Sammy Keyes and the Runaway Elf (11 page)

I was trying to keep my brain on lemons, but I’d never seen food like that before. And I guess I got sidetracked, because when Tina called, “On the bottom shelf in the back!” I jumped like I’d been caught snitching cookie dough.

I found the lemons all right, and I probably would’ve rushed one right out to her, only this small panel of switches and lights on the wall caught my eye. And I was trying to figure out what in the world it was, when Tina popped her head in and said, “Did you get lost?”

I gave her the lemon and pointed to the panel. “What is that?”

“The Panel of Paranoia,” she said with a laugh. “You know—the security panel.”

I smiled back at her and said a real profound “Oh.”

We moved back into the kitchen, where she cut a very thin slice out of the center of the lemon and slid it into the water. She repositioned a napkin, gave me a little smile, and said, “Ready?”

We both kind of studied the chandelier on the ride upstairs. Halfway up, I asked, “So it’s just the two of you living here?”

“What do you mean?”

I shrugged. “I guess I was expecting cooks and maids and gardeners and stuff.”

She laughed. “You’re looking at ’em.”

“You do all that?”

“Well, not all of it. And we did used to have help but … I don’t know. Mother’d get mad and fire one and then she wouldn’t replace them. She still calls in a cleaning lady every once in a while, but when I moved back I got saddled with the day-to-day stuff.”

When the elevator came to a stop, she pushed the door open and whispered, “I wish she wasn’t doing this to you. You seem really nice.”

I felt like telling her the same thing, but I didn’t—we were already at the Crocodile’s door. Tina peeked inside. “Mother?” She came back out and headed farther down the hallway. “She must’ve gone into her office.”

We stopped at the last doorway before the hallway turned. Tina knocked on the open door. “Mother?”

“Bring her in!”

She’d been dipped in lavender. Silky, shiny lavender. But the minute she turned from her desk I knew—she
was definitely still a crocodile. She looked at her watch. “You’re almost an hour late.”

I knew there was no sense telling her about Mrs. Graybill. “I’m sorry.”

Tina put the tray down near her mother and asked, “Is there anything else I can get you?”

“Some privacy would be nice.”

The doorbell rang. Tina sighed and said, “I’ll get that,” and disappeared.

Mrs. Landvogt zoomed her wheelchair straight at me and said, “Sit down. I want to know what you’ve got. Every last detail. I want to know where you’ve been, who you’ve talked to, and what they’ve said—everything.”

She practically ran me into an ironwood chair with dragonhead arms. I tried stalling. “What about that phone call you got?”

“What about it?”

“Did you tape it?”

“Tape it … no! How am I supposed to tape it?”

“Don’t you have an answering machine?”

“Of course I have an answering machine!”

“Where is it?”

She pointed to her desk. “Over there. You mean to tell me I can record a conversation with that thing?”

I felt like crossing my eyes at her. “It’s a recorder …?”

“So how do I do that?” she snapped.

I went over to her desk and opened the tape panel. “Right here: ‘To Record a Telephone Conversation: Tap MEMO/2WAY.’ ”

The Croc zoomed over and looked down the bridge of
her nose at the instructions. “Well, why didn’t you tell me that before? I could’ve had his voice on tape!”

I closed my eyes and tried to count to ten. “So it was a man?”

“That’s right.”

The security system
be-boop
ed in the distance. “What did he sound like? Any accent?”

“He sounded mechanical. Like he was holding his nose.”

“Well, what did he say exactly? What does he want to do? An exchange?”

She hacked out a laugh. “That’s right. This Friday night at eight o’clock, under the clock in the mall.” She knocked on her cast. “Tell me how I’m supposed to deliver that kind of money in this condition?”

“Mrs. Landvogt, why don’t you call the police? Tina says you have a friend there who—”

“Don’t start with that again! You know what they’ll do to her.” She scowled and added, “Besides, Andy would botch the whole thing. He can’t find his way out of a paper sack.”

“But the mall, the Friday night before Christmas … he’ll just disappear into the crowds.”

She buffed a thumbnail, saying, “That scenario is really irrelevant because we both know you’ll find her before then.”

“But—”

She put her hand out before her, admiring her claws. “You’ve proved it already.”

“I haven’t done anything!”

“Sure you have. The way you tricked me into telling you about Royce, that bit with the recorder. You’re clever, you’re resourceful, and you’re motivated.” She looked straight at me. “Aren’t you, Samantha?”

There was a knock at the door. The Croc let out an impatient sigh and said under her breath, “That girl will
never
learn to follow directions.” She called, “What is it?”

Tina came in with a cardboard box. “I’m sorry, Mother, but I’m worried. It was just like when the ransom note was left.”

The Croc froze. “What do you mean?”

“There was no one there. I checked all the way down to the street. I didn’t see a soul. Just this on the porch.”

“Well, open it!”

Tina tore off the tape but then hesitated and handed the box over to her mother. “Here … maybe you should.”

The Croc pulled back one flap, then the other, then screamed. Like she’d opened a box of tarantulas.

I took a step closer and right away I knew that the special delivery didn’t contain flowers. I put my hand in the box and came up with a fistful of fur. Orange fur.

I didn’t know crocodiles could faint. But this one did, right there in her chair.

Tina rushed over to her mother and fanned her with an envelope while I checked the box. It was Marique all right. Her tags, her fur—everything but her body.

When the Croc came to she whispered, “Is she … is she …?”

I picked up some fur and said, “Yup. She’s bald.”

“She’s … what?”

“Bald. It’s all fur.”

The Croc picked up the box and whispered, “Maaaariiique!” Then she said it again, only louder, “Maaaariiique!”

Now, there was something about the way she said her dog’s name that made my back tingle. But it wasn’t until she said it
again
that it hit me—hers was the voice I had heard the night of the parade.

I looked at her, crying over a box full of fuzz, and realized—I didn’t have a clue what was going on here. Not a clue.

*  *  *

It was dark by the time I got away from the Landvogt mansion. And maybe I should’ve gone straight home, but I was dying to tell Marissa about the fur bomb and besides, I was thirsty and there’s always a shelf full of sodas in the McKenzes’ refrigerator.

Marissa’s eyes bugged right out when she saw me. She yanked me in by the arm and said, “Sammy! Oh my God, why didn’t you tell me?”

“Tell you?”

“About your mom!”

A big uh-oh stuck in my throat. “What about my mom?”

“That’s her, isn’t it? On TV?”

I sat down in a chair and hid my face behind my hands. “Oh, no!”

“What’s the matter? I thought she wanted to be on TV.”

I looked at her through my fingers. “As the GasAway Lady?”

She laughed. “Well it’s a start, right?”

“You sound just like Grams. That stupid commercial is more like
Boom!
The End. I mean, who’s going to want to put the Amazing Expanding Woman in a movie? It’s embarrassing!”

Marissa shrugged. “It’s not that bad … Even Mom thought it was pretty good.”

“Your mother saw it?”

Marissa nodded, then hitched a thumb toward the kitchen. “She’s actually in there cooking dinner.”

“
Cooking
cooking?”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah. She and Dad joined some gourmet club and I think we’re her guinea pigs. C’mon. She’s even wearing an apron.”

I followed her and laughed. “This I’ve got to see …!”

Mrs. McKenze looked over from her six-burner stove with a smile. “Hello, Sammy. What a pleasant surprise. Can you stay for supper? We’re having”—she checked her cookbook—
“costolette di vitello alla milanese.”

Marissa whispered, “Veal cutlets.”

Well, it did smell good, but from looking at the set table I could tell I’d never be able to figure out which fork went with which part of the dinner. And between silverware etiquette and polite conversation about the GasAway Lady, I figured that I wouldn’t be able to eat much.

I smiled at her and said, “No, but thanks. Grams is expecting me.” Then I remembered that Marissa had said that her mom had met the Crocodile once, so I asked, “Mrs. McKenze? What do you know about Lilia Landvogt?”

She poured some olive oil into a frying pan. “Not
much, really. I was over at her house one time for a dinner party, but she didn’t really impress me as someone I wanted to get to know.”

“Why not?”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She played with the flame under the pan. “I think it was mostly the comments she made about her daughter.”

“About Tina?”

“She was mad at her, and I could even understand why. I just don’t think it’s appropriate to talk ill of your children in public like that.”

“What was she doing? Calling her names or something?”

Mrs. McKenze peeled a piece of breaded veal off a plate and slid it into the oil. “I don’t even remember. I just came away thinking that she was not a very nice woman.”

“How long ago was this?”

Another piece of veal sizzled into the oil. “Oh, it’s been years. Years and years.” She turned the flame down a bit. “Why all the questions, Sammy?”

I looked down. “She’s … uh … kind of mad at me.”

“Lilia is?”

I nodded.

“In heaven’s name why?”

I eyed Marissa, who just shrugged and shook her head, so I said, “To make a long story short, I was in charge of her dog and it ran away.”

For a second there I thought Mrs. McKenze was going to drop the veal. “Well, then you know exactly what I mean.”

“I
do?
”

“Sure. That’s the same reason she was mad at Tina!”

All of a sudden I felt dizzy. “Wait a minute—
Tina
lost their dog?”

“That’s right. Lilia said she left the gate open and it ran away.”

“Was it a Pomeranian?”

“I don’t even know, to tell you the truth.”

“Was it named Marique?”

She flipped the veal over in the frying pan. “Is that the name of the dog you were taking care of?”

I nodded.

“Well, then it couldn’t have been. The dog I’m talking about was found a few blocks down Jasmine.” She wiped her hands on a dishtowel. “It had been run over by a car.”

I couldn’t go straight home. Not with everything I had swimming around in my brain. I mean, talking the whole thing over with Marissa helped some, but I was miles from a solution. Miles and miles.

So I went to Hudson’s. And I don’t think I went there to actually
talk
to him. I just wanted to kind of sit around on his porch and wait for things to make sense to me.

Trouble is, Hudson wasn’t on the porch. He was in the house. Cooking. And as I followed him back to the kitchen I knew right away—he wasn’t making
costolette di vitello alla milanese
. He was making waffles.

He popped a plate out of the drainer and put it next to another, already waiting on the counter. “Why don’t you call your grandmother—tell her you’re staying for supper.” He grinned at me. “Or dessert, if that’s how you fancy dressing your waffle.”

He didn’t have to ask me twice. I called Grams, and before you know it I was sitting down at Hudson’s table pouring syrup on my waffle.

Hudson put a fried egg on his. He smeared the yolk around and then put a slice of ham on top and poured syrup over the whole mess. He grinned like a five-year-old. “Nothing quite like it in the whole wide world.”

I laughed. “What is it?”

He took a great big bite. “Delicious.”