Turkey Trouble on the National Mall (3 page)

The FBI director had promised that his team would do their best to track down the stolen turkeys.

Marshall gulped. “Do you think EET plans to eat the turkeys tonight at the big dinner?” he asked.

“I don’t know.” KC pulled a newspaper off a pile she kept neatly stacked on a shelf.

Marshall moved KC’s stuffed animals so he could sit on the bed. “Hey, Mr. Giraffe has only one eye,” he said.

“I know,” KC said, spreading the newspaper on her bed. She neatly arranged each section of the newspaper. Local News, World News, Sports, Fashion, Travel and Leisure, Comics.

In the local section, she looked for anything about EET. She found it quickly.

KC sat up, holding the paper in her lap. “Look at this ad, Marsh,” she said.

“We have to stop him,” KC said. “If he stole Cloud and all those other turkeys, he should go to jail!” She threw the paper on the floor and jumped off her bed.

“But we don’t know he did it,” Marshall reminded her.

KC ran into her bathroom. Marshall could hear her brushing her teeth. He quickly reread the ad about EET’s dinner. Then he noticed a story in the World News section.

KC came out of the bathroom and grabbed her favorite boots.

“Someone else is having turkey troubles,” Marshall said. He showed the story to KC. The headline read AVIAN FLU WIPES OUT BIRDS IN EUROPE. A picture showed dead birds on the ground.

KC leaned in to read the article.

“That’s awful,” KC said with a determined look on her face. She sat on the floor and pulled on her boots.

“Are we going somewhere?” Marshall asked.

“You bet we are!” KC said. “We’re going to Twelve New Street to see Mr. Barney Bibble!”

“I think it’s Gibble,” Marshall said.

“Whatever. We’re going!” KC answered.
She and Marshall pulled on warm sweaters, grabbed a couple of apples, and left the White House.

Near the Treasury Department building, a skateboarder zoomed up and stopped next to KC and Marshall. It was a teenager with freckles.

“Dudes, you like pizza?” he asked, thrusting two red flyers into their hands.

“Yeah, why?” KC asked.

“Read it,” the kid said, aiming himself toward a group of tourists farther down 15th Street.

KC and Marshall looked at the papers they’d been given.

THANKSGIVING WEEK SPECIAL—OUR OWN TURKEY PIZZA! SERVED AT CREATIVE PIZZA, ACROSS FROM THE OLD POST OFFICE.

Under the words, there was a drawing of a Pilgrim eating a slice of pizza.

“Whoever heard of turkey on pizza?” KC said. She dropped her flyer into a trash can.

“Do we even know where New Street is?” Marshall asked.

“Sort of,” KC said. “Yvonne told me it’s up New York Avenue, on the right-hand side.”

New Street turned out to be a narrow street filled with small stores and restaurants. Only a few were open on Thanksgiving morning.

“Wait, KC,” Marshall said. He stopped in front of a shop window. Inside were toys, model kits, Native American stuff, craft feathers, dolls, and millions of beads. One of the displays showed glass eyes for dolls and stuffed animals. A sign hung on the door.

CRAFTY GUY CRAFTS SPECIAL THANKSGIVING HOURS AIDAN LEROY, PROPRIETOR

“Look at those cool Native American moccasins,” Marshall said. “They sell kits!”

“Marsh, let’s come back another time,” KC said. “We have to find Barney Gobble.”

“Gibble. Let’s go in for one minute,” Marshall said. “Maybe you can find an eye for your giraffe. He’ll be happier with two eyes!” He took KC’s hand and tugged her into the shop.

A bell jingled as the kids entered. No one seemed to be in the shop. Then they heard a swishing and clicking sound. A man stepped through strings of beads that hung in front of a small passageway. The man had black hair and shiny teeth. “May I be of service?” he asked. The man’s accent reminded KC of how Yvonne spoke.

“My friend needs an eye for her giraffe,” Marshall said.

“We have eyes!” the man said. “If you will follow?”

He marched down an aisle and stopped near a sort of office space. There was a phone and a laptop. He pointed to a display case. Inside were hundreds of eyes.

KC gasped. There were tiny eyes, huge eyes, glass eyes, wooden eyes. Some were black. Others were blue. Some were green. A few were red with yellow centers.

“Now, for your giraffe,” the man said. “Can you pick one that matches the other eye?”

KC examined the case filled with eyes. They all seemed to be staring at her. Then she shook her head. “The eye wasn’t round,” she said. “More long, like … wait, I can draw it. Do you have a piece of paper?”

“Certainly,” the man said. He grabbed a sheet of paper and handed it to KC.

KC pulled a marker from her pocket. She drew her stuffed giraffe’s head and his one eye. “Like this,” she said.

The man looked at the drawing. “Hmmm, difficult, I am afraid. Can you bring the giraffe in?” he asked. “It’s much easier to make a good match if I see him, face to face.”

“Sure,” KC said. “I’ll bring Mr. Giraffe in tomorrow.”

“Beautiful!” the man said, flashing his brilliant teeth.
“A bientôt.”

As they were leaving, KC stopped. “Can you tell us where Twelve New Street is?” she asked.

“But of course,” the man said. He pointed farther up the street. “Are you sure you want to go in there? Number Twelve is a pool hall.”

KC and Marshall thanked Mr. Leroy and hurried up New Street.

“A pool hall?” KC repeated. “What’s a pool hall?”

“I think it’s a place where people play pool,” Marshall said. KC raised one eyebrow. “You know, that game where you hit colored balls with a stick into different pockets. My uncle has a pool table in his basement.” He frowned. “It’s a weird place to have dinner.”

“I don’t care. If they stole our turkeys, I’ll get the president to arrest them!” KC said.

“But, KC, the dinner is tonight, in about nine hours,” Marshall said.

“That’s why we have to hurry!”

Four minutes later, KC and Marshall pressed their faces against the glass of a
wide storefront window at 12 New Street.

There were no people inside, and the lights were off. They saw ten long tables covered with white cloths. In the middle of each table stood a vase of flowers. A big clock on one wall said 11:15.

KC wasn’t looking forward to seeing Barney Gibble again, but she knew she had no choice. She walked to the door and tugged on the handle. “It’s locked,” she said.

Marshall pointed to a small sign taped to the window. B
ACK
S
OON
. B
ARNEY
.

“Now what?” he asked.

KC rattled the knob, but the door still wouldn’t open. “We need to save Cloud!”

Marshall put a hand on KC’s arm. “Um, we don’t know the EET people stole the turkeys,” he said. “Think about it. It would be stupid to go on TV, telling everyone they’re having this turkey dinner, then steal the turkeys. Everyone would know it was EET!”

KC looked at Marshall. “You don’t think it was Barney Gibble, do you?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he said, pulling the red flyer out of his pocket. “But what about these guys?”

“What guys?”

“Creative Pizza,” Marshall said, showing her the flyer. “They’re serving turkey pizza. It says so right here!”

KC grabbed the flyer. Her eyes flew over the words. “You’re right!” she said. “What are we waiting for?”

Marshall took the flyer back from KC. “Across from the Old Post Office,” he read. “Where’s that?”

“Not far,” KC said. “It’s between here and the National Mall. Come on!”

KC and Marshall ran down 12th Street, off New York Avenue. They were puffing for breath when they reached Pennsylvania Avenue. “There it is!” KC said.

The clock tower rose above the nearby buildings. Part of the Old Post Office’s roof was made of glass, making it hard to look at when the sun’s reflection bounced off.

“So where’s Creative Pizza?” Marshall asked.

KC turned so the Old Post Office was behind her. “There,” she said, pointing to a brick building with a red awning.

“Do we have a plan?” Marshall asked.

KC grinned. “Yes,” she said. She took out her marker and the picture she’d drawn of her giraffe. Flipping the picture over, she saw some typing on the back.

She folded the paper so that she had a clean space for writing. “Let’s go see the pizza guys!”

The kids headed for the awning that shaded the door to Creative Pizza.

When they walked in, a voice called out, “Welcome to Creative Pizza!”

KC and Marshall looked into the tired face of a man wearing a red apron. Behind him was an open brick oven. Two or three pizzas were cooking in the oven, sending amazing smells into the tiny restaurant.

KC walked up to the man. “I’m doing research on turkeys,” she said, showing her paper and pen. It wasn’t exactly a lie. “Since it’s Thanksgiving and you’re serving turkey pizza, can I ask you a few questions?”

“What kind of questions?” the man asked. “My boss isn’t here right now.”

“That’s okay,” KC said in her best reporter’s voice. She pretended to read from her paper. “Where do you get your turkeys?”

“Where do we get ’em?” the man asked. “Beats me. But last night we got a bunch. Our turkey-pizza special goes on all next week, so we need plenty.”

“You got a bunch?” Marshall asked. “And you don’t know where they came from?”

The man shook his head. “I just work here, man. All I know is the turkeys came in late, and we all had to work extra hours getting them ready,” he said. “I didn’t get home till three this morning!”

KC gulped. “Were they white turkeys?” she asked.

“Yeah, most of ’em were white, but there were a few dark ones,” the man said. “I asked my boss, and she said most turkeys we eat are white. More meat on ’em, I guess.”

“Did one of them have a bell tied around its neck?” KC asked.

“No bells, no whistles, nothing but noisy turkeys and millions of feathers,” the man said.

KC grabbed Marshall’s arm. “Come on,” she said, shoving the paper in her pocket.

“Did you hear that?” KC said after they left the restaurant. “They got turkeys late last night! Ours were stolen last night!”

“But that doesn’t mean they’re the same turkeys,” Marshall said. He looked KC in the eye. “Please don’t tell me you’re going to ask the FBI to send the SWAT team to raid this pizza shop!”

KC folded her arms. “Not yet,” she said. “But they are still suspects!” She heard bonging from the bell tower. “Right now, we’re going to talk to Barney Nibble.”

“Um, it’s Gibble,” Marshall said.

It was only a few minutes before KC and Marshall walked into Barney’s pool hall. They heard a buzzer, then a loud voice yelling, “I’m in the kitchen!”

They followed the voice past the pool tables. A man stood with his back to them. His hands were in a deep sink, where the water was running. He had an apron around his waist, and his hair tied back in a ponytail.

Barney Gibble turned around. “It’s about time,” he said, then recognized KC and
Marshall from the day before. “Well, well, well. You’re a little early for turkey dinner, Ms. Corcoran.”

“We didn’t come to eat,” KC said. Her voice was shaking.

Barney Gibble wiped his hands on his apron. “Then why are you here?” he asked. “And please don’t tell me I shouldn’t be eating turkey for Thanksgiving.”

KC took a breath, then started talking. “All the turkeys were stolen last night,” she said.

“What turkeys? Wait,
your
turkeys?” Barney Gibble asked. “The ones on the National Mall?”

KC nodded.

Barney Gibble’s eyebrows went up. “And you think EET stole them, right?” He crooked a finger at the kids. “Come with me. I want to show you something.”

Barney led the kids into a small office
around the corner from the kitchen. The room was cramped, with a desk and chair, filing cabinets, and a cork bulletin board. Barney put a finger on a photograph pinned to the cork. “See this?” he asked. “It’s my turkey farm in Vermont. I own five thousand turkeys. Why would I steal yours?”