Finally, Something Mysterious Read online

  THIS IS A BORZOI BOOK PUBLISHED BY ALFRED A. KNOPF

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Text copyright © 2020 by Doug Cornett

  Cover art copyright © 2020 by Ellen Duda

  Map art copyright © 2020 by Ellen Duda

  All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Alfred A. Knopf, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.

  Knopf, Borzoi Books, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Cornett, Doug, author.

  Title: Finally, something mysterious / Doug Cornett.

  Description: First edition. | New York : Alfred A. Knopf, [2020] | Summary: In a small California town during the summer between fifth and sixth grade, three children investigate when hundreds of rubber duckies show up in Mr. Babbage’s backyard.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2018060575 | ISBN 978-1-9848-3003-6 (hardcover) | ISBN 978-1-9848-3004-3 (lib. bdg.) | ISBN 978-1-9848-3005-0 (ebook)

  Subjects: | CYAC: Mystery and detective stories. | Summer—Fiction.

  Classification: LCC PZ7.1.C6728 Fi 2020 | DDC [Fic]—dc23

  Ebook ISBN 9781984830050

  Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1: The First Weird Thing

  Chapter 2: Our Investigation Begins!

  Chapter 3: Welcome to Bellwood

  Chapter 4: Man vs. Lawn

  Chapter 5: Operation Stinky Fish

  Chapter 6: Fishing for Answers

  Chapter 7: Just a Friendly Chat

  Chapter 8: A Race Downtown

  Chapter 9: Moonlight Serenade

  Chapter 10: Not a Who but a What

  Chapter 11: A Loyal Customer

  Chapter 12: Yay, Mud!

  Chapter 13: Duty Calls

  Chapter 14: Waffle the Dolphin and the World’s Tallest Man

  Chapter 15: Igor, Please Pass the Mustard

  Chapter 16: The Triple B

  Chapter 17: The Telltale Bath Toys

  Chapter 18: Confessions

  Chapter 19: More Confessions

  Chapter 20: The Last Suspect

  Chapter 21: A New Definition of “Delicious”

  Chapter 22: A Giant Tuba and Bellwood’s Lankiest Kid

  Chapter 23: The Last Confession

  Chapter 24: A View from Above

  Chapter 25: New Life

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  To Leo and Anna

  The weirdness in Bellwood all began with the smoke in the air and the ducks in Mr. Babbage’s backyard. After they showed up, a lot of other weird things started happening. Mysteries, you could call them. Some of them were scratch-your-head-and-say-hmm kind of weird, but a couple of them were big-time weird. Stare-up-at-the-night-sky-and-wonder-about-the-meaning-of-life kind of weird. And-hope-that-while-I’m-staring-up-there-a-bird-does-not-poop-on-me-cuz-that-would-not-be-a-good-sign-regarding-the-meaning-of-life. That kind of weird.

  The smoke was easy to explain: a wildfire was burning in a big state forest outside of town. When the wind shifted the wrong way, all of Bellwood smelled like a campfire.

  The ducks in Babbage’s yard were a different story. They appeared one seemingly normal Tuesday morning, scattered all over the grass. There must have been hundreds of them, their little yellow tails poking into the air, each duck with the same creepy look on its face: eyes wide open and vacant, like empty garages; bill curved upward in a kind of lipsticked maniac smile. I could picture the moment Babbage discovered them: he looks out at his backyard as he drinks his morning coffee, then boom—his mouth gapes open, his eyes go wonky, his coffee mug drops to the ground. Crash. Splash. Duckies? Duckies!

  These were rubber duckies—the kind you take a bath with. Nobody could explain where they came from. None of his neighbors had ducks in their backyards. But Babbage’s yard? Overrun with ducks. A mystery.

  News spread quickly in Bellwood. A dog could barf up an action figure on one side of town, and before it was mopped up, people would be debating the finer points of canine digestion on the other side of town. I know because that actually happened. Don’t believe me? Ask my dog, Ronald. But that’s what you get for living in such a small, out-of-the-way place. And so when rubber duckies invaded Babbage’s yard, everybody knew about it, and fast. By ten in the morning, the One and Onlys—that’s my two best friends and me—were racing our bikes up the cul-de-sacs of Bellwood, cutting through backyards, and trundling through woods, hoping to get there before the little visitors vanished.

  Shanks, Peephole, and I made the crosstown trek in exceptionally good time (apologies to Mrs. Hoover’s geraniums, may they RIP) and rolled up to a clump of stupefied Bellwoodians staring at the ducks with wary eyes. Mr. Babbage’s dog, a little white yappy thing, was bouncing around the yard, growling wildly at the ducks. Officer Portnoy, who had just visited our fifth-grade classroom on the last day of school to remind us about proper bicycle safety, was talking to Mr. Babbage at the edge of the lawn. Portnoy held a duck inches from his face. It looked like they were having a staring contest. The duck was winning.

  “Okay, One and Onlys,” Shanks said. “Time to gather clues. Paul, you go snoop on Mr. Babbage and Officer Portnoy. See if you can overhear anything that might be useful. Peephole and I will get a closer look at these duckies.”

  I strolled over and stood behind Babbage and Officer Portnoy, trying to appear like a normal, nonsnooping kid.

  “Well, Mr. Baggage,” I heard Officer Portnoy say, “I’m stymied.”

  “Please, call me Lance,” Babbage said, nervously smoothing the collar of his bathrobe and shifting his gaze from his transformed backyard to the growing crowd of onlookers.

  Mr. Babbage was always very well dressed, and today was no exception. His bathrobe was scarlet and silky, and it went all the way down to his feet, which were clad in slippers made of some kind of animal fur. His thin black hair was parted perfectly to one side, and his thick eyebrows seemed to be combed.

  “You don’t think they’re…dangerous, do you?” I heard him ask Officer Portnoy, his face tight with worry.

  Officer Portnoy shook his head and clapped Babbage on the back. “They’re not real ducks,” he said in a reassuring tone. “So no need to worry.”

  But Babbage did look worried. He flicked his eyes back and forth to see if anybody was listening, but luckily he didn’t look down at me. He leaned closer to Officer Portnoy. He began whispering something, so I casually inched up behind them to listen.

  “…and normally I wouldn’t pay attention to such things. It’s just that it was so vivid…so real. In my dream, there was a horrible beast in my backyard…an enormous, ghastly…thing….” Babbage’s voice was faint and wavering. “It was tr
ying to get in my house, you see, but I wouldn’t open the door. Its breath was heavy, steady—almost like a machine. Chuk chuk chuk. The walls were rattling. And then I woke up, and I could have sworn, for a second or two, that I still heard it breathing, but faint, like it had already run away. And that’s when I looked out the window and saw…them.” He nodded at the ducks. “I called the police immediately—didn’t even go outside to look. I just had this spooky feeling about them. It must be some kind of sign, don’t you think?”

  Portnoy shrugged, never taking his eyes off the duckies. “I’m afraid dreams are out of my jurisdiction.”

  Meanwhile, Shanks had wandered into the middle of the yard and was standing among a litter of ducks, grinning from ear to ear, her arms outstretched. Compared with the ducks, and with Mr. Babbage’s dog, Shanks looked like a giant, which is maybe why she was smiling so much, because in reality she was short. Shortest-person-in-the-fifth-grade short, and unless she was planning on growing a bunch over the summer or somebody else was planning on shrinking, she’d be the shortest person in the sixth grade, too. Sometimes when we all hung out together, people mistook her for Peephole’s little sister, which Peephole thought was hilarious. Shanks didn’t.

  Shanks may have been small, but her personality was big. Like right now, she was having a blast in Babbage’s backyard. Her electric-blond hair, almost white, which cascaded over her shoulders and reached down to her lower back, was swishing to and fro as she surveyed all the little yellow bodies around her. Shanks was like me: she loved mysteries.

  Peephole, meanwhile, lingered at the edge of the crowd. He liked solving things, but mysteries made him uncomfortable. Actually, a lot of things made him uncomfortable: thunder, black ice, cats, leftovers, gym class, Vikings, loose tree branches that could fall on you at any time, eating outside, athlete’s foot, certain cheeses, girls, basketball, the sound of other people’s sneezes, the bubonic plague, Norwegian accents, and nose hair trimmers, to name a few. Worst of all, Peephole was afraid of bugs. And if you squinted, the duckies sort of looked like an infestation.

  Babbage smoothed his collar again. “I guess I’m just on edge. This smoke”—he sniffed the air—“it’s so…eerie.”

  Officer Portnoy clicked his tongue in agreement, then turned to the crowd with a little startle, as if these thirty or so people had suddenly snuck up on him. Not exactly the most perceptive person, especially for a police officer.

  “Okay, everyone, go on home. Nothing to see here.”

  Whenever there is clearly something very interesting to see, adults say there is “nothing to see.” It must be in the manuals for police officers and teachers.

  Officer Portnoy noticed me looking up at him. A silence hung in the air between us. Finally, he said, “Macaroni.”

  “Marconi,” I corrected him. I love mac and cheese, but I don’t want to be mistaken for it.

  “Pam Macaroni.”

  Oh, come on. Bellwood’s finest was not exactly Sherlock Holmes. “Paul, actually.”

  “Right. So, Paul…are you practicing proper bicycle safety?” He grinned down at me. Or, rather, the giant mustache that almost entirely covered his mouth grinned down at me.

  I thought of the poor toad sculpture in the Lombardis’ yard, the one that I had decapitated in my mad rush to get there. RIP to you, too, Mr. Toad. “For the most part,” I answered.

  “Glad to hear it. Safety comes first. Always remember that. Now, Paul, there’s nothing to see—”

  “Can I take one?”

  Officer Portnoy seemed surprised by my question. I was, too. I didn’t know I was going to ask it until it came out.

  “A duck? Why?”

  What I was thinking: Because nobody knew why they had shown up here in Babbage’s backyard. Because they could have come from anywhere. Because each little yellow rubber ducky was a tiny, crazy, perfect little mystery.

  What I said: “Because I lost mine. You know, I haven’t been able to take a bath since.”

  “Is that so?” Portnoy turned to look at the yard. I followed his gaze: Peephole was now sitting cross-legged on the ground with his back to the duckies, dabbing sweat from his forehead with his T-shirt. Even from here, he looked nauseous. “Is your friend all right?”

  “Peephole? Yeah, he’s fine. Just has a fear of rubber duckies.”

  Portnoy let out a tiny I-give-up sigh. “What kind of name is ‘Peephole’?”

  A fair question. Surprise, surprise, Peephole’s name was not really Peephole (nobody’s parents are that mean). His birth name was Alexander Calloway, but only adults still called him Alexander. You see, he was the tallest and skinniest kid in the class, and he was a little touchy about it. He and Shanks looked pretty goofy standing side by side, but some things are worth looking goofy for, and friendship is one of them.

  In fourth grade, we had a teacher named Mr. Pocus, who was nobody’s favorite. He was permanently grouchy, as if every single morning he poured rotten milk on his Cheerios to keep himself mean. Once I thought I saw a picture of him smiling, but then I realized it was upside down. He was also the “chief taster” in our town’s annual bratwurst competition, which made him both feared and respected.

  For some reason, Mr. Pocus had it out for Alexander. I suspected it was because he was jealous of Peephole’s height. Pocus was short, and if you put a studded collar and a leash on him, he’d look just like a cartoon bulldog. He had this nickname for Alexander, “Beanpole,” which he called him because Alexander was so tall and lanky—like a beanstalk, I guess. Pocus always used to call him up to the board to solve the hardest math problems, like he really wanted him to get them wrong in front of everybody. But Alexander would always get the answers right, which annoyed Mr. Pocus even more.

  One day during math class, Alexander had a bad head cold and his nose was all stuffed up. He had been speaking with that snotty voice that people get when their sinuses are clogged. As if sensing weakness, Mr. Pocus was particularly ruthless. “Beanpole this,” and “Beanpole that.” You could tell that Alexander was getting upset because his face had turned a shade of red I’d only ever seen in a sixty-four-box of crayons.

  Mr. Pocus called him up to the board to do a hard problem, and I mean really hard. It was a story problem about this guy named Theodore, who had a super-complicated trip to the grocery store. We’re talking fractions, coupons, remainders—even a spill in aisle nine. I was completely lost, and I wasn’t the only one; the girl next to me, Jessie Futterman, fainted from confusion.

  Alexander stood up there, squinting at the board, swaying back and forth, his arms hanging down like pool noodles, a piece of chalk gripped in his fingers.

  “Give up, Beanpole?” Mr. Pocus sneered. “Did I get you this time, Beanpole?”

  Alexander turned his head slowly and glared at Mr. Pocus. Then he raised the piece of chalk and, with a few swift movements, wrote his answer.

  Mr. Pocus made a sour-milk face. Alexander got it right!

  Triumphantly, Alexander wheeled around to face the class and announced, in a proud, high, bold, and nasally voice, “My name is not Beanpole!”

  Except that his nose was so stuffed up that it came out as “By dame biz dot Peephole!”

  Well, nobody called him Beanpole after that. But Peephole—that one stuck.

  I wasn’t about to explain all this to Portnoy. Besides, his attention had shifted and he was watching Shanks, who was doing some kind of ballet dance in the middle of the duckies and giving a speech to them. Suddenly, she twisted around to face us. “It’s wet!” she cried out.

  “What is?” I called back.

  “The grass!” She did a little arm-pump dance. “A clue!”

  I turned to Portnoy, who looked confused. “Don’t you think that’s odd?” I asked.

  He nodded. “She seems very odd.”

  “No, I mean the grass. It’s w
et!”

  “Wet grass? Why would that be odd?”

  “Because we’re in the middle of a drought. It hasn’t rained in weeks.”

  “Oh, yeah.” He looked a little embarrassed that he hadn’t thought of that. “Well, Babbage could have watered his lawn with a sprinkler this morning.”

  I swept my eyes across the backyard. “I don’t see a sprinkler. Besides, he said he woke up from his dream about the monster, saw the ducks, and called the police without even going outside. He wouldn’t have had time to water his lawn.”

  Portnoy shot me a sideways glance that was somewhere between impressed and annoyed. “So you were listening in on my conversation with him, huh?” He turned back to the lawn and frowned; Shanks had picked up an armful of ducks and was waltzing with them.

  “Oh, don’t mind Shanks,” I said, eager to change the subject. “She’s a little…out there.”

  “Shanks? What kind of name—” Portnoy began, but then he shook his head. He had a look in his eye that made him seem unsure. About the duckies, me, this lunatic world we live in. His mustache, though, was unflappable.

  Shanks’s honest-to-God full birth name: Gloria Longshanks Hill. Apparently, Mr. and Mrs. Hill believed that when it came to middle names, the stranger the better. (Rumor had it that Shanks’s mom’s middle name was “Lady Dragonslayer,” but I was never able to confirm this.) Well, Mr. and Mrs. Hill were both pretty big history buffs, and their favorite time period was medieval England, because nobody back then was named just Dave or Jen. They had awesome names, like King Edward the First, aka the Hammer of the Scots, aka King Longshanks. They called him Longshanks because he was tall, and “shanks” was what people used to call legs. I always found it funny that Shanks was named after somebody so tall. Shanks didn’t.