Evertaster Read online

  He shoved the eggbeater down into his backpack and zipped it closed.

  Mom couldn’t know that he had it; she’d be mad at him for keeping it, and worry too much like she always did. The long shadows cast by the barn at the side of the yard suddenly seemed to darken.

  “Guster! Are you finished packing?” cried Mom from inside. There was an urgency in her voice he’d never heard before.

  “Not yet!” he called, and banged through the screen door. She was still in the kitchen desperately packing food for the car. He did not look up at her as he clomped up the stairs. He had to talk to Mariah.

  He found her in Henry Junior’s room, furiously packing the toddler’s things into a duffel bag. Her backpack was already strapped to her back.

  “I think I know what the Chef in Red was looking for,” said Guster. He opened his backpack and pushed it toward her, showing her the eggbeater inside. She looked at it for a second, then back up at Guster; she looked surprised.

  “An eggbeater?” she said. She reached inside and pulled it out, then turned it over in her hands. “It looks like it could be in a museum.” She traced her finger across the markings on the crank. “How fascinating. These look like the five flavors: bitter, sweet, sour, salty and savory.”

  Guster knew he could count on his sister to be interested. Mariah was always so curious about everything. “But why would some Chef in Red want this?”

  Guster told her as quickly as he could about the pastry chef, what he’d said about the mysterious dish called the One Recipe, and how it had been kept a secret for a very long time. She listened intently, her dark eyes lighting up with a mixture of excitement and terror. “And so he was willing to kill for it,” she said when Guster was finished. Guster nodded.

  “Exactly how old is it?”

  “I dunno. He said something about the Renaissance.”

  Mariah glanced down toward the living room where the old family computer was plugged in. Guster could tell what she was thinking. This was enough of a curiosity to send her off scouring the web for hours.

  The car horn honked in the garage. “Guster!” called Mom from downstairs, panic in her voice.

  Mariah stomped her foot. “If only Mom had let me get a smart phone, I could look things up while we drive!” she cried. She pinched her chin. “We’ll take the encyclopedias!” she said. “We’ll find out what we can on the way, then use Aunt Priscilla’s high speed connection when we get there.”

  She stuffed two flashlights in the duffel bag and headed toward the stairs. “Mariah,” Guster said. He had to let her know how much this meant to him. She turned. “Mom doesn’t know,” he said, glancing down at the eggbeater in his backpack.

  “Guster —” said Mariah. He could tell what she was thinking. She wasn’t likely to hide things from Mom.

  “Please,” he said. “I need this.” He had to find out what the One Recipe made.

  She reached out and touched the handle of the eggbeater lightly with one finger. If anything, her curiosity wouldn’t let her pass up such a mystery. “Alright,” she sighed. “But we’ll tell Mom as soon as we find out what this is.”

  Guster nodded. The two of them went down the stairs where Guster helped her jam the big, dusty, red A through K encyclopedia volumes into the duffel bag, then grabbed the M, P and Z ones. They would have to make another trip if they wanted the rest, but there was no time for that. It took all their strength just to drag the heavy duffel bag across the floor into the garage.

  “Hurry up, slow-bots!” said Zeke. He still looked more scared than anyone. So scared that he didn’t seem to notice the duffel bag was full of more than a dozen heavy books when he helped Mariah load it into the back of the Suburban.

  Guster jumped into the fold-up seat in the very back. “Wait,” said Mariah, and ran back into the house. She came back a second later with one more big red volume under her arm. “Had to get the R,” she whispered as she climbed in next to Guster and buckled her seat belt.

  “For Renaissance?” he whispered.

  “For Recipe,” she said, her teeth gleaming in the dark.

  “Seat belts!” Mom said, then punched the gas and peeled out of the driveway. In seconds, the farmhouse was out of sight.

  Mom drove through the center of town on the way to the highway. The old shops where Guster had gone in search of treats seemed different somehow, as if — like the patisserie — they had something to hide. It was as if the town Guster once knew had lost its innocence; as if it was changing forever. Guster, Mom, Mariah, Zeke, and Henry Junior might never come back; and it had all started with a chef in a blood-red apron.

  Chapter 5 — Late Night News

  Guster woke to his head thumping against the window. His neck was sore. It was still dark out. Mom was up front driving, Zeke sprawled across the seat in the middle, his leg draped over Henry Junior’s car seat, his foot swaying so close to the little toddler’s face that whenever they hit a bump in the road, Henry Junior tried to bite Zeke’s toe.

  Guster did not recognize the shadowy trees or the open marsh. He’d never been to Aunt Priscilla’s summer home, and as far as he could tell, the family had never been so far east either. ‘Welcome to Florida’ read a sign on the side of the road.

  Mariah was asleep in the seat next to him, flashlight in one hand, her chin resting on her chest, the ‘E’ encyclopedia open in her lap. Guster glanced at the article. “Eggbeater” it read. From the looks of it, it was a short and useless entry.

  He unzipped his backpack quietly, so Mom couldn’t hear, and removed the eggbeater. Now that they weren’t evacuating the house he could examine it more closely. It was larger and far more intricate than the ones pictured in the article.

  He turned the crank until the salty symbol on the crank’s edge lined up with a tiny needle protruding from the wooden handle. He was hungry, and the symbols on the crank only reminded him of what he’d tasted in the patisserie — how delicious food could be. He turned the crank to the honeycomb symbol for sweetness, then back three-quarters turns to the olive branch for bitter. Then, almost as if in a daydream, he turned it one and a half times back to salty again. Something in the handle clicked.

  Startled, Guster shined Mariah’s flashlight on the eggbeater to make sure he hadn’t broken the old thing. Instead, the tiny grooves in the handle had rotated; they were lining up. From the looks of it, they were forming the picture of a man’s face.

  He shook Mariah. He had to show her. “Wake up,” he whispered, “You have to see this.”

  Mariah opened her eyes and stretched. “Are we there?” she yawned.

  “Not yet,” Mom called from the front. “Just a few more hours.”

  Guster put his finger to his lips to quiet his sister. Mariah blinked her eyes, then looked down at the eggbeater. Her face brightened with understanding.

  She grabbed it and turned it over in her hands, peering closely at it from every angle. “Guster, do you know what this is?” she whispered. Guster shook his head. The face in the carving was strange — with a huge nose and pointy chin — it wasn’t anyone he recognized, if that’s what she meant.

  “It’s a combination lock! Dad used to have one on his briefcase. There are five numbers in a row, and you have to line them all up so that the locks will come undone. Only this one’s got hundreds of these little rows, and it works the other way around.” She pointed to the discs that had lined up. “See?” she said, pointing to where the grooves formed the outline of a man’s forehead and nose. “But everything below that is still messy.”

  She peered at symbols on the crank, then turned it a few times back and forth. The grooves shifted and the face was gone. “I lost it!” she said. “How did you get it to work?”

  “Let me see,” said Guster. He took the beater and turned the crank back to the olive branch. What would I eat? he thought. Something bitter. Something sour. He turned the crank to the lemon. Something sweet. Then back to the honeycomb, just like he’d done before. The grooves in
the wooden handle began to line up again, one by one, until the carving of the face reappeared.

  “You’re doing it!” whispered Mariah, amazed. “Keep going.”

  Guster tried. He carefully turned the crank back and forth, sometimes to the olive, sometimes to the pile of salt. Sometimes he’d turn it twice in one direction before coming to the next symbol; other times he’d turn it the opposite way one-fifth of a turn, depending on how much of the taste he craved. Whichever way he went, he followed his instincts, like an invisible hand was guiding the crank handle. Slowly, the grooves lined up down the length of the handle until they were no longer just grooves, but a complete row of intricately carved symbols. The last disk clicked into place.

  “How did you do that?” Mariah cried.

  “I dunno, I just turned the flavors to whatever I wanted,” said Guster.

  Mariah eyed her brother. “You truly are remarkable,” she said.

  Guster blushed. Whenever anyone called him remarkable, they were usually talking about how difficult he was to feed.

  Mariah picked the eggbeater out of Guster’s hand. “It’s like a totem pole,” she said. The handle was divided into rows of carvings, each one wrapping around the circumference. Mariah pointed to the set of symbols on the top row.

  “See, here’s the entire face,” she said, pointing to the man’s nose. “And that looks like a tree with some kind of large oval fruit,” she said, pointing to the second symbol on the row. “And these, I don’t know what these are,” she said pointing to the smaller ones.

  Guster peered closely at the symbols under the flashlight. So this was why the Master Pastry Chef had given the eggbeater to Guster. It wasn’t for mixing the recipe, nor was it some kind of key. It was far more important than that. “Mariah, this is the One Recipe,” Guster said, “or a map to it.”

  “Encoded on the eggbeater so no one can find it,” she said. “It’s brilliant.” She opened up the encyclopedia again. “We’ve got to find that face. I’m almost positive I’ve seen it before.”

  The car hit another bump and Zeke’s foot swung straight into Henry Juniors open, waiting jaws. The little boy bit down.

  “Ow Carumba!” cried Zeke. He bolted straight up in his seat. “That little muskrat chomped my toe off!” he screamed. “Check him for rabies! Check him for rabies!” Henry Junior started to cry.

  “Don’t make me pull over!” Mom snapped, turning in the driver’s seat.

  “It’s not my fault!” said Zeke. He got quiet; Henry Junior’s wailing filled the car, then lessened. Guster stowed the eggbeater back in his backpack. He didn’t want to have to explain it to Zeke.

  “I have to go,” said Zeke quietly.

  “How bad?” asked Mom.

  “Niagara falls bad.”

  “You’ll have to wait five minutes at least,” said Mom.

  They pulled off the highway onto an exit and turned into a gas station with bright fluorescent lights. There was a car at the pump and a row of cars parked in the shadows behind the station. Some of them looked abandoned.

  Zeke bolted from the Suburban before Mom had even switched off the engine. Guster shoved his backpack under his seat and climbed over the seat in front of him and out the door, with Mariah right behind him. He might as well see what snacks Florida’s gas stations had to offer, though it probably wasn’t much. He was glad to stretch his legs at least.

  He pushed open the grimy double glass doors Zeke had gone through. There was a woman with a stained gas station uniform behind the counter chewing loudly, her eyes glued to the TV set mounted on the wall. Guster made for the snack aisle. Orange Styrofoam puffballs and shoelaces made out of beef. Might as well have them with a warm cup of used motor oil, thought Guster.

  The late night news blared a headline from the TV, “The smoke from the Foodco Instant Dinners Factory explosion can be seen from several miles away,” said the anchorwoman. “The fire department suspects arson, but police have yet to make any arrests.”

  Guster dropped the bag of orange puffies. The TV screen showed a wall of flames and firemen. An explosion at an instant dinner plant? He’d never liked instant dinners, but who would want to blow up a factory like that?

  “Roastin’!” said Zeke, returning from the restroom and looking up at the television. Mom came through the doors, Henry Junior on her hip.

  “In other news,” continued the anchorwoman, “famed celebrity homemaker Felicity Casa was arrested today for robbery of the world famous Arrivederci Chocolate Vault.”

  Mom gasped. Felicity Casa? Under arrest? Guster thought. He glued his eyes to the screen.

  The anchorwoman continued, “The vault contains a treasured collection of the Italian chocolate-brewing family’s most valuable chocolates. Felicity’s spokesman Benjamin Arnold had this to say at today’s press conference —”

  The TV showed a tall, slender man with slick black hair and a pencil-thin tie. He spoke into a microphone. “We are disappointed that such serious accusations would be leveled at our dear Ms. Casa. Our legal team is working around the clock, and we are absolutely confident that Ms. Casa will be proven innocent in a court of law.”

  “We know how much the public admired her, and are certain they will show their support,” he said.

  “Italo Arrivederci, descendant of the famous chocolatier of the same name and heir to the family chocolate fortune, made the following comment —” said the anchorwoman. The scene switched to a man in a trim navy suit.

  “So Felicity Casa wanted some chocolate. ‘We have aplenty to sell you,’ I says. But that wasn’t good enough. She wanted the prize jewel from the vault — the family fortune! Ha! Like we’d ever sell that! Not for a million dollars a pound!”

  The anchorwoman continued, with a slight sniffle, “The Arrivederci Family has been making the most exquisite chocolate in the world since the Renaissance. The Arrivederci chocolate vault, therefore, has often been a target for many failed robbery attempts — until now. The chocolate has yet to be found.

  “Currently, Felicity is imprisoned in the Lovelock, Nevada Maximum Security Prison where she awaits trial.”

  The camera showed an angry mob protesting outside a high rise building labeled “Casa Brand Industries.”

  “Fans everywhere are throwing out their ‘Casa Brand’ curtains and cookware. I for one, will be keeping mine,” said the anchorwoman. She stared straight into the camera.

  Guster couldn’t believe it — Mom’s hero, behind bars. “It can’t be!” said Mom.

  “Why not? The woman’ll do anything to get ingredients!” sneered the lady behind the counter. “She’s a billionaire! You’se gots to break a few eggs to make an omelet!”

  Mom steadied herself on the candy shelf. “She seemed like such a good woman. She made homes into such splendid places.”

  “She was a celebrity! Only an actor,” said the lady behind the counter. “You can put ’em all in jail to rot if ya ask me!”

  Mom stood up again. Guster thought about the shelf of video cassettes she had back at home that she’d used to record every episode. She looked like she was trying not to cry. “No matter. Guster, Zeke, no dawdling, we’ve got to get back on the road.” She hurried back outside.

  Guster lingered at the TV. To think, Felicity was nothing but a common criminal. It made all her past episodes seem different somehow. But hadn’t the Master Pastry Chef said, just before he’d died, “Get it to Felicity?” There were millions of Felicity’s in the world. Had he meant the Felicity Casa? That made sense, if the symbols on the eggbeater were indeed the One Recipe.

  “Let’s go, Fanboy,” said Zeke bumping Guster with his shoulder on his way out.

  “It’s all so strange,” said Mariah.

  “I dunno,” said Guster, “Maybe she did it.” The worst part was that Felicity wasn’t going to have any more cooking shows. Those demos had been his only hope that Mom would learn to make a decent meal. Guster cast a final glance at the snacks. It was useless.

  “
That’s not what I mean. The fire at the Foodco plant,” Mariah said as they made their way to the car. “Why would anyone want to burn down a food factory?”

  Guster knew she was right. It was strange, but there were bigger things to worry about right then. They climbed into the back of the Suburban and shut the door.

  “No way! Check out the cream colored caddy with those stainless steel rims,” said Zeke, opening the driver’s side door. Mom stepped between him and the car and pointed her thumb at the passenger seat. Zeke reluctantly obeyed and went around to the other side.

  “That’s the same killer ride I saw behind us in Mississippi,” he continued, pointing to a Cadillac parked behind the gas station. Its lights were off. “It’s like it’s following us or something.”

  Guster felt a knot form in his stomach. “What did you say?” asked Mom, her voice serious.

  Zeke’s cheeks quivered. “Maybe it’s a different one?”

  “Maybe,” Mom said, and turned on the ignition. “Buckle up kids. I don’t want to find out.”

  She pulled out of the gas station and took a right onto the freeway onramp. The cream-colored Cadillac’s headlights switched on. It followed slowly after them.

  “I didn’t know!” cried Zeke. Guster twisted in his seat and looked out the back window. The Cadillac was only a few hundred feet behind, motoring along, maintaining a healthy distance. Mom kept feeding the Suburban more gas. The engine shuddered; the orange speedometer needle crept up on 100 miles per hour.

  “They’re going to kill us!” cried Zeke.

  Then suddenly, Mom switched lanes, slowed down, and pulled off onto the shoulder. “What are you doing?” cried Zeke. “They’ll catch us!”

  “You’ll understand when your older, son,” said Mom with a curt smile. She turned off the road and plowed over a dirt mound into a dark orchard. The suburban hit the bump so hard, it nearly knocked Guster’s head against the ceiling. Mom shut off the lights, leaving the orchard darker still.

  The Cadillac slowed where Mom turned off the road, then sped on. “No ‘killer ride’ can follow this 4x4,” said Mom, imitating Zeke. She steered through the trees onto a narrow, crumbly road and switched the lights back on.