The Potato Chip Puzzles: The Puzzling World of Winston Breen (25 page)

“What does it say?” Jake asked.

She looked up, surprise and dread mixed together on her face. “It says, ‘Please return to Simon’s Snack Foods. The contest is over. We have a winner!’”

 

IT WAS SILENT IN
the car. Now that it was over, now that Winston didn’t have any puzzles to think about or look forward to, he was miserably aware of just how hot and sticky and tired he was. His hair was plastered to his head, and his T-shirt was clinging to him as if it had been coated with glue. Mal didn’t look much better—he was slumped over and might have been on the edge of sleep. Jake’s hair had a tendency to curl on humid days—he looked like someone had given him a haircut with an eggbeater. Mr. Garvey looked weariest of all and had giant splotches of sweat under each arm. They all looked gross.

Their depressed expressions weren’t helping. They’d been so close to winning! If the girls had just gotten the answer a little faster . . . or better yet, if they had allowed Mr. Garvey to tell them the answer. Winston understood Bethany’s desire to solve the puzzle herself, but he couldn’t get around the fact that it had cost both teams twenty-five thousand dollars.

And the cheater had won. Maybe they should have told the girls they knew who the cheater was. Maybe that would have made them more interested in winning
immediately.

Their teacher had tried calling the potato chip factory, hoping to speak with Dmitri Simon, but he was never able to get a human being on the line. Winston wanted to ask Mr. Garvey what they were going to do now. They didn’t know for a fact that West Meadow had won, but it seemed a good bet. When Brendan and his teammates were called up as the winners, was Mr. Garvey going to stand up and yell, “Not so fast!” That would be an ugly scene.

“At least your rival didn’t win,” Mal, in the passenger seat, said to Mr. Garvey. It was the first thing anybody had said in a good ten minutes.

Mr. Garvey grunted.

That seemed to be all the reply Mal was going to get. He turned and looked back out the window.

Jake and Winston exchanged a sad glance and then looked out their own windows. Nothing much else to do. Mr. Garvey was not about to be consoled. Yes, if the girls had acted differently, they would have won. But even before that, if Mr. Garvey hadn’t thrown the computer into a hard wooden bench, they would have taken the prize money themselves, with no need to split it. That was going to eat at Mr. Garvey for a long, long time.

Winston kept thinking about Brendan Root. It was hard to believe that kid had been the cheater all along—or, no, was
working
with the cheater. What was Brendan’s relationship to the man in the green jacket? How could that wacky seventh-grader possibly know that vicious and mean grown-up?

He kept hearing Brendan’s tunefully happy voice in his head. His excitement about meeting Winston, back at the start of all this. His remorse, in the Adventureland parking lot, that Winston had fallen behind. And most jarringly of all, the fact that Brendan had offered to help him—had offered to give him an answer.

That’s not what people do when they’re trying to cheat to win. They don’t offer to cheat to help the competition.

Winston was slowly becoming more and more sure that Brendan wasn’t the cheater. Maybe Brendan had called him, but there had to be some other explanation as to how Winston’s name had gotten into that memo pad. Somebody else was behind all this, not that enthusiastic, puzzle-happy kid.

It sure looked bad, though. Why else had Brendan called him—disguising his voice, no less!—if not to scope out the competition? Why did the man in the green jacket hit every team except for West Meadow? Their teacher didn’t even believe there
was
a cheater. Of course, that was before the man in the green jacket had made his dramatic entrance, complete with fireworks. Brendan’s teacher would certainly believe him
now,
after Winston pointed at Jake’s face, which was a rainbow of black-and-blue bruises.

“When we get there,” Mr. Garvey now said, “let me do all the talking.”

“What are you going to say?” Jake asked.

“I don’t want to make a public spectacle of this thing. I’ll try to reach Dmitri Simon and take him aside for a few minutes. If I’m able to do that, I’ll tell him about the cheater and how we have proof that it’s this boy on the West Meadow team.” Mr. Garvey tapped the steering wheel thoughtfully and continued, “I don’t know what Dmitri Simon will do at that point. Maybe he’ll divide the prize money among the rest of the teams. Maybe he’ll ask if anybody else had the final answer and give prize money only to those teams. All I know is, we’re not letting West Meadow and that kid get away with this.”

“I feel bad for the other kids on that team,” Mal said.

“For all we know, all the kids were in on it,” said Mr. Garvey. “Don’t feel sorry for anybody.”

They fell back into silence. Winston wished he had never thought to call Ray Marietta. Who knew that path would lead to Brendan Root? Winston was certain Mr. Garvey was going to accuse the wrong person of cheating, but there was nothing he could do to stop it. He thought ahead to the expression of disbelief and betrayal that would surely flood Brendan’s face when Dmitri Simon refused to hand over the prize money . . . and told them the reason why.

“Do we still have the cheater’s things?” Winston asked.

“They’re in the back,” Mr. Garvey said. “Why?”

“I don’t know. I just want to see them.” Winston reached behind him, difficult with the seat belt on, and grabbed the plastic bag with the cheater’s stuff in it. A coil of strong twine. A string of firecrackers. A set of mousetraps.

And here was the bottle filled with broken glass, its neck stuffed with aluminum foil to keep the shards in. Winston thought of the man in the green jacket, sitting in his garage, smashing glass with a hammer and carefully pouring the broken bits into a bottle, a satisfied smile on his face. Who was he? Could he really be Brendan’s older brother or some other relative? Who else would do something so extreme for a kid Winston’s age?

Looking at the bottle, Winston found his thoughts moving in a new direction. If it wasn’t Brendan Root who started all this, then who had? If the man in the green jacket was working with someone, who could it be? Winston had a hard time believing it was
any
kid, not just Brendan. So was it one of the grown-ups? One of the teachers? Would a teacher go so far as to hire someone to sabotage all the other teams?

Winston glanced at the back of Mr. Garvey’s head. It didn’t seem so outrageous at all, did it? All it took was a desire to win, multiplied by a billion. Mr. Garvey was halfway there himself, and a few of the other teachers were right there with him. Mr. Garvey wanted to show up his rival teacher from another school. Maybe another teacher needed that prize money for a special project. Maybe a third teacher simply never wanted to lose.

He was holding the bottle up to the sunlight, revolving it slowly back and forth, watching the rays bounce off the shards. Something was nibbling away at the back of his mind. Something to do with this bottle.

“Would you get a flat tire just because you drove over some broken glass?” he asked. “Not a booby trap like this, but just some broken glass lying on the road?”

“Maybe,” said Mr. Garvey. “I guess it’s possible.”

“That’s happened on my bicycle a few times,” Jake said.

“Yeah,” Winston said. He was thinking of Brendan Root’s teacher, who had dismissed the notion of a cheater so readily. Anybody could get a flat tire, he said. He’d recently had one himself. At that point, Winston didn’t know how to argue with him.

And just like that, all the puzzle pieces slammed together in his mind. If Winston had been standing, he would have fallen down. He put his hands up to his head, to keep it from popping off his neck entirely.

“What’s wrong with you?” Jake asked.

“Brendan isn’t the cheater!”

“He’s not?”

Winston shook his head. “It’s his
teacher!
”

“What?” Mr. Garvey said. “How can you know that?”

“It’s the broken glass,” Winston explained. “Brendan’s teacher refused to believe that someone was cheating. I told him about the flat tires, and he still didn’t believe me. Do you know what he said?”

“What?” Mal asked.

“He said, ‘I ran over some broken glass myself a couple of months ago. I had to wait two hours for a tow truck.’”

“All right,” said Mr. Garvey. “So what?”

Winston sat forward. “I never told him the flat tires had been caused by broken glass.”

They all thought about that for a few moments. Mr. Garvey said slowly, “Did he say, ‘I ran over some broken glass
also
’?”

“He said it in such a way,” Winston insisted, “that he knew the flat tires had been caused by broken glass. How could he have known that?”

Mr. Garvey was shaking his head. “Even if you’re right, Winston, that is not a lot to hang your hat on. It’s certainly not proof.”

“We might be able to prove it,” Winston said. “Maybe.”

“How?”

“First of all, what was that teacher’s name? Does anybody remember?”

“I do,” said Mr. Garvey. “I’ve seen him around before. He’s not a teacher, he’s an administrator or a vice principal or something. . . . Lester something. No, wait. Lester is his last name. Carl Lester.”

“Good,” said Winston. “Can I borrow your phone again?”

Mr. Garvey looked at Winston in the rearview mirror, surprise in his eyes. “Who are you calling? Your policeman friend again? You can’t call the police on this guy when you don’t have any proof.”

“I’m not calling anybody. Mal is.”

Mal sat up straight at the mention of his name. “I am? Who am I calling?”

“Carl Lester’s wife.”

 

 

They were getting close to the potato chip factory. Winston was a bundle of jittery nerves. A whole lot of things had to work out in the next few minutes. For one thing, he didn’t know if Carl Lester was married. For another, would his telephone number be in the phone book? Would the wife, if she existed, be home? After a day when luck had turned against them at every opportunity, it seemed like Winston was now asking for an awful lot to go right.

The first part worked out: They called information and got the number of the only Carl Lester in the phone book.

“Do you know what to do?” Winston said to Mal.

“I got it,” Mal said. “No problem.” He had Mr. Garvey’s cell phone.

“I don’t know why I’m agreeing to this,” said Mr. Garvey.

“Do you want to make the call yourself ?” Winston asked.

Mr. Garvey said loudly, “I don’t think we should be calling this woman
at all.
”

“Too late,” said Mal. “I’m dialing.”

Mr. Garvey pulled into the parking lot of Simon’s Snack Foods and navigated around to the visitors’ area. He pulled into a spot and shut off the engine. Winston looked at the modern building connected to the old-fashioned factory. It felt like a year since they had been here last.

Mal finished dialing the number. Everyone in the car was watching him. He cleared his throat like an actor about to take the stage, which is exactly what he was.

“Are you sure he can do this?” Mr. Garvey asked.

“I’m sure,” said Winston. “Shhhh.” He’d never shushed a teacher before.

Someone must have picked up the line, because Mal suddenly said, “Ah, hello, is this Mrs. Lester?” The voice that came out of his twelve-year-old body was, all of a sudden, surprisingly mature and adult. Mr. Garvey’s jaw dropped a few inches. Brendan Root wasn’t the only kid who could disguise his voice on the phone.

Mal continued, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Lester. I’m Malcolm, I’m calling from Bronco Towing. I believe it was your husband—Carl Lester, is that right? Yes. I believe it was your husband who had a flat tire a couple of months ago and required our services, and we like to call our customers and see if they were satisfied. Is he there?” Mal listened for a moment. “No? Well, do you know if he was pleased with his towing experience?” He listened again. “This was for a flat tire he had. About two months ago. Drove over some broken glass as I recall . . . ?” He looked up at them, his eyes shining as he continued the conversation. “No? There was no flat tire? Are you sure?” He nodded again. The woman was sure. “Well, maybe I have the wrong Carl Lester. What does your husband do for a living?” Now Mal gave a euphoric fist pump, punching the roof of the car. “He’s an educator. No, I think my Carl Lester did something else, I must have the wrong number, you have a good day anyway. Thank you very much. Good-bye.” He hung up, smiling broadly.

Winston and Jake applauded with gusto. Mr. Garvey shook his head in wonder. “I was told you worked
backstage
in the drama club,” he said.

“I’ll get onstage yet,” Mal said happily.

“I believe you will.”

“So they didn’t get a flat tire,” Mal said. “Not two months ago, not as long as she can remember. Carl Lester lied! That proves it!”

Mr. Garvey held up a hand. “It doesn’t prove anything. It’s a very interesting piece of information, but it’s a long way from proof.”

“What else can we do?” Jake said.

Winston looked out the back window. More cars were pulling in—more teams coming back to see who had won. And here, right on time, was the team from West Meadow. Carl Lester, at the driver’s wheel, looked jubilant. Brendan was in the passenger seat, and the two other teammates were in the back. One of them was pounding his fists on the ceiling and howling with glee.

“We can’t let them get away with it. What are we going to do?” Jake asked again.

Nobody knew the answer to that. After some silence, Mr. Garvey undid his seat belt and opened his door. “Well, whatever’s going to happen, we better get inside for it. Come on.”

More cars had pulled into the parking lot by now, and there was a slow, ragged parade back into the offices of Simon’s Snacks. Everybody looked pretty much like Winston felt—hot, tired, fed up. They found themselves walking side by side with the team from Lincoln Junior High, and even though the competition was over, Winston
still
felt a few glares being sent in their direction from Mr. Garvey’s Mathlete rivals. Winston glanced at Mal, and they both shook their heads. Who knew competitive math was such a blood sport?