فصل سی و ششم

chapter-36

Once the banana jet landed in Kansas City, it was extremely easy for Kyle and the research team to track down Irma Hirschman.

She had scheduled a press conference.

At the Kansas City Airport Marriott hotel!

Pranav called with the news.

“And get this,” he added, “her appearance is being sponsored by the Krinkle brothers.” “What?” said Kyle.

“It’s all over Twitter. Those two old farts who do the Whoop Dee Doodle games are the ones who arranged for Ms. Hirschman to meet the press!” “Two old farts?” said Akimi. “Hello? Charles Chil-tington just told the world that ‘two very agreeable elderly gentlemen’ showed him the Family Frolic board game up in the Lemoncello-abilia Room. ‘Elderly gentlemen’ is just a smarmier way of saying ‘old farts.’ ” “I knew they were behind all this!” said Kyle. “They probably showed Chiltington the phony game board right after they got done using a library computer to put that phony junk on Mr. Lemoncello’s Wikipedia page!” “Knowing it is not enough,” said Abia. “We must prove it. A confession from Irma Hirschman might be our swiftest route to the truth.” “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Akimi. “She’s right. Let’s go.”

They had decided that Kyle, Akimi, and Angus would go to the airport hotel to hear what Irma Hirschman had to say, maybe ask her a few questions. Abia would stay on the jet and use its computers to do more Internet research.

“We’ll need to zip back to Ohio just as soon as we hear what lies are being spread today,” Angus told the pilot.

“Already working up the flight plan,” the pilot said with a nod.

“Thanks,” said Kyle. “Come on, you guys. We only have like fifteen minutes to find the hotel ballroom where she’s speaking!” The hotel was less than a mile away from the airport terminal. Fortunately the Marriott had a shuttle bus.

The three Lemoncello trustees raced through the lobby and followed the crowd squeezing into the packed ballroom, which was set up like a theater, with rows of chairs facing a small, elevated stage. Almost all the seats in the ballroom—and there must have been three hundred of them—were filled by eager reporters with flipped-open notebooks, digital voice recorders, or laptop computers. Video cameras mounted on tripods, halogen lamps already glaring, ringed the sea of seats, their lenses focused on the podium at the center of the stage beside a spindly rocking chair. Mr. Lemoncello was about to be tried in the press.

“Where’s Irma?” asked Akimi as she, Kyle, and Angus slipped into the only empty seats they could find.

“Here she comes!” said Angus.

Kyle had to squirm a little to see above all the heads and shoulders in front of him. Finally he stood up.

“Down in front,” growled a voice behind him. “You’re blocking my shot.”

Kyle crouched.

He could see two stately-looking old men in dark suits and bright white shirts escorting somebody’s grandmother up the steps to the stage. She was dressed in a bell-shaped skirt so long it brushed along the floor. Her lace apron looked like a doily someone’s grandmother might keep under her candy dish. Her powdery-white hair was tucked up into a bun.

“Dang,” whispered Angus, “she really does look just like the Mrs. Maplebutter bottle.” Kyle agreed. “All she needs is the yellow plastic cap.”

“Will you two knock it off?” said Akimi. “The Krinkles are about to speak.” The taller of the two businessmen stepped to the podium.

“Hello, everybody. Thank you for joining us. I’m David Krinkle. This is my brother, Frederick. As many of you know, we are the Krinkle brothers. We make games that make kids happy.” “No,” whispered Kyle, “you make games that make kids sleepy.”

“As game makers, we honor and respect the importance of ideas. Therefore, we were personally and professionally offended to hear that one of our so-called colleagues, Luigi Lemoncello, had blatantly stolen the idea for his first game—a major moneymaker—from this honest, hardworking entrepreneur, Irma Hirschman, who never received a dime after Mr. Lemoncello hijacked her intellectual property. By so doing, he has given our entire industry a black eye. How dare he steal this sweet little old lady’s idea and call it his own?” “Did you have a patent, Mrs. Hirschman?” shouted a reporter.

David Krinkle glared at the woman who dared ask such a rude question. “Have you no shame?” he said to her.

“That’s okay,” said the frail woman in a folksy Midwestern accent. She creaked up out of her rocking chair and dabbed at her damp eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I’ll answer the question.” She hobbled over to the podium.

“No, ma’am,” she said, sniffling back her tears. “I don’t have a patent, because on my stenographer’s salary in 1969 I couldn’t afford any fancy-pants patent attorneys. Besides, I don’t believe in patents. We wouldn’t need a silly piece of paper if everybody just did what they know is right! Thou shalt not steal! Guess Mr. Lemoncello never made it to that chapter of the good book.” The crowd applauded.

“Do you have any proof that the young Luigi Lemoncello saw your game and copied it?” asked another reporter.

“Don’t need it. Does he have any proof that he got his idea somewhere else? Of course not. If he did, why won’t he show it to us?” Tears streaked down her face. “Mr. Lemoncello stole every single idea I had, right down to the game pieces—the boot, the cat, and the tiny harmonica. I read somewhere that Mr. Lemoncello claims he got the boot idea because some librarian gave him a 1972 knee-high Barbie doll boot in her desk drawer and let him borrow it while he worked on his game idea in her library. Ha! You believe that, folks, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.” The audience tittered.

“The idea for that boot came from my mama, may she rest in peace. She just loved that Nancy Sinatra song about the boots and the walking. My mama is also the one who taught me about the American dream. If you work hard and play fair, you can do anything you want to do in this great country of ours. Even if it’s just to make children happy.” Now the reporters were sniffling.

“Those buildings on the game board? You think the high and mighty Luigi Lemoncello sat down and whittled them all by himself, like I did? Heavens to Murgatroyd, why would he even bother? It was a whole heckuva lot easier just to steal ‘em from me!” Just about everybody in the audience shook their heads and grumbled in disgust.

But not Kyle and Angus. They dropped their jaws and gawked at each other.

“What?” said Akimi. “What’d she just say?”

Kyle told her: “The exact same thing the Mrs. Maplebutter bottle says in every single syrup commercial!”