precisely these three industries whom Arthur would have last chosen to face in hand-to-hand combat.

His first block had been lucky—but the boy was no match for such a hard-bitten opponent.

“This ain’t your fight, boy,” growled the dwarf. “No need for you to get hurt too bad—if you just stay down….” With that, he pressed the top of his mallet into Arthur’s chest and shoved the boy backward.

Before Arthur could catch himself, he tripped over a gravestone and tumbled to the ground.

The man gave a crooked smile, then turned and walked toward the other two dwarves, who were now grappling at close quarters.

“How did Carmine end up with you two anyway?” the undertaker barked. “Were all the other sewer rats already booked for the night?”

While Mr. Lowe’s arms were tied up in his struggle with the second dwarf, the first dwarf casually approached and smashed him in the nose with his mallet.

As the stunned little undertaker stumbled backward, the second dwarf extended a toe to trip him—and Mr. Lowe crashed to the ground on his back.

Arthur pulled himself to his feet and watched helplessly as the two thugs closed in on their prey.

“Always got something to say, haven’t you, Mr. Lowe?” the first dwarf smirked as he thumped his hammerhead against his palm.

The winded undertaker struggled to sit up, but the second dwarf pressed him down with his mallet and boot.

“No need to get up, Mr. Lowe,” the first dwarf sneered. “You’re just where we want you. We’re about to do a little experiment, see—to find out if you still talk so much after you’ve had your jaw broke.”