Mr. Lemoncello's Great Library Race Page 11

  “Nope. Never.”

  “She says she called you guys,” said Akimi, watching to see if Mr. Nix tried to touch or cover his mouth. He didn’t.

  “Nobody here has ever heard of her.”

  “She’s never made these claims before?” asked Abia. “She’s never sued Mr. Lemoncello?”

  “Nope,” said Mr. Nix. “But now the accusation is spreading like warm butter on hot waffles.”

  “That’s why we’re here,” said Kyle. “To prove that Irma Hirschman is a liar.”

  “Has anybody seen her shuffling her feet a lot lately?” asked Akimi.

  “Huh?” said Mr. Nix.

  “Never mind,” said Akimi. “Her feet aren’t our top priority.”

  “However,” said Abia, “her allegations are.”

  “True,” said Mr. Nix, checking his phone, which was buzzing in his palm. “Great. Another tweet. This one takes a swipe at you, too, Kyle.”

  “What?”

  Mr. Nix showed the four of them the tweet, from @SirCharlesThe1st:

  @MrLemoncello IS a liar and cheat. He helped super loser @KyleKeeley cheat his way to victory in the escape game!

  “Chiltington,” said Akimi through clenched teeth.

  “Whoa,” said Angus. “He’s totally trashing you, dude.”

  “Yeah, well, who cares?” blustered Kyle. “It’s not true.”

  “That may not matter,” said Abia. “If Charles Chiltington says it loud enough and often enough, it will seem true.”

  “I figure that’s what Irma Hirschman is trying to do, too,” said Mr. Nix. “She probably wants us to offer her a cash settlement. That’s why she’s screaming so loudly. Unfortunately, it’s working. Hashtag JusticeForIrma is trending like crazy. Toy stores have been calling the sales department all morning to cancel orders.”

  Kyle heard a ding behind Mr. Nix.

  The Universal Happiness Meter had just dipped into the frowny-face zone.

  “Very sorry you kids had to visit on such a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day,” said Mr. Nix.

  It made Kyle smile.

  Because suddenly Vader Nix sounded like Mr. Lemoncello.

  “Who do you think we should talk to?” he asked.

  “Max Khatchadourian, our corporate lawyer,” replied Mr. Nix. “He’s been with Mr. Lemoncello since day one. If anyone’s ever heard of this Irma Hirschman or her allegations, it’d be Max.” He glanced at his watch. “Max should just be getting to his desk.”

  “Really?” said Akimi. “It’s like eleven o’clock.”

  “Mr. L lets Max set his own hours.”

  “He likes to sleep in?” asked Angus.

  “Exactly.”

  “I can relate.”

  “If we hurry,” said Mr. Nix, “we can catch Max before he starts returning all the calls that have been coming in all morning. Everybody wants to talk to Mr. Lemoncello’s lawyer!”

  Mr. Nix led the kids onto an elevator.

  As it rocketed from the lobby to the fifth floor, Kyle barely noticed the chirping flock of holographic bluebirds swirling around the car’s glass exterior. Or the caped superhero propelling the express elevator that passed them on the left. He was too focused on Mr. Lemoncello. He had to protect his hero!

  The doors slid open, and Mr. Nix led the way down a cramped corridor cluttered with musty boxes.

  They came to a frosted glass door filled with hand-painted writing: “Max Khatchadourian, Chief Corporate Counsel (Except for Nitpicky Legal Matters Regarding Dotted i’s and Crossed t’s That He’s Far Too Old to Be Bothered With).” Kyle could hear a phone ringing on the other side of the door. Somebody picked it up. And slammed it back down.

  Mr. Nix rapped his knuckles on the glass.

  “Come in, come in,” cried a chipper, creaky voice.

  Mr. Nix pushed open the door. He had to shove it hard because there was a mountain of cardboard boxes stacked behind it on the floor. In fact, Kyle couldn’t even see Mr. Lemoncello’s top lawyer until they found a clear alleyway between all the boxes and stacks of papers.

  “Hello, Max,” said Mr. Nix. “These are some members of Luigi’s board of trustees out in Ohio.”

  Max Khatchadourian looked like a withered elf in a robin’s-egg-blue business suit. His shirt collar was two sizes too big for his skinny neck, and his striped tie was three times wider than the ones most people wore. He was unplugging the wire on the back of his telephone. Probably so it would stop ringing.

  “Ah, Ohio,” said Mr. Khatchadourian, his ancient eyes brightening. “The Buckeye State, where in 1869, W. F. Semple patented chewing gum and in 1974 a brilliant young lad with a quick wit and a wild sense of humor named Luigi Libretto Lemoncello patented a board game titled Family Frenzy. Given its historical significance to this company and the fun-loving world, that first patent, and all the supporting materials related to it, is presently enshrined in the archives of Mr. Lemoncello’s Library. I rest my case.”

  Mr. Khatchadourian folded his hands over his lap, leaned back in his padded office chair, and smiled contentedly.

  “Um, that’s sort of why we are here,” said Kyle.

  “I see,” said Mr. Khatchadourian. “Do you have a board game you want me to patent for you, too? If so, I must say I am quite impressed. You are even younger than Luigi was when he first traipsed into my office with a battered shoebox filled with trinkets, taped-together cardboard sheets, dice, and dreams. I remember he had one of Barbie’s go-go boots in that box. That turned into the boot token, of course. Then there were the tiny buildings he carved out of balsa wood….”

  “We’re here to talk about the woman who claims Mr. Lemoncello stole his idea from her,” said Angus.

  “Have you ever seen this, sir?” asked Abia, handing the lawyer the Family Frolic board game.

  “No, I have not. But who, may I ask, is this fetching young woman with the bobbed blond hair on the box top?”

  “That’s Irma Hirschman,” said Angus. “She’s the one claiming she invented Family Frolic back in 1969—five years before Mr. Lemoncello created Family Frenzy.”

  “In 1969, eh? That would explain the hairdo.”

  “But,” said Abia, “there is no record of Ms. Hirschman ever filing for a patent.”

  Mr. Khatchadourian examined the Family Frolic box top.

  “We suspect she is fabricating her charges against Mr. Lemoncello,” Abia continued. “We also suspect that someone fabricated this board game.”

  “And I suspect that you are correct,” said the lawyer. “I have been with Mr. Lemoncello for a very long time. No one named Irma Hirschman has ever claimed that we stole her idea or dragged us into a court of law….”

  “True,” said Mr. Nix. “But right now she’s giving us a good thrashing in the court of public opinion.”

  “As might be expected,” said Mr. Khatchadourian. “Public opinion can often be swayed by emotion with little regard for facts. If the story is fascinating enough, facts may not matter to those hearing it. However, if Ms. Hirschman really had a case, she would’ve sued Luigi years ago. Besides, her hair is far too blond.”

  “Excuse me?” said Mr. Nix.

  Mr. Khatchadourian opened a desk drawer and pulled out a framed, if faded, photograph.

  “This is me in 1970. My college formal. My date for the evening, a lovely young gal named Heather Newton, had the most gorgeous golden ringlets. Unfortunately that color has faded from this photograph, if not my memory.”

  Everybody in the room was staring and nodding.

  Mr. Khatchadourian sounded kind of kooky.

  “Um, that’s very interesting, Max,” said Mr. Nix. “But I’m not really clear how it’s relevant.”

  Mr. Khatchadourian smiled. “If my cherished photograph, printed in 1970, has lost so much of its color, why is Ms. Hirschman’s golden hair so bright and vibrant on this box top? Why, the colors are so rich and crisp, it looks like it was printed last week. Perhaps because it was.”

  “I knew it
!” said Kyle. “That game board is a fake. Somebody made it to ruin Mr. Lemoncello’s good name.”

  Mr. Khatchadourian smiled, leaned back in his chair, and folded his hands in his lap again.

  “I rest my case.”

  “Our next step should be tracking down this Irma Hirschman!” said Kyle. “Confronting her with the facts. Telling her she’s a phony and a fraud.”

  Akimi rolled her eyes. “Riiiight. That always works.”

  Mr. Nix had given the research team from Ohio a conference room they could use on the fifth floor of the Imagination Factory. The table in the center was amazing—a glass-topped gold fish tank.

  “Let us analyze the facts we have thus far,” said Abia. “We know she never filed for a patent. Mr. Lemoncello, on the other hand, did. We suspect the board game found in the Lemoncello-abilia Room is a recently manufactured fraud.”

  “We also know this Irma Hirschman character lives in Smithville, Missouri,” added Akimi. “Either in a homeless shelter or a retirement home with a quilting bee, whatever that is.”

  “Trust me,” joked Angus, “you do not want to get stung by a quilting bee. Looooong stinger.”

  “Cute, Angus. Cute. But get this—according to our friend Google, the nearest homeless shelters to Smithville are actually in Kansas City.”

  Angus tapped his lPad tablet computer.

  “Nearest airport is in Kansas City, too. We should call the pilot of the banana jet. Have him start working up a flight plan.”

  “Wait a second,” said Kyle. “I’m pretty sure Kansas City is the home of the Krinkle Brothers game company. Katherine Kelly told me.”

  “This is research,” said Akimi, tapping her lPad. “We can’t be pretty sure; we need to know.”

  “Fine. But all I’m saying is if this Irma Hirschman lives a few miles away from the Krinkle brothers’ factory, Mr. Lemoncello’s number one rivals might be the ones who put her up to all this nonsense.”

  “Boom,” said Akimi, flipping her lPad around so Kyle could see it. “Krinkle Brothers Games and Amusements. 13300 Arlington Road. Grandview, Missouri. That’s just south of Kansas City proper.”

  “This is interesting,” mumbled Abia, who was tapping on the keyboard attached to the computer in the conference room.

  “What’ve you got?” asked Akimi as everybody crowded around the screen.

  “This Wikipedia entry for Mr. Lemoncello with the story of his childhood cheating at chess as well as a link to the Justice for Irma page are new additions.”

  “How new?” asked Angus.

  “Last week.”

  “Can we tell who made the edits?” asked Kyle.

  “Not really. There is, of course, a tab at the top of the page labeled “history.” However, people who are not logged into Wikipedia and wish to remain anonymous often edit articles. Even if the editor is logged in, they may be using a pseudonym. One thing I can tell: These fresh edits were made from a computer inside the Lemoncello Library.”

  “So,” said Kyle, “either Mr. Lemoncello felt extremely guilty last week and made the edits himself…”

  “A very weird way to confess,” added Akimi.

  “Or,” Kyle continued, “somebody made the changes to the page on a library computer just to make it look like Mr. Lemoncello had finally confessed.”

  “We need to go to Kansas City,” said Angus.

  Kyle nodded. “Call the pilot. I’ll ask Mr. Nix to find us a ride back to the airport.”

  One hour later, the four teammates were flying west to Missouri.

  Somewhere over Indiana, the computer screens in all the armrests started chirping with an incoming video call.

  It was Miguel Fernandez.

  “Yo, Kyle. Where are you guys?”

  “On our way to Kansas City, Missouri.”

  “Why?”

  “We think that’s where we’ll find this Irma Hirschman, the one who’s making the big stink about Mr. Lemoncello supposedly stealing her game.”

  Miguel lowered his voice.

  “She isn’t the only one making a big stink. The mayor’s here.”

  “At the library?”

  “Yep. There’s a whole bunch of reporters and TV cameras, too. Couple cops. And…”

  Miguel looked terrified, like he’d just seen a zombie slurping somebody’s brain out of an ear.

  “Mrs. Chiltington is here, too!”

  Mrs. Chiltington, Charles’s mother, did not like Mr. Lemoncello.

  In fact, it would be safe to say she hated, loathed, detested, abhorred, and despised him, which were all the words her son, Charles, would’ve used to describe how she felt about Kyle’s hero.

  “Just about all the other players from the Fabulous Fact-Finding Frenzy are here with me,” Miguel whispered, panning his lPad around the room. Kyle saw the other contestants ringed around the rotunda looking quite glum: Diane, Pranav, Elliott, Andrew, Sierra, and Jamal.

  The only one missing was Katherine Kelly.

  “Can you guys hear what Mrs. Chiltington is saying?” asked Andrew, sticking his face in front of the lPad’s camera lens.

  “Um, not when you’re talking and blocking the shot,” answered Akimi.

  “Oh, right. I’ll be quiet. Because here she goes again.”

  The video image swished to the left to find Mrs. Chiltington, a clump of properly dressed ladies, one properly dressed man in a bow tie, and Mayor O’Brady, who had very puffy hair. The mayor was flanked by a dozen police officers. The Rotunda Reading Room was crammed with curious onlookers and TV camera crews.

  On Mr. Lemoncello’s corporate jet, everybody (except the pilots, who were sort of busy) gathered around the big TV screen spanning the bulkhead wall, which was displaying the computer feed.

  “Those of us in the League of Concerned Library Lovers,” warbled Mrs. Chiltington in her operatic voice, “are, frankly, quite concerned. We have heard these accusations made by Irma Hirschman from her cozy retirement home in Missouri.”

  “Now she lives someplace cozy?” cracked Akimi. “This lady gets around.”

  Mrs. Chiltington crinkled her nose. “Mr. Lemoncello is a cheap pirate, plagiarizing and pilfering other people’s patented, proprietary property.”

  Her lips exploded with salvos of saliva every time she popped one of those “P” words.

  “He’s also egregiously malevolent!” shouted Charles, who was sort of stuck behind the blockade of properly dressed ladies.

  “To have such a cheat and charlatan affiliated with a library,” said Mrs. Chiltington, “let alone running it, is, as my son would say, egregiously improper, intolerable, and offensive.”

  “It’s patently preposterous!” shouted Charles. He spat on people when he popped his “P”s, too.

  “Hear, hear,” chanted all the properly dressed ladies and the one gentleman in the bow tie.

  “We, friends and neighbors, are the laughingstock of the entire state of Ohio, nay, the world!” Mrs. Chiltington said to the crowd. “Oh, how those wags over in Bowling Green are laughing at us now.”

  “We can’t have that,” said Mayor O’Brady. “We can’t have the whole world laughing at us like that. Not those people in Bowling Green. Not on my watch!”

  “Wait a second!” shouted Miguel from the back of the room, because he was brave that way. “Does anybody even know if what this Irma Hirschman is saying is true?”

  “Or doesn’t the truth matter to you people anymore?” demanded Jamal.

  “Yeah!” added Diane Capriola.

  “Oh, you poor, poor misguided children,” said Mrs. Chiltington, batting her eyelashes and smiling at the seven library trustees in the room as if they were orphans abandoned in baskets on the church steps during a Christmas Eve blizzard. “Mr. Lemoncello has you under his sugarcoated spell. This is the truth.”

  Charles Chiltington pushed his way through the wall of scowling women and the pouting man in the bow tie.

  He thrust up his cell phone.

  “Take a look, p
eople. Irma Hirschman did indeed invent a game called Family Frolic five years before Mr. Lemoncello theoretically invented Family Frenzy. I have seen the proof. Two very agreeable elderly gentlemen—brothers, I think—showed it to me one day after they finished using a computer in the Rotunda Reading Room!”

  The crowd gasped.

  “I photographed the evidence!” cried Charles. “Mr. Lemoncello kept a copy of Ms. Hirschman’s board game hidden in his ludicrous Lemoncello-abilia Room—tucked between two big cardboard cartons. Why? Who knows? The man is barmy and batty. Maybe he wanted a souvenir to remind himself how deviously cunning and clever he was in his youth. Maybe he forgot it was up there. Doesn’t matter! I took a picture of the game box. A selfie with it, too!”

  He wiggle-waggled his camera phone in the air.

  “Let’s go upstairs and see it!” shouted someone in the crowd.

  A mob of people rushed for the steps.

  “You can’t!” cried Charles. “It’s been checked out.”

  “Huh?” mumbled the mob.

  “One of Mr. Lemoncello’s favorites, a member of his so-called board of trustees, Kyle Keeley, the loser and cheater Mr. Lemoncello helped beat me in the escape game, conveniently removed the board game so he could ‘do research’ with it. The robo-research lady told me!”

  “That’s true,” said the holographic research librarian, Ms. Waintraub, who materialized behind the reference desk. “However, it is also true that archival information can, with proper approval, be removed from the Lemoncello-abilia Room for research purposes.”

  “Or for tossing into the trash!” shouted Charles.

  “No,” said Ms. Waintraub matter-of-factly. “Tossing into the trash is not an approved use of research materials.”

  “Enough,” said the mayor, raising both of his arms. “We need to get to the bottom of this Irma Hirschman matter. The Lemoncello Library is hereby forthwith closed.”

  “What?” gasped Sierra Russell. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, yes I can. I am the mayor. I can do all sorts of things. And I will not have anyone in Bowling Green laughing at me. Not again! No, sir!”

  The camera whipped around and landed on Miguel’s face.