wrecker from the nineteenth century.”
“A wrecker?” asks Emilio.
“Yeah, a wrecker,” answers Dave. “You
know, when ships used to get stuck on the
reefs, wreckers were the people who would go
out there and take all the valuables.”
“I know all about history,” I tell Dave.
“You don’t need to educate me.”
“Well, great, then. So you know what he
did with the loot?” asks Dave.
“I know everything,” I answer. “But tell
Emilio. He’s still an unpaid intern.”
“Yeah. Tell me,” says Emilio, neatly
spreading mustard onto his Cubano sand-
wich.
“Well, people say the old captain stashed it
somewhere on the island. And he never came
back to get it.”
“Why not?” asks Emilio.
“Two women,” says Dave.
“Dames,” I add. “It’s always dames.”
“Their names were Rita and Marge,”
continues Dave. “He loved them both. And
when Rita found out about Marge, she wasn’t
very happy. So she poisoned the old captain’s
rum.”
“He died?” asks Emilio.
“Yep,” answers Dave. “Wasted away and
died.”
“And so nobody knows where he left the
treasure?” asks Emilio.
“Nope,” replies Dave.
“I do,” I answer. “Follow me.”
“What is the most feared creature on earth?”
I ask Emilio as we run down the sidewalk in
our bathing suits.
“Where are we going?” replies Emilio.
“Never mind that,” I answer. “What’s the
most feared creature on earth?”
“Lions.”
“No.”
“Tigers?”
“No.”
“Bears?”
“Oh, my,” I answer. “Think.”
“I don’t know,” he says. “But can we
please stop running? My stomach is filled with
that Cubano sandwich. I think it’s about to
explode.”
“Only one more block,” I answer. “Now
concentrate. What’s the most feared creature
on earth?”
“I don’t know,” says Emilio, holding his
stomach.
“The butterfly!” I shout. “What else?”
“The butterfly?” replies Emilio. “Timmy,
nobody fears butterflies.”
“Wrong!” I answer. “Butterflies come from
worms. And everyone hates worms!”
“Butterflies don’t come from worms. They
come from caterpillars.”
“There is no difference. Both are slimy
and long.”
“So is a garden hose,” says Emilio. “But
that doesn’t turn into a butterfly.”
“Will you please focus?” I lecture Emilio.
“We’re here.”
“A butterfly conservatory? Timmy, what
does this have to do with anything?”
“Oh, good gosh. I know you’re an intern,
but don’t you get anything?”
“Yes, I get an upset stomach when you
make me run after eating a Cubano sandwich.”
“No, Emilio Empanada. Focus. If you were
a captain with the biggest treasure on the
island of Key West, where would you hide it?”
“In a Key West bank.”
“In a butterfly conservatory!” I shout.
“Where it’d be safe! Because nobody wants to
get eaten alive by butterflies! And nobody but
a fearless detective would go inside.”
And thus, we burst into the conservatory.
Or rather, I do.
“What are you doing?” I ask, poking my
head back outside through the thick rubber
strips that keep the butterflies from escaping.
“I’ll be in there in a minute,” says Emilio.
“Don’t tell me you’re afraid again.”
“Of a butterfly?” mutters Emilio. “That’s
one thing I’m definitely not afraid of.”
“Then what is it?”
“All that running on a full stomach. I think
I’m gonna throw up.”
A gurgling sound erupts from his mouth,
like Mount Kilimanjaro ready to blow.
So he rushes into the bathroom.
And I rush in to see the butterflies.
And as soon as I am inside, I spot a little
girl.
Being eaten alive.
And it is a horror to behold.
So I pass carefully by her.
“Hey, you—do you want a butterfly?” she
asks as I pass.
“A what?” I ask, startled by the voice of
the doomed soul.
“Hold your arm out and we’ll see if I can
get one of these little guys to fly onto you.”
Oh, good God, I think. She is dead already,
and like a zombie risen from the grave,
her only satisfaction is in destroying other
humans.
“You will do nothing of the kind!” I assert
as I pass.
And as I do, there is a tiny itch-like crawl
upon the top of my head.
And I look up.
And see my brains are being eaten.
We are asked to leave the conservatory by
an employee who says that we are creating a
disturbance.
Emilio blames me.
I blame Emilio.
2
The only thing we agree upon is what hap-
pened next.
Which is that when we got home, we found
something on our porch.
2. I am right. He is wrong.
With a poem inside.
“I think Dr. Seuss is trying to kill us,” I tell
Emilio.
“No, Timmy,” answers Emilio.
“He’s the only guy who can rhyme like
that.”
“No.”
“It’s a shame, too. Because I was a big fan
of One Fish Two Fish. And now he wants me
dead.”
“Timmy, it’s not Dr. Seuss,” he says, pac-
ing the porch.
I hold the conch shell to my ear.
“Hey, Emilio, I can hear the ocean. It’s say-
ing, ‘Emilio Empanada knows nothing about
detective work.’”
“Yes, well, I know that conch shells don’t
talk.”
“This one does.”
“Terrific. Then what’s it say we should do
next?”
“Raise money. Lots of it. For more can-
nons. Tanks. And perhaps dolphins.”
“Dolphins?”
“Yes. So we can ride them from island to
island.”
“Speaking of money,” says Emilio, “do we
still have that hundred dollars we were gonna
use for the boat?”
“No. It’s been sent to Cuba,” I answer.
“I’ve been the victim of an outrageous extor-
tion scheme.”
“Oh, no,” says Emilio.
“Yes,” I answer. “My polar bear is trying
to extort me into making him a name partner
in my detective agency. He is an evil fiend.”
“I see.”
“But extortion or no extortion, we are run-
ning out of time. And my precious life hangs
in the balance. So we cannot let the investi
ga-
tion be hindered.”
But the investigation is immediately
hindered.
By the person who always hinders.
“Timmy, I need you to get dressed,” says
my mom. “Your clothes are on the bed. They’re
new, so I hope they fit.”
“New clothes? What now?”
“We have to meet someone.”
“Who?” I ask.
“Let’s talk about it inside.”
My mom talked forever.
And she was weird and made me hold her
hand and sometimes she seemed sad.
But I’m a detective. And we don’t have
feelings.
At least not ones we show.
So I’m gonna keep this short.
The person we have to meet is my dad.
“I had to call him to let him know I was
getting remarried,” she said. “Then he asked
some questions. And I happened to mention
that we were going to Key West for the honey-
moon. And it turns out he’s been living in the
Keys. And he’d like to say hi to you.”
And on and on she went.
Telling me I’ve met him before.
Telling me I used to call him Papa.
Telling me he may or may not show up.
Now I know I haven’t said much about
him before, or even mentioned him.
But there are reasons for that.
All of which are contained in this memo.
From deep within the Timmy files.
And that’s all I can share about my dad.
The international secret agent.
Because that’s how he’d want it.
Which I understand.
Because I have his genes.
And now his attention.
My mother wants to stay and sit with me
and my father on the bench outside the dead
author’s house.
But I tell her to leave.
For I am being pursued by assassins, and,
doubtless, so is my father.
“It’s dangerous enough as it is,” I tell her.
“This is no place for civilians.”
So she leaves and walks back inside the
author’s house.
And I sit down with my dad.
“I won’t keep you long,” he says. “I know
it’s a bit awkward. And your mom wasn’t
thrilled with any of this anyway.”
“The cats here stole my pants,” I reply.
“Yes. I see that.”
“Hold on to yours,” I warn him.
“I will.”
“Good. They are all remorseless criminals.”
We both stare at the cats.
“I guess I owe you an explanation for
everything,” he says.
“No need,” I tell him. “I understand. I’m a
law-enforcement officer myself.”
“Ah, yes. Your mom told me all about your
many investigations. And the notes from your
friend—”
“Emilio. He’s my intern.”
“Yes, Emilio.”
We watch a six-toed cat pass. I hang on to
my wallet.
“Let me just say something, Tim—” He
pauses. “Do you like ‘Tim’ or ‘Timmy’?”
“Timmy.”
“Let me just say something, Timmy.”
“Okay. You talk. I’ll scan the bushes for
assassins.”
“It’s just that running a business down
here in the Keys is hard. I wouldn’t expect you
to understand any of this, but it’s a little hole-
in-the-wall restaurant, you know? That’s what
I own. And you have to be there about twenty
hours a day. For real.”
I smile, appreciating his cover story. A
hole-in-the-wall restaurant—that’s a good one.
“’Cause with a restaurant, if you’re not
there, I’ll tell you, you really get robbed blind
by your employees. The bartenders steal. The
waitresses steal. Everyone steals.”
“I understand,” I tell him. “Remember, I
had my pants stolen.”
He smiles.
“Anyhow, Tim—Timmy—that stupid
place takes up all my time, and it’s why I can’t
come see you as often as I’d like or call as
often, you know?”
“I understand. It would be a great risk.”
“Well, I don’t know about that.”
“It would. It’d be dangerous.”
He laughs. “You mean, your mom yelling
at me for not coming around enough? Maybe.”
We both know I’m talking about the crimi-
nals that pursue him relentlessly. But they
could be eavesdropping from the eaves.
And thus I play along with my dad’s cover
story.
“I understand everything,” I assure him.
“I dunno,” he says. “I think I have too
many excuses. Anyhow, maybe I should just
let you ask me something instead of me going
on and on about everything.”
I watch a group of tourists pass. And then
turn back to my dad.
“Have you heard about my work?” I ask.
“Your schoolwork? Your mom tells me a
little.”
“Schoolwork? Pshaw. My detective work.
You know, in your community.”
He laughs.
“Why are you laughing?”
“Gee, Timmy, I don’t know much of any-
thing. You know, I work all the time.”
“I see. Well, the agency is the best of its
kind. And it’s growing rapidly.”
“Ah. I see.”
We’re interrupted by a man with a large
belly and a visor. “Excuse me, do you know
where Hemingway’s studio is? The place where
he wrote?”
“I’ve only been here once,” says my dad.
“But I think it’s in the back. Up the stairs.”
“That was frightening,” I whisper to my
father as the man lumbers off. “I thought it
was an ambush.”
“Nope,” says my dad. “He was just lost.”
And half smiles.
“I came here once when I was a young
man myself,” says my dad. “Wanted to be
Hemingway. Write novels, you know? Spy nov-
els, mysteries. Never was any good. Nothing
published or anything. Never tried, really. But
anyhow, that’s all in the past.”
I nod, amazed at the depths of his cover
story.
“Anyhow, to make this short, Timmy, I
just want to say I’m sorry. I know I’m not the
greatest dad. Not much of a dad at all, really.
I mean, I know it’s no excuse, but my own
dad barely spent any time with me at all, and
I had you when I was so young, and I was
scared and I didn’t know what I was doing
and—”
“Mom says that one time she had to pay
for a private school for me,” I interrupt him,
“and she asked you for money and you didn’t
give her any.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I probably just didn’t have it at the
time. But if I had it, I would have sent it.”
“Okay.”
“I don’t even remember that, to be honest.”
“I do,” I answer.
&nb
sp; My mother raps on the window of the
Hemingway house and points at her watch.
“She’s always interrupting,” I explain.
“Yeah, well, that probably means we have
to wrap things up,” says my dad.
“Okay.”
There is a long pause.
“I’ll be better, Tim. Better dad. The whole
bit.”
“Yeah.”
“I will.”
“Okay.”
“And I’m real proud of you.”
“Okay.”
We stand. Silent for a moment. Then we
shake hands.
“You be good,” he says.
“Don’t let the cats steal your wallet,” I
answer.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about what that poem
means,” says Emilio as he plays with Edward
Higglebottom the Third back at the rental
house. “The one in the conch shell.”
“I haven’t,” I answer.
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t care.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I just want to go home,” I answer. “I’m
tired of this place.”
“Tired of it? What about all the notes?”
“I don’t care. It’s hot here. And I want to
sleep in my own bed again.”
“Well, we can’t leave before solving the
mystery.”
“Emilio, there are some mysteries that
just can’t be solved. It happens sometimes.”
“But I want to solve it.”
“Yes, well, you’re not going to, okay?”
“But why not?”
“Because it’s over. Your internship. The
mystery. The whole thing.”
Emilio puts the baby chicken back in his
cardboard box.
“And besides,” I add, “the trip’s almost
done anyway.”
He stares at his suitcase.
“We’re leaving tomorrow?” he asks.
“Tomorrow,” I answer.
“Then I guess I should probably start
packing.”
He picks up a shirt and rolls it up like a