The next morning Mom pulled out all the stops for Sunday breakfast: toaster waffles and microwaved bacon. Mom and Dad had already finished eating when I got up, but they were still sitting at the table.
“How did it go with the Tisks last night?” Mom asked.
“I gave them their cat back and said I was sorry.”
“Good.”
“Even though I wasn’t, really. After what they did to Charlotte.”
“We’ll get your book problem straightened out tomorrow,” Dad said.
“I’m sure the Tisks did it,” I said. “I mean, he said he was going to burn every last copy.”
“You may be right,” Dad said. “But there are many other possibilities. As I told you before, we’ll get it all straightened out on Monday. You’ll just have to wait.”
I am not good at waiting.
• • •
I can be a little obsessive sometimes, which is to say most of the time. There were many things I could have been doing that day, but the only thing I wanted was to find out what happens to Charlotte and Wilbur. If anybody other than my dad could undo the damage to Charlotte’s Web, it would be Billy Bates. Maybe he could help me with the Flinkwater thing too, if we weren’t rudely interrupted again by his tutor.
Given the violently insecticidal tendencies of his robot butler Alfred, I was relieved when Billy answered the door himself.
I saw why at once. Alfred was on the floor, decapitated. Billy was holding his head—or rather, his sensor array—under his arm.
“You tore Alfred’s head off?” I said.
“Just a tune-up,” Billy said. He tipped his own head to the side to look at me from a slightly different angle, as if he was trying to figure out who I was. “Can I help you?”
That was a weird thing to say. How did he know I needed help?
“As a matter of fact, yes,” I said. “I have a mystery that needs solving. Two mysteries, actually.”
“Um . . . okay?” He was still giving me that odd look.
I launched into the whole Charlotte’s Web thing, and told him about what had happened with the Tisks, and how I’d sort of kidnapped their cat, and how it had all started because I had to write this paper for school, and . . . well, when I get talking, sometimes I talk a lot. I finally ran out of things to say and awaited his hopefully helpful response.
He said, “Okay, but . . . you are . . . who again?”
“I’m still who I’ve always been,” I said. “Are you okay?”
“I’m Billy,” he said, not at all helpfully.
“Well I’m Eleanor Roosevelt.”
Billy blinked, then said, “Wife of Franklin D. Roosevelt. Longest serving first lady of the United States, March 1933 to April 1945. United States delegate to the United Nations, 1946 through 1952.”
I said, “Huh?”
“You seem too young to be that Eleanor Roosevelt, whose first name was actually Anna, and who died on November 7, 1962, at age seventy-eight. Were you named after her?”
“No! Billy, cut it out! I was kidding!”
“Your name isn’t Eleanor Roosevelt?”
“No!”
“Then what is it?”
I gaped at him uncomprehendingly.
“Seriously,” he said. “Have we met?”
I punched him in the stomach.