فصل سی و هشت

chapter-38

The four researchers grabbed a taxi at the airport.

“Do you kids have permission slips?” asked the cabbie.

“Yes!” said Akimi as the four players once again handed over their scrolled documents.

“Now drive like your pants are on fire!” said Abia.

“We need to tell Mr. Lemoncello the good news!” added Kyle.

The taxi took off but had to stop at a red light in the center of Alexandriaville. Kyle pressed his nose against the window as the car crept past the darkened library building. He could make out two police officers stationed on the shadowy steps.

“Here we go,” said the cabbie. “Mr. Lemoncello’s library.” “Fantastic,” said Akimi. “But we want to go to Mr. Lemoncello’s house.” “Hang on,” said Angus. “Maybe we should stop here first.” “Good suggestion,” said Abia. “We could retrieve the Family Frenzy patent as well as the shoebox with all the supporting materials.” “Um, hello?” said Akimi. “Those are cops guarding the front door.” “Maybe they’d let us in,” said Angus.

“Really?” said Akimi. “In what parallel universe is that going to happen?” “Take it easy, you guys,” said Kyle. “We’ll pick up the patent and stuff first thing tomorrow. The mayor has to reopen the library once he learns the truth.” “You want me to keep driving?” asked the cabbie.

“Yes, please,” said Kyle. “Mr. Lemoncello’s house.” “It used to be the Blue Jay Extended Stay Lodge,” added Abia.

The cab pulled away from the curb. Kyle used his phone to call Miguel, who was with most of the other trustees at an ice cream parlor on Main Street. They were all drowning their sorrows in root beer floats.

“Tell everybody to meet us at Mr. Lemoncello’s place.” “When?” asked Miguel.

“Now!”

“We’re on our way!” said Miguel. “Mad Dog’s with us. He’ll bookmobile us over there in like three.” With Mad Dog at the wheel, the bookmobile beat the taxi to Mr. Lemoncello’s mansion.

“What’s up?” asked Miguel as he and six of the other contestants from the first two rounds of the Fabulous Fact-Finding Frenzy poured out of their boxy ride.

“I was right!” said Kyle. “Irma Hirschman is a fraud!” “And we have proof,” added Angus.

“Quite a lot of it,” said Abia.

Kyle led the way up the front steps to Mr. Lemoncello’s door and said, “Open sesame.” When they entered the foyer, yellow crime-scene police tape blocked the path to the living room.

“Kyle Keeley!” boomed Mr. Lemoncello. “My Fabulous Fact-Finding Frenziers! I can see all of you on my closed-circuit TV and, I must say, you’re much more interesting than what’s going on in the laundry room. No. Wait. Tiger Lily is using the litter box!” “Um, how do we get where you are?” asked Kyle.

“Go through the secret panel.”

Suddenly, the door to a giant grandfather clock swung open. The pendulum and weights rose like a stage curtain. The eleven data dashers stepped through the grandfather clock, strolled down a dimly lit passageway, and came out in the dining room, where Mr. Lemoncello stood with a man and a woman, both of whom had police badges dangling around their necks on lanyards.

“Welcome!” said Mr. Lemoncello. “I was going to hide my secret entrance inside a wardrobe, but C. S. Lewis beat me to it. Now then, what brings you here, besides of course a bookmobile and a taxicab?” “Irma Hirschman is a phony!” blurted Akimi. “We have evidence!” “Really?” said Mr. Lemoncello, heaving a giant sigh. “Too bad they don’t.” He tilted his head toward the man and woman with the police badges.

“Mr. Lemoncello,” said the man, “we got to be honest with you here. We’re thinking this whole burglary report may be another one of your—what would you call it, Louise?” “Another one of his lies,” said his partner. “We know what you did to that sweet old grandma over in Missouri.” “She’s an actress!” said Kyle.

“Right, kid. We saw her on TV. No actress could fake tears like that.” “You know,” said Mr. Lemoncello, “I seldom watch TV. Except, of course, the Book Channel. And the Game Channel. And the Books About Games Channel.” He glanced at his watch. “Oh, my. It’s almost time for my favorite new show, More Two-Letter Scrabble Words.” He picked up the portable Nonfictionator and aimed it at a wall, which immediately turned into a ten-foot-wide TV screen.

A commercial filled the screen.

For a game.

From the Krinkle brothers.

A commercial that looked like it had been thrown together overnight.

“It’s E-Float-E-Cons!” screamed an announcer. “It’s just like charades but better, because it has hovering high-tech holograms!” “Broadway shows!” screeched an actress pretending to be a kid.

Up popped the flat emoji:

“Seven Brides for Seven Brothers!” the actress shrieked, clapping her hands like a happy seal.

Bells dinged. Fireworks exploded. The commercial cut to a close-up of the E-Float-E-Cons box top.

“E-Float-E-Cons is a whole lot of holographic fun for the whole family,” crooned the announcer. “And best of all, it’s coming from the Krinkle brothers just in time for the holidays!” “That’s Mr. Lemoncello’s idea!” Kyle shouted.

“No,” said the lead detective, “it looks like the Krinkle brothers came up with it first.” “Those were the plans he showed us,” said Elliott. “At dinner.” “Riiight,” said the female detective.

“He did!” insisted Jamal. “He locked the blueprints in the floor safe.” “Then he told us all the combination!” added Pranav.

“Really?” said the top cop, still sounding skeptical. “My, what an interesting way to manage security for a multibillion-dollar corporation.” “They’re my board of trustees, sir,” said Mr. Lemoncello. “I trust them.” “You know what I trust? My gut. And my gut tells me you stole this E-Float-E-Cons game from the Krinkle brothers the same way you stole your first game from that nice lady in Utah.” “Missouri,” his partner corrected him.

“Tomato, tahmahto.”

“That ‘nice lady’ you’re talking about is Mrs. Maplebutter!” Kyle practically screamed.

“I don’t know about that, kid,” said the detective, “but she sure is sweet.” “Fred?” said the female detective, making a face like she just smelled cat poop in the laundry room. “Let’s get out of here. And, Mr. Lemoncello?” “Yes?”

“Stick close to home. Irma Hirschman and the Krinkle brothers will want to know where to find you so they can sue you for every penny you’ve got!”