“Good morning, Mr. Wiley.”
“Good morning,” Wiley replied, and picked up a knife and fork emblazoned with fancy Ws. “Had I known you were coming, I would have had breakfast prepared for you. Unfortunately, there’s only enough for me.”
“That is unfortunate,” I said as Wiley began to cut the peach in half.
“It’s a delight to have a visitor from the city,” Wiley said. “Stain’d-by-the-Sea has fewer and fewer well-bred people like ourselves.” His fork clattered on the plate, and the peach rolled around a little in the struggle. “Well-bred” is a word which doesn’t mean anything at all, but which some people use to make themselves feel better than others. I watched Wiley fight with the peach and thought of myself as “well-bred” and him as something else.
“Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner tonight,” Wiley said. “My friend Mr. Samsa has taken ill, so you could take his place. I personalize the menu and decorations for each of my guests. It’s a very well-bred gathering.”
“I’m sure it is,” I told him, and looked down the long table. “You’re certainly entertaining a large number of guests.”
“Twenty-five,” Wiley said with satisfaction. “Until recently I couldn’t have that many.”
“Why is that?”
Wiley spooned a bite of peach into his mouth with a well-bred spoon. “I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear about my social life,” he said.
“That is true,” I admitted. “I’m looking for a lost spoon.”
Wiley gestured down the table. “These are mine.”
“The one I’m looking for isn’t,” I said. “It belongs to a man named Randall whom I believe you met a few days ago outside Diceys Department Store.”
“That’s right,” Wiley said. “I was out shopping for ascots and asked him to move aside so I could admire my reflection in the window.”
“Did he?”
“Did he what?”
“Did he move aside?”
“He did.”
“Did you notice he was eating with a spoon?”
“I noticed he was eating,” Wiley said, eating. “He was getting light syrup all over himself.”
“Have you seen him since?”
“I have not,” Wiley said, with a waggle of his smoky head. “My sort of people don’t associate with greasy drifters and one-eared dogs. I spend my time entertaining an assortment of well-bred friends.”
“You had another dinner party last night?”
“Yes.”
“Can you prove it?”
Wiley swallowed his bite of peach and then blew a smoke ring toward my face. “Of course,” he said. “Ask Dr. Auchincloss. Ask Madame Blavatsky. Ask any of the twenty-two other people on my guest list.”
“If I ask them, will they say you were here all night entertaining them?”
Wiley’s eyes flashed above the cloud of smoke. “If you ask them, they will ask you why you’re asking.”
“Perhaps it’s because I admire your ascot,” I said.
“I’m beginning to think you’re not well-bred at all,” Wiley said. “I bet you don’t even know what an ascot is.”
“An ascot,” I said, “is a fancy scarf. And you are a liar. Give it back this instant.”
“You can’t talk to me like that,” Wiley said, rising from the table. “I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”
“You should stop saying that, Smogface,” I told him. “It’s your mistake. Now get me the stolen spoon or I’ll tell all your guests how you acquire your personalized decorations.”
The conclusion to “Silver Spoon” is filed under “Twenty-Five Guests,” here.
Sub-file B: Conclusions.
Black Paint. Dishonest Salesman. Loud Dog. Through the Window. Homemade Furniture. Twenty-Five Guests.
BLACK PAINT.
As Marguerite had noticed, the paintings were falling “too neatly”—because they weren’t falling at all. Dagmar was taking them down in order to steal the nails which held the paintings up. Marguerite’s father had melted down the mined gold and formed it into nails—a perfect way to keep his gold safe and hidden. After the first painting fell, Dagmar must have noticed what the nails were made of—probably when the black paint chipped off—and concocted a plan to steal the Gracq gold, nail by nail. This was all explained over a late breakfast of very fluffy eggs while Dagmar was arrested.
In prison, there is no polka music.
DISHONEST SALESMAN.
The man by the side of the road said that the Amaranthine Newt might have hidden itself in the zinnias, which were yellow and orange, like the building’s trim. But anyone who was not a herpetologist or a southpaw would guess that the Amaranthine Newt would be purple, not yellow, and thus not able to hide. The stranger was thus not a doorknob salesman but a thief who had left his car by the side of the road to pinch the newt while Oliver was gardening. Caught, he returned the stolen creature, and everything was back to normal, although Paperbag’s disorder has not yet cleared up.
LOUD DOG.
The Dugga Drills would have been easier for a stranger to steal than Lysistrata, as the dog would have barked at anyone she didn’t recognize, while the drills would have kept quiet. But Lysistrata wouldn’t have barked at Jackie’s grandfather, who spent most of his time at Moray Wheels. A former race car driver, he was so eager to drive the Dilemma that he concocted a plot to get his grandchild away from the garage so he could take the car for a joyride. He hid Lysistrata at the bowling alley, where the sounds of pins and bowling balls would have drowned out any panicked barking. Jackie’s grandfather was indeed found driving the Dilemma and loving it almost as much as Lysistrata did. They both had their faces out the window, the better to feel the magical terror of rushing night air.
THROUGH THE WINDOW.
OFF-SBTS-USE stands for “Official Stain’d-by-the-Sea Use.” The walkie-talkies were meant for the police, but Stew had swiped two from his parents, dropped one under the counter, and used the other in the bathroom, in an attempt to empty the diner and grab a fourth muffin. Once he said, “Don’t just hang around the door,” it was obvious he wasn’t miles away, but close enough to see the person to whom he was talking.
Jake’s next batch of muffins was pecan. He offered them on a sliding scale, a phrase which here means “free for Lemony Snicket, but not to be sold to Stew Mitchum under any circumstances.”
HOMEMADE FURNITURE.
People who share their pirate books might be sharing a crime as well. Kevin Old, son of the Boards shopkeeper, was in cahoots with Florence Smith, the daughter of the owner of Chrysanthemums. Florence wanted a bookshelf, and Kevin wanted a sword, so they concocted a story about a gang and even broke an extra window to put people off the trail.
TWENTY-FIVE GUESTS.
Smogface would have no way of knowing about Ashbery, the one-eared dog, unless he had been at the drifters’ camp, as Randall did not bring his dog into town when he was working. Wiley was collecting spoons monogrammed with each letter of the alphabet, in order to have the twenty-six-guest dinner parties he believed were well-bred. He begrudgingly handed the R over before throwing his visitor out. On his ear.
Sub-file III: All the Wrong Questions
“Who Could That Be at This Hour?” is the first of Mr. Snicket’s four-volume report, All the Wrong Questions, which details a case involving theft, kidnapping, strong coffee, fear of heights, honeydew melons, and murder. Excerpt below.
The screaming seemed to come from everyplace, echoing in the long, empty hallway. I thought I remembered a carpet on the floor when I had first entered the Sallis mansion, but I hadn’t been paying much attention. The floor was bare now.
“The mansion is too big,” I said. “We’re going to have to split up.”
“You want me to find whoever’s screaming by myself?” Moxie asked.
“Get scared later,” I told her, and hurried down the hallway and up a wide flight of stairs.
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LEMONY SNICKET is older than you and should know better. He is responsible for All the Wrong Questions, as well as all the books in A Series of Unfortunate Events.
SETH appears innocent, but looks can be deceiving. He is the creator of Palookaville, Clyde Fans, and The Great Northern Brotherhood of Canadian Cartoonists and can be blamed for the art in All the Wrong Questions.
Contents
COVER
TITLE PAGE
WELCOME
INTRODUCTION
SUB-FILE ONE: REPORTS. INSIDE JOB.
PINCHED CREATURE.
RANSOM NOTE.
WALKIE-TALKIE.
BAD GANG.
SILVER SPOON.
SUB-FILE B: CONCLUSIONS. BLACK PAINT.
DISHONEST SALESMAN.
LOUD DOG.
THROUGH THE WINDOW.
HOMEMADE FURNITURE.
TWENTY-FIVE GUESTS.
SUB-FILE III: ALL THE WRONG QUESTIONS A SNEAK PEEK OF “WHO COULD THAT BE AT THIS HOUR?”
ABOUT THE AUTHOR AND ILLUSTRATOR
COPYRIGHT
Copyright
Text copyright © 2014 by Lemony Snicket
Art copyright © 2014 by Seth
Excerpt from “Who Could That Be at This Hour?” copyright © 2012 by Lemony Snicket
Cover art © 2014 by Seth
Cover design by Gail Doobinin
Cover © 2014 Hachette Book Group, Inc.
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at
[email protected] Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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First ebook edition: April 2014
ISBN 978-0-316-28406-6
E3
Lemony Snicket, File Under: 13 Suspicious Incidents (1-6)
(Series: # )
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