Mr. Lemoncello's Great Library Race Page 12

  “Yo, did you guys catch all that?”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle.

  “Everybody out of the library!” he heard Mrs. Chil-tington bellow in the background. “Now!”

  “Hang in there, Miguel,” said Kyle. “We’re coming home just as soon as we confront Irma Hirschman.”

  “Hurry!”

  Once the banana jet landed in Kansas City, it was extremely easy for Kyle and the research team to track down Irma Hirschman.

  She had scheduled a press conference.

  At the Kansas City Airport Marriott hotel!

  Pranav called with the news.

  “And get this,” he added, “her appearance is being sponsored by the Krinkle brothers.”

  “What?” said Kyle.

  “It’s all over Twitter. Those two old farts who do the Whoop Dee Doodle games are the ones who arranged for Ms. Hirschman to meet the press!”

  “Two old farts?” said Akimi. “Hello? Charles Chil-tington just told the world that ‘two very agreeable elderly gentlemen’ showed him the Family Frolic board game up in the Lemoncello-abilia Room. ‘Elderly gentlemen’ is just a smarmier way of saying ‘old farts.’ ”

  “I knew they were behind all this!” said Kyle. “They probably showed Chiltington the phony game board right after they got done using a library computer to put that phony junk on Mr. Lemoncello’s Wikipedia page!”

  “Knowing it is not enough,” said Abia. “We must prove it. A confession from Irma Hirschman might be our swiftest route to the truth.”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Akimi. “She’s right. Let’s go.”

  They had decided that Kyle, Akimi, and Angus would go to the airport hotel to hear what Irma Hirschman had to say, maybe ask her a few questions. Abia would stay on the jet and use its computers to do more Internet research.

  “We’ll need to zip back to Ohio just as soon as we hear what lies are being spread today,” Angus told the pilot.

  “Already working up the flight plan,” the pilot said with a nod.

  “Thanks,” said Kyle. “Come on, you guys. We only have like fifteen minutes to find the hotel ballroom where she’s speaking!”

  The hotel was less than a mile away from the airport terminal. Fortunately the Marriott had a shuttle bus.

  The three Lemoncello trustees raced through the lobby and followed the crowd squeezing into the packed ballroom, which was set up like a theater, with rows of chairs facing a small, elevated stage. Almost all the seats in the ballroom—and there must have been three hundred of them—were filled by eager reporters with flipped-open notebooks, digital voice recorders, or laptop computers. Video cameras mounted on tripods, halogen lamps already glaring, ringed the sea of seats, their lenses focused on the podium at the center of the stage beside a spindly rocking chair. Mr. Lemoncello was about to be tried in the press.

  “Where’s Irma?” asked Akimi as she, Kyle, and Angus slipped into the only empty seats they could find.

  “Here she comes!” said Angus.

  Kyle had to squirm a little to see above all the heads and shoulders in front of him. Finally he stood up.

  “Down in front,” growled a voice behind him. “You’re blocking my shot.”

  Kyle crouched.

  He could see two stately-looking old men in dark suits and bright white shirts escorting somebody’s grandmother up the steps to the stage. She was dressed in a bell-shaped skirt so long it brushed along the floor. Her lace apron looked like a doily someone’s grandmother might keep under her candy dish. Her powdery-white hair was tucked up into a bun.

  “Dang,” whispered Angus, “she really does look just like the Mrs. Maplebutter bottle.”

  Kyle agreed. “All she needs is the yellow plastic cap.”

  “Will you two knock it off?” said Akimi. “The Krinkles are about to speak.”

  The taller of the two businessmen stepped to the podium.

  “Hello, everybody. Thank you for joining us. I’m David Krinkle. This is my brother, Frederick. As many of you know, we are the Krinkle brothers. We make games that make kids happy.”

  “No,” whispered Kyle, “you make games that make kids sleepy.”

  “As game makers, we honor and respect the importance of ideas. Therefore, we were personally and professionally offended to hear that one of our so-called colleagues, Luigi Lemoncello, had blatantly stolen the idea for his first game—a major moneymaker—from this honest, hardworking entrepreneur, Irma Hirschman, who never received a dime after Mr. Lemoncello hijacked her intellectual property. By so doing, he has given our entire industry a black eye. How dare he steal this sweet little old lady’s idea and call it his own?”

  “Did you have a patent, Mrs. Hirschman?” shouted a reporter.

  David Krinkle glared at the woman who dared ask such a rude question. “Have you no shame?” he said to her.

  “That’s okay,” said the frail woman in a folksy Midwestern accent. She creaked up out of her rocking chair and dabbed at her damp eyes with a lacy handkerchief. “I’ll answer the question.”

  She hobbled over to the podium.

  “No, ma’am,” she said, sniffling back her tears. “I don’t have a patent, because on my stenographer’s salary in 1969 I couldn’t afford any fancy-pants patent attorneys. Besides, I don’t believe in patents. We wouldn’t need a silly piece of paper if everybody just did what they know is right! Thou shalt not steal! Guess Mr. Lemoncello never made it to that chapter of the good book.”

  The crowd applauded.

  “Do you have any proof that the young Luigi Lemoncello saw your game and copied it?” asked another reporter.

  “Don’t need it. Does he have any proof that he got his idea somewhere else? Of course not. If he did, why won’t he show it to us?” Tears streaked down her face. “Mr. Lemoncello stole every single idea I had, right down to the game pieces—the boot, the cat, and the tiny harmonica. I read somewhere that Mr. Lemoncello claims he got the boot idea because some librarian gave him a 1972 knee-high Barbie doll boot in her desk drawer and let him borrow it while he worked on his game idea in her library. Ha! You believe that, folks, I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn I’d like to sell you.”

  The audience tittered.

  “The idea for that boot came from my mama, may she rest in peace. She just loved that Nancy Sinatra song about the boots and the walking. My mama is also the one who taught me about the American dream. If you work hard and play fair, you can do anything you want to do in this great country of ours. Even if it’s just to make children happy.”

  Now the reporters were sniffling.

  “Those buildings on the game board? You think the high and mighty Luigi Lemoncello sat down and whittled them all by himself, like I did? Heavens to Murgatroyd, why would he even bother? It was a whole heckuva lot easier just to steal ’em from me!”

  Just about everybody in the audience shook their heads and grumbled in disgust.

  But not Kyle and Angus. They dropped their jaws and gawked at each other.

  “What?” said Akimi. “What’d she just say?”

  Kyle told her: “The exact same thing the Mrs. Maplebutter bottle says in every single syrup commercial!”

  The plane lifted off from Kansas City, headed for Ohio.

  “ ‘Heavens to Murgatroyd, that’s mapley!’ is what the Mrs. Maplebutter bottle says at the end of all the commercials,” Kyle explained to Akimi and Abia.

  “You mean what she used to say,” added Angus. “I don’t think there’s been a Mrs. Maplebutter commercial on TV for maybe two years.”

  “You are correct,” said Abia, who was already tapping keys on her banana jet computer. “Mrs. Maplebutter stopped making television commercials after the FDA informed Consolidated Corn Syrup Incorporated that it could no longer use the words ‘mapley’ or ‘maplebutter,’ since the only maple to be found in the product was trace elements of sawdust.”

  “So maybe the Krinkle brothers hired the same actress,” suggested Angus. “She’s been
out of work for a couple years. Probably needed the money.”

  “The Mrs. Maplebutter actress’s real name is Beth Bennett,” said Akimi, who was also clacking keys on her armrest computer. “She did the voice and posed for the bottle, which was animated with computer graphics.”

  She played a short video on the actress’s website.

  “Heavens to Murgatroyd,” said the animated Mrs. Maplebutter bottle, “that’s mapley.”

  “She sounds just like Irma Hirschman!” exclaimed Abia.

  “Are there any pictures of this actress?” asked Kyle.

  “Yep,” said Akimi, pivoting her screen so everybody could see the images she had uncovered. “Her most recent promo shot is in full Mrs. Maplebutter costume. I guess she did personal appearances at conventions and junk. Meet Beth Bennett, a.k.a. Irma Hirschman!”

  “Those Krinkle brothers are so cheap,” said Kyle. “They saved money by having her use her Mrs. Maplebutter costume to play Irma Hirschman.”

  “No wonder she was so good at crying on cue,” said Angus. “She’s an actress!”

  Kyle plopped down in his swivel chair and fired up his computer.

  “If she’s an actress,” he said, “I wonder what role she was playing in 1969.”

  As he tapped keys and entered search parameters, Kyle suddenly had a new thought: Doing research was actually fun; sort of like being a super sleuth or master detective.

  “Booyah!” he shouted when he found a particularly fascinating fact about Beth Bennett. “In 1969, Beth Bennett was in a show called Put On Your Shoes at the Melody Makers summer stock theater in Sheboygan, Wisconsin. Check out her head shot from the Playbill.”

  Kyle clicked on a thumbnail of a picture to make it fill his screen.

  In her 1969 publicity shot, Beth Bennett had a bright smile, heavy black eye makeup, and blond hair that curled in to brush her apple cheeks.

  “That’s the exact same picture from the Family Frolic box top!” said Akimi excitedly. “We don’t need her confession anymore. That’s total proof that this whole thing is a hoax.”

  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!”

  No one said anything for like five minutes after the two detectives left.

  Finally, Mr. Lemoncello broke the silence.

  “Soooo—have either of the two final teams brought back the fascinating fact about who or what was the inspiration for my very first board game?”

  “No,” admitted Akimi.

  “We were going to look up the names of your brothers and sisters in the front of your family Bible,” said Angus.

  “But we sort of got sidetracked,” said Kyle. “By the whole Family Frolic dealio.”

  “Of course,” said Mr. Lemoncello. “You were doing research. You were duty bound to consider all the evidence uncovered. Would you final four fact finders like to request another delay of game?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Kyle. “We’d all rather spend our time clearing your good name. Now, like we said, we can prove—”

  Mr. Lemoncello held up his hand. Smiled faintly.

  “If it’s all right with you, Kyle, I’d rather spend my time reading a good book. Any suggestions, Sierra?”