Trashed!, page 8
“You’re really going to run a hundred miles on a trail?” he said, and then, he couldn’t help it: “Why?”
Jennifer Y grinned. “Makes me happy. Makes me feel alive.”
Arthur said, “Alive is good,” but then he thought of Watson, who didn’t seem to mind being dead. “I mean, I guess.”
“You should try running,” Jennifer said. “Just see if you like it. When I was your age, I couldn’t run a hundred yards.”
Arthur knew he could run a hundred yards. They had to run more than that for PE. But could he run a whole mile? Thinking of Officer Bernstein, he calculated: a mile was 1 percent of what Jennifer was going to run that weekend.
“You really couldn’t?” Arthur said.
“Nope,” Jennifer said. “But one day I was sad about something, never mind what, but it had to do with a B-O-Y, and I thought running would help distract my head, and I was right, and—I’m skipping some stuff—basically, I got hooked.”
Arthur said he’d think about it, and then he said good luck again, and then Jennifer left. Would she be back to work on Monday? Even if she didn’t trip and fall off a mountain, she was bound to be all blistered and in pain.
He was staring after her, thinking these grim thoughts, when he heard a horsepower roar, then puh-puh-puh-putt, then quiet.
Arthur didn’t want to get his hopes up, but he went to the door and looked out into the parking lot.
There, in a spot marked NO PARKING, was a red motorcycle—a Triumph Bonneville T100. Astride it, a thin figure in black leathers removed gloves, unclipped chin strap, and tugged off helmet to reveal…
“Grandma!” Arthur cried, and pushed open the door.
“Tell me you didn’t grow any more, Arthur,” Grandma said as she squeezed him. “You’re bigger than I am, I think, and I don’t like it.”
“I’m really glad you’re back, Grandma,” Arthur said, but since he was speaking into her shoulder, his words were squished.
Arthur’s grandmother was tall—his father called her “stately”—with a wide mouth and gray eyes. Her hair, now helmet-flattened, was gray too, even if she insisted it was silver. Her idea of makeup was a messy smear of lip balm. Now she pushed Arthur arm’s-length away so she could look into his face. “What was that? My skull’s still buzzing from the road.”
“I’m glad you’re back,” he repeated.
Grandma cocked her head and frowned. “Glad, or relieved? How has your grandpa been?”
Arthur was glad his dad came out at that moment so he didn’t have to answer.
“Linda!” Dad said. “Boy, am I glad to see you!”
“Uh-oh.” Grandma tugged a handful of her hair. “Where is he?”
* * *
“Grandma’s back!” Arthur told Watson at bedtime. Then he explained how she’d arrived on her motorcycle, checked in with everyone in Arthur’s family, given them all hugs, and hurried back to her house to see Grandpa.
Watson rubbed her nose and whiskers. “Don’t she and Grandpa talk while she’s on one of her trips? Haven’t they ever heard of texting?”
“I don’t know,” Arthur said. “I don’t understand grown-ups.”
“Anyway,” Watson went on, “now you can ask your grandmother about the teacup. You can start detecting!”
“You’re right,” Arthur said. “And I will. I swear.”
“And don’t forget Veda,” Watson said.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re bossy?” Arthur asked.
“What you call ‘bossy,’ I call ‘helpful,’ ” Watson said.
Arthur admitted he wasn’t that mad at Veda anymore. He even missed her a little. “I’ll call her tomorrow,” he said. “I bet she misses me too.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
After breakfast the next morning Arthur went back to his room, sat on the edge of his bed, took a deep breath, pulled out his phone, tapped Veda’s name and waited for her to answer. When she didn’t right away, he almost hung up, felt relief, actually, but then her voice came on, “Bueno?”
“Hi,” Arthur said. “Uh… are you—?”
He was going to say “busy,” but there was a bump like the phone had fallen and then the sound of footsteps and kids laughing, and Veda in the distance yelling, “Dale eso ahora!” which even Arthur could translate: “Give that back!”
Finally, after a bunch more bump-thumps and some squealing, Veda said, “Arthur? Sorry. What’s up?”
“I didn’t mean to bother you,” Arthur said.
“Cállate!” Veda said. “Not you, Arthur. Mom’s working. I’ve got the niños till noon. I might murder them before that, though. No, you can’t have biscochos! What did Mamá say?”
Arthur didn’t know what Mamá had said, but he figured it must’ve had something to do with biscochos. “I called to say I’m sorry,” Arthur said. “About my grandpa, I mean. Did Juan tell you? Or your mom? And I’m also sorry, kind of, that I stopped speaking to you. I mean, now I want to stay speaking to you.”
There. Having worked up the courage to call, Arthur had gotten all the words out fast.
“Wait…. Okay,” Veda said. Arthur heard what sounded like a door closing, and it got quiet. “I’ve shut myself in my mom’s room. But I can’t talk for very long ’cause they’ll do damage. I know about Juan, yeah.”
“I’m sorry,” Arthur said again. “I don’t… I mean… My grandpa isn’t me.”
“Yeah. It’s still bad, though, what he said—‘those people.’ ”
Arthur took a breath. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t know what else to say. He’s still my grandfather. And anyway, you can still help out on Sundays, right? Tomorrow?”
“Maybe not tomorrow. Maybe next week,” Veda said.
Arthur felt terrible. His reflex was to say “sorry” again, but “sorry” wasn’t helping. For a second it was quiet.
Then Veda said, “I’d better check on the niños.”
“No, wait,” Arthur said. “Why did you tell everybody about the teacup? Zeke, I mean.”
“Teacup?” Veda repeated. “What are you talking about?”
“That’s why I’m not speaking to you,” Arthur clarified. “Because you told everybody, Zeke, about the teacup.”
“You’re not speaking to me?” Veda said.
“I am now, Veda. Duh. Obviously. But I wasn’t. At school I mean. All week?”
There was a pause like Veda was thinking. Then she said, “Was the teacup a secret or something?”
“Not exactly,” Arthur said.
“Then I don’t get—” Veda began, but Arthur interrupted.
“Zeke razzed me about it. Like dudes aren’t supposed to have teacups.”
“Dudes can have teacups, Arthur,” Veda said.
“But why would you tell him?” Arthur wasn’t ready to let this go. If she could be mad at him about his grandpa, which wasn’t really fair, if you thought about it, couldn’t he be mad at her about something that was also not fair?
Veda said, “I don’t know.” Then, “Oh yeah. I guess I remember. We were talking about Mr. Racker’s coffee mug? How it’s cracked. How he never washes it. And I thought of the teacup because of the chip, and I said how you found it, how it was kind of mysterious. Anyway, I guess Zeke was there.”
“Wait, you mean there were other people?” Arthur wondered who else was going to give him grief.
“It’s not a big deal,” Veda said. “Look, now it’s all of a sudden quiet—the niños, I mean. I gotta go. I might see you tomorrow. I have to talk to my mom and maybe Juan. Oh, but wanna know something weird? They’re at your grandparents’ house this morning. Cleaning. Your grandma’s having people over, and she wanted the house clean first.”
“That is weird,” Arthur said, “and awkward.”
“I thought my mom would cancel,” Veda said, “but she said your grandma was one of her first customers, and Juan was the only guy available—” A crash interrupted. “Oh no. Gotta go, Arthur.”
Arthur wanted to say “Sorry” again or “Are we still friends?” or “Please come tomorrow,” but before he could say anything, Veda was gone.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
With Grandma back, Arthur didn’t have to help out in the store that morning, but he went downstairs anyway. Luckily, it wasn’t that busy yet, and the two of them sat in chairs by the big walnut dining table. Grandma told him that on her trip she’d traveled to Utah to see the sights: Zion, Bryce Canyon, Moab, the Great Salt Lake. The photos on her phone showed pink rock formations, blue sky, white clouds. The landscape was desert-y, almost no green at all.
“The colors are nice,” Arthur said. “But I think I like trees.”
“Me too,” Grandma said. “But I hadn’t been to Utah in a long time. Maybe the next trip will be to someplace with more water. Niagara Falls maybe. Or Chicago.”
“Why don’t you ever go anywhere with Grandpa?” Arthur asked. Maybe this was nosy, but if you couldn’t be nosy to your own family, who could you be nosy to?
“Your grandfather”—Grandma hesitated—“… has many fine qualities. But he does not enjoy travel. He likes his routine. On Saturday mornings, for example, he likes to go to Boxcar and get a twelve-ounce house blend with two packets of sugar and drink it at one of the tables on the sidewalk.”
“And if his favorite table is taken, he gets annoyed,” Arthur said.
Grandma nodded.
“Dad told you about the Juan thing, right? Did you talk to Grandpa about that?” Arthur asked.
Grandma sighed. “It didn’t seem wise to bring it up first thing,” she said. “But I’m glad he’s out of the house while they clean. My book group is coming over on Monday, my turn to host.”
“Of Mice and Men,” Arthur said.
Grandma’s gray eyes got big. “What a detective you must be, Arthur. How did you know that?”
Arthur echoed Sherlock Holmes: “Elementary, my dear grandmother.” Then he explained how a couple of customers had mentioned the book. “I’d like to be a detective,” he added. “But I don’t think I’m that brave. If I had to confront a criminal, I’d probably pass out.”
Grandma said, “Dare to dream, Arthur. You can be whatever you want.”
“No offense, but grown-ups always say that,” Arthur said, “and for a fact, it isn’t true. Dad wanted to be a musician. Mom’s a lawyer, and she’s grumpy all the time. What about you? What did you want to be?”
“A granny on a motorcycle,” Grandma said.
That made Arthur laugh, and at the same time the entrance bell chimed to announce a customer. When Arthur turned, he saw the gentleman who’d bought the gold pocket watch.
Grandma stood up. “Welcome to Universal Trash. May I help you?”
“Good morning,” the gentleman said. “Oh, and hello to you, young man. You’ll be glad to know the watch is running fine.”
“I am glad,” Arthur said. “And good morning to you, Mr. Worth.”
“Oh my.” Mr. Worth’s eyebrows shot up. “You remember my name!”
“He’s good at customer service,” said Grandma. “What can we help you with?”
“It’s not shopping I’m after today,” Mr. Worth explained. “Instead I’ve got something to sell, consign, that is. If you’re interested?”
“Usually my son-in-law handles consignments,” Grandma said, “but he’s busy in the office just now. What treasure have you brought us?”
Dad was almost always on the floor Saturday morning. What could he be busy with? Arthur decided to check, nodded goodbye to Grandma and Mr. Worth, headed for the office. On his way, he heard Mr. Worth explaining, “This just sits in my wife’s jewelry box, so we thought why not—”
Arthur had to smile. There was a lot of jewelry “just sitting” in Boulder.
“Dad?” Arthur walked into the office but didn’t see him. Instead he saw chaos—UUI boxes everywhere except where they belonged, neatly arranged on the shelves that lined the wall.
This was really weird. In Arthur’s whole life he had never seen those shelves empty or the UUI moved all at once.
“Dad?” Arthur repeated.
“Right here—ow!” Dad’s voice came from somewhere near the floor, and the ow had been preceded by a bump.
“Where?” Arthur closed the door, walked farther into the room, saw his dad’s hindquarters poking out from under a desk. “Did you hit your head?” Arthur asked.
Arthur’s dad skittered out, sat up, rubbed his head, frowned. “I did,” he said, “and I didn’t find the Red File either.”
Arthur made a sympathy face. “Ouch. So… the Red File is missing?”
“I wouldn’t be looking for it otherwise, would I?”
“Right,” Arthur said. “I guess your head still hurts?”
Dad did not answer.
“Right,” Arthur said again. “Do you want me to look for the Red File?”
Arthur’s dad got to his feet and spread his hands to indicate the room. “Feel free. But you won’t find it. I’ve looked everywhere.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Had someone taken the Red File? Why would they do that? For that matter, who even knew about the Red File? It wasn’t a secret exactly, but it wasn’t something they advertised either. Mostly who knew about it was the staff and the consigners whose names were in it, the ones who had brought in consignments they wanted to keep “confidential,” which Arthur knew was a four-syllable word for “secret.”
Since the shelves were empty, Arthur’s dad decided to dust them, and Arthur said he’d help. Between sneezes, they talked.
“How did you happen to notice the Red File was missing?” Arthur asked. “Were you trying to put a new card in it?”
Dad shook his head. “I just saw there was a gap where it was supposed to be, like a missing tooth. It might’ve been gone for a while, though.”
“I don’t think a customer would’ve swiped it,” Arthur said. “About the only people who come into the office are people who work here—and sometimes Officer Bernstein.”
Dad looked thoughtful. “I did interview some potential new hires here,” he said.
When the shelves were clean, Arthur and Dad returned each to its assigned spot. It had taken more than an hour, but the office looked normal again.
“It’s like another mystery, isn’t it?” Arthur said. “First the Found Teacup, now the Missing Red File. Grandma called me a detective just now, so maybe I should try to solve it.”
“Isn’t that what we’re doing?” Dad said. “I mean, if movies and books are any guide, I’d say a detective does the same as us, asks questions and thinks logically. Oh, and I guess also looks for clues.”
“Like if the thief left footprints or fingerprints or a bloody knife or whatever?” Arthur said.
“A bloody knife?” his dad repeated.
“Maybe we should call Officer Bernstein,” Arthur said. “He’s a professional.”
“Not unless we find a knife,” Dad said. “I doubt he cares about a file box. He’ll just think I’m absentminded. I probably am absentminded. But that doesn’t tell us where the file is.”
The door to the office opened. Randolph leaned in. “Hey, Arthur. Hey, Boss. It’s gettin’ busy out there, uh-huh. Can you come and give us a hand?”
Dad nodded. “I’ll be right there, but Arthur’s supposedly got the morning off. Why don’t you get outside or something, kiddo? I didn’t mean to make you work all today. Air and sunshine. All that healthy stuff.”
Arthur said he would. His dad smiled, but the smile was forced, and Arthur could tell he was still thinking about the Red File.
In the doorway Dad added, “Alternatively, feel free to scour the place for clues.” And then he closed the door.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Alone, Arthur did not exactly scour the place, but he did look around. No Red File. No bloody knife, either. Maybe plain thinking was a better strategy? Plain thinking he could do outside.
The day was typical for Boulder in May, and that meant clear and sunny. From the collection on hooks by the employee door, Arthur grabbed a Buffs ball cap, pulled it on, and headed across the parking lot toward his usual path. This was no time to try something new. He would need all available brainpower to think like a detective.
Thinking did not go well at first. There were so many distractions: The rocks and roots beneath his feet. The wild irises and bluebells. The prairie dogs, rabbits, and squirrels. The crows, ducks, nuthatches, and starlings. High above were those crazy paragliders, like giant insects on the breeze.
All of these demanded Arthur’s attention, and dutifully his brain pinged among them till suddenly (and to Arthur’s surprise) it produced an actual, useful thought: someone might take the Red File because their name was in it, and they really, really did not want that known.
Because, for example, what they had consigned was stolen.
Another thought followed fast, maybe useful, for sure terrible: What if that someone was Juan?
Juan was one of the potential new hires Dad had interviewed in the office. He cleaned houses for Maria, and only the Sunday before, on this very same path, Veda had said her mom’s clients sometimes left valuables lying around.
Could Juan have stolen something he found when he was cleaning houses? And could he have brought whatever it was, like a piece of jewelry, to the store to sell?
Arthur felt a pang. Am I as bad as my grandpa? he wondered. Would I think the same stuff if Juan were Anglo, or if he didn’t have so many tattoos? He remembered something else Veda had said, how Juan was too handsome.
Too brown. Too tattooed. Too handsome.
People could be unfair about a lot of stuff.
But I’m not unfair, am I? Arthur thought. I want to be better than that.
Brain still busy, Arthur came in from his walk, made himself a PBJ, ate it standing up, wiped his lips with a paper towel, and went back downstairs to the store. He had a question for his dad, and he thought he’d see if his grandmother needed a break too. He could put off homework and reading The Legend of King Arthur.
He found his dad in the office, standing alone among the desks, hands on his hips, looking at the shelves that held the UUI.
