The Mystery of the Missing Everything

^{Chapter 40} Pluck and Moxie; Gumption and Chutzpah

Mr. Ivan Piccolini-Provokovsky owed his rather extraordinary wealth to Ping-Pong paddles. Playing the game one afternoon with his niece, Lucy, he had noted with dismay that the paddle left something to be desired, in terms of grip strength; that same evening, in the workshop in his garage, he corrected the problem. If a new and improved Ping-Pong paddle doesn’t sound like a way to become rather extraordinarily wealthy, consider that Ping-Pong happens to be the most popular sport in China—a nation of well over one billion people.

But long ago, long before he became extraordinarily wealthy, little Ivan Piccolini-Provokovsky was a middle school student prone to creative misbehavior. Like adding chocolate syrup to the cafeteria milk and reselling it at a margin. Or padlocking the teacher’s lounge vending machine and ransoming the combination. Or gluing a construction-paper horn to the class hamster and selling pictures of The Amazing Unicorn Hamster to the local news. Now, reviewing his life from atop his giant Ping-Pong fortune, Mr. Piccolini-Provokovsky saw his middle school years with regret. Why had he only been punished? Why not encouraged to channel his imaginative impulses into more meaningful pursuits?

Now Ivan Piccolini-Provokovsky stood in the center aisle of the auditorium of Mary Todd Lincoln Middle School, one hand resting on the handle of a rolling suitcase, quasi-apologizing to Ida Finkleman for not returning her multiple emails. “I never let people know when I’m coming. Never! Element of surprise, get it?” He snapped his gum, tilted back his large, diamond-studded cowboy hat, and gave her a cheery thumbs-up. “Now! Where’s this Chester character?”

Chester warily raised his hand.

“Step up here, fella. C’mon. Nothing to be afraid of. Yes, my boots are made of genuine one-hundred-percent alligator skin, but those gators have been dead a long time.”

Principal Van Vreeland stirred from her faint, struggled slowly to her feet, and whispered to Ms. Finkleman, “Is that who I think it is?” Ms. Finkleman nodded. “Yes. Yes, it is.”

“All right,” said Mr. Piccolini-Provokovsky, grabbing Chester’s shoulders and looking him up and down. “It’s my understanding that you’ve demonstrated certain qualities. Qualities like pluck and moxie. Gumption and chutzpah.”

“Um…” said Chester. He shot a questioning glance at his best friend, Victor, who happened to have a really good vocabulary. Victor gave him a reassuring nod. “Um, thanks.”

“Don’t thank me. Thank this lady over here.” He jerked his thumb at Ms. Finkleman, who beamed. Principal Van Vreeland whispered again. “Is he about to do what I think he’s going to do?”

“Yes,” said Ms. Finkleman, keeping her eyes on Chester and the fast-talking stranger in the alligator boots. “Yes, he is.”

“It is an honor and a privilege and all that blah-di-dee-dah,” Mr. Piccolini-Provokovsky continued rapidly, “to declare this school, the name of which I’ll find out later, the winner of the Piccolini-Provokovsky Award for the Encouragement of Studential Excellence. And nobody better tell me that studential isn’t a word, because I’ve heard it before.”

Bethesda and Pamela, both of whom had raised their hands, lowered them again.

“The award, to be divided between school improve-ments and extracurricular activities, shall be in the sum of fifty thousand dollars.”

He thrust a check at Chester Hu, whose eyes got as big and round as crash cymbals. The whole room burst into applause, with no one cheering louder than the “Save Taproot Valley” team (except Natasha and Todd, of course). “Woo!” shouted Suzie. “Bravo!” added Kevin. “That’s what I’m talking about!” said Braxton. Marisol Pierce was too shy to shout, but she grinned from ear to ear and clapped till her hands were sore.

“Well, I gotta ramble,” said Mr. Piccolini-Provokovsky suddenly, and pivoted on the heels of his lustrous boots. “Oh, shoot. One more thing. In addition to the money…” He bent over and unzipped the rolling suitcase.

“Is he going to say what I think he is?” said Principal Van Vreeland.

“Yes,” Ms. Finkleman replied. “I think he is.”

“… the award includes this puppy right here.”

The trophy was gleaming and massive, easily three times as big as the one that had been lost. Principal Van Vreeland shrieked with girlish glee, like a child for whom Christmas has come at last.

All through Mr. Piccolini-Provokovsky’s rapid-fire presentation, Bethesda kept her eyes on Natasha and Todd. She watched as they settled uneasily back into their seats, and imagined what they were feeling—that awful, gut-wrenching anticipation of big trouble to come, leavened by relief at having finally spilled the beans. That was one thing Bethesda had learned a time or two—as awful as it is to have to tell a painful truth, it sure beats carrying it around.

Bethesda Fielding, Master Detective, leaned back in her auditorium seat and let her tough-guy private-investigator face relax into a satisfied smile.

Case closed.