The Homemade Stuffing Caper Page 2

  “It’s not a missing person,” she snapped.

  “Nevertheless,” Henry continued, without taking a breath, “my partner and I will be forced to log untold man hours …”

  “How much?” she said, gritting her teeth.

  I needed to defuse the situation. “We really don’t know until we hear all the details,” I said. “It’s hard to say.” I turned to Henry. “Let’s get more info before we set a price, okay?”

  Henry threw up his arms. “Whatever.”

  I smiled politely at Scarlett. “Please continue.”

  She glared at Henry and uncrossed her legs.

  The next sound I had expected to hear was Scarlett’s soft, lulling voice. But instead a grinding noise froze me. My head dropped. The moment had been shattered.

  “Aw, Mom,” I whined, as the garage door began to rise. The family minivan pulled in and stopped abruptly. I motioned for Henry and Scarlett to follow me out the side door.

  “Listen, Scarlett, I gotta go,” I said.

  “But I didn’t have a chance to tell you about my problem,” she said. “It’s important.”

  “It’ll have to wait. I’ll talk to you at school or something.”

  Scarlett huffed, spun around, and was off.

  I knew this was no way to treat a customer, but what choice did I have? I looked around for Henry. He was long gone. He knew the drill.

  A short time later, minus trench coat and fedora, I marched through the back door without acknowledging my mother. I hadn’t gotten more than a few steps into the kitchen when I felt her tugging at the back of my shirt.

  “Hey, just what were you doing in the garage?”

  This was more than a simple question. It had all the signs of a full-blown interrogation.

  “Nothing.”

  “And who was that girl with you and Henry? I didn’t recognize her.”

  “Nobody.” The woman was now on dangerous grounds. There were certain topics that were simply not discussed. Months before, I had placed both of my parents on a strict need-to-know basis. Information regarding girls was classified. Period.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re at it again,” my mother said.

  I locked my jaw and stared at my shoes.

  “Honey, believe me, I understand. You think you’re offering some valuable service to your friends.” Her voice softened. “But at whose expense?”

  I had told myself that if my mother brought up this topic again, I would simply ignore it. But someone had to inform this woman that I had a gift. It would be wrong … selfish not to share it.

  “Mom, kids seek me out. I’m just trying to feed their need.”

  “Do you remember what happened when you hid a camera in the boys’ bathroom at school?”

  “One of my most successful cases,” I answered proudly.

  “You got suspended.”

  She just didn’t get it. What was it going to take to win her over?

  “You forget,” I said. “We found out who was stealing all of the urinal cakes.”

  “Who cares about urinal cakes?”

  “I see you haven’t spent much time in a boys’ bathroom.” I waved my hand in front of my nose and made a face, just for effect.

  “Oh, I give up,” she said.

  I took that as permission to exit. My mother, however, was far from finished. She quickly caught up and spun me around.

  “Listen, mister, I don’t want to get any calls from school or the neighbors or—”

  “Don’t worry, Mom,” I interrupted. “I’ll be discreet.”

  “‘Discreet’? Do you even know what that word means?”

  “Of course,” I assured her. “Discreet. Adjective. Demonstrating prudence and wise self-restraint in speech and behavior.” I smiled.

  She shook her head and stormed off.

  Victory!

  CHAPTER 2

  The Idol Hands Caper

  With only a week remaining before spring break, I sat in Mrs. Jansen’s science class daydreaming about a mystery client who would walk into the office with a case that would tax my brain like no other. But it was only a dream. At least I was sitting in the right place if I wanted a little brain stimulation. Mrs. Jansen always made us think. For a science teacher she was all right—mid-thirties, relatively attractive. Most science teachers, if you haven’t noticed, are either skinny, bald men, or old ladies with nicknames like Scab. Mrs. Jansen was different. But in order to survive one of her classes, you had better be a learner, not a lounger. She had the ability to calm the restless, and was truly a wizard at awakening a sleeping giant—a class just back from lunch—especially when the lights were low.

  “Now, who can tell me what this bird is?” she asked as she changed to the next image in her slide presentation.

  We were face-to-face with one scary-looking dude. It had brown and white spots all over and a sharp beak that bent downward. I wouldn’t want to tangle with this fellow on a dark night, that was for sure. Mrs. Jansen stared into a sea of drooping eyelids. There was no response from the assembled group of nearly comatose kids.

  Sensing she was losing her audience, Mrs. Jansen did not wait for a response. “It’s called an American peregrine falcon. And like the northern spotted owl and the imperial parrot, they are all on the endangered species list. We must do everything in our power to help preserve these beautiful creatures.” She paused momentarily and sighed. “I’m not sure if any of you saw the newspaper story the other day but one of these magnificent falcons has mysteriously disappeared from a wildlife sanctuary in the area. I can’t imagine who would do something like that.” She shook her head and flipped on the lights.

  She was met by the groans and gripes of students who were now forced to leave their vegetative state and pay attention.

  “Okay, we’d better change the subject,” Mrs. Jansen said. “We don’t have much time left in the period.”

  I was hoping this wouldn’t take long. I had arranged to meet up with a very important client after school—Scarlett.

  “Now, who can tell me what pollination is?” Twenty-five sets of eyes dropped to their desks. “Does this sound familiar? The transfer of pollen from the flower’s stamen to its pistil.” More blank stares. “Let’s see if a little game of mystery can generate some interest in this topic.”

  With the mention of mystery, all eyes turned to me. I was slightly uncomfortable with the attention. Then Sherman Doyle, a six-foot, 250-pounder, raised his hand. Sherman was not what you would call an academic giant. His strength was his physical presence.

  “Yes, Sherman,” Mrs. Jansen said.

  “Don’t call on Charlie for the answer, okay?”

  Comments from others in the class seemed to agree. “Yeah, let us do it this time.”

  Mrs. Jansen appeared grateful for their enthusiasm, but not with the conditions. “Well, that doesn’t seem quite fair, now does it?”

  “He’s got one of them anatomical brains,” Sherman said. “It’s too easy for him.”

  “Do you mean analytical, Sherman?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  It made little sense to join this conversation. I buried my nose in a book. If they didn’t want me to participate, that was okay. I was happy enough just to observe.

  Mrs. Jansen was now staring at me. “It seems your reputation has preceded you, Mr. Collier.”

  I shrugged my shoulders and kept silent.

  “Okay, class, here’s the premise.” Mrs. Jansen began waving her hands in front of the blackboard. “Imagine this entire wall covered with flowers … identical flowers. But only one is real. The rest are artificial.”

  I felt my heart race. Even if I couldn’t answer it, I loved the challenge.

  “Without coming up and touching or smelling any of them, how can you tell which one is the real flower?”

  There was no response from anyone in class. I fought the urge to raise my hand. The answer was so obvious. Surely someone would unravel this brain buster. Mrs. Jansen
scanned the room slowly. There was a pained expression on her face. She seemed disappointed that no one had accepted the challenge. A moment later, she shook her head and sighed.

  “Is it all right if I call on Charlie?” she said.

  A handful of students turned and stared at me.

  “Okay, Charlie, what do you think?” she asked.

  At last. This was my chance to shine. But just then, I had second thoughts. Should I show up the other kids again, or just play dumb? A little voice told me to be just one of the guys—to pretend I was as baffled as everyone else in the room. It would pay dividends on the playground. But how could I walk away? Would Sam Solomon have withheld valuable information? In Episode #14—The Idol Hands Caper—he shared details of his investigation with local authorities that led to the arrest of a famed archeologist who had stolen priceless relics from the Aztec treasures in Mexico. Sam couldn’t stand pat, and neither can I.

  “Well?” She was waiting for my response. “Don’t tell me we’ve stumped you too?!”

  I looked into the anxious and jealous eyes of my classmates. What was I afraid of? I took a deep breath and stood up.

  “This is how I see it,” I said. “I’d open the window and wait for a bee to fly into the room. Then, whichever flower it lands on, that’s the real one.” I sat back down quickly.

  A roomful of heads turned and awaited Mrs. Jansen’s response. She just smiled and nodded. “That’s it.”

  A mixture of cheers and jeers filled the room. I appreciated the kudos from Mrs. Jansen and from some of my classmates. But the reaction from the others made me second-guess my decision to speak up. I might just have to fight that urge in the future. As great as it was to nail a brain buster, it didn’t quite make up for the feelings of rejection from some.

  Henry and I met up after school on the edge of the playground as always. He was busy playing a handheld video game. I, on the other hand, began to scan the immediate area.

  “Are you looking for somebody?” he said.

  “Scarlett.”

  He stared at me. “Scarlett?” he said. “For what?”

  I suddenly had his attention. It was the first time his eyes had left the tiny screen in his hands.

  “I’m supposed to meet her out here.”

  Henry appeared confused.

  “Remember, in the garage yesterday,” I said, “she started to tell us about some missing person or thing?”

  “Oh yeah. Whatever,” he said with a disinterested look. “Hey, let me ask you something. How’d you figure out that flower thing back in Mrs. Jansen’s class?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Stuff starts to percolate up here,” I said, pointing to my head, “and the answer just pops into my brain. I don’t even try sometimes.”

  “Okay, genius, try this: A clerk in a butcher shop is five-feet, ten-inches tall. What does he weigh?”

  I grinned, ready for the challenge. Now, let’s see: a five-foot-ten-inch-tall butcher. There clearly was not enough information here to determine an answer as to his weight. Therefore, the answer had to be hidden in the riddle. Best to break it down word by word. What—does—he—weigh? I reflected for a moment, then grinned.

  “What does he weigh?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Henry looked confident, and I knew he was hoping—praying that this was his moment of victory.

  “He works in a butcher shop,” I said. “So, he weighs … meat.”

  Henry threw his head back disgustedly. “Mark my words, Charlie. One of these days, I’m gonna trip you up.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” I said with a smile.

  Henry dug into his pocket and pulled out a handful of index cards. “Hey, what do you think of these?”

  On each card were printed the words:

  “What do you think? I’ve been handing ’em out all over school.”

  But before I could respond, Sherman Doyle appeared.

  “Give it a rest in there, Collier,” Sherman warned. “You’re makin’ us look bad.”

  I wanted to respond with something witty. And I wanted to use words like big, dumb, and ugly. But all that came out was …

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You should be.”

  I looked away, hoping he would leave. Henry, on the other hand, seemed to welcome confrontation.

  “Take a hike,” he barked at Sherman.

  The oversize sixth-grader grabbed Henry by his belt and lifted him off the ground. “What’d you say, shrimp?” Sherman was now dangling him over a sewer cover.

  “I’m not afraid of you,” Henry fired back, swinging his arms futilely at his enemy.

  Sherman grinned, but when one punch unexpectedly hit its mark, the class bully quickly tired of the game and tossed Henry in my direction. We both toppled to the ground. Sherman laughed as he walked away, then stopped in his tracks. He bent down and scooped up something from the ground.

  “Oh no, I hope he’s okay,” Sherman said quietly.

  Henry and I looked at each other, then walked over to Sherman, curious about what had gotten him to show any emotion other than meanness.

  Resting in the palm of his hand was a dead bird. He started pressing its chest up and down with his thumb.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “I’m trying to get his little heart going. What do you think I’m doin’?”

  “Don’t waste your time,” Henry said. “He’s a goner.”

  After a few seconds had passed and the bird remained motionless, Sherman sighed, set the creature down gently onto a pile of leaves, and walked away.

  Henry and I stood there, in shock at Sherman’s display of kindness. “I don’t get it,” I said. “Why is he so nice to a bird but he hates me?”

  “Aw, don’t worry about him,” Henry said.

  “I don’t want people to hate me.”

  “People don’t hate you, Sherman does. There’s a difference.” Henry chuckled.

  “Charlie,” a voice called out. It was Scarlett. She came running over. “Can we talk now?”

  “Absolutely,” I said. I set my backpack on the ground and reached in for a legal pad and something to write with.

  I noticed Henry rolling his eyes. He wasn’t shy about showing his true feelings for Scarlett.

  “Okay, all ready,” I said.

  But before Scarlett could fill me in, a car with its horn blaring came flying around the corner and screeched to a stop just yards from where we were standing.

  I turned to look but Henry grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me back around.

  “Better not,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked. “What’s up?”

  “Just how were you planning on getting home today?” he said.

  “My mom’s picking me up.”

  “You sure about that? Because your grandma just got out of that car.”

  “Oh no!” I dropped my head and closed my eyes tightly. “What’s she wearing this time?”

  “Let me put it this way. You don’t want to look on an empty stomach.”

  My grandmother, Constance Collier, was a free spirit to say the least. To know her was to have a very definite opinion of her. Some people referred to her as slightly eccentric. Those less kind used terms like bananas, crackers, or batty.

  One thing was certain, Grandma loved life and lived it to the fullest. Each day brought new challenges … and in her case, new personalities.

  She stood in front of her 1978 Chrysler Newport waving her hands.

  “I think you’re being paged,” Henry said.

  When I built up enough courage to glance toward the curb, my worst fears had been realized. My grandmother was dressed in a skimpy tennis outfit—short skirt, midriff top, and visor. A close look at her skinny, wrinkled legs would leave even the most stout-hearted souls scurrying for the nearest bottle of antacid.

  “I’m in the mixed doubles with Bobby Riggs in a few minutes,” she shouted. “Come on.”

  I turned to Henry, whose ear-t
o-ear grin quickly faded. “Please don’t tell anyone what you just saw.”

  “I never do,” he said with a smirk.

  I glanced sheepishly at Scarlett. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Why does this keep happening?” she said. She seemed somewhat irritated. “So when can I talk to you about this?”

  “Listen,” I said. “We’re open for business on Saturday night. Can you come by then?”

  “Not without an appointment,” Henry said.

  “Talk to Henry,” I said. “He’ll fix you up. See you tomorrow night.”

  I ran over and hopped into the car as quickly as my legs would carry me. I was okay with Henry seeing some of Grandma’s antics now and then, but I was sorry Scarlett had to witness it. I waved to both of them as we sped away. Thank goodness it was Friday. Hopefully the weekend would help erase the memory of Grandma’s performance in the minds of anyone else who might have been watching. At least I hoped so.

  Whether in public or at home behind closed doors, one could never be certain what Grandma had up her sleeve. A Saturday morning breakfast at our house was nothing short of eventful. In fact, had you tried, you probably could have charged admission. The featured attraction? Another of Grandma’s escapades. This day was no different.

  When I entered the kitchen, I spotted my dad with an expression I could only describe as hopeless. The head of the Collier clan sat at the table with a blood pressure cuff around his neck. Grandma, in a nurse’s uniform, prepared to pump up the cuff.

  “Mom, I think this is supposed to go around my arm,” my dad said impatiently.

  I squeezed into a chair and smiled weakly at my dad. The show had begun, and I felt fortunate to have a front row seat.

  My father peeked at both my mom and me. It was as if he were seeking help, but neither she nor I had any intention of tackling Grandma. My dad wasn’t proud of the fact that his mother had controlled his life for years. But how could he be expected to challenge her now? It had been this way since he was young. He had learned to cope, but never to win.

  Grandma began pumping up the cuff. I watched as my dad gasped for air.

  “Mom!” he choked out. He grabbed his throat. His coloring had taken on a patriotic tone—changing from red to white to blue. His eyes bulged as he looked to me for help.