CHAPTER 7

In which Elliot discovers that some buildings are even stranger than the ones in which his uncle works

On the way home from DENKi-3000 Headquarters, Elliot wondered what his parents would say when he asked to spend the weekend in Simmersville, with Leslie and her mother. He certainly didn’t want to mention the food festival. They might get the wrong impression. They might think he was taking an interest in their work as food critics. That would be a disaster! But he definitely couldn’t tell them why he was really going. His parents had a habit of screwing up their faces whenever he mentioned Uncle Archie.

As it turned out, none of this mattered. When he arrived home, his parents were waiting for him.

“Elliot!” cried his mother. “We’re so glad you’re home!”

“You are?” Something fishy was going on. Elliot could tell.

“Of course we are, son,” said his father. “We’ve got some big news for you.”

“Actually,” Elliot started, “I have some news mysel—”

“No time for that now. Look at this!” His father flipped open the morning’s copy of the Bickleburgh Bugle, opening it to the food section. A bright full-page advertisement blazed across the page:

THIS SATURDAY!

COME FOR THE FOOD!

COME FOR THE DRINK!

STAY FOR THE WORLD-FAMOUS

DINNER-THEATRE-STYLE

COSTUME CABARET!

THIS YEAR FEATURING THE AMAZING

BORIS MINOR AND THE KARLOFFS!

THE SIMMERSVILLE ANNUAL

FOOD FESTIVAL!

A FEAST FOR ALL THE SENSES!

“The must-do, must-chew event of the year!”

—Peter & Marjorie von Doppler, “Chew on This.”

Elliot’s mother cleared her throat. “Now, Elliot, before you say anything, I want to explain. We know you aren’t keen on following in the family footsteps and becoming a restaurant critic, but you really ought to consider it.”

“Honestly, son,” said his father. “How could you not want to have your own nationally syndicated food column? Best job in the world, the way I see it! You eat the finest meals around, and then you write about them. And you never have to worry about too many adjectives! How about that? Is there any better way to make a living?”

Elliot was about to answer this obviously rhetorical question by saying, “Yes. Inventing stuff.” But he didn’t think this was a good idea.

“That’s why we’d like you to have a look at this.” Elliot’s mother waved the back of her hand over the advertisement. “It’s the Simmersville Annual—”

“I know all about it,” said Elliot.

His parents gasped. “You do?!”

Elliot pointed to the DINNER-THEATRE-STYLE COSTUME CABERET! line. “There’s a bunch of song-and-dance numbers at the end, right?”

His mother’s face brightened and she spluttered, “Y-yes! Th-th-that’s right!”

Elliot could hardly blame her for being so surprised. This was probably the first time he had shown interest in his parents’ jobs at the newspaper. He liked food as much as anyone, but beyond cooking it and eating it (both of which he considered worthy pursuits), writing about it just seemed silly.

“The Bugle is sending your mother and me on a special assignment to cover the festival, and we’d like you to join us.”

“Actually,” said Elliot, “that’s exactly what—”

His father held up one hand for Elliot to stop speaking. “Before you say no, before you tell us you’d rather sleep over at a friend’s house, or worse, spend the weekend with Uncle Archie, I want to remind you this isn’t a choice. You’re coming with us whether you like it or not.”

“Don’t worry,” said his mother. “Just wait until you see the Dinner-Theatre-Style Costume Cabaret! I just know you’re going to love it!”

***

On Friday evening, Elliot, Leslie, and their parents set off for Simmersville. Since they were all headed to the same place, Elliot opted to travel with Leslie and her mother. In the backseat of the Fangs’ rusty red Volkswagen, Elliot and Leslie whispered about how they would meet up with Uncle Archie and the others once they arrived.

Famous Freddy’s big white trailer was hitched behind the car, bumping and bounding along the highway. It was packed with ingredients and banners and all the cooking equipment Leslie’s mother would need to set up a stall in the Simmersville market square. In the front seat, Leslie’s mother mumbled to herself as she drove. From the moment they set off, she had been muttering nonstop.

“What’s she saying?” Elliot asked, whispering to Leslie.

“She’s reciting the recipes aloud. It helps her remember.”

“Has she forgotten them?”

Leslie shook her head. “It’s more that she’s only just learned them. Back at the restaurant, she has all of Grandpa Freddy’s old cookbooks, but at the festival she won’t have time to look anything up.” Leslie looked at the back of her mother’s head, at the dark hair falling past her shoulders. “I told her not to worry, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“I’d be worried if I were her!” said Elliot.

“I heard that, Elliot,” said Leslie’s mother. “You’re not helping.”

Elliot lowered his voice again. “She’ll have to cook for hundreds of people and she won’t even have your grandfather to help.”

“Mom said exactly the same thing, but I think she will have his help.” Leslie opened her bag and took out a crinkled old newspaper article. Elliot was surprised to see it was from the food section of a newspaper, but not from the Bickleburgh Bugle. This page had come from the Simmersville Tribune. The article featured a large photograph of Leslie’s grandfather and the headline read, Bickleburgh Chef Sets New Record.

Leslie pointed to the first lines of the article. “Grandpa Freddy has attended every single food fest since they first began!”

“So you think he’ll be there.”

“He has to be! If he doesn’t go, he could lose the record. And this is Grandpa Freddy we’re talking about—Famous Freddy. If I know him like I think I know him, he’ll be there.”

Leslie’s mother stopped murmuring again. “I thought I told you,” she said. “Stop worrying about your grandfather. Wherever he is, I’m sure he’s fine!”

“But what if he isn’t?” asked Leslie.

“He can take care of himself,” said her mother, and returned to another mumbled recipe.

After they’d driven two hours on the highway, a huge sign loomed up beside the road. The edges were painted with all kinds of food, everything from apples, avocados, and bagels down to yams, yogurt, and zucchini cupcakes. Smack in the middle of it all, it said, Welcome to Simmersville!

The town was smaller than Bickleburgh and much older. There were cobblestone streets, painted wooden fences, and crooked houses. Even though much of the place was old and faded and many of the buildings were beginning to crumble and sag, Elliot thought there was something charming about Simmersville. Maybe even beautiful.

“Sort of reminds me of the old mansion where Uncle Archie works,” he said.

“If that’s true,” said Leslie, “then this whole town must be full of hidden doors and secret passages.”

As they reached the crest of a hill, three very different buildings appeared. They rose abruptly, fifteen or twenty stories high. Unlike almost everything else in Simmersville, they were made of steel and glass. This part of the city reminded them of the rest of DENKi-3000: strange, modern, incongruous buildings, shooting up from the center of town. Much to Elliot’s surprise, however, these three buildings were even stranger than the ones back in Bickleburgh.

“Is that a fork?” asked Elliot, pointing to the middle tower.

“Yep, and on either side is a knife and a spoon,” said Leslie, referring to the other two towers.

Leslie’s mother glanced back at Elliot. “You’ve really never heard of the Heppleworth buildings?”

“Not really,” said Elliot, though he had to admit the buildings were impressive. He wondered if, living all his life in Bickleburgh and obsessing over his uncle’s work at DENKi-3000, there were bits of the world he had missed out on.

“Here we are.” Leslie’s mother took a sharp turn down a narrow street, and the Heppleworth towers vanished behind a row of houses.

They bumped toward the center of town until they came to their hotel, the Simmersville Inn. It was built on the edge of the famous market square. From the parking lot, they could see the square was filled with workers, erecting stalls and putting up banners in preparation for the festival.

The Simmersville Inn was made of rough white stone and had four floors. When they went inside, they were greeted by the clerk. Although greeted wasn’t quite the right word. For a hotel clerk, this woman seemed unusually shy. Although her face was plump and pleasant, with her blonde hair tied back with an emerald-green ribbon, her posture was all wrong. She was cowering in the corner behind the reception desk, hugging herself with her arms. When she said, “Welcome to the Simmersville Inn,” it came out as inaudibly as the mumbled recipes of Leslie’s mother.

“We’re here for the festival,” said Leslie, running up to the counter.

The clerk came forward with a couple of pages of paperwork. Her name tag said: My name is Emily. Oddly, the whole time Emily dealt with Leslie’s mother, the clerk kept her elbows stiffly pressed into her ribs. She looked very uncomfortable.

“What name is it under?” she asked.

“Fang,” said Leslie’s mother. “Jennifer Fang and—oh! I forgot my bag in the car.” She chuckled. “My head’s obviously too full of recipes for anything else!” She ran out to fetch her purse.

The girl behind the counter smiled weakly. “You guys’ve got nice rooms,” she told them. “Top floor. Great views of the square.” She sidled along the counter to a cupboard on the wall. It was full of keys, hanging on hooks. When she reached up to retrieve the ones for Elliot and Leslie, the sleeve of the girl’s shirt slid up her arm—and there was something very strange about it: It was the wrong color. The skin under the girl’s sleeve was scaly, like a snake’s, and nearly as green as the ribbon in her hair!

Emily hastily tugged her sleeve back into place as Leslie and Elliot looked at each other with almost identical expressions of shock. Did you see that? Elliot mouthed. Leslie nodded—just as her mother came jogging back into the lobby with her purse.

Following close behind were Elliot’s parents, who had just arrived themselves. As soon as both families were checked in, everyone agreed that over the long drive they had all worked up an appetite.

“In that case, we’re all in for a special treat,” said Elliot’s father, smacking his lips.

“Oh, yes!” Elliot’s mother agreed. “The restaurant here at the Simmersville Inn is famous!”

The children were ushered toward the restaurant before they could ask about the clerk’s strange green-skinned arm. What could it possibly mean? Before they rounded the corner, Elliot looked back one last time, but the girl was gone. The only thing he saw was the door behind the desk, shutting with a quiet click.