The Mysterious Disappearence of Leon (9 page)

“What would you like for Mother’s Day,” Tina asked to cheer her up.

“Mother’s Day?” Mrs. Carillon said, brightening. “Why, I’ve never ever received a Mother’s Day present before.”

“How about lace underwear?” Tina suggested. “Mavis Bensonhurst’s mother always wears lace underwear in case she’s hit by a truck and her dress flies up in the air.”

“That’s stupid,” Tony said. “If Mavis Bensonhurst’s mother were hit by a truck, she wouldn’t know the difference; she’d be dead.”

“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Carillon said, “some women do feel that way. I often think of that myself; that’s why I never wear any underwear at all.”

Tina’s mouth dropped open. Tony’s face turned a bright red. Augie Kunkel cleared his throat and lowered his eyes.

“You really don’t mean that, Mrs. Carillon,” Tina said. “You’re only joking, aren’t you, Mrs. Carillon?”

“Why should I joke about such a thing?” Mrs. Carillon replied, unaware of the confusion she had caused. “If I said I never wear underwear, that means I never wear underwear.”

Tina couldn’t believe her ears. Tony wanted to die of embarrassment. The twins expected Mr. Kunkel to leave the table in shocked outrage; but he just sat there, intently polishing his glasses with his greasy napkin.

“Why, I haven’t worn underwear in over twenty years,” Mrs. Carillon explained. “I wear a bathing suit, instead. That way, if I’m ever hit by a truck and my skirt flies over my head, Noel would recognize the purple flowers. And, if he wasn’t at the scene of the accident, he would read in the paper:

UNIDENTIFIED WOMAN IN PURPLE-FLOWERED SWIMSUIT HIT BY TRUCK.

“Do you always wear the same bathing suit?” Tony asked, not quite sure that it still wasn’t indecent.

“Oh no, dear, not the same one. I change every day. I own twenty-four of them, all exactly the same.”

The twins broke into giggles again. So did Augie Kunkel.

“What’s so funny?” Mrs. Carillon asked, which made them laugh even harder. She joined in with a few bewildered chuckles and waited until they were all laughed out.

“Let’s have dessert in the living room,” she said, rising from her chair.

Augie Kunkel leaped up to offer her his arm, but he couldn’t see a thing through his grease-smeared glasses. He tripped over his chair and fell, hitting his head on the corner of the table.

Mrs. Carillon screamed. Tony knelt down and held his hand. Tina called Dr. Stein who called an ambulance. Augie Kunkel was rushed to the hospital to have fourteen more stitches put in his head.

Good News and a Cheese

“What a miserable day,” Tina said on the way home from school.

Tony agreed. Rosemary Neuberger had laughed out loud at him in class, because he couldn’t decide whether the Spanish Inquisition was good or bad.

“I don’t think I feel so good,” Tina said, opening the front door. “I think I’ll go right to bed.” Jordan Pinckney had told her that Siamese twins had to be either both girls or both boys. As if she didn’t have enough to worry about, what with the confession she had to make before the upcoming trial.

“Mr. Kunkel!” Tony was delighted to see him sitting in the living room having tea with Mrs. Carillon.

“Mr. Kunkel, what are you wearing?” Tina asked.

“Oh, this?” He pointed to the football helmet on his head. “My d-d-doctor said I have to wear this for a few months. One more accident, he said, and my b-b-brains would end up scrambled eggs.”

“And it’s all my fault,” Mrs. Carillon said.

“N-n-not at all, my p-p-problems are minuscule compared to yours.”

Tony repeated “minuscule” under his breath. It was a good word; he liked it.

The telephone rang.

“Oh, ow, ouch!” cried Mrs. Carillon, grabbing her right arm.

“G-g-good grief, what happened?” Augie Kunkel ran to Mrs. Carillon’s aid as Tony ran to answer the telephone before the second ring.

“Hello. . . ? Yes. . . One minute, please.” Tony placed his hand over the receiver. “Mrs. Carillon, it’s for you. It’s the manager of Bloomingdale’s.”

Tina blanched.

Mrs. Carillon bounded up from her seat, stood absolutely still, and plopped back onto the couch again.

“I just can’t . . . it’s probably something awful.” Her voice was trembling. “Augie, would you?”

“Of c-c-course.” He gave her a reassuring smile and took the phone from Tony.

“Hello, hello... ? What did you say. . . ? I can’t hear you.”

Tony pointed to the football helmet.

“One moment, p-p-please.” Augie Kunkel removed the helmet with a sheepish grin. “N-n-now, then, would you repeat that. . . ? Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes. . . Yes, that is very k-k-kind of you. . . . Yes. . . Yes, I’ll give her the m-m-message. Thank you, good-by.”

“What is it? What did he say?” Tina asked impatiently as Mr. Kunkel carefully replaced the helmet on his head.

“Everything is q-q-quite all right,” he said finally. “In fact, everything is just fine. It seems, Mrs. C-C-Carillon, that when you fell on the little rat-faced man you did B-B-Bloomingdale’s a great favor. That man was Ambrose Ambergris, the notorious perfume thief the police have been trying to catch for years. B-B-Bloomingdale’s is extremely g-g-grateful. Not only have they d-d-dropped all charges against you, they are sending you a year’s free supply of C-C-Camembert cheese.”

“Does that mean there’s not going to be a trial?” Tina asked.

“That’s right; n-n-no trial.”

“Whew!”

Mrs. Carillon also breathed a sigh of relief. “I never did enjoy being a living martyr.”

“You may not be a living m-m-martyr, Mrs. Carillon, but you are a heroine. And I would like to take everyone to an Armenian restaurant for dinner. We have some celebrating to d-d-do.”

Mrs. Carillon and the twins eagerly accepted the invitation. They certainly did have something to celebrate, for a change.

An Unwelcome Guest

“I’m going to celebrate the most,” Tina said; and then the doorbell rang.

Tony was almost trampled underfoot by a raging Mr. Banks waving a newspaper in the air and shouting, “Where is she?”

“Are you looking for me?” Mrs. Carillon asked.

“This is too much, too much,” he shouted after having distinguished the purple-flowered Mrs. Carillon from the purple-flowered furniture. “Your ridiculous capers are plastered all over the newspapers.

“Just look at this!” Mr. Banks slapped the back of his hand against the front page and read aloud:

SOUP HEIRESS INCITES RIOT IN BLOOMINGDALE’S HIPPIES DEMONSTRATE TO FREE MRS. CARILLON.

“How wonderful,” said Mrs. Carillon, standing on tip-toe to read over Mr. Banks’ shoulder.

“Maybe Leon will see the headlines and. . .”

“Leon, Leon, that’s all you ever think about!”

“Noel,” corrected Tina.

“You stay out of this, young lady.” Mr. Banks pointed an accusing finger at Tina. Mrs. Carillon reached for the newspaper to read about her adventure, but Mr. Banks whipped it away and turned his menacing finger toward her.

“Enough of this insane search. You’re not only making a silly fool out of yourself; you’re ruining the business to boot. You’ll be lucky if I can get the charge reduced to disturbing the peace.”

“One m-m-minute,” stammered Augie Kunkel. “I m-m-must ask you to lower your voice, or, or, or leave this house at once.”

“And who do you think you are, tight end for the Green Bay Packers?”

“Why, Mr. Banks,” said Mrs. Carillon, not the least ruffled by his violent show of temper, “don’t you remember Augie Kunkel?”

“Mr. Kunkel took care of everything,” Tony explained. “He arranged bail and made Bloomingdale’s drop the case. And he’s not a football player. Mr. Kunkel hurt his head helping Mrs. Carillon.”

It was somewhat of an exaggeration, but it calmed down Mr. Banks.

“Why doesn’t everybody sit down and relax for a few minutes,” Mrs. Carillon suggested, having gotten possession of the newspaper at last.

“August Kunkel, now I remember,” Mr. Banks said. “Your father was foreman at the factory until the tragedy. A good man, your father. He worked hard to make Mrs. Carillon’s Pomato Soup the success it is today.”

“Are you Mr. Kunkel’s trustee, too?” Tony asked.

“No, of course not. Mr. Kunkel’s father didn’t have any money. He didn’t own the business, you know; he just worked for it.”

“There was a little insurance m-m-money,” Augie Kunkel explained. “I went to live with my m-m-maiden aunt.”

“If Mr. Kunkel’s father worked so hard for the business, he should have owned part of it, too,” Tony said.

“Young man, you know nothing about business,” Mr. Banks said uneasily. “What do they teach you at that school, anyway? Socialism?”

“No, the Spanish Inquisition,” answered Tony, who had decided it was a bad thing after witnessing Mr. Banks’ earlier performance.

The subject of school reminded Tina of another problem. “Mr. Kunkel, what is the name of a boy and girl who are Siamese twins?”

“That’s impossible,” said Mr. Banks. “Siamese twins are either two boys or two girls.”

“I asked Mr. Kunkel,” Tina said, trying not to show her annoyance. “What if there
were
such a thing, Mr. Kunkel, what would you call it?”

“You can’t have a name for something that doesn’t exist,” Mr. Banks insisted. “Just what
are
they teaching you at that school?”

“Mr. Kunkel?” Tina tried again in desperation.

“I g-g-guess I would call it a medical phenomenon,” Augie Kunkel said, to Tina’s satisfaction.

Mrs. Carillon looked up from the newspapers. “Good heavens, what do I smell?”

“I thought it was fish,” Mr. Banks said, “but now I think it’s pot roast.”

“Oh, Mrs. Baker,” Mrs. Carillon called to the kitchen. “I’m sorry. I forgot to tell you we’re not eating home.”

“And waste all that good food!” Mr. Banks was off on one of his “extravagance” lectures again. The celebrants beat a hasty retreat to the door, leaving him with an audience of one, the annoyed Mrs. Baker.

7
_*
Noel__C__all/I__new....

An Armenian Dinner
²⁵

“
Kouzou kezartma, yaprak dolma. . .”
Augie Kunkel and Tony chanted names of Armenian dishes in time to the bouzouki music, and Mrs. Carillon contributed a finger-snapping accompaniment.

Tina toyed with her stuffed grape leaves.

“Tina, dear, aren’t you hungry?” Mrs. Carillon asked.

“She’s probably feeling sorry for the perfume thief,” Tony suggested, but Augie Kunkel knew the real reason for her discomfort.

“Why don’t we start working on the
glub-blubs,”
he said, handing her a pen and paper.

Tina soon forgot that everyone in the restaurant was staring at their noisy party, and especially at Mr. Kunkel, who wore his football helmet throughout dinner. She carefully wrote out Noel’s last message:

Noel
glub
C
blub
all. . .I
glub
new. . . .

All of a sudden their table was the quietest one in the restaurant. Mrs. Carillon and the twins studied Mr. Kunkel study the
glub-blubs.
At one point he said, “Hmmm,” and the three of them held their breath; but he was silent again for another ten minutes.

“We have so little to go on,” he said finally. “We do know that Noel had a nice word sense, for ‘Noel’ is ‘Leon’ spelled backward.”

Mrs. Carillon was invisibly lettering “Leon” and “Noel” on the tablecloth with her fingernail to see if they really were the same backward as forward. “Pardon?”

“I said, just four questions,” Augie Kunkel repeated. “First, are you sure you called out ‘Leon’ instead of ‘Noel’?”

“I think so,” said Mrs. Carillon.

“I know so,” said Tina.

“All right, then,” Augie Kunkel said, “we will presume that:
the first word is ‘Noel.’
²⁶