Timmy Failure: The Cat Stole My Pants Read online

  mother.

  “A crime of fashion,” I add.

  “Sir, whatever happened,” says my mother,

  “it will never happen again. I assure you.”

  “Well, thank you,” he says before pausing.

  “And I’m sorry. I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Patty,” says my mom.

  “Well, thank you, Patty,” he says, shaking

  my mom’s hand.

  “And thank you, Steve,” she answers.

  “Ron,” he says from behind clenched teeth.

  “My name is Ron.”

  “What is wrong with you lately?” asks my

  mother. “First throwing cereal all over the

  floor. Then being rude at dinner. Now tossing

  water balloons.”

  “I deny everything,” I answer.

  “And what’s this about a book report that’s

  due?” she adds. “I got an e-mail from Corrina

  Corrina.”

  “An e-mail?!” I exclaim. “Did you open it?”

  “Yes, I opened it.”

  “Oh, good gosh,” I exclaim, slapping my

  forehead. “Mother, this is Corrina Corrina

  we are talking about. Her e-mail was no

  doubt infected by a computer virus. I’m sure

  that by now your laptop has spontaneously

  combusted.”

  “Or is somehow hatching evil spiders,” I

  add.

  “My laptop is fine, Timmy. Now tell me

  about this book report. Is there a book I need

  to buy you?”

  “No, Mother. It is all under control.”

  “You promise?”

  “Yes,” I answer. “Now I may go? I think

  I heard a knock on the door.”

  “Funny,” she answers. “I didn’t hear

  anything.”

  “Well, I did. Perhaps it’s your new best

  friend, Speedo Steve, no doubt back to spread

  malicious falsehoods.”

  And so I open the front door.

  And find a telegram lying on the doorstep.

  It is a profound blow.

  And one that immediately threatens my

  academic future.

  So I think fast.

  And instantly hatch a Plan B.

  An elaborate step-by-step scheme that

  involves the following:

  So I burst into the bedroom and find my

  unpaid intern.

  “You have done something unforgivable,”

  I announce to Emilio Empanada.

  “What’d I do?” he asks, looking up wide-

  eyed from the cardboard box that now holds

  Edward Higglebottom the Third.

  “You have shown fear during a mission,”

  I announce. “It is the one unforgivable sin of

  detective life.”

  “So what now?”

  “I forgive you.”

  “I thought it was unforgivable.”

  “Don’t confuse yourself with the details,”

  I explain. “The point is that your forgiveness

  is conditional on whether or not you can do

  something for me.”

  “What is it?” he asks.

  “It cannot be discussed here. For my

  nemesis has shown the ability to penetrate

  this very room. As such, he could hop out at

  any moment and kill us both.”

  Emilio gasps.

  “Also, my mother is in the next room. And

  if she hears me, I could be grounded.”

  Emilio gasps again.

  “Meet me at global headquarters in one

  hour,” I whisper.

  And leaping out of the window, I slide

  down the balcony support and race toward the

  sea.

  I pace the dock of Failure, Inc.’s Temporary

  Global Headquarters, waiting for the arrival of

  my unpaid intern.

  And as I pace, I stare out at the sea, hoping

  for a glimpse of Cuba and the fat bear who has

  betrayed me.

  Fearful of the unprofessional behavior I

  might see.

  “I hope that you get no money!” I yell from

  the end of the dock. “And no chicken!”

  I shake my fist toward the sea.

  “Ohh, the guilt you must feel! ” I add.

  But all I hear in response is the gentle lap-

  ping of the waves upon the pier.

  And a voice.

  “I don’t feel any guilt.”

  I wheel around.

  And there, in the Top-Secret, Heavily-

  Guarded, No-One-Can-Ever-Know, Super-

  Hidden, Hyper-Vigilant, All-But-Impenetrable

  Temporary Global Headquarters of Failure,

  Inc. . . .

  Is my mother.

  “What are you doing here?!” I cry.

  “I came to talk to you,” she says.

  “Oh, great. So Emilio Empanada told you

  all about my plans for the book report and now

  I’m dead.”

  “What plans for the book report?”

  I pause.

  “You must have misheard me,” I answer.

  “I said ‘beak report.’ I’m having Emilio count

  all the bird beaks on this island. The boy loves

  his chickens.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,”

  says my mom. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

  “Well, you obviously talked to him,”

  I answer. “Who else would tell you where

  the Super-Hidden Global Headquarters was

  located?”

  “I can see you from the house, Timmy. In

  fact, every house on our block has a view of

  this pier.”

  I make a note in my detective log.

  “Fine. So you’re a spy,” I tell my mother.

  “No,” she says. “But that is sort of related

  to why I’m here.”

  “Aha!” I cry. “You used to be a spy and

  now you’re swimming to Cuba and fleeing.”

  “No,” she says.

  “It’s farther than it looks,” I warn her.

  “But best of luck. And thank you for raising

  me.”

  She shakes her head.

  “Timmy, Emilio is the person who’s been

  writing you those notes.”

  I stare at her.

  “That can’t be.”

  “It is,” she says. “But don’t blame him.

  Blame me. I was telling Dave how bored you

  were down here without your detective work

  and Dave was saying that it would be fun to

  give you a detective case that could be sort of

  a game that you could play and—”

  “It’s not a game, Mother,” I interrupt her.

  “My profession is not a game.”

  “I know, I know,” she says, brushing the

  hair from my eyes. “But the point is, I think

  Emilio overheard us and just decided to do it

  himself.”

  “But that can’t be. There was a note that

  just fell out of a random book.”

  “His book,” she says. “He put it there.”

  “But there was the graffiti in the men’s

  room,” I continue. “He didn’t even use the

  men’s room.”

  “Yes, he did,” says my mother. “Right

  before you got there. Then he walked out of

  the women’s room to throw you off.”

  “Balderdash!” I cry. “I am a trained detec-

  tive. I am aware of my surroundings at all

  times.”

  “Well, if you recall, that was a rather tense


  moment at the table. Maybe you let your guard

  slip for a second.”

  “My guard never slips,” I remind her.

  “Emilio’s obviously lying. How do you even

  know all this?”

  “Emilio talked to me. Right after you left

  for the pier. I think he just felt guilty for let-

  ting it get this far and he didn’t know what to

  do, so he came to me.”

  I quietly pace the dock.

  “I promise that nobody meant you any

  harm,” she says as I watch the waves. “Not

  me. Not Dave. And especially not Emilio.”

  I watch as a pair of dark-black cormorants

  dive from the sky and into the shallow green

  waters.

  “Do you understand?” she asks.

  I pause before answering.

  “I do,” I answer.

  “I’m glad,” she says.

  And I wheel around to face her.

  “Emilio Empanada is a double agent.”

  U.S. Route 1 begins in the remote town of Fort

  Kent, Maine, and meanders 2,369 long miles

  through fourteen different states until it finally

  finds its way to the balmy coral island that is

  Key West, Florida.

  There, the longest north-south highway in

  the United States comes to a dead stop.

  The literal end of the road.

  And so, if you are villainous or treacher-

  ous and escaping the law via the nation’s high-

  ways, Key West is the farthest south your tired

  car can go.

  And as such, like a pool filter catching

  fallen leaves, Key West snares more than its

  fair share of international criminals and spies.

  None more prominent than the one I have

  tied up in my bedroom.

  “Who are you working for?” I ask the

  suspect.

  “Nobody,” says Emilio.

  “Who put you up to this?” I ask.

  “Nobody,” says Emilio.

  “Who told you to write those notes?” I ask.

  “Nobody,” says Emilio. “Timmy, I did it

  all myself. I’m not working for anybody.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Emilio Empanada.

  Because if you’re not going to answer my ques-

  tions, you leave me no choice but to get rough.”

  I turn on the television in front of him.

  “What are you doing?” asks Emilio.

  “Putting on daytime soap operas,” I

  answer. “It is the worst torture a human being

  can endure.”

  I look to see if he flinches. Remarkably, he

  does not.

  “The first show will be Days of Our

  Miserable Lives. When it concludes, you will

  watch The Misguided Light, and then another

  and another and another, until you decide to

  get smart and talk.”

  “Okay,” he says.

  “This could get ugly,” I warn him.

  “It’s fine,” he answers. “I’ll just sit here

  and watch soaps.”

  So I pause to make a note in my detective

  log.

  I use Emilio’s soap opera time to write a reply

  to my wayward polar bear.

  I return to the interrogation room, bracing

  myself for the tortured squalor that the sub-

  ject will be living in after three uninterrupted

  hours of watching soap operas.

  “Ready to talk?” I say in a steely-cold voice

  as I kick open the door.

  “I sure am!” he answers.

  “Jennifer is going to have John’s baby!”

  he beams. “And John’s not even her husband!”

  I am stunned into silence.

  “And Kelly and Dave—they’re getting

  divorced. I thought they could make it, but not

  now. She shot him with a harpoon!”

  He swivels his head back toward the

  television.

  “That woman on the screen now is Anna.

  She’s a LIAR LIAR PANTS ON FIRE! But she

  may have drowned when she fell off Scott’s

  boat. And if so, good riddance!”

  “You were not supposed to enjoy the soap

  operas, Emilio Empanada!”

  “Sorry,” he says. “But they’re so scandal-

  ous! Now untie me so I can feed my chicken.”

  “Fine,” I say, untying him. “But if you’re

  not gonna talk, then it’s no more soap operas

  for you!”

  “Timmy,” he says as he feeds Edward

  Higglebottom the Third, “there’s nothing more

  to say. I wrote the notes. Me. Nobody else.

  There is no criminal. No nemesis. No enemy

  to find.”

  I sit on his bed and watch as he feeds his

  baby chicken.

  “And I’m sorry,” he continues. “Really

  sorry. I just did it because you didn’t seem

  happy here and I thought having a mys-

  tery to solve would be fun. But that’s it.

  Whether you let me watch soap operas or not,

  there’s nothing else to say. No secrets to tell.

  Nothing.”

  He holds out his baby chicken.

  “Want to hold him?”

  “No,” I answer. “They attack.”

  And as I say it, there is a loud CRACK

  against the bedroom window, followed by a

  heavy THUD upon the verandah.

  So we rush to the window and look down.

  And see a conch shell.

  The kind you use to hear the soothing

  sound of the ocean.

  But there is nothing soothing coming from

  this shell.

  There is only a note.

  We rush to the only captain I know—the sea-

  man who trusted me with his boat.

  “Maybe we should tell your mom or Uncle

  Dave about the conch note,” says Emilio

  Empanada as we run along the beach to the

  wharf. “Because I didn’t write this one, Timmy!

  And this could be dangerous.”

  “You’re with a trained detective,” I tell

  Emilio. “So there’s nothing to worry about.

  Plus, if anything goes wrong, I have the Fists

  of Fury.”

  “Do you even know where this captain

  friend of yours keeps his boat?” asks Emilio.

  “Well, we took off from the big harbor on

  the north side of the island.”

  Emilio stops running. “That’s miles

  from here, Timmy. We need to take a taxi or

  something.”

  “Are you kidding? We don’t have money

  for a taxi.”

  “Don’t we still have forty dollars left from

  selling the table?”

  “From selling the books, you mean. But no.

  It went to my former business partner. He’s

  currently blackmailing me to get free chicken.

  It’s an ugly international affair, and I’d rather

  not get you involved.”

  “Well, fine, but we can’t walk to the port.

  It’s hot. And humid. And I don’t want my shirt

  to get perspiration stains.”

  “Oh, fine,” I say, giving up. “We have one

  other option.”

  “What is it?” asks Emilio.

  “This is wonderful!” says Emilio. “I can’t

  believe our ticket stubs let us ride for the full

  week.”

  “It’s not wonderful. It’s humiliating. Plus

/>   we have to listen to the train engineer say the

  same stupid things all over again.”

  “And to our left,” says the engineer, “we

  have a museum dedicated to all the many ship-

  wreck treasures found off the coast of Key West

  through the years, the most famous being in

  1985, when the wreck of a Spanish galleon was

  found, yielding an estimated four hundred mil-

  lion dollars in gold and—”

  “Did he say treasure?” I ask Emilio.

  “Yes,” answers Emilio. “I tried to tell you

  how incredible it was when we heard it the

  last time. But you said it was boring.”

  “Yes, because last time he didn’t say any-

  thing about treasure.”

  “Yes, he did,” says Emilio.

  “No, he didn’t,” I reply.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “No, he didn’t.”

  1

  “Fine. I don’t want to argue,” says Emilio.

  “It’s interesting either way.”

  “It’s more than interesting,” I answer,

  cool as a sea cucumber. “It’s the answer to our

  mystery.”

  1. He did not. You can go back to that chapter and check.

  And if he did, that is only because someone has altered

  your book to make me look bad. Shame on whoever

  doctored your book.

  “Captain Largo Spargo is a grizzled, salty

  sailor of the sea,” I tell Emilio Empanada as

  the bright-pink Tooty Toot Train lets us off

  at the harbor. “He’s been shipwrecked, shot,

  capsized, and captured. And he’s given as

  good as he’s got, once stabbing over six dozen

  mutineers. And don’t stare, but I think he has

  a wooden leg.”

  “Whoa,” says Emilio, no doubt imagining

  the heavily scarred captain.

  “I should add that he drinks rum by the

  barrel, smokes tobacco by the bale, and has a