A Recipe for Robbery (6 page)

I
stood glued to my flip-flops, staring at a scaly three-legged alligator, sunning himself in a plastic wading pool. And then I must've yelped even louder than the barred owl, because Margaret and Gus, white-faced, came racing around the hibiscus plants. I stuck out my arm to stop them.

“What happened?” Gus said.

“G-Gator,” I said, still gasping for breath. “There…in the pool. Don't get too close. You might wake him up.”

Margaret's jaw dropped open. “You were right,” she said to Gus. “Granny Goose really does have a three-legged alligator.”

Gus scratched his head, blinking his eyes with astonishment. “Wow. I…uh…well, I kinda just made up that part about the three legs.”

Margaret nudged him and chortled. “You must have ESP or something.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it runs in my family. My dad says his uncle had…” Yada, yada, yada. On he went, and then they started talking about what might've happened to the gator's leg, which led to a big zoology discussion about all the other injured wildlife in Granny Goose's backyard, which meant that no further evidence was being discovered. I reminded them why we were there, and they both said, oh, yes, they'd get busy and scope out the backyard.

That left me—all by myself, never mind it'd been Gus's big idea in the first place—to plug the opening in the fence. I did have company, though. Pickles and her friends paraded in circles around me as I stuffed rocks into the getaway hole.

“Well, that takes care of that,” I said to Pickles
after shoving in the last rock. “Doesn't look like you'll be causing any more problems at the Grimstones' for a while.”

I looked around for Gus and Margaret, wondering if they'd found anything that could link us to who'd framed Granny Goose, like footprints, torn pieces of clothing, store receipts—the kinds of things TV detectives always search for. I spotted them up by the animal pens. Gus was pointing to Charlie's pool, and both of them were laughing. It seemed as though they'd totally forgotten about our time crunch, because they sure weren't in any rush.

But then, why should they be?

They weren't the ones who desperately needed money for band camp. In fact, both of them had paid the fee weeks ago. As I watched them jabbering to the armadillo, I couldn't help feeling a twinge of jealousy. For the tiniest instant, I wished it were one of them—preferably Gus—whose family couldn't afford the band camp tuition.

I was still wiping the dirt and sand off my shorts when Granny Goose called from her deck. “Hey, kids, come on up for a bite to eat.”

Gus and Margaret tore across the yard and up the steps as if they hadn't eaten in a couple of days. They didn't even check on me; it was like they'd forgotten I existed.

Well, fine by me. Let them get stuck with sweet-and-sour brussels sprouts or mushroom caps stuffed with hominy grits. I couldn't have cared less. I sat against the fence, petting the pelican and blending into the weeds, hoping Granny Goose would forget about me, too.

No such luck. When she called the second time, I groaned and headed toward her house.

I tromped across the yard and up the back steps, crossing my fingers that we could get some more information from her and praying she wouldn't serve the leftover cucumbers. When I paused at the top of the steps to wait for Pickles, I noticed an enclosure jutting out from under the deck, right below me. It was
surrounded by wire fencing. The pen was filled with aloe plants, cacti, and a miniature pond. A speckled turtle the size of a small boulder snoozed on a log inside it. It must be the snapper Granny Goose had mentioned.

As I turned for the door, something else in the pen caught my attention. I raced back down the steps and peered through the wire.

Uh-oh.

Okay. I may not have been a zoologist like Margaret or Gus, but I was 100 percent sure of one thing: Snapping turtles don't lay golden eggs.

In fact, the egg in the pen looked suspiciously like the stolen ones Gus had described: miniature gold ovals, embedded with emeralds, made by some famous Russian guy named Pitaya.

I swallowed a gulp, checking over my shoulder. Coast clear, except for Pickles. She watched me curiously from the deck. I reached through the wire fence for the egg, but it was out of my grasp. The door to the
pen was locked, and the fence was too high to climb over. I'd have to find a long stick, poke it through the wire, then nudge the egg out from under the log. Before I did that, though, I should check the turtle's pen carefully. Maybe there were other heirlooms in there.

Aha!
I saw something. It lay partially hidden under the aloe plant. I reached through the wire fence again and picked it up. Definitely not an heirloom. It was a small metal medallion with “Ford” inscribed on both sides. An unclosed jump ring dangled from a hole in the medallion; it must've fallen off someone's key ring. I stuck it down in my pocket. “Collect all evidence, no matter how insignificant,” I'd heard Gus tell Margaret. It was guideline number five of the NSCCB.

Now for the egg. I found a stick near the deck and poked it through the wire. I was sweating all over by now, prodding at the egg, trying to loosen it. I'd just managed to work the tip of my stick between the egg and the log, when…

“CHOW'S COMIN' UP!”

I
leaped a foot off the ground, almost high enough to clear the top of the turtle pen. Holy cow! How long had Granny Goose been standing on the deck? Had she seen the egg? I plastered my arms to my sides and turned to face her.

Her gray hair was tied back with a bandanna, and she'd changed out of her cucumber costume into cutoff jeans and a turquoise T-shirt with sharks on the front that said “I dig wildlife, and I vote.” She leaned over the deck railing, her eyes bugged out like a grasshopper's behind those thick glasses. We could've touched noses, she was that close.

“Whatcha think? Sure is a beauty, eh?”

“Think of wha-what?”

“The snapper, honey. I call him Hogjaw. Had him for a year. Bad-tempered, but he hasn't managed to take my finger off yet.” She motioned me up the stairs. “Come on in. The boy—what's his name?”

“You mean G-Gus?” I said through chattering teeth.

“That's it—Gus. He tells me you kids like sardines.”

“He said what?”

“Said you all liked sardines. Kind of surprised me; I never cared a hoot for them as a kid. Anyway, I'm going to scoot back in here and rip into a can.” She held the door open while I trudged up the steps, my heart still pounding. One thing for certain, if we made it out of this house without dying of food poisoning, the first thing I'd do was wring Gus Kinnard's neck.

I was making my way through the cluttered utility room, thinking how I could get Gus and Margaret
outside when Margaret yelled at me from the kitchen. I poked my head through the doorway. Gus was fiddling with something on the counter and had his back to me. Margaret was sitting on the floor. When she saw me, she held a speckled brown
diapered
duck over her head. “Look. Isn't this the most adorable thing you've ever seen? A duck wearing a
diaper
. Mrs. Unger showed me how to put it on her. And she says if Doris ever has ducklings, we can each have one. Wouldn't you just love that?”

“Uh, yeah, that'd be great.” I waved frantically at her behind Granny Goose's back, pointing to the door and mouthing, “Outside. I've…got…something…to…show…you.”

Margaret cracked up laughing. She must've thought I was pointing at Pickles, who'd just popped her head through a hinged flap on the door. “Oh, look. Pickles got in the house all by herself. Isn't that cute? Did you put that little door in for her, Mrs. Unger?”

“Yep,” Granny Goose said, her head buried in
the refrigerator. “It works like a doggie door. She's in and out of here all the time. Gotta watch her, though. The little bugger's not house-trained. If she runs loose without a diaper, I'll likely have a mess on my hands.”

“I'll put one on her.” Margaret jumped up from the floor and practically skipped to the pantry. “I'll get the halter.” She was back in a flash, sitting on the kitchen floor again, before I had a chance to get her alone.

Gus set his cheese cutter down, popped a chunk of something in his mouth, then wiped his hands on his shirt. He wriggled his eyebrows at Margaret and me before turning to Granny Goose. “Mrs. Unger,” he said, “so what about this Leonard guy, anyway? When he was here this morning, did he get belligerent? I mean, did he actually follow you inside? Stomp around your, uh,
kitchen
, yelling about Pickles?”

“He was in here, all right, honey. But he didn't
get too mouthy with me. He knows I'll give it right back.”

“Golly. You must've been really busy this morning, Mrs. Unger,” Margaret said, taking the lead from Gus. “Did you have lots of company, or was it just Leonard and François?”

Granny Goose rustled around her silverware drawer, answering Margaret as if nothing were unusual about all the questions. “Nope. They were the only two here, thank the stars. I was swamped.”

Gus grinned at Margaret, giving her the thumbs-up.

Since they were having such good luck getting information, I tried my hand. “Were Leonard or François out on your deck this morning?” I asked casually.

That got raised eyebrows and a “Why, yes, they were. Why do you ask, honey?” from Granny Goose, followed by a rapid head shake and a finger to the mouth from Gus.

Ignoring him, I said, “Oh, no reason, really. I just
wondered if either of them wanted to look at your animals, maybe help you feed Hogjaw.”

“Nope. No one gets in those pens but me, period. For safety reasons.” She jiggled the keys hanging from her belt loop. “I keep them all locked up.”

I didn't get a chance to go into more details with Granny Goose about who could've done what around Hogjaw, because my question had set her off. She started talking about her animals, and nothing short of a hurricane could've stopped her. We learned that Olive the owl had an injured wing; Charlie the gator had been run over by a car (“He's being transferred to a better-equipped reptile rescue in a couple of days,” she said); Hogjaw had been found on the road with a cracked shell; and Pelly's feet had been injured when he'd landed on a piling with nails sticking out of it. “Poor little guy,” Granny Goose said. “The webbing on both feet had been torn to pieces.”

The more she talked about rescuing gators and owls and pelicans, the more I knew we were doing the
right thing by helping her. But unless we could somehow get the egg out of the pen before Mrs. Grimstone sent the cops over, none of what we were doing would make one bit of difference.

I was mulling over the best way to accomplish that, when Granny Goose stuck four fingers between her teeth and let out an earsplitting whistle. “Didn't mean to startle you, kids. That's how I let Pickles know the chow's on. She'll pitch a fit if I don't include her.”

Sure enough, it wasn't but a couple of seconds before Pickles came bopping toward the table. Her diaper had already worked itself loose, and she had a silver spoon clamped between her bill.

“Hey, kids,” Granny Goose said. “My hands are full. Can somebody nab Pickles, please? She's got my serving spoon.”

Gus darted across the room. “I'll get her.” Pickles dodged him, heading for the hallway. Gus lunged. He grabbed the spoon and gave it to Granny Goose.

She snorted. “Honestly, what that goose won't go after. Caught her with my watch yesterday. Now sit down, kids. It's snack time.”

By now my anxiety over the egg was rumbling around my stomach like a giant burp. I tapped my foot a million miles an hour as Gus poured us each a tall glass of Papaya Surprise. I motioned to Margaret to sit next to me. I had to tell her, even if it meant whispering in front of—

“Here ya go, kid.” Granny Goose handed me a baking dish filled with something so heavy and green and mossy-looking I thought for sure it was Astroturf. “It's a caramelized broccoli bake,” she said. “My second choice for the cook-off contest. I'd like you to rate it against the cucumbers.”

I
stared in horror at Granny Goose's newest green concoction.

Why me? How come she kept picking me to be her taste tester? Did I look like some kind of vegetable guru or something?

“Smells good, huh? Here. I'll cut you a nibble.” She leaned over my shoulder with a bread-and-butter knife, chewing her lip and grunting as she struggled to slice the broccoli bake. She sawed away, and when she finally managed to cut a piece, she dropped it on my plate. It landed with a thud.

“It might've settled a little in the fridge, but that shouldn't affect the flavor.”

I stabbed it with my fork, pretending to look interested, but wishing with all my might Gus would take it off my hands. He'd already popped a couple of sardines in his mouth like they were M&M's, and he'd been raving about the goat cheese, so why not the broccoli bake?

Gus gaped from across the table, but it wasn't the food on my plate that seemed to interest him. He was watching Pickles. She'd just climbed a miniature footstool Granny Goose had pushed up to the table. She settled herself between Margaret and me and pecked at a spoon.

“Hold your horses,” Granny Goose said to Pickles. “I'll get to your plate in a second.”

“Uh, Mrs. Unger, does Pickles always eat with you?” Gus said.

“You betcha. Never misses a meal. She's a vegetable lover.”

My ears perked up. Pickles a vegetable lover? Hmm. Very interesting.

I casually placed my elbows on the table and asked Granny Goose if she had any salt. As soon as she turned her back to look for it, I nudged my plate to the left, close enough for Pickles to get a whiff.

Oh, happiness.

In ten seconds flat my broccoli bake was pecked into dust.

Margaret, Gus, and I doubled over laughing. Granny Goose yelled, “Bad goose!” but Pickles didn't ruffle a feather. She just sat there looking totally pleased with herself, like she was waiting on round two.

Granny Goose was all set to cut me another piece when I pushed my chair from the table and hopped up. “Uh-oh. It's after three. Golly, Mrs. Unger, I'm really sorry, but we don't have time to finish the snacks. I have to be home by three-thirty to help my mom.”

Gus's fork stopped halfway to his mouth. He looked at the kitchen clock, and his eyes lit up with
alarm. It was like he'd finally remembered our time crunch and that we were on an information quest, not a picnic. “Three-ten? Already? Yeah, we'd better get going. We've got lots to do.”

Granny Goose wouldn't hear of our helping clean her messy kitchen. “I've enjoyed every minute of this visit,” she said. “I hope you'll come back real soon.”

So after Margaret paid her smoochy good-byes to Doris the duck and Pickles, we headed out the front door. We were standing on the sidewalk, waving our final farewell to Granny Goose, when Gus muttered out the side of his mouth, “Only two visitors this morning, so that concludes our suspect list.”

“I can't believe it,” Margaret said after the front door closed. “We've actually got this narrowed—”

“There's an egg in the turtle pen,” I blurted out.

“Oh…my…gosh,” Margaret said. “You mean Hogjaw laid an egg? I thought he was a boy.”

“Not that kind of egg. I mean, one of the jeweled eggs.”

“What?” Gus's eyes popped way open, and he stumbled backward, like he'd just seen Granny Goose's alligator slide over the fence. “Are you serious? You actually found a Pitaya in Hogjaw's pen? How come you left it there?”

“I didn't exactly
leave
it. It's wedged under a log. I couldn't reach it.”

“We can't let the cops find it,” Margaret said. “They'll arrest her for sure.”

“That must've been the thief's plan all along,” Gus said. “He was hoping someone would turn the locket in, and then, when the cops came here to search Granny Goose's, they'd find the egg.”

“We have to go back for it,” Margaret said.

Gus spun around. “Come on. You two keep Granny Goose busy inside, and I'll get the Pitaya.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Why would François or Leonard—whichever one did it—dump that egg? Didn't you say it was way more valuable than the locket? Why wouldn't he want to sell it?”

“That one little egg doesn't matter to the perp. He's got five more, plus all the other loot. The important thing to him is to make Granny Goose the patsy,” Gus said.

We were still hashing things out when Granny Goose came back outside. She locked her front door before hurrying to the truck in her driveway. “See ya later, kids,” she said, waving to us. “I'm off to the festival again. Just got an emergency call from one of the Tarts. Seems they're light on help.”

She backed into the street, then stuck her head out the window. “If you need to be home by three-thirty, you'd better get a move on it, honey,” she said to me. “My dashboard clock says three-seventeen.”

She took off, and once her truck disappeared around the corner, Gus said, “Perfect. Let's go for it.”

We raced to the backyard fence. Margaret pulled the gate handle, but it wouldn't open. Gus and I each yanked on it, too. “Darn,” I said. “She must've locked it from the inside before she left.”

We messed around for a couple more minutes, trying to hoist Gus, then me, then Margaret over the privacy fence, but it was way too high. And since there didn't happen to be a ten-foot extension ladder lying around anywhere, there wasn't much left to do but give up.

“We'll have to come back later,” Gus said, “when she's home.”

Margaret shook her head with disappointment as we crossed the lawn. “I hate to leave; it feels like we're letting Granny Goose down. What if Mrs. Grimstone sends the police over here before we get to the egg?”

“The cops can't go tromping around her backyard on a hunch. They still need probable cause. Right?” I asked Gus.

“Right, but it would've been better to take care of the egg now, to be on the safe side. Besides, there might be even more evidence in the pen.”

“Wait,” I said, remembering the Ford medallion. I pulled it from my pocket. “This could be evidence.
I found it under the aloe plant, right next to the turtle's log.”

Gus blinked at least five times. “Holy tamale! Let me see that a minute.” He took the medallion, examining it from every angle, and a grin slid across his face. “This,” he said, waving it under Margaret's and my noses, “is going to be the downfall of our perp.”