What’s he saying?” someone asked.
“What’s a kerfuffle?”
Hercules cleared his throat. “The word kerfuffle is Scottish in origin. It means ‘a commotion or disturbance.’ ”
“Would someone tell that giant woman to move out of the way?” someone else said. “We can’t see the television screen.”
People pushed against Homer as they tried to get a better view. Homer stiffened his legs and held tight to the leash, afraid he and Dog might fall into the grave. Hercules and Homer shared a confused look.
“Quiet down,” Ajitabh said with a wave of his hand.
Lord Mockingbird XVIII hadn’t bothered to put in his fake teeth for his televised appearance. His lips folded over his gums like crinkled candy-bar wrappers. He sat hunched, as if his spine had gone all floppy. Although he looked weak and a bit stupid, Homer knew this was an act. His Lordship, in life, had pretended to be senile, but all the while he’d been sharp as a tack.
“Firstly, I shall address those to whom I am most unfortunately related—the Mockingbird clan.”
“Here it comes,” someone whispered. “We’re going to be rich.”
His Lordship wagged a gnarled finger. “You’re a bunch of greedy, rotten, bloodsucking malcontents, and I despise you all. The only reason you hauled your lazy, worthless, rotund bottoms to my funeral is because you want to know what I’m going to do with all my money.” He broke into a fit of coughing. Then he wagged his finger again, his voice weak and shaky. “Well, the joke’s on you. There is no money. I flushed it down the toilet. Every last cent. So good riddance to the parasitic lot of you.” Then His Lordship left the screen. But the tape continued to run.
“Flushed it down the toilet?” someone said. “He’s crazy!”
“How dare he treat us this way!”
“This has been a total waste of time!”
There was much complaining and name-calling. In a flurry of black, most of the crowd hurriedly exited the cemetery—leaving just eight people and a dog standing around the grave, watching the television.
After a long pause, Lord Mockingbird returned to the screen, a muffin in hand. He said nothing, just gummed the muffin and stared into space. Was that the end of the show? Homer wondered. Were they supposed to stand around and watch him eat? It was kinda boring. There wasn’t even a sound track. “Is this what funerals are usually like?” he whispered to Hercules.
“No.” Hercules peered down. “I sure hope I don’t fall in.”
Homer recognized the remaining people, all members of L.O.S.T. “Are we supposed to stand here all day?” a large woman asked as she pushed her veil from her face. Diamonds hung from her pale earlobes. “I have better things to do.”
“Hold your horses, Gertrude,” a man said, adjusting his black cowboy hat. His name was Jeremiah Carson, and he lived out west with cattle and prairie dogs. He was the only man in the crowd who hadn’t worn a top hat. “I reckon he’s got more to say.”
“I don’t care what he has to say,” Dr. Gertrude Magnum said. “I had to listen to him ramble on and on when he was alive. I don’t see why I have to listen to him now that he’s dead. He was a senile old buffoon.”
As if he could hear everything, His Lordship stopped eating. “You all thought I was a senile old buffoon, didn’t you?”
Gertrude gasped. Homer dropped Dog’s leash. Was this some kind of joke? Was he listening to them? How was that possible?
The television crackled, and black-and-white lines rolled down the screen, disrupting the image. The hawk, which had been sitting in the tree this whole time, flew down and landed on top of the television. After another crackle, the screen cleared and Lord Mockingbird’s image returned. He tossed the remaining muffin over his shoulder and slid his fake teeth into his mouth. Then he sat up straight. His weary red eyes widened, and his voice bellowed with strength. “That’s better. I assume my money-grubbing relations have left. Now we can get down to business.”
Dog, probably bored with the whole thing, wandered off to investigate the cemetery, his black vest snug around his belly, his blue leash dragging behind. Homer knew he should probably go after Dog, who was sure to dig holes and eat moldy flowers, but he couldn’t peel his eyes from the screen.
“While I was alive, I pretended to be senile so I could find out the truth about each and every one of you,” Lord Mockingbird said. He tapped the side of his head, indicating the source of his brilliant plan. “That’s right. The truth.”
“I’m confused,” a man said. This was Professor Thaddius Thick. He rubbed his gray beard. “Is he saying he’s been… been… been spying on us?”
“That’s exactly what he’s saying,” snarled a young woman as she tore off her veil and let it fall to the ground. This was Torch, the owner of the hawk.
“Well, I’ll be hog-tied,” Jeremiah Carson said.
“That’s right,” His Lordship said. “I wanted to find out the truth, and the truth is this—some of you are not as you seem. Some of you are hiding secrets.”
Homer gasped. Would His Lordship tell everyone about Dog? Because Lord Mockingbird had previously owned Dog, he knew Dog’s treasure-hunting secret. Oh, please don’t tell them about Dog, Homer thought. He wanted to grab the television and toss it over the graveyard wall. Please don’t tell them.
“Turn that thing off,” Gertrude said. Her jeweled bracelets clinked as she lunged at the television, but Ajitabh blocked her. “He’s a crazy old man. He’ll tell you a bunch of lies.”
“Yeah,” Homer blurted. “Turn it off.”
“Why do you want to turn it off?” Torch asked Homer, her black eyes piercing him. Her hawk possessed an equally chilling gaze. “You got something to hide?”
Homer’s face went all hot. It suddenly felt like a million degrees under that wool suit coat.
“I say, quiet down,” Ajitabh said. “His Lordship is speaking.”
“Because I am dead, you will be choosing my replacement.” His Lordship fiddled with his membership coin. “I may no longer have a vote in L.O.S.T., but I have an opinion on who should be elected. An opinion based on information gathered while pretending to be a blithering idiot.” He scowled. His gaze scanned the gathered membership, as if he could actually see them. “Do not elect Gertrude Magnum. She cares only about wealth. As president, she would use L.O.S.T. to fund her opulent lifestyle.”
“I don’t know what he’s talking about,” Gertrude said, tucking her emerald necklace beneath her black collar.
“Do not elect Jeremiah Carson. He is in love with Gertrude and thus could easily fall prey to her greedy plans.”
Jeremiah pulled his cowboy hat so the brim hid his eyes. “What can I say?” he said. “It gets lonely way out there in Montana.”
“Do not elect Torch,” His Lordship continued. “She cares only about fame. As president, she would claim all discoveries as her own.”
Torch narrowed her dark eyes. The snake tattoo that wound around her neck moved slightly as she clenched her jaw. “It don’t matter what he says. He’s dead.”
“Do not elect Professor Thick. He cares only about Egyptian mummies. As president, he would turn L.O.S.T. into a mummy-only operation.”
“It’s… it’s… it’s true,” Professor Thick stammered. “I love mummies.”
Homer cringed. Please don’t tell them about Dog.
Lord Mockingbird took a long breath. “As for the rest of the membership, Ajitabh is too busy with his inventions. Zelda’s gloominess does not bode well for a leadership position. Sir Titus Edmund is missing. Angus MacDoodle is a hermit. Hercules is needed in his role as records keeper, and The Unpolluter is out of the question, since we’ve never met her. So that leaves us with one remaining member.”
Everyone turned to look at Homer. That’s when Dog waddled up to the grave. He’d found a bone of some sort and dropped it in. It landed on the casket with a loud thunk. Then Dog turned around and began kicking dirt into the grave, grunting with each kick. “Ur, ur, ur, ur.”
Homer might have wondered what kind of bone it was. He might have scolded Dog for digging in the graveyard. But like everyone else, Homer waited to hear what Lord Mockingbird had to say next.
His Lordship raised his gray eyebrows and smiled. “That’s right. It is my opinion that the best person to replace me as president of L.O.S.T. is Homer W. Pudding.”