Beach Party Surf Monkey

  The three of us trooped over to the Conch Reef.

  “Is Eddie here?” Grandpa asked the manager behind the front desk.

  “You mean Mr. Conch?” sniffed the manager. He had a very thin mustache and a very snooty ’tude.

  “Yeah,” said Grandpa. “I’m Walt Wilkie from next door. Eddie wants to buy us out. At first, I said no. Now? Maybe I’m changing my mind.”

  “I see,” purred the manager. “Well, Mr. Conch isn’t here at the moment. Perhaps I can be of assistance?”

  “Fine by me, Bryce,” said Grandpa, reading the man’s badge.

  (That’s one of the great things about working in the hospitality trade: everybody wears a name tag.)

  “Like I said, I’m interested in giving your boss what he wants. But to be honest, I’ve been running the Wonderland since the 1970s. It’ll be hard for me to pass her on to somebody new.”

  Grandpa cleverly left out the part where Mr. Conch bulldozes our motel into the dust.

  “So,” he said, “before I sell, I need to know you guys are as good as you seem.”

  “Oh, we are, sir. Even better, sir. Trust me, sir.”

  “Can you prove it?”

  “Most definitely. I can show you our ranking on TripAdvisor, Yelp…”

  “Nope, nope, nope. I’m not interested in all that Internet mumbo jumbo. I want a tour.”

  “I see. And when would be a convenient time?” Bryce clicked his pen. Repeatedly.

  “How about now?” asked Grandpa. “Does now work?”

  “But of course.” Bryce bopped a bell. Another worker in a shrimp-pink tunic scampered behind the desk.

  “Yes, Bryce?”

  “Take over the front, Abigail. I need to lead a tour. For Mr. Conch.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.”

  Bryce swept out from behind the front desk, flashing us his card key. It was attached to a pull cable that came out of a silver spool clipped to his belt.

  “This card opens each and every door on the property,” he proudly announced. “Shall we start at the pool?”

  “If it’s okay with you, Bryce,” said Grandpa, “let’s start at the top. I’ve always wanted to check out your world-class penthouse views.”

  “Of course,” said Bryce. “Unfortunately, all of the suites on the fourteenth floor are currently occupied. Movie stars and their entourages…”

  “Bryce,” said Grandpa, “let me ask you a question.”

  “Certainly, sir.”

  “If the president of the United States unexpectedly checked in right now, could you find him a penthouse suite?”

  “Why, of course, sir. Immediately.”

  “Well, buddy, I got news for you. The president isn’t coming to Florida today. So show us the room you were going to give him.”

  And just like that, we were on our way, back up to the top floor.

  When the elevator doors slid open on the top floor, the large guard was blocking the way again.

  “This floor is closed,” he grunted.

  “It’s okay,” said the snooty manager. “I’m Bryce Byrd. I report directly to Mr. Conch.”

  “He’s giving us a tour,” added Grandpa. “And so far, all I’m seeing is you.”

  Bryce flicked his wrist. “Step aside, sir, if you please.”

  The security goon moved out of our way.

  We bustled off the elevator.

  “Now, obviously, I can’t take you into any occupied rooms,” said Bryce.

  “We could at least ask to take a peek,” said Grandpa. “Where’s the harm in asking?”

  While Grandpa and the hotel manager bickered, Gloria and I slipped down the hall toward the service elevator.

  It glided open.

  A bellhop pushing a cart came out.

  A cart loaded down with banana crates!

  We followed the rumbling cargo down the hall. The air behind it smelled like those jumbo bags of spongy circus peanut candies they sell at the grocery store. The bellhop came to a stop in front of a locked door near the fire exit at the far end of the hall.

  He was about to unlock it when that fire exit door swung open.

  “P. T. Wilkie?” said an annoyingly familiar voice. “What’re you two doing up here?”

  Veronica Conch.

  “Don’t you dare open that door!” Veronica snapped at the bellhop.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Mr. Byrd?” she called down the hall. Bryce and Grandpa were still arguing about what we’d be allowed to see.

  “Miss Conch,” sputtered Bryce, prancing up the carpet like an eager reindeer. “I can explain….”

  “What’s in that room?” I asked, nodding toward the door with the banana cart parked in front of it.

  “None of your beeswax,” said Veronica. She turned on her sparkly red sneakers to face the manager. “No unauthorized guests are allowed on these floors, Mr. Byrd. Not while Beach Party Surf Pig is in production.”

  “We were just taking the tour,” said Grandpa.

  “What tour?” demanded Veronica.

  “The one I need to take before I sell my motel to your father.”

  “Oh. You’re finally interested in making a deal with Daddy?”

  “Maybe. If everything checks out.”

  Veronica beamed. “It’s like Daddy says. At Conch High-Quality Resorts, you always get what you want because he always gets what he wants!”

  “Right,” I said. “I’ve seen his bumper sticker. But why can’t we see what’s inside that room?”

  “There isn’t a Do Not Disturb sign hanging on the doorknob,” said Grandpa. “Open it up, Bryce.”

  “No!” said Veronica. “It might prove…embarrassing.”

  Because that’s where Aidan Tyler is keeping Kevin the Monkey! I thought. And Veronica Conch is helping him!

  “We can show you a room on the tenth floor,” suggested Veronica.

  “Oh, yes,” said Bryce. “The tenth floor is very luxurious. VIP suites for our platinum preferred medallion members.”

  Grandpa shook his head.

  “Nope, nope, nope. I want to see a room up here. This one will do just fine.”

  “No way, Mr. Wilkie,” said Veronica.

  “Young lady,” said Grandpa, sounding sterner than I’d ever heard him sound before, “either you open that door right now or I’m calling your father and telling him exactly why our deal is never, ever going to happen. I will also tell him that it’s all your fault!”

  Veronica looked at Grandpa.

  He didn’t blink.

  Veronica did.

  “Whatever,” said Veronica before sticking out her tongue and blowing a raspberry. “I don’t care. Open the stupid door, Bryce.”

  The hotel manager swiped his card key and swung open the door.

  The room was pitch-dark.

  Until he flicked a switch.

  Then we saw that the “room” was actually a housekeepers’ supply closet, crammed full of tiny shampoo bottles, toilet paper rolls, miniature mouthwashes, and stacks of folded towels.

  There was also a life-size cardboard cutout of Aidan Tyler. Plus Aidan Tyler posters, lunch boxes, hats, dolls…and dental floss. Seriously. Veronica Conch had a carton of Aidan Tyler dental floss dispensers.

  “I told you this would be totally embarrassing,” said Veronica.

  “You were correct,” said Gloria. “Is that an Aidan Tyler piñata?”

  “Yuh-huh. It’s filled with purple jelly beans. His favorite color and flavor. Aidan doesn’t know what a huge fan I am! That’s why I can’t stand your overrated friend Cassie McGinty trashing him in that YouTube video.”

  “She was just horsing around,” I said. “That clip was taken out of context.”

  “No,” said Veronica. “She said that mean stuff about Aidan. And then you, P. T. Wilkie, you made her say it again. Louder and with more authority!”

  “What’s with all the bananas?” asked Grandpa.

  “We just started hauling them up her
e,” explained the bellhop. “Mr. Tyler insisted that we never run out of bananas again.”

  “Aha!” I said. “This proves it!”

  “Proves what?” said Veronica.

  “That Aisha is on one whacked-out diet,” said someone behind us.

  Aidan Tyler.

  “Aisha won’t eat nothing but bananas,” said Aidan, grabbing a bunch out of a box. “Some California nutrition guru put her on the all-banana diet. Aiyyo—you should smell her burps.”

  “You really expect us to believe that all these bananas are for your girlfriend?” I said.

  “Yeah,” said Aidan with a shrug. “Why else?”

  “How about for Kevin the Monkey?” said Gloria.

  “Yo—did he come back? Because me and Aisha still want to make our movie with Porker D. Pigg. Monkey had his shot, man. Monkey blew it.”

  A voice came from up the hall: “Aidan? Where are my bananas? I need a snack!”

  “Yo, I’m workin’ on it, baby.”

  Shaking his head, Aidan started up the hall, cradling his fruit.

  “Girl’s gonna drive me cray-cray,” he muttered.

  “Can we check out your rooms?” I blurted out.

  Aidan shrugged. “I don’t care. Just don’t slip on all the banana peels, man.”

  And just like that, we were in his room and then Aisha’s and then the six other rooms the members of his entourage were using.

  Two of them stank like rotten bananas. Aidan’s and Aisha’s.

  The fifth room, PH-13, where some of Aidan’s flunkies were bunking, stank like something worse.

  “It’s coming from the vent in the bathroom,” said Aidan’s hairdresser, fanning his hand under his nose. “Whoever is in the room downstairs needs to eat a few less bean burritos.”

  “For your information, sir,” said Veronica, “room 1313 is currently vacant. The odors are most likely coming up from the kitchen.”

  “Really?” said the hairdresser. “What are you guys serving today? Fart stew?”

  “If we are serving fart stew,” said snarky Veronica, “I’ll be sure to send you up a big bowl, buster!”

  “I’ll have a word with maintenance,” said Bryce, “see what we can do about the unpleasant odors.”

  “No need, Mr. Byrd,” said Veronica. “I will take care of it myself.”

  “Yo, you better,” said Aidan, who was hanging with us on our mini-tour so he wouldn’t have to watch Aisha mash more bananas in a blender. “ ’Cause if this nasty stank isn’t out of this room by the time Lisa Norby Rook gets here from Hollywood, ain’t no way me and Aisha are filming Beach Party Surf Pig here at the Conch Reef Resort. We’ll be taking our movie up the beach to the Don CeSar!”

  “Sorry, kiddos,” said Grandpa as we hiked back to the Wonderland.

  We’d checked out all the occupied rooms on the penthouse floor. We’d even nosed around in a couple of the empty ones. There was no sign of Kevin the Monkey. All those bananas? They really were for Aisha. And yes, she burped while we were in her room. It was worse than Grandpa’s Cel-Ray gas attacks.

  “Maybe Kevin just ran away,” said Gloria. “Maybe he didn’t want to be in the movies anymore.”

  “What?” I said. “Give up show business? Are you crazy? He’s famous. No way would he give that up for a boring life being a nobody swinging in a tree.”

  Gloria looked at me and shook her head.

  “You really have a thing about being famous, don’t you, P.T.?”

  “I guess….”

  “Not me,” said Grandpa. “Being famous is how you end up eating nothing but bananas all day like that poor Aisha girl. I like some nice whitefish on crackers every now and then. Or matzo ball soup. Maybe a pastrami on rye…”

  Grandpa drifted back to his workshop to fix himself a sandwich.

  Gloria and I flopped down in a pair of poolside lounge chairs. Since the movie was more or less on hold without Cassie, most of the crew had headed to Tampa to ride the rides at Busch Gardens. Down on the beach, people were having fun, splashing in the surf, building sand castles. A couple of prop planes puttered along, dragging banners advertising the all-you-can-eat buffet at the Conch Reef Resort.

  But the Wonderland felt empty. Deserted.

  “I guess this is how it will be for a while,” said Gloria. “Nobody here but you, me, my dad, and your mom.”

  “Because I told Mom to kick everybody else out,” I reminded her. “Well, at least we’ll be close to all the lights, cameras, and action over at the Conch Reef Resort, if Veronica can clear out the fart gas. I can’t believe our movie is moving over there.”

  “I can’t believe Veronica Conch. Why do all of her shoes have sparkles and spangles on them?”

  “Because it’s glitzy,” I said. “She loves pizzazz and glamour and stars and glitter—”

  I stopped. Stood up. Pointed at the back wall of our motel.

  “What?” said Gloria, sounding worried.

  “The sparkles. In the shrubbery.”

  “Oh-kay. Are you seeing some kind of magical unicorn?”

  “No. Under the window. Where I found the bologna stain. I remember something glinting in the sand beneath the bushes. I thought it was just crushed seashells….”

  “Huh?”

  “I used to collect ’em. The shiny kind. Now Grandpa mashes them up to sprinkle in the flower beds because they shimmer. Tells kids it’s fairy dust. Come on.”

  We went back to the bush below the window of the animal trainer’s room.

  I dropped to my knees. So did Gloria.

  I found a couple of sparkly objects that definitely weren’t crushed seashells. For one thing, they were plastic, with circular holes cut in their centers. For another, they were bright red.

  Sequins. From Veronica’s shoes. I held three of them on my finger.

  “Looks like Veronica was wearing her ‘ruby slippers’ when she helped Kevin the Monkey climb out the window to fetch his bologna,” I said.

  “Wait a second,” said Gloria. “Now you think Veronica Conch, not Aidan Tyler, kidnapped Kevin?”

  “Yep. And she lost a few sequins in the sand.”

  “What was her motive?”

  “Simple. She looooves glitz and glamour. And Aidan Tyler. Plus, she hates me.”

  “What?”

  “Remember? She told us that her father says nice things about me and our moneymaking schemes.” I snapped my fingers. “Wait a second. That wasn’t in the YouTube video.”

  “Huh?” said Gloria, because I wasn’t making much sense.

  “That thing she said. About me coaching Cassie to say Aidan was a lousy actor louder and with more authority. It wasn’t in the clip.”

  Now I whacked my forehead.

  “Duh! She filmed it! I remember seeing her on the other side of the fence. Veronica’s the one who hijacked our monkey and tried to sabotage our movie.”

  It was all making sense.

  “She did it to show her ‘daddy’ that she could be as clever as me.”

  “Impossible,” said Gloria, because she’s my best bud. “No one could be that clever.”

  “Thanks. But if she forced us to sell our motel by ruining our movie and then she made the Conch Reef Resort famous by stealing that movie, come on—even Mr. Conch would have to be impressed with a double whammy like that. Plus, if Aidan and Aisha shoot Beach Party Surf Pig at the Conch Reef Resort, Veronica might get to be a background extra. Maybe in one big scene, she’d do a cannonball dive into the swimming pool. She’d become famous. I bet she’d love that.”

  “Hmmm,” said Gloria. “Sounds familiar.”

  “I know. It sounds like me. The old me.”

  “Really? And when did the old you become the new one?”

  “About two minutes ago. When I realized how much trouble my family’s going to be in if the Wonderland stays as empty as it is right now. And don’t forget, Veronica Conch was right there behind the Sea Spray Motel when Grandpa coaxed Kevin out of the orange tree with
the bologna!”

  Gloria started piecing it all together. “First she thinks about stealing our Pirate Chest Treasure Quest idea. Then she gets ambitious. Decides to totally ruin the film shoot. She sics that yappy dog on Kevin. When that doesn’t shut down production, she kidnaps Kevin the Monkey and publicly embarrasses Cassie McGinty, forcing her into hiding, taking her out of the picture. That means Aidan Tyler, even though he’s a horrible actor, can make all sorts of demands. He can cast his girlfriend as the new female lead. And, most importantly, he can insist that the production company change locations to the Conch Reef Resort, where he’s already in love with the breakfast buffet!”

  “Exactly!” I said.

  “Way to go, P.T.! Now we just have to figure out where Veronica is hiding Kevin the Monkey.”

  “Easy,” I said. “Room 1313.”

  “Room 1313?” said Gloria, eyeing me skeptically. “And how did you come up with that number?”

  “Simple deduction. Remember PH-13?”

  Gloria waved her hand under her nose. “How could I forget it?”

  “Well, PH-13 is right above 1313. If Kevin’s been locked up in that room for a couple days, it’s got to be pretty rank. I don’t think monkeys are potty-trained.”

  We both looked at the Conch Reef Resort, on the other side of the fence.

  “You know,” I said, “a lot of hotels, even the super-tall ones, don’t have a thirteenth floor. It’s considered bad luck.”

  “So what comes between the twelfth and fourteenth floors?”

  “Nothing,” I told her. “They just skip it.”

  “So,” said Gloria, “how do we prove all of this? Should we call the police?”

  I stared at the head and shoulders of that giant pirate statue Veronica had erected near the Conch Reef’s swimming pool.

  “We’re not calling anybody,” I said.

  “And why not?”

  “Because Veronica would just stall them while she shifted Kevin to a different room.”

  “So what do we do?”

  “What I do best: tell a story—a ghost story!”