Trashed!, page 9
“I didn’t find a bloody knife,” Arthur said.
“Bloody knife?” Dad looked alarmed, then said, “Oh, right. No, I didn’t think you would, or any other clues, either. And no matter how hard I stare at the shelf, the Red File doesn’t reappear.”
“Bummer,” Arthur said. “Can I ask you something real quick? You already knew Juan when he interviewed, right?”
Dad nodded. “I’d met him. I don’t know if you’d say I knew him exactly. But he had great references. I mean, Maria is about as good as it gets.”
Arthur didn’t want to ask this next part. He worried he really would sound like his grandpa. At the same time, it was the job of detectives to ask questions.
“Did Juan ever bring anything in to consign?” Arthur asked. “Is his name in the Red File?”
“Come on, kiddo,” Dad said. “You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Yeah, you can. I’m your very own kid!” Arthur said.
“You are.” Dad smiled. “And you are excellent at customer service. Also, I love you. But ‘confidential’ means ‘confidential.’ ”
CHAPTER THIRTY
Arthur told Watson about the missing Red File that night at bedtime, how he was afraid maybe Juan had stolen it, how he was afraid he, Arthur, was a bad person for suspecting Juan had stolen it, how his dad wouldn’t give him any info.
As Arthur talked, he felt better. Watson was bossy. Some of her advice had issues. But he liked having her around to talk to, especially when his brain felt overwhelmed.
“I don’t see how I’m supposed to solve the mystery,” he concluded, “if my own dad won’t even answer my questions.”
“Do you think there could be a connection between the two mysteries?” Watson asked.
Arthur said, “What two mysteries?”
“The missing Red File and my teacup!” Watson said. “Duh.”
Watson wasn’t usually sarcastic, and now Arthur felt bad. He could have asked his grandmother about the teacup that morning, and he hadn’t. In truth, he had forgotten.
“I don’t see how,” Arthur said, thinking out loud. “There can’t be anything about the teacup in the Red File. It was never in the UUI at all.”
“They’re both mysteries,” Watson pointed out. “Isn’t that a connection? And they both have to do with the store.”
“I guess,” Arthur said doubtfully. “And I’ll work on your mystery too, Watson. I promise.”
“Hmph.” Watson sniffed. “You’ve said that before.”
* * *
On Sunday afternoon Ramona helped Dad paint a banner to welcome Jennifer Y back from her race. They didn’t know if she’d won or anything, only that she had finished before ten that same morning, after starting around dawn on Saturday. Finishing before noon meant she had run the whole hundred miles and earned a medal that said so. She was supposed to be back at work on Monday.
Arthur thought he’d get to help with the banner too, but instead Randolph presented him with three big boxes of shoes to enter into the UUI. Arthur would be doing this on his own because Veda had left a message that she wasn’t coming in. Her excuse was swim practice, but Arthur knew that the real reason was what Grandpa had said to Juan.
The shoes in the boxes had all come from estates, which made them the shoes of dead people, which for some reason, everyone agreed, were creepier than the clothes of dead people. Arthur’s job was to spray each pair with Lysol to get rid of stinky-foot smell, then categorize them by type (athletic, casual, formal, sandal, slipper) and size.
Sorting shoes was always a terrible job, and without Veda it was even more terrible, which is why, after dinner that night, Arthur did something amazing: he phoned Veda for the second time in two days.
He couldn’t say “I missed you” because that would be weird. Instead he said, “I don’t see why if Juan and your mom still cleaned my grandparents’ house yesterday—after, you know, what my grandpa said—then you couldn’t have worked at the store today like usual too.”
Veda said, “Hi, Arthur. I explained already. Swim practice.”
Arthur was lying on his back on the floor, his feet up on his bed, the blood-to-brain position he hoped would make him smarter. If he was going to be a good detective, he obviously needed extra blood-to-brain.
“Well, are you gonna have longer swim practice next Sunday, too?” he asked.
“I don’t know yet,” she said.
Arthur sighed. When you thought about it, having friends was a pain. Family you were stuck with—and mouse ghosts that were haunting you—but friends were optional. Arthur thought he could see why people played video games and watched TV and gave up on live humans. Maybe he should do the same thing.
On the other hand, he was used to having Veda around. She was familiar, like the tasks at the store. Also, let’s say you had to sort the shoes of dead people? In that case friends could be helpful.
“I am sorry about my grandpa being insulting,” Arthur said.
“He is pretty terrible,” Veda said.
“He likes you, though,” Arthur pointed out.
“Yeah,” Veda said, “and how does that work? I’m just as Mexican—as Latinx, I guess—as Juan is.”
“It might be because he knows you.” Arthur had thought about this. “He thinks of you as you, not part of, I don’t know—a group? But he doesn’t know Juan. Grandma tried to talk to him. He says he didn’t do anything wrong. He says he doesn’t see what the big deal is.”
“You should talk to him,” Veda said.
“I’m talking to you,” Arthur said. “I’m apologizing.”
Veda didn’t say anything.
“Uh… can I ask another question?” Arthur said. “Remember how once you said you didn’t trust Juan? Tattoos and everything?”
“That’s not the same thing,” Veda said.
“I don’t mean that it’s the same thing,” Arthur said. “But you remember, right? So what I want to know is, do you like Juan better now? Do you trust him?”
“My mom does,” Veda said.
Arthur had seen enough movies to know that when grown-ups liked people—icky romance and all that—they were not always smart, or not as smart as Veda. “What about you?”
It was quiet again before Veda said, “Yeah. I do now. Juan is funny. Also, he’s good to my mom. That counts more than tattoos.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
At the store the next afternoon Arthur learned something that rocked his universe, or at least the part occupied by his family.
First thing when he got there, though, he saw Jennifer Y and gave her props on the ultra race.
“I can’t believe you even came in to work,” he said. “You ran a hundred miles this weekend!”
They were standing on the customer side of the cash counter, Jennifer leaning against it. “Yeah.” She smiled. “I know.”
Arthur could see she was moving slowly, that the back of her neck was sunburned, that both knees had multiple Band-Aids.
More striking was her face. No Band-Aids there, just a big smile that wouldn’t quit.
Arthur thought of Watson. “Do you feel a glowing sense of accomplishment?” he asked.
Jennifer laughed. “I hadn’t thought of those words exactly, but yeah, I’d say so.”
“Would you ever do such a crazy thing again?” Arthur asked.
“Totally,” she said. “In fact, I’m making plans for next year. Hey, Officer Bernstein! Good to see you.”
Officer Bernstein approached from the direction of Housewares. He had a shopping basket over his arm, and in it the same red pepper mill he’d been looking at a couple of Sundays before.
“Congratulations, Jennifer,” he said, and very nearly smiled.
Jennifer thanked him.
Arthur asked if he was planning to buy, finally, the pepper mill.
“European-made,” said Officer Bernstein. “Do I still get the discount?”
“That can be arranged,” Arthur said. “And perhaps you’d like a grinder for sea salt to go with it? Or cruets for oil and vinegar? Or—”
Officer Bernstein held up his hand. “Just the pepper mill, Arthur.”
“Excellent choice,” Arthur said. “I’ll be happy to ring you up.”
Jennifer did not do a ton of work that afternoon. First she and Officer Bernstein assessed her splits, which means how fast she had run different sections of the race, and then they talked elevation changes, and the times of other runners around her age.
Arthur had never known there was so much math involved in plain old running; the idea did not make it more tempting.
Later, other customers asked Jen about the banner over the door, which read: CONGRATS, JEN, OUR ULTRA CLERK! And some of them wanted to hear about the race. “The first mile…,” Arthur heard Jennifer say as he helped a customer pick out a set of pot holders, and later, “Then there was mile twenty-seven. That’s when…”
She didn’t seem to mind repeating the story.
Monday was Randolph’s day off, so Arthur was surprised to see him sorting colored markers in Art Supplies.
“What are you doing here?” Arthur asked.
“Killing time, uh-huh,” Randolph said. “I’m s’posed to take your grandpa to a doctor’s appointment, but he says he’s not ready to go.”
“Why—” Arthur started to ask, but Randolph was way ahead of him.
“Your grandma’s getting ready for company tonight, cooking, I think. So he asked me to be the chauffeur.”
“Got it,” Arthur said. “Is Grandpa okay?”
“He says he is. Your mom isn’t so sure. He’s been poorly lately. You know. Anyway, if I can help him out, I’m happy to. He helped me when I needed it.”
Arthur was surprised. “He did? My grandpa?”
The markers had been in multicolor heaps in a collection of shoeboxes. Now Randolph ordered a fistful of red into one can, a smaller fistful of green into a second. “You want to grab the yellow ones?” he asked Arthur.
Arthur nodded and began sorting. “So, my grandpa?” he said.
“He probably wouldn’t want me to tell you this,” Randolph said. “I mean, if no one’s told you this already.”
“I won’t say anything,” Arthur said, and he might’ve added “Cross my heart” but remembered the razzing he’d taken over owning a teacup. Were guys allowed to say “cross my heart”? Anyway, he didn’t.
“Well, I told you that story about how your good friend Officer Bernstein arrested me that time?” Randolph continued.
Arthur nodded.
“It was your grandpa who bailed me out, helped me find an apartment, too.”
“Oh, wow,” Arthur said. “I thought… That is… I didn’t think…”
Arthur remembered something about his family helping Randolph but had assumed that meant his mom and dad.
“You didn’t think your grandpa had a kind heart?” Randolph said.
Arthur started on the purple markers. “I guess that’s about right.”
“Your grandpa has his moments,” Randolph said. “Uh-huh. And now I think I’ll go remind him of his appointment one more time… unless, that is, your friend the policeman is back there with him in the office?”
“I’m pretty sure Officer Bernstein left,” Arthur said.
“See you tomorrow, then,” Randolph said. “Oh—and I think you missed a couple o’ those yellow markers.”
For the next few minutes Arthur thought only of sorting markers. Then he stood back to admire the effect, each color in its own shiny can. And then he considered what Randolph had said.
Before now Arthur had figured he knew his grandpa well. Grandpa was someone who cared about his family and the business he’d started. He was also so crotchety that, if he came to dinner, you had to be careful what you said, so crotchety that sometimes Grandma had to take a break and run away.
But now Arthur had learned something new, something that didn’t fit. Grandpa cared about other people, unlucky people like Randolph used to be. And Grandpa could be generous.
People, his grandpa at least, were more complicated than Arthur had ever expected, which meant the universe was more complicated too, which meant—well, what exactly?
Arthur thought he would have to spend a lot more time with his legs in the air, letting blood into his brain, if he was going to figure the universe out.
A customer looking for a “comfortable chair, preferably a neutral color, clean but inexpensive” interrupted Arthur’s thoughts. That customer was followed by another who wanted a “good, old-fashioned toaster” and a third who needed “any old ski jacket, provided it’s warm and sort of fits.” Arthur helped them all, for a fact, solved their problems. That was the thing about customer service. In the universe of Universal Trash, the problems were uncomplicated.
At a little after five, Arthur’s boss, aka Dad, sent him home. Upstairs he found his mom in the living room reading.
“You’re home from work early,” he said when she looked up. “Oh gosh, are you okay?”
Mom’s eyes were red, her cheeks streaked with tears. “It’s just the book,” she said, sniffling. “I came home to finish it before book group.” She held it up. Of Mice and Men.
“I don’t get it,” Arthur said. “Why read a book that makes you cry?”
Mom shrugged. “Because it’s great literature?” she said. “Because it sort of helps when sad things happen to you? And because it’s beautiful, I guess.”
“Sadness is beautiful?” Arthur asked.
Mom shrugged and looked down at the book. “I’ve only got a couple more pages, Arthur.”
Arthur said, “Okay. I get it. I’ll let you read.”
In a puzzling universe one thing was for sure. Arthur never wanted to read a book that made him cry that hard.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
It was because of the Prairie Dog Stomp that Grandma noticed her pearl necklace was gone.
Grandma wasn’t even planning to wear her necklace to the Stomp; Mom was. And that Tuesday, Mom phoned Grandma and asked to borrow it to go with her green dress. Grandma said of course, and she looked in her jewelry box, then her backup jewelry box, and then some random other boxes kept in random other drawers.
She could not find the pearl necklace.
So Grandma phoned Mom back and said it was the strangest thing, but the pearls seemed to be missing.
It wasn’t till Wednesday dinner that Arthur found all this out. The dinner that night was Arthur’s least favorite, a vegetable omelet, which was something his dad put together in a hurry when there were sad, limp vegetables to use up. In Arthur’s opinion the only way a vegetable omelet was edible was if it was covered with sour cream and salsa, and they were out of sour cream.
“What do the pearls look like?” Ramona asked her mother. “Have I seen them before? Arthur’s taking all the salsa.”
“It’s a double strand with an emerald clasp,” Mom said. “I thought of them because the clasp is the same color as my dress. Grandma never wears them. They just sit around in her jewelry box. Arthur? Leave some salsa for the rest of us, okay?”
Arthur paused in his spooning and looked at his mom. “Huh. That’s funny.”
“Would you please for gosh sake pass the salsa?” Ramona asked.
Dad looked over. “What’s funny?”
Arthur passed the salsa. “Only because lately I’ve heard about a zillion customers say stuff sits around in a jewelry box, like that guy Mr. Worth, the one who looks like a professor, and he bought that watch…?” Arthur paused midbite and stared straight ahead. “Huh.”
“Huh?” his dad repeated.
When Arthur didn’t react, his mom looked up. “Huh?”
“Arthur’s in space,” Ramona said.
Arthur snapped out of it.
“I am not,” he told Ramona. “It’s just I remembered Mr. Worth asked who brought the watch in, and I couldn’t tell him because it was in the Red File. And now the Red File is gone.”
Dad nodded. “Coincidence, I’d say. But I do remember the watch. It had an unusual monogram on it. ABC or something.”
“XYZ,” Arthur said. “What did Mr. Worth bring in this time, Dad? Did Grandma take it?”
Dad nodded. “An amethyst brooch. Not exactly in style, but attractive to the right buyer.”
Mom said, “Is the Red File still missing?”
Dad was chewing, and he nodded.
“Were there a lot of cards in it?” she asked.
Dad swallowed. “About twenty-five active ones, but I keep the archive in the same box. There might be two hundred of those, maybe more. They don’t matter much because the merchandise has already sold. We got our money. But if the police ever had a question…” He shrugged. “It almost never happens. We know most of our consigners. And maybe it helps that Officer Bernstein likes to hang out at the store. Keeps bad guys away.”
“So what will you do about the missing file? Assuming it doesn’t turn up,” Mom said.
“Try to remember what’s in it, then make new cards,” Dad said.
“So it doesn’t really matter that the Red File is gone?” Arthur said, which was another way to say, “I spent all that time searching and thinking for nothing?”
“What matters is that it disappeared,” Dad said. “Why would someone take it? Or maybe worse—did I set it somewhere and forget? In which case, I am losing it.”
It was quiet for a couple of minutes, nothing but chewing and bodies shifting in chairs. Finally Dad looked around and said, “It would be nice if someone reassured me that I’m not losing it.”
“You still make a decent omelet,” Mom said. “Is there any more salsa, Ramona?”
Ramona passed the salsa.
“So I thought of a motive for stealing the Red File,” Arthur said, “but if you can just make a new one, it might not make sense.”
“Go ahead, Detective,” Dad said. “Tell us.”
“Maybe whoever stole it was someone whose name was in there, someone trying to be extra super sure their name never got out, someone who had stolen whatever it was they’d brought in to consign.”
